Marco’s heart began to pound. The first image was of an older couple, and the second of a family, smiling at the camera. The third was a shot of a pretty girl passing by, and in the background was an empty table in the seating area. He wondered if it was where the blond anti-Fascist had been sitting before she was in the stockroom with Aldo.
Marco moved the loupe to the next frame. It was a picture of another pretty girl passing the bar, but in the background was a clear photo of the blonde, taken as she was emerging from the bar.
Marco felt a surge of relief. He could prove his loyalty and his innocence. The blonde’s face was fully visible, and the photo of her, once enlarged, could even be used to identify her.
He eyed her through the loupe, and her face stared back at him, spooky in the obverse, as if her head were a skull. He knew that once he identified her, she would be arrested and beaten for information.
Marco paused, reflecting. Aldo would want him to protect the blonde, not turn her in.
But Marco felt a flame of anger, too. The blonde had manipulated Aldo. She had sent him to Orvieto for guns. Aldo would be alive but for her and her ilk.
Marco had to think of himself, too. He needed to clear his name. To get his job back. He had bet his future on the party.
He made a decision.
“Corrado!” he called out, flicking off the lightbox.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Elisabetta
November 1938
Elisabetta hurried into the Ghetto, hoping to see Sandro. She felt sure he had been avoiding her. He had been teaching at the Jewish school, and she would stop by to see him after class, but he would always say he was too busy. She couldn’t let another day pass without seeing him.
Elisabetta hurried along the street, reaching the school. Children of all ages gathered at the entrance, a gaggle of boys and girls with bookbags and scarfs. She spotted Sandro at the top of the steps, with the other teachers, and her heart gladdened. He looked handsome in a brown tweed jacket, white shirt, and brown tie, like a professor.
“Sandro!” Elisabetta called out, and Sandro turned in her direction. He saw her, and their eyes connected. A pained expression flickered across his face, and he went back inside the school, disappearing.
She hurried to the steps, climbed them two by two, and hustled inside, spotting him at the end of the hall. He went into a classroom, and she followed. She ran to the end of the hall and entered the classroom, which was a cramped room barely big enough for tables that had been repurposed for desks, with old chairs. Mismatched bookcases lined the left wall, and on the right were two windows that shed a cold light.
“Sandro, I want to talk—”
“No.” Sandro stood at an old teacher’s desk, taking a thick packet of papers from his rucksack. “I can’t, I’m busy.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true.”
“I don’t know why you’re avoiding me.” Elisabetta crossed to him, touching his arm. Up close, she could see that he had lost weight and his expression was drawn.
“I’m not avoiding you.” Sandro pursed his lips.
“You are. What is it? Is it something I’ve done? Is it because of Marco?”
“No, no.” Sandro looked away.
“I’ve been thinking of you, so much. I miss you—”
“There’s no time for that anymore. I have too much to do, and I can’t hear about how you miss me.”
“I’m not here for me, I’m here for you. I know how much you’re hurting, I can see it in your eyes.”
Sandro averted his gaze again, his feet shifting. “Elisabetta, what of it? You can’t do anything about it.”
“I can listen and be with you.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“But it helps.” Elisabetta’s heart went out to him. “Remember after the Deledda lecture, when we talked? I told you everything about my father, and you listened. It didn’t change my father, but it helped me. And after my father’s funeral, too? We always talk, and it makes things easier, and better.”
“That’s past, and everything’s changed. My world has changed. My father is losing his clients. My mother is exhausted. Rosa left for London. Cornelia is gone. Everything is different.”
“Not us, we’re still us.”
“People change. People betray you.” Sandro’s expression turned pinched, and a new bitterness edged his tone. “There’s a divide between Jews and everyone else now. The walls of the Ghetto may as well be back up again. You’re on the other side. You don’t understand.”