be her triumph.” Maria tilted her chin up, in teary defiance. “Live in honor of her memory.”
Rosa listened, hushed. She could almost hear her mother saying those same words.
“Rosa, I know we’re not the same religion, but we both believe in a just and loving God. I believe that He brought us all together, so we can be family for each other, now.” Maria looked at her, her love plain in her anguished eyes. “And think of your father, too. I have shared glasses of wine with him, at the bar. What is his toast, most of the time?”
Rosa knew the answer. “L’Chaim.”
Maria nodded. “‘To life.’”
Tears filled Rosa’s eyes. They felt true, and she let them flow.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-TWO
Elisabetta
16 October 1943
Elisabetta stood next to Marco at the train station, waiting for the train to Carpi. She felt agonized by the horrific events of the day, and he had to feel worse. Neither of them spoke, and she had never seen him so somber. He looked around, dry-eyed, but his dark gaze didn’t settle anywhere, as if it couldn’t rest, even for a moment. He usually stood tall, but his broad shoulders sloped as if he had caved in on himself.
Men and women around them on the platform talked, smoked, and read books and newspapers. Elisabetta scanned the headlines, but she saw no reports of the rastrellamento. The Vatican still hadn’t made any statement, and she was beginning to fear that they wouldn’t.
Elisabetta wondered if she and Marco had a realistic chance of saving Sandro and his father. Marco had a plan, but he hadn’t shared it with her yet, and she hadn’t pushed the matter, given his grief. Evidently he had been a partisan, so presumably he had experience with fighting, but she didn’t. Balilla training for boys was shooting long guns, but for girls, it was exercising with hula hoops.
She checked the clock, concerned that the train hadn’t yet boarded. She consulted the train schedule, which was printed in tri-fold and posted in front of them, in a case with a glass front. “Marco, look at this. Shouldn’t the train be leaving already? It’s ten minutes past time. Do you think something’s the matter?”
Marco didn’t even look at the schedule. “I don’t know. Want me to ask someone?”
“No, it’s okay.” Elisabetta noticed he didn’t read the train schedule. She flashed on his poor handwriting, filled with misspellings.
“Here, we’re about to board.” Marco pointed as travelers surged toward the train, and he and Elisabetta joined them. He helped her up the steps, then climbed in behind her. The train car was hot, dirty, and smoky inside. They found two seats and sat down.
The train lurched off, leaving the station, and she looked out the window, which was filthy. The sky darkened as the afternoon wore on, and they wouldn’t arrive in Carpi until nighttime.
Marco shifted in his seat. “You should take a nap. We could be up all night.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Yes, you are.”
“How do you know?”
“I know what you look like when you’re tired. Your eyes narrow. You squint.”
Elisabetta wondered if he was right. She looked over, but Marco was scanning the other passengers, who kept up their chatter, smoking and reading. The train gathered momentum in a noisy clacking rhythm, and they left Rome behind.
“Elisabetta, close your eyes. I’ll wake you when we get there.”
Elisabetta couldn’t sleep, and she knew Marco wouldn’t either. “I’m sorry about your father.”
“Thank you.”
“We can talk about it, if you want to. I know how much you admired him. He was a great man.”
Macro looked down at her. “Your father was great, too. I know that now.”
Elisabetta didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”
“You remember that night, when we were going to dinner? We ran into the ginger-haired man, who yelled at you? Who said your father’s hands were broken by Fascists?”
“Yes.” Elisabetta remembered, intrigued. It was the night she had given Marco his ring back.
“He was telling the truth. My father told me the story.”
“Really?” Elisabetta asked, in disbelief. She shifted up in the seat. “What happened?”
“Your father painted over a Fascist slogan, on a wall in Trastevere. That’s why they broke his hands. My father warned him, and he went out of town, but came back too soon.” Marco lowered his voice. “You know the OVRA officers that killed my father and Gemma? They were the ones who did it.”
“Oh my.” Elisabetta shuddered. “I had no idea. Of any of this.”
“Your father didn’t want you to know. That’s what the man