coffee from chicory and stretched the flour by adding chaff and ground potato peels. She brought in fresh herbs from her rooftop garden, which continued to be a haven for her and the cats, safe from Nedda, Martina, and the children.
Sofia entered the kitchen, taking off her apron. She was a pretty woman, but she had aged since Paolo had gone to war. Her brown eyes looked tired, tilting down at the corners, and gray strands threaded her dark hair. “I’m finished in the dining room. I have to get home.”
“Good news. We made as much as last night.” Elisabetta stuffed the lire into a canvas pouch and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” Sofia reached for her purse and put the money pouch inside, exhaling. “How I loathe our Nazi customers. Every day there’s more of them. They treat me like dirt.”
“Beh, the joke’s on them, since we take their money.” Elisabetta hated the Nazis, too, so she had raised prices. Top Nazi brass had become regulars, even the German Ambassador to the Vatican, Baron Ernst von Weizsäcker.
“I know they’re our allies, but it was a bad marriage from the outset.” Sofia frowned. “Meanwhile Paolo’s letters grow worse. He says it’s a lost cause. I pray every night that the war ends soon. I don’t even care if we lose.”
“I feel the same way. I think we’re getting close to the end, no matter the propaganda in the newspapers.” Elisabetta sensed that the tide was turning against the Fascists, after defeats in Stalingrad and Tunisia. Everyone was whispering that Mussolini had led the country astray. She wondered if Marco’s loyalty to Fascism had wavered, but she dismissed thoughts of him. She never did figure out how her father’s hands had gotten broken.
“I worry about Paolo all the time.”
“I’m sure.” Elisabetta worried about Sandro all the time, too. The Race Laws had ground the Jews of Rome into oppression, and she could only imagine how Sandro and his family were faring. She used to walk through the Ghetto, hoping to catch sight of him, but she had stopped. Still, she never stopped loving him. The Fascists couldn’t police her heart.
“The children miss their father. I leave the radio off or they ask too many questions.”
“I’m sorry.” Elisabetta gave her a brief hug. “If it makes you feel better, I spit in the pasta we serve the Nazis.”
“You do?” Sofia burst into surprised laughter.
“Nonna taught me. I learned from the best.”
“That, you did.” Sofia’s expression softened. “I miss her, too.”
“We go on for her,” Elisabetta said, patting her back. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Sofia left, and Elisabetta experienced a pang of mourning. She looked around the kitchen, letting her gaze linger on the pantry that had been Nonna’s throne room. She found herself entering the pantry, running her fingertips along the wooden surface of the table, then using her fingernail to clean out the flour wedged into its grain. She felt as if she were touching Nonna herself, and so they remained together, in life and in death.
Elisabetta heard a noise behind her. “Sofia, did you forget something?” she asked, turning around, but it wasn’t Sofia. Standing in the kitchen was a large, dark-haired man. She experienced a tingle of fear, realizing she had forgotten to lock the front door after closing. Crime was rampant in Rome these days, but the man didn’t look malicious. He was as thin as a rolling pin, and his shabby jacket and pants hung on him.
“Sir, please go,” Elisabetta said, just the same.
“Please, if you have any food to spare, I would thank you. My wife was killed when our farm was bombed, and I have nothing. I served in the army until I injured my foot.”
“I’m sorry, but I have nothing to spare and a restaurant to run.”
“I’m not asking for myself, but for my children. Two boys and a girl, my youngest. They won’t eat much, I promise. If you could feed them, just this once, I would never bother you again.” The man gestured to the dining room. “They’re outside, skin and bones. If you don’t believe me, see for yourself.”
“Of course I believe you,” Elisabetta said, giving in. “Please, sir, go sit down. I’ll make you all some pasta.”
She didn’t need to see the children.
She already knew how they would look.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Marco
June 1943
Marco fell into step with his friend Rolf, and they walked along the Tiber on the Lungotevere dei Sangallo. Marco had been working around the clock at Palazzo Venezia, and he