the synagogue, raising his arms. Amazingly, his father caught the book on the fly. The families cheered, clapping.
Inexplicably, the Nazis threw another priceless book out of a different window. Sandro’s father turned around, then scrambled to catch that book, too. He did so in the nick of time, right before it hit the cobblestones. Just then, another book flew from yet a different window.
The families’ cheers began to fade, as the Nazis kept throwing priceless books out of the windows, faster and faster. His father ran back and forth in his suit, his tie flying. He tried in vain to catch all of the books, but it was impossible. In no time, it was raining rare books. His father struggled to hold the books he’d already caught, almost tripping.
“Papa, stop!” Sandro looked on, dismayed. The Nazis were playing a humiliating game. The families reacted with angry shouting. The Nazi guards brandished their guns at the families. The situation turned dangerously volatile. He had to do something.
“Sir!” Sandro called to a Nazi. “Let me get my father, will you?”
“Go!” The Nazi scowled, motioning with his long gun.
Sandro ducked under the barricade, hurried to his father, and took some of the books from him. “Papa, stop!”
“These books are hundreds of years old!” his father said, anguished and out of breath, his glasses awry.
“Stop now.” Sandro and his father gave the books to an O&R man who came over with a box. The Nazis kept tossing books out of the windows. Pages came loose, sailed through the air, and fluttered to the ground like trash.
Sandro took his father’s arm, and they hustled back to the barricade. All around them, precious books plummeted to the piazza and broke on the cobblestones, their spines coming unglued. The crowd rushed the barricade, trying to pick up the pages.
The Nazis shouted in German, aiming their guns at the families.
The families quieted in fear, weeping and praying. Sandro hurried his father under the barricade, where his mother and Rosa clucked over him, righting his glasses. His father recovered his composure quickly, and the families surged to him, asking him questions again.
Sandro spotted a young woman at the far side of the crowd, with her head turned away. Her dark curls gleamed in the sunshine, and she had on a pretty blue-checked dress, like Elisabetta used to wear. His heart leapt to his throat, and he found himself threading his way to her.
“Elisabetta?” Sandro said, but when the woman turned to face him, she wasn’t Elisabetta at all.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry . . . I thought you were someone else.” Sandro edged backward into the crowd. He should have known better. He had thrown Elisabetta away, and she probably never thought of him. Her love for him was a thing of the past.
He remembered that night at La Sapienza, how they had kissed under the stars. He found himself wondering if she had ever written the book she had wanted to.
Sandro made his way toward his family, trying to forget her.
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
Sandro
15 October 1943
Sandro stood beside Rosa’s bed, worried about his sister. She had been sick for over a week, her stomach hurting. She could barely keep anything down. Her pretty face was drawn and pale, and her eyes had lost their shine.
His mother rested her palm on Rosa’s forehead. “Darling, your fever is too high. I think we need to get you to the hospital while you can still walk.”
“I’ll be fine,” Rosa said weakly.
“No, you need treatment.”
Sandro agreed with his mother. “Mamma, what do you think is the matter?”
“I can’t diagnose her properly without testing. It could be so many things.”
“What should we do? Papa won’t be home until late.” Sandro had left his father at the synagogue, getting things in order after the sacking of the library.
“You and I can take her. I don’t want to wait for Papa. We’ll leave him a note.” His mother straightened, her mouth set with purpose.
Sandro nodded. “Good, let’s go.”
“Mamma, no.” Rosa shook her head. “I don’t need to go, and it’s after curfew. Sandro, tell her no. The curfew—”
“Don’t worry. If they stop us, we’ll explain that it’s a medical emergency.”
“Assuming they care,” his mother muttered.
* * *
—
Sandro sat with his mother in the waiting area, while Rosa was being examined. Dr. Salvatore Cristabello, one of his mother’s former colleagues, had been delighted to see her again, though he had done a discreet double-take at her shabby brown dress and the change in her appearance. Sandro realized that his