a rainbow of gorgeous colors, culminating in a glass window to the sky. The beautiful synagogue embodied the peace that Sandro had newly found in Judaism, like a healing salve.
Before they sat down, his father took Sandro aside. “I have bad news. There’s a substitute rabbi today.”
“Where’s Chief Rabbi Zolli?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Is he sick?”
“No,” his father answered gravely. “He’s gone into hiding.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Marco
September 1943
Marco, come.” Marco’s father motioned to him, entering the bar from the side door. The place had just closed, and his father had been meeting with the partisans.
“What’s going on?” Marco left the counter and followed him into the storeroom, where they shut the door.
“Look.” His father took off his backpack and extracted a cascade of tangled iron, which looked like a bunch of junk. He disentangled a large iron thing from the pile and held it up.
“What’s that?”
“A quattropunto, a four-pointed nail. It’s made of two long iron nails bent in half and soldered together, with a sharpened point on each end.”
“What does it do?”
“It pops tires. If you throw it onto a road, one sharp point will always stick up. It always rests on three other points, like a tripod. It’s primitive, but effective. It was used by the Roman Army. We used it in the Great War, but I had forgotten about it.”
“It’s so simple.” Marco tested the sharpness of the spike with his finger. It pricked him instantly, drawing a bubble of blood.
“After the battle of Porta San Paolo, one of our fighters, Lindoro Boccanera, was hiding in the military museum there. He noticed an exhibition of artifacts from the Great War, including the quattropunto. He proposed we resume its production.”
“Where did you get these?”
“From a farrier in Trastevere. He’s making them for us.”
Trastevere. Marco got distracted, thinking of Elisabetta. He would always associate her with the neighborhood, which he now avoided.
“Next, we strike—” His father fell silent when the door opened, then they both looked over.
His mother stood in the threshold, her hair in mild disarray from cleaning the kitchen. Her mood had steadily improved, though Marco sensed she would never be the same. His father had told him that she had realized they were partisans after Porta San Paolo, but she would turn a blind eye. Marco didn’t think she looked blind right now.
His father said, “Maria, please close the door.”
“Don’t tell me what to do in my own house.” His mother regarded them with a cold stare. “What’s that junk on my floor?”
“Quattropunti.”
“Weapons?”
“Yes.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. “You planning something new?”
“Yes.”
She pursed her lips. “Beppe, if anything happens to Marco, don’t come home.”
“I understand,” his father said matter-of-factly.
“Ever again.”
“I know.”
His mother closed the door without another word.
Marco had to smile. “She doesn’t mean that, does she?”
“Yes.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“You don’t know her like I do.”
“What would she do if you came home without me? Would she leave you?”
“No, she would kill me.” His father chuckled, but Marco couldn’t let the joke pass, thinking about his father’s infidelity.
“Papa, what happened with you and Elisabetta’s mother?”
His father’s face fell. “I’m not proud of that.”
“How did it happen?”
“It began with Ludovico, Elisabetta’s father. She was just a baby then, like you.” His father eased onto a stack of boxes, setting the quattropunte on the floor. “I met Ludovico when he came to the Piazza San Bartolomeo all’Isola, to paint the Basilica. He was very talented, and I would bring him coffee. Then one day, on his way home, he painted over the party emblem on a wall in Trastevere. He covered it with a perfect painting of the Basilica.”
“Oh no.”
His father’s expression darkened. “You know, in those days, thugs abounded. Carmine Vecchio was one of them.”
Marco’s ears perked up. “The OVRA officer?”
“Yes. He saw the painting, but didn’t know who had done it. He asked me if anyone came to paint the Basilica, but I told him no. That night I warned Ludovico to get out of town. That’s when I met Serafina and I . . . fell in love.”
Marco felt uncomfortable, as it was hard to hear. “Real love?”
“I wouldn’t have strayed for less. But she wasn’t who I thought she was. She was selfish. Now, I know better. I know how lucky I am.”
“And you and Mamma are happy?”
“Yes. Marriage is hard work, but it’s worth it.” His father smiled, his relief plain. “Anyway I told Ludovico and Serafina to get out of town, but he came back early and was ambushed. I suspected Carmine and Stefano Pretianni, but I could never