last night, the first good meal they’d had in ages. She felt relieved to see Rosa still sleeping peacefully, her color mildly improved.
Salvatore appeared in the threshold, his expression grave. His white coat was rumpled, as it was the end of his shift. He motioned her into the hallway, and Gemma rose and crossed to him.
“What’s the matter, Salvatore? Did you get test results?”
“No, but I have terrible news.” Salvatore placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “The Nazis are rounding up the Ghetto. They started early this morning.”
“What?” Gemma asked, shocked. Tears sprang to her eyes. She shook her head. “No! A rastrellamento? This can’t be happening, it can’t be. Massimo and Sandro are home. I have to leave.”
“No, Gemma, don’t, you’re safer here. We have a plan in place.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Nazis are on their way here. They’re coming to take the Jewish patients. We’re going to move Rosa, right away.”
“No!” Gemma gasped, stricken.
“We have to act quickly. We’re setting up an isolation ward for the Jewish patients—”
“Why?” Gemma recoiled. “You’ll be doing the Nazis’ work for them.”
“You know us better than that.” Salvatore’s expression softened, his eyes sympathetic. “Giovanni has a plan to save Rosa and everyone else.”
“How? What sort of plan?” Gemma knew he meant Dr. Giovanni Borromeo, the hospital administrator. Giovanni was a brilliant physician and professor of medicine, but she wanted details.
“Allow me to explain.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE
Marco
16 October 1943
Here’s my thinking.” Marco ran with his father, back over the Ponte Fabricio. “The Ghetto is cordoned off at the Lungotevere de’ Cenci. That’s where the trucks are. That’s where the Nazis are bringing everyone. Right?”
“È vero.” His father ran, unbothered by the rain. They reached Tiber Island, ran past Bar GiroSport, and ran over the Ponte Cestio.
“So we should approach from the north end of the Ghetto, at Piazza Costaguti. The opposite end, away from the action. There will be roadblocks there, but they will be more lightly guarded.”
“Understood. The Nazis will be busy at the south side of the Ghetto, not the north.” Marco and his father took a right turn and ran up the Lungotevere degli Anguillara, on the west bank of the Tiber.
“Yes, and the north side is closer to the Simones’ house. If the Nazis are lining them up, that’s where Sandro and his family will be.”
His father looked over, his dark curls dripping. “Let’s pick up the pace.”
Marco accelerated. Lights were going on in the houses along the river. Phones would be ringing. People would be waking up to horrific news.
His heart hammered like a piston. His legs churned. His breath became rhythmic. Raindrops slaked his face, blurring his vision. He shook them off and kept going.
He matched his father, stride for stride.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO
Sandro
16 October 1943
Sandro kept his eye on the lone Nazi guard on Via in Publicolis. The line of families had shifted forward enough. He and his father stood directly across from the entrance to the street.
Sandro shifted his gaze to the Nazis guarding their line. They stood at a distance, near its head. They weren’t looking in his direction.
He checked Via in Publicolis again. The Nazi there had turned away, too. It was time for Sandro to make his move.
He squeezed his father’s arm, signaling him. His father looked up. Sandro shifted his gaze. They took a step toward Via in Publicolis.
Just then, two more Nazis approached the lone Nazi on Via in Publicolis. One lit a cigarette, cupping the flame against the rain.
Sandro’s heart sank. It was too risky now. He quickly nudged his father back in line with the other families.
He wracked his brain for another means of escape. He needed a subterfuge of some kind. Maybe he could tell the Nazis that he had left the gas on. Gas came on for mealtimes, and it was around breakfast time. The Nazis wouldn’t want to start a fire that could rage out of control.
He decided that it wouldn’t work. The Nazis probably wouldn’t let them both go back to the apartment, only Sandro. He didn’t want to leave his father.
Their line grew longer, extending almost all the way across the piazza. His gaze fell on the other families. He knew all of them. The elderly Angelo Fornani with Alberto and little Alberto, six years old. The grandmotherly Teresa Campagnano with Vito and tiny Donato. Augusto Capon, an older gentleman whose daughter had married the Nobel Prize–winning physicist Enrico Fermi.
The Scudi family was prodded into the line, but Matteo