embassy, the Rome radio station, and the German telephone exchange.
Elisabetta reached Casa Servano and opened the door to find Sofia waiting for her at the bar, wearing her brown dress, but no apron. “Ciao, Sofia.”
Sofia crossed to her, plainly nervous. “I don’t think we should open today. I was terrified coming here.”
“We have to open. We can’t lose another day. Our budget is too close to the bone.”
“But Rinaldo’s not coming in. We can’t get another cook on such short notice.”
“Then I’ll cook. Is Michele coming?”
“I doubt it.”
“Then we’ll bus the tables ourselves. Sofia, you and I can run the place on our own.”
“But it’s not safe. Who do you think will come?”
“Whoever comes, I’ll feed. People expect us to be open. We have a reputation. We lasted this long, when others didn’t. I can’t survive if this place goes out of business, can you?”
“Yes, I have Paolo’s paycheck.”
The answer caught Elisabetta up short. “Then we’re in different positions. I’m opening today.”
“Can’t I talk you out of it?”
“Why would you want to?”
Sofia pursed her lips. “You sound like Nonna, answering a question with a question.”
Elisabetta didn’t reply, disliking Sofia’s occasional sarcasm about Nonna. Secretly she would never forgive Sofia for selling Nonna’s beloved china.
“Ascolta, Elisabetta, I have children. I left them with my neighbor again.” Sofia tucked her purse under her arm. “I don’t want to work anymore. I’m sorry, I quit.”
“For good?” Elisabetta asked, dismayed. “But what about the restaurant? What would Paolo say? It’s his family’s.”
“He’ll understand. If you were a mother, you would understand.”
Elisabetta felt like a mother to Rico and Gnocchi, but nobody thought that was the same thing except her. “Okay, well . . . thanks.”
Sofia frowned, meeting her eye. “Aren’t you sick of begging for olive oil from vendors? Of being cheated by the black market for eggs and flour? Of barely having enough gas for cooking, and counting our matches? No salt for weeks? Tea from blackberry leaves and dried orange peel? Why don’t you just give up?”
“Is that an option?”
* * *
—
Elisabetta worked all morning to make pasta, ravioli only, to be served with fresh pomodoro sauce, and Castelli Romani the only wine. The dinner service was big, and the mood celebratory, as the Nazis were gloating over their victory. Wine enhanced their mood, and they sang song after song. She was in the kitchen when she heard Hitler himself broadcasting on the radio, threatening that Italy would pay dearly for betraying Germany and that Nazi retaliatory measures would be “very hard.”
Elisabetta grabbed a platter of steaming ravioli and hurried out to the dining room. She managed to keep the customers fed, the glasses full, and the tables turned, and after the last customer had left, she locked the door and hustled to the kitchen to clean up. She made quick work of putting away the extra food, careful to save every leftover scrap. As she worked, Sandro was in the back of her mind, and she felt afraid for him. The Nazis were worse than the Fascists, especially when it came to the Jews.
She started to put the bread away, but stopped herself. She grated the bread, collected some tomato pulp, rice, and cheese, then dripped some olive oil in a pan and began frying. In no time, she had made twelve supplì, wrapped them in waxed paper, bagged them, then cleaned up and left. She hurried through Trastevere and over the Tiber, and though it was after curfew, restaurateurs were given an informal pass.
She reached the Ghetto, which was deserted. She hurried to Sandro’s house, raced up the stairs, and set the supplì on his doorstep. She didn’t leave a note because he would know it was from her. She hoped it would comfort him. He would know he was loved, even if he didn’t love her anymore, and she wanted to give him that feeling, for it was all she had to give.
She hurried away from the Ghetto. Her heart felt happy and full, and that was how she learned that love warms the heart when it is given, regardless of whether it is received.
* * *
—
Only minutes later, starving rats emerged from the shadows of Sandro’s house, their noses twitching. They swarmed the supplì and devoured them all, including the bag.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Marco
13 September 1943
Marco tensed as a Nazi soldier approached the counter at Bar GiroSport. The mere sight of the Wehrmacht uniform triggered a visceral hatred in him. The Armistice had been signed last week, and it