He gazed up at the black and empty sky.
He closed his eyes and saw the same void.
He cried with Elisabetta, all the way to Rome.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FIVE
Marco
19 October 1943
Marco slumped at the kitchen table, heartbroken. Coal dust covered his clothes and stung his eyes. His mother set another cup of coffee in front of him. She had cried with him, after he told her what had happened in Modena. She looked utterly drained and exhausted, still in the black dress she had worn to his father’s wake.
Emedio sat at the table, in teary silence. Elisabetta was still in the bathroom, sobbing in the bathtub.
His mother sat down next to him, touching his arm. “Marco, drink your coffee.”
“I don’t want it, thanks.”
“You gave your all. You can’t blame yourself. Sandro wouldn’t blame you. He loved you.”
Emedio nodded, equally drained. “I’m sorry, brother.”
Marco sipped his coffee, which did nothing to wash down the coal particulate, an irritant he couldn’t ignore. Grief, guilt, and rage formed a bolus that lodged in his throat. He looked across the table at his brother. “Oh, Emedio, how nice. And will you pray? Will you pray for Sandro?”
Emedio blinked. “Of course, I have been.”
“And what good did it do? What good did your prayers do Sandro? What good did they do Massimo or the other Jews? Or Papa, or Gemma?”
“Marco, you’re upset—”
“Yes, I am. Why isn’t anybody doing anything? If they had, Sandro would be alive. So would Papa and Gemma. Massimo would be here. It’s madness! Why isn’t anybody stopping this?” Marco found himself rising, his emotions coming to a boil. “Don’t give me prayers, brother! Don’t give me sympathy! Papa fought for what he believed in! So do I! I would kill every last Nazi with my bare hands! Sandro died because nobody did anything!”
“No,” Emedio said, his tone hushed. “You have to look for the love and for God—”
“Don’t be so na?ve!” Marco exploded. “There was no love there, only hate! Where was God when the bullet ripped through Sandro’s heart? Why didn’t God take me instead? I wanted Him to!”
His mother gasped. “Marco, don’t say such things!”
“Marco, listen to me.” Emedio looked up, shaken. “Sandro made the choice to save you. God was there, in him. Sandro was love, not hate. Don’t betray him now. Don’t answer the love he showed with hate.”
Marco felt stunned by his brother’s words. Their impact stopped him. He felt ashamed to be shouting at his mother and brother, on the night of his father’s wake. Their agonized expressions told him he was in the wrong.
He slumped down into the chair. He felt bewildered, devastated, crushed. His head dropped to his hands. His gaze found the pale stain darkening the floorboards. It was from his father’s blood.
Behind him, the bathroom door opened, and Elisabetta came out in a fresh dress, her expression stricken.
“I want to go home,” she said quietly.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX
Elisabetta
19 October 1943
Elisabetta climbed the stairs to her bedroom, numb with grief. Marco had walked her home, but they hadn’t said a single word. They existed in a hell that was shared, but also, somehow, private.
She reached her bedroom, unlocked the door, then closed it behind her. The bedroom was dark, except for a pale moonbeam filtering through the window, so faint as to appear ghostly.
Gnocchi and Rico began meowing, part greeting, part protest. Rico remained at the foot of the bed, his shadow as dark as the coal on the train. Gnocchi was visible, with her white fur glowing in the moonlight.
Elisabetta felt like crying, but no tears were left inside her. Only an emptiness, and a tearing in her chest that felt like she also had been shot through the heart. She had been shocked when Sandro had dived in front of the bullet, but she shouldn’t have been. That was who Sandro was, as a man. Marco, too. Each would have given his life for the other, and for her, and Sandro had.
She began unbuttoning her dress, walking over to her chair. She noticed that her notebook lay open on her desk, which was odd. She turned on the light and saw a note, which read:
Elisabetta,
We had one night, but I want a forever of nights. I love you forever.
Your Sandro
Her throat caught with emotion. Tears filled her eyes. She ran her fingers over the handwriting, feeling its indentures. She picked up the open notebook and held it against her chest. She knew that she would love Sandro forever. She wouldn’t stop just because he was gone.