Rosa looked away, shuddering. She took in Tempio Maggiore, the synagogue directly across the way, its bright lemony limestone a golden hue in the sunshine. The stained glass on its square dome shone multicolored, though she admired the solidity of the edifice itself. And from that structure, she drew strength.
Rosa continued down Via del Portico d’Ottavia, shocked by how much the Ghetto had deteriorated. Men and women sold used shoes, clothing, and pots and pans from barrows, pushcarts, and stalls. Via del Portico d’Ottavia used to be lined with busy shops, but most of them were closed. People picked through the items, milled about, talked, or even begged. Everyone looked bedraggled in clothes that were old or in need of repair. Gone were the happy, healthy, and boisterous families carrying home full bags of groceries, as well as the delicious aromas of pollo arrosto, roast chicken, and pesce fritto, fried fish, wafting from apartments.
Rosa felt oddly as if she had never been here before, and heads began to turn in her direction as she walked by. She realized that she stood out in her fine coat of red wool, with its fashionable peplum waist, matching hat, and brown pumps. She was dressed for London, not the Ghetto.
She picked up her pace, self-conscious. She passed stall after stall, then her eye was caught by a set of secondhand books, which tempted her. A woman was bent over, unpacking more books, and Rosa glimpsed the woman’s gray hair, gathered into a twist that Rosa recognized immediately. She realized with mute shock that the woman was her mother. The books being sold were her own.
Rosa froze, horrified. Her mother had aged so much, with new lines etched into her lovely face and brackets deepening around her mouth. She wore her old tan raincoat, but it was stained, and her black leather shoes had flattened with wear. Her mother finished setting up the books for display, opening them so they stood on end, then looked up and spotted Rosa.
“Rosa, is that you? You’re back?” Her mother threw open her arms, her eyes filming with happiness behind her wire-rimmed glasses.
“Yes, Mamma!” Rosa masked her dismay, set down her suitcase, and embraced her mother. “I’m so happy to see you!”
“It’s so good to see you, too, dear! I’ve missed you!” Her mother hugged her tightly, and Rosa could feel that she had lost a significant amount of weight, but she concealed her reaction as she released her mother from the embrace.
“I thought I would surprise you. I wasn’t sure I could get the flight.”
“Say hello to everyone! You remember Vanda Della Seta di Veroli, and here’s Celeste Sermonetta! Everyone, look, my Rosa’s home!”
Rosa forced a smile as her mother began reintroducing her to everyone, making small talk, as if everything were normal. All of the faces looked older, the clothes ragged, and the men who used to work during the day were here. She assumed her neighbors and the parents of her friends had been expelled from their jobs. They had been handymen, teachers, electricians, accountants, shipping agents, scrap dealers, shop owners, tailors, knife sharpeners, shoemakers, and bakers.
Rosa remembered she’d left her suitcase on the street. She turned to fetch it, but it was already gone.
* * *
—
Rosa sat in her old seat at the wooden table, but other than that, nothing was the same. The apartment was tiny and cramped, the kitchen barely big enough to contain the table. Of course there was no chandelier, only a glass fixture that cast harsh light. There was a window, but it didn’t overlook the charming Piazza Mattei, just a dirty brick wall. Sandro pointed out that the apartment was sunny, making the best of things though he looked as drained and thin as her parents.
“Here, darling.” Her mother set down a serving bowl that was only half-full of spaghetti, the tomato sauce thinned with water. There was no other course; no fish, meat, potatoes, or vegetable, nor was there bread or wine. Gone were the delicious meals from better times, the mouthwatering braciola or aliciotti con l’indivia, anchovy and endive casserole, served piping hot on platters.
“It looks wonderful, Mamma.” Rosa exchanged a look with Sandro, who was undoubtedly reading her mind. Her mother doled out small portions, and after her father said a prayer over the meal, they began to eat. Rosa tried not to notice that they gobbled their pasta, truly famished. She ate, noting that her father returned his attention to a thick folder of papers, making notations. He had greeted her happily when he had come home, but since then, he barely lifted his head from the folder.
“So, Papa,” Rosa began gently. “How have you been?”