You can bring your contribution to the second floor of the synagogue. Ask for a lawyer named Massimo Simone.”
Elisabetta hid her reaction. If Sandro’s father was there, then Sandro would be, too. She would have loved to see him, but she doubted that he wanted to see her. He hadn’t contacted her after she had left him the supplì.
She handed the man her envelope. “Will you take it in for me, instead?”
“If you wish.” The husband accepted the envelope. “What’s your name? I’ll tell them you contributed.”
“No, thank you.” Elisabetta turned away, hurrying from the Ghetto.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
Sandro
28 September 1943
Tuesday Morning
The deadline was only hours away, and Sandro, his family, Presidents Foà and Almansi, Angelo, Anticoli, and his assistants, the accountant Renzo Levi, and the secretary Rosina Sorani were in the Sala di Consiglio, exhausted. They had been collecting gold in dribs and drabs for hours on end. Their hopes had soared and plummeted, but they had made more phone calls, knocked on more doors, and tracked down every member of the Community for contributions. They had even bought fifteen kilograms of gold with cash they had collected.
Now they stood around the table, waiting to see if they had reached their goal. Angelo placed a single earring on the brass scale. The fulcrum squeaked just the slightest. They all held their breath.
Angelo straightened, grinning. “We did it!”
Everyone cheered. Sandro hugged his father. The women burst into tears, clinging together. Almansi and Foà shook hands, beaming with joy. Angelo, his assistants, and Renzo clapped each other on the backs.
Against all odds, they had succeeded, and faster than anyone had expected. The gold filled ten boxes on the table, five kilograms in each. They even had enough money left over to put 2,021,540 lire in the Community’s safe, in the synagogue. Last night, the Vatican had offered to loan them any shortfall, but the Community had hoped to rely only on themselves.
“Son.” Sandro’s father released him, his eyes glistening behind his glasses. “Well done.”
“You, too, Papa.”
Foà cleared his throat. “I thank all of you for your herculean efforts. We did this together. It is a tribute to the love, strength, and power of our Community.”
Almansi nodded. “I will call the Vatican and thank the Pope, but I am extremely proud that we did not fall short. That said, we still have time, so I would delay before we announce our wonderful news to the Community. As much as I want to relieve their suffering, I think we should keep up the collections, to be on the safe side. I also think we should call Colonel Kappler and ask for an extension. I don’t want him to think we met his deadline too easily.”
“Very wise.” Foà turned to Sandro’s father. “Massimo, do you agree?”
“Yes, on all points. If we tell the Nazis we met their demand, they’ll just ask for more and put us back where we started.” His father turned to Sandro. “Son, what do you think?”
“I agree,” Sandro answered, pleased to be asked.
* * *
—
The Nazis ended up extending the deadline, and when it was time, Foà, Almansi, and Massimo traveled to Villa Wolkonsky with the gold. For some reason, Kappler wasn’t there, and they were redirected to his office at Via Tasso, an unwelcome turn of events. At first the Nazis claimed the gold was of insufficient weight, but after protest, they reweighed the amount and had to relent.
The Jews of Rome were saved.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
Marco
29 September 1943
It was just before dawn, and the vast sky in the countryside was a warm golden orange at the horizon, cooling to sheer blue as it thinned to atmosphere. The moon was only the slimmest of crescents, barely a curved white line, like the obverse image of a shadow. Marco, his father, and the partisans had just assumed their firing positions, propped up on their elbows and lying belly-down along the deserted dirt road with a steep hill. They were waiting to ambush a Nazi convoy, due to pass in half an hour.
Marco looked down the sight of his long gun, which he aimed at the crest of the hill. His father had learned of the convoy late last night, so the partisans had mobilized quickly. They lay hidden by a hillock that bordered the road, and behind them was an abandoned lemon grove. Rotting lemons soured the air. Bees droned around Marco’s head.
His father looked over, next to him. “Marco, when it starts, keep your head down.”
“Who are you more afraid