as one group of carabinieri was loaded, the truck drove off and another group would be brought out, loaded, and taken away in custody.
Marco realized with horror that the Nazis were arresting the entire police force. The very thought had been inconceivable, until now. This was a major operation, in the center of Rome, but the Nazis had pulled off a total surprise. He hadn’t heard a whisper about it at Palazzo Venezia. The partisans didn’t know about it, either.
Marco felt terrified for the city he loved and for his fellow Romans, who would be utterly defenseless against the Nazis from now on. The crowd watched in fear, their hands to their mouths. Some cursed or wept, and others turned away, despairing.
Marco stopped counting at five hundred carabinieri arrested. He doubted many were left inside, if any. He raced home to tell his father.
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
Sandro
13 October 1943
Sandro stood with his mother, Rosa, and the other distraught families behind a barricade that had been erected by the Nazis, around the piazza. Armed Nazi soldiers guarded the entrance to the synagogue, in a terrifying display of lethal force. The Nazis were about to confiscate the contents of the Biblioteca della Comunità and the Biblioteca del Collegio Rabbinico Italiano, some ten thousand priceless books and artifacts. Legal opposition to prevent the plunder had been to no avail, for the Nazis were beyond the reach of any law. Nor had any institution intervened: neither the Vatican, the Badoglio government, the Questura, nor La Sapienza.
Sandro’s father was inside the synagogue with Presidents Foà and Almansi, in a last-ditch effort to stop the Nazis. Sandro knew it would be futile. His only consolation was that his father and the others had taken matters into their own hands in the past few days, having anticipated that legal methods would fail. They had hidden some of the most precious artifacts from the collection in the homes and gardens of sympathetic families throughout Rome. They had even drained the mikveh, or ritual bath, in the synagogue and hired a tile setter to hide artifacts in its walls.
But this morning, without warning, the Ghetto had awakened to find two massive freight cars parked across from the synagogue on the Lungotevere de’ Cenci, on the tracks of the Circolare Nera trolley line. Armed Nazis guarded another barricade around the freight train and detoured traffic away from the typically bustling boulevard. The insignia on the train was the emblem of the German national railroad, so everyone knew where the train had come from and where it was going. The Nazis had hired Otto & Rosini, an international shipping company, to transport the collection to Germany, and their O&R workmen were inside the synagogue, packing.
Sandro’s father emerged from the synagogue and crossed the piazza. He held his head high as he passed the Nazi soldiers, and if he was afraid, he didn’t let it show. Sandro felt a rush of admiration for him. He had seen his father grow in stature during these dark days, and the Community had come to regard him as a leader.
His father approached the barricade, his expression somber, and the families surged against the cordon, shouting questions at him.
“Massimo, how can they take our libraries? They belong to the Community!” “We paid the gold! How much more can they take from us?” “Were you able to stop this? It’s a crime in broad daylight!”
Sandro’s father motioned for calm. “Friends, I have disappointing news. We could not stop this confiscation, though we tried our very best.” He paused as the families reacted with groans and murmurs, then he resumed. “However, we have warned them that we will take legal action if any of our artifacts are sold off, after they are out of the country. The Germans assure us that they have no intention of doing that. In addition, we have formally requested return of the artifacts after the war—”
The families burst into chatter, interrupting him, when an O&R man in a worksuit emerged from the synagogue carrying a box. He was followed by another O&R man with a box, then another. The workmen walked to the freight train, toting fragile books and centuries-old manuscripts in boxes, as if they were common pots and pans.
Suddenly, a book flew from an open window on the upper floor of the synagogue. The book opened in midair, and its ancient pages flapped like a flightless bird.
Sandro’s father whirled around, crying out, “No, it will break!”