was distraught. Men and women comforted each other, clinging together, praying, and crying. Marco struggled to maintain control of his emotions. The heavy trucks rumbled in idle, spewing exhaust. He simply could not allow Sandro and his family to be loaded onto them and taken to a labor camp.
Marco whispered to his father, “We have to do something.”
“No. We wait.”
“For what? We just can’t stand here.” Marco’s fingers encircled the handle of the gun in his pocket.
“Don’t. You’ll get everybody killed. Be patient.”
Suddenly a burst of gunfire came from the north side of Ghetto, where Sandro lived.
“No!” Marco cried out, startled.
His father shot him a look. A wave of fear ran through the crowd. Women gasped, men cursed the Nazis. An old man shook his head, tears filling his cloudy eyes. A woman covered her face, sobbing.
“Papa, I have an idea.”
“What?”
“Follow me.”
CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
Sandro
16 October 1943
Sandro left the house with his father, holding a small bag of belongings and some bread. Nazis filled Piazza Costaguti, shouting orders, shoving terrified families into lines, and holding barking German shepherds. Shouting and crying echoed from other streets. Earlier there had been gunshots.
Sandro and his father joined the line of families forming diagonally, across the piazza. Nazis held them at gunpoint, their faces shadowed by helmets. The bedraggled families huddled together in the pouring rain, their expressions drawn with fear.
Sandro suppressed dread as his father shivered next to him. He spotted the other tenants from their house in their line. The Pontecorvos with their three boys, Giacomo, Carlo, and Datillo, who kept crying. The Lanzanas with their girls, Amelia and Aida, and the boys, Alvaro and Giuseppe.
Nazis were rousting neighbors from their houses. The DiConsiglio family; Ester with Ada, six years old. Marco, only four. Baby Mirella, not even a year old. The Sabatello family; Giovanni with Graziella, Letizia, Italia, and Franco. Liana, only eight years old.
Sandro saw some of his students, their young faces showing abject terror. Families clung to each other. Husbands comforted wives. Mothers sheltered children from the rain, like hens expanding their wings. Everybody held suitcases and small bags. They were being made to wait while other families were prodded into line at gunpoint.
Sandro realized that the Nazis weren’t counting people. That meant they weren’t taking only two hundred Jews. There were already more than that lined up on Piazza Costaguti.
He scanned the scene and came to a terrifying conclusion. The Nazis must have been taking all of the Ghetto Jews. It was an inconceivable horror, but the evidence was all around him. Men, women, children, without exception. Old and young, able-bodied and infirm, carried in chairs by their family members. He could see the evidence, all around him. It was a rastrellamento, a roundup.
Sandro fought back his fear. He couldn’t succumb now. He had to save his father and himself. He struggled through his panic to figure out a way to escape.
He evaluated the surroundings. Their line faced south, toward Via del Progresso. The Nazis would probably lead them down that street, then to Via del Portico d’Ottavia, the main entrance to the Ghetto. There must be trucks parked on the Lungotevere de’ Cenci, waiting to transport them. That would explain the mechanical thrumming vibrating through the air, even in the rain.
Sandro’s mind raced. There had to be a way out. A group of Nazis guarded a roadblock directly behind them, which cut off Via Arenula, due north. He counted how many. Ten Nazis. Too many to get past.
Ahead lay a smaller, narrow street, Via in Publicolis, that led to Via del Piatto. A lone Nazi stood at the far end of Via in Publicolis, but no blockade had been set up. The Nazis on Piazza Costaguti weren’t looking that way. No one was. All attention was focused on Via del Progresso.
Sandro kept his eye on the Nazi on Via in Publicolis. The line of families shifted forward, but he took his father’s arm and discreetly held him back. They kept their position, letting other families go in front of them.
His father glanced up, questioningly. Rain dotted his spectacles and flattened his sparse hair to his head.
Sandro shook his head slightly, no. He was wondering if he and his father could take down a Nazi. The chance was slim.
But it was, nevertheless, a chance.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
Gemma
16 October 1943
Rain pelted the window of the hospital room, and Gemma awoke in the chair next to Rosa’s bed. She had slept surprisingly well, since the hospital had fed both of them