for gold had spread, and the Ghetto was gripped by panic. President Foà, President Almansi, and Sandro’s father had called families all night, asking for contributions. They had also solicited Rome’s municipal government, but it had declined. A crowd of families filled the piazza outside the synagogue, waiting for the doors to open and ready to give what little gold they had.
Inside, the synagogue buzzed with activity. Foà and Almansi kept phoning for contributions in their offices, and Sandro and his father set up a collection station in the Sala del Consiglio. They moved the conference table, so the donors would stand on one side, and on the other would be the staff, which included goldsmith Angelo Anticoli and his two assistants, to weigh the gold and verify its quality, and Renzo Levi, a ragioniere, an accountant, to keep track of each donation. Sandro’s job was to double-check the calculations, and he sat at the end of the table. He arranged his sharpened pencils and paper in front of him, as if for the most important test of his lifetime.
“Let’s start the collection,” Sandro’s father said, with an authority that his son had never seen in him.
The synagogue doors were opened downstairs, and men and women came upstairs and began forming a line to make their contributions. They were Ghetto Jews, since they lived the closest. Fear strained their expressions, their clothes were shabby, and they held their meager treasures in clenched hands, purses, or bags. Some lifted Star of David and other necklaces from their necks, and others unfastened small gold earrings. One older man took a bridge of false teeth from his mouth to offer his gold fillings.
Sandro’s heart lifted at each contribution. Everyone around the table watched as each ring, brooch, or necklace was weighed, its quality noted, a receipt written, and the figures double-checked. After a few contributions, someone would ask how much gold had been collected thus far, and Sandro began announcing a running tally.
His father greeted people in the line, and his mother and Rosa arrived to help. Sandro and the others thanked each donor, no matter how small their contribution, and the Community was so close, he knew the families. Ascoli. Sermonetta. Piperno. Piazza. Sonnino. Limentani. Fiorentino. Funaro. Caviglia. Di Tivoli. Del Monte. Sabatello.
Sandro had grown up with them all, and before the Race Laws stripped them of property and livelihood, they had been shopkeepers, tinsmiths, bakers, salesmen, tanners, and peddlers. They had gone to school together, shopped together, and worshipped together. They were his friends and neighbors, and it horrified him to think that two hundred of them might be deported.
The morning wore on, and the initial enthusiasm began to wane. The line thinned to a few donors, then to an old woman with a locket. Simple arithmetic told Sandro that if they collected gold at this rate, it would take them an entire month to accumulate the required weight. He stopped announcing the running tally, as the answers were intensifying their collective anxiety. The Ghetto families had given all they had, but they had far too little.
Sandro exchanged grave looks with his father, who stood with his mother and Rosa. None of them had to say a word, for the terrifying truth was plain to see. They grew deathly quiet. Their expressions fell into tense and drawn lines. The lethal deadline hung over them all.
His father crossed to Sandro and leaned next to his ear. “Chin up, for all of our sakes.”
Sandro forced a smile.
“I have to go out, son. I’ll return in a few hours.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll tell you later. Keep up the good work, and have faith.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Massimo
27 September 1943
Monday Afternoon
Massimo reached Vatican City, breathless from the walk, then hurried up the majestic Via della Conciliazione. Crowds filled the massive Saint Peter’s Square, and among them he spotted Emedio, who was waiting for him in front of Saint Peter’s Basilica. Massimo had telephoned him, told him about Kappler’s demand, and asked for help.
Massimo scurried to him, his tie flying, and Emedio hustled forward, his cassock billowing. They met in the middle and embraced, clinging to each other a moment longer, as men do in times of distress.
Massimo released him. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Of course. I’m sorry about your terrible trouble.”
“It’s horrifying, but we’re doing everything we can. Thank you for responding to my call, Emedio.” Massimo caught himself. “I’m sorry, should I call you Father Terrizzi here?”
“No, you needn’t.” Emedio smiled warmly. “Let’s go. I know