Marco opened the door.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-EIGHT
Massimo
22 October 1943
Massimo perked up, thinking that being of such short stature had paid off. Families from the transit camp were being transported in a wooden freight car, otherwise used for farm animals. There was a splintered slat partway up one side, which made a small opening, and Massimo kept his nostrils to the hole, breathing fresh air. It was a lucky break, for the stench was nauseating, since everyone had to defecate and urinate in the corners of the railcar.
The trip was nightmarish, spent in total darkness. Massimo hadn’t eaten in days, and neither had anybody else. He was so thirsty he felt woozy. Once or twice his knees buckled, but there wasn’t room to fall, and his sprained ankle throbbed. Children had stopped asking for food and water, but babies kept crying, a heart-wrenching sound. An infant near him had died in her mother’s arms.
He dozed standing up, but he peeked through the opening from time to time. He could see where they were going, and it was mostly country, then mountainous, undoubtedly the Alps.
He didn’t know their destination, but he assumed it was northward, as the air had grown progressively colder, then frigid. Everyone in the car was accustomed to a warmer climate and dressed too lightly. Again, Massimo counted himself lucky, since he still had on his suit jacket and was the only man wearing a tie, which he regarded as the last vestige of his dignity.
The rhythmic clacking of the wheels began to slow down. Massimo sensed they had reached southern Poland. He guessed that they would be at the labor camp, as he had heard rumors that the other Ghetto Jews were being sent there, too. He brightened, hoping there would be food and drink. Perhaps the Nazis would let them rest before they put them to work. The rumor was that the name of the labor camp was Auschwitz.
Massimo hoped that the camp would need a lawyer. He resolved to make his profession known to the powers that be. He felt certain that even Nazis would see his value and use him for billing, ledger keeping, or the like. He had always managed to turn every disadvantage to an advantage. This time would be no different.
People started noticing the train was slowing, and they burst into nervous chatter and frightened tears. Families clung together, but Massimo felt lucky, again, that his family had been spared the labor camp. Sandro had gotten away from Fossoli just in time. The Nazis had found the dead guard but hadn’t known who had escaped. The very next morning, Massimo and the other Jews had been marched to the station at Carpi, herded onto the freight trains, and sent north.
Massimo’s heart filled with relief to think of Sandro, Gemma, and Rosa in Rome, safe at the hospital or with the Terrizzis. As a father, he could be at peace only if he knew his family was safe and content. He knew he could count on Beppe to take care of Sandro, Gemma, and Rosa until he got back from Auschwitz.
Massimo hoped his stint in the camp would fly by quickly. If he had to perform manual labor, he would endure. He had survived Fascism, and he would survive Nazism. The war would end, and his family would be reunited in Rome, where Simones had lived for centuries.
The train was grinding to a stop. Massimo put his eye to the opening to see what was happening. It was dark.
But in the distance, there was light.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-NINE
Elisabetta
November 1943
Elisabetta worked alone in the restaurant kitchen, since it was too early for the others to arrive. She was making angel hair pasta, folding egg into the dough, then kneading it. It softened and warmed in her palms, almost like a living thing, a human heart shaped with her fingers.
She grieved Sandro, but kept it to herself. She couldn’t stop thinking of how violently he had died. She couldn’t make peace with leaving him at the train station. Sometimes she remembered the happy times, sitting with him at La Sapienza or remembering their first kiss, on the riverbank. Whether she thought of the happy times or the sad, she cried nevertheless. It struck her as a paradox, that either happiness or sadness summoned tears.
She sprinkled more flour across the dough, then resumed kneading. She still had a business to run. She went to work every day, scrounging for supplies from vendors, bargaining with the black marketeers, and balancing the ledger book. She had come to understand that suffering was a part of war, part of life. Everyone was suffering. The men, women, and children of the Ghetto had yet to return. She missed Massimo, Gemma, the Diorios across the street, and her Jewish customers who had vanished that day. She didn’t have the heart to go back to the Ghetto. She couldn’t face the emptiness there.