Elisabetta leaned in, and Marco held her closer. They were the only ones in the tiny hallway, which was windowless. Laughter and shouting came from the street, for Italy was celebrating all around them. The Allies had arrived in Rome this very day, and the city had erupted in jubilation. The war in Rome was finally over.
Marco chuckled. “He couldn’t have a more special birthday, could he?”
“All of Rome celebrates his birth.” Elisabetta burst into laughter. “I’m so grateful, Marco.”
“So am I.” Marco wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight.
Just then the bells of Saint Peter’s Basilica pealed in the Vatican, and the crowd outside the hospital erupted into cheering, yelling, and singing amid the loud rumbling of cars, trucks, and tanks.
Elisabetta released him, with a smile. “They must be on the Lungotevere. Don’t you want to go see? And tell the others about the baby?”
“Are you sure?” Marco asked, torn. “I can stay with you.”
“Please, go, I need to rest.” Elisabetta caressed his cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Now, go celebrate for us, would you?”
* * *
—
Mamma, it’s a boy!” Marco hugged his mother, amid a packed Bar GiroSport.
“I have a grandson, and Rome is free! Thanks to God!” His mother threw open her arms, hugged Marco, and smothered him with kisses. Customers cheered and applauded.
“Mamma, call Emedio and Rosa for me, would you? I have to go!”
His mother kissed him, and Marco hurried outside the bar, joined the delirious crowd spilling onto Tiber Island, and surrendered to the emotion, exulting, rejoicing, and feeling happiness flood his body. The war was over in Rome, and the bells of Saint Peter’s kept pealing, a joyous sound. The sun poured gold on everyone, gilding the city, a blessing from heaven above.
Marco flowed across the Ponte Fabricio with the crowd, as they waved flags, flashed victory signs, sang, shouted, and kissed each other. Somebody sprayed spumante, and everybody laughed. They cheered as the Americans in Jeeps, trucks, and tanks filled the Lungotevere Sanzio and Lungotevere de’ Cenci.
The crowd surged toward the Americans, but Marco found himself hurrying across the Lungotevere de’ Cenci toward the Ghetto, drawn there by a deeper pull. He entered the Ghetto and walked down the Via del Portico d’Ottavia, where the happy, cheering celebration continued, but he didn’t recognize any of the people. The kosher butcher, the baker, and all of the other shopkeepers he had known were gone, having been deported in the rastrellamento. Rosa and most of Rome’s Jews still remained in hiding, in fear for their lives. Massimo hadn’t been heard from, and neither had the other families deported that day. The Della Roccas. The Terracinas. The DiCavis. The Sermonettas. The Toscanos. No one knew if they would ever return, and everyone feared that the Nazis had done their worst.
Tears filled Marco’s eyes, and his heart ached. He found his feet taking him where he had to go, and in time he found himself standing in Piazza Mattei with its beautiful Fontana delle Tartarughe. People thronged around the turtle fountain, singing, dancing, and cheering, but Marco was quiet, mourning anew.
He looked up at Sandro’s house, and his gaze went to the window on the third floor, where his best friend’s apartment used to be. The window was open and empty, but Marco didn’t see it the way it was now. Instead he saw it the way it was then, when they were both boys, and he would ride his bicycle here and call— “Sandro!” Marco called out, and tears spilled down his cheeks. In his mind’s eye, he saw Sandro waving to him and calling back, and Marco realized why he had come here, for he had a vow to make. His gaze fixed on the window, he vowed in a whisper: “Sandro, you have a son, and he is named for you. I promise I will love him as my own and I will raise him to know you and honor you. And I promise I will take care of Elisabetta as you would have, with all the love in my heart.”
Marco wiped his eyes, but his gaze remained on the window, on the third floor of a building that had stood for centuries, in the middle of a city that had stood for millennia, by a river that had flowed since time immemorial and would flow into the future. Yet he had learned that Rome, as magnificent as she was, was merely a bystander to the glory and horror wrought by man, and that was the way of the world, now and forever.
War was eternal, but so was peace.
Death was eternal, but so was life.
Darkness was eternal, but so was light.
Hate was eternal, but above all, so was love.