and he felt moved that the Terrizzis had come. His gaze connected across the room with Marco’s, and he could see pain and sympathy etched into his best friend’s expression.
His mother and Rosa embraced the Terrizzis. “Maria, Beppe, thank you,” Rosa said, wiping her eyes under her glasses.
Maria hugged Rosa. “We’ll do anything we can to help.”
Beppe’s rugged face softened. “We’re deeply sorry, Gemma. It’s outrageous that this should happen in Rome.”
Sandro hadn’t realized until this moment how much he had missed his best friend. Seeing Marco again brought back memories of a better, sweeter time, of a past they shared, riding bicycles, horsing around in the street, and walking through Rome together, from when they were little boys.
His mother showed the Terrizzis to the table. “Look who’s here, Sandro,” she said, composing herself.
“Marco—” Sandro started to say, but words fell short. He rose, came around the table, and embraced his old friend.
“I’ve missed you, brother. I’m sorry this is happening, too. I’m sorry for what I said that night.”
“Thank you.” Sandro released Marco, touched. “And about Elisabetta, I want you to know, I never—”
“None of that matters now,” Marco interrupted him gently, his gaze glistening as he squeezed Sandro’s arms. “We’re best friends, you and me. We said it once, but I forgot our bond. I stand with you. We stand together.”
Sandro blinked. He felt the same way, and he could discern a new maturity in his old friend. “Thank you.”
“Here, take this.” Marco reached around his neck and took off a gold chain with a small crucifix, which Sandro had seen on his neck since boyhood.
Maria reached for her gold necklaces, one with a filigreed crucifix and the other with a corno. “Take mine, too.”
Beppe handed over a thick envelope, then took off his necklace, with a crucifix and a gold saint’s medal. “I’m hoping the money will come in handy if you need to buy additional gold.”
Sandro accepted the envelope and the necklaces. “Thank you, all of you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
Marco
27 September 1943
Monday Afternoon
Marco left the synagogue with his parents, threading through the families filling the piazza, clustering in distraught groups, talking and holding each other. His heart went out to them, and he felt a deep wave of shame for having ever worn a Fascist uniform. He would never forgive himself for the harm and damage he had done.
Suddenly a black limousine pulled up on the piazza, being driven by a chauffeur, an unprecedented sight in the Ghetto. Heads turned as the limousine parked, and Marco and his parents looked over to see none other than Massimo emerging from its back seat, his face a mask of urgency.
Massimo closed the limousine door, hastily greeted a few families, then caught sight of the Terrizzis. He rushed over, throwing open his arms. “Beppe, Maria, Marco! You’re here?”
“Of course.” Marco’s father embraced Massimo. “We came as soon as we heard. We saw Sandro and made a contribution.”
“Thank you, I love you all. Emedio helped us, too. Look what I have.” Massimo put his hand in his pocket and extracted a pile of gold necklaces, which dripped between his fingers. “These are from friends of Monsignor O’Flaherty. One even had her driver take me home.”
“Bravo, Massimo!” his father and mother said, delighted.
Marco eyed the jewelry, fearing that it wouldn’t make much difference toward the colossal amount that the Nazis had demanded.
“I have to go.” Massimo returned the jewelry to his pocket, glancing at his watch.
“Good luck,” Marco said, managing a smile.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
Elisabetta
27 September 1943
Monday Night
Casa Servano had a full house for dinner, and Elisabetta had been busy in the kitchen from the moment she’d gotten in this morning. Her one-pasta menu had become routine, and food shortages had grown worse since the Nazi occupation. Tonight they were serving spaghetti alle vongole, spaghetti with clam sauce, and she had made the pasta, cleaned the clams, and chopped fresh garlic, oregano, and parsley.
The kitchen filled with steam, and Elisabetta wiped her brow, standing behind the dented cauldrons of boiling water, one to cook pasta and the other to steam clams. On a third burner was a heavy saucepan for clam sauce, the heat low enough to warm the olive oil but not high enough to brown the garlic. Timing was everything, and Nonna always said spaghetti alle vongole was a dish that only the best cooks got right.
The new waitress, Antonia, hustled into the kitchen and emptied her tray. She was eighteen years old, with a sweet, wide face, dark eyes, and