Elisabetta ran back over the Ponte Fabricio, heading for the Collegio Militare. Her heart lodged in her throat. All she could think of was Sandro. She reached Tiber Island and kept going, turning right up the Lungotevere Sanzio.
Her mind raced with questions. When had he gone? Why hadn’t she awakened? A wave of guilt overwhelmed her. If she had been awake, she could have convinced him to stay. She could have delayed him. If she had, Sandro would be safe with her now.
She stumbled and almost fell. She straightened up and started running again. She had to get to him. She had to see if she could help him. She had to tell him she loved him and would always.
She powered forward, running hard in the rain.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN
Marco
16 October 1943
Marco and his father reached the Collegio Militare, where armed Nazis had cordoned off the building’s entrance. A distraught crowd thronged outside the barricade. Men and women waved notes in the air, hoping to communicate with their loved ones inside.
“Marco, listen.” His father drew him close, his chest heaving. “You stay here, I’ll go around the other side. I’m hoping one of our friends will be here.”
Marco knew that his father meant their fellow partisans. “I’ll look, too.”
His father took off, and Marco scanned the faces around him, but saw no partisans. He threaded his way to the front of the crowd, then overheard two Nazi guards talking on the other side of the barricade, having a mundane conversation in German. The Nazi on the left was saying that he loved cervelatwurst, but the Nazi on the right preferred bratwurst, saying his wife never overcooked it.
Marco got an idea. He approached the Nazi on the right, who had narrow brown eyes and a face pockmarked from adolescent acne. “I agree with you, friend,” he said in German. “I loathe overcooked bratwurst.”
The Nazi cocked his head, impressed. “You speak excellent German.”
“I am German. I was raised there, but moved here when I was little. I’m from the north, in Osnabrück.” Marco knew of the city from his old friend Rolf. “It’s a lovely town. We used to take trips to Bremen on the weekend.”
“I’m from Köln,” the Nazi offered, but Marco didn’t know anything about Köln, so he got to the point.
“My mother sent me here. I’m hoping you can give me some information. One of her friends knows a Jew who got sent here. Where are they being sent from here? Just give me some information to shut her up. You know how they nag.”
The Nazi nodded. “They’re going to a labor camp in the north, out of the country.”
“When?”
“Monday morning, around nine.”
Marco hid his alarm. It was sooner than he’d expected to hear. “Do me one more favor. Isn’t there a way I can talk to the guy? His name is Sandro Simone.”
The Nazi snorted. “No, it’s not allowed. There’s about a thousand Jews in there, so I can’t find him anyway.”
“If you let me in, I can find him.”
“Ha! You’ve got balls, friend.” The Nazi turned away and walked over to his friend, and just then, Marco heard a woman calling at the back of the crowd.
“Sandro, Sandro!”
Marco turned around and spotted her in the rain, waving a note in the air. He should have known she would come. She managed to look beautiful, even with wet hair clinging to her face. “Elisabetta!”
“Marco?”
Marco made his way to her, and Elisabetta came forward to meet him. He embraced her, moved by her tears.
“Is Sandro here?” she asked, sniffling, as he released her.
“Yes, with his father. His mother is at my house.”
“What can we do?” Elisabetta wiped her eyes.
“Let’s go home, we can talk about it.”
“No, I want to give him my note. Will you help me?”
“I can try, but even if I could get the guard to take it, they won’t know which one is him.”
“Yes, they will. He has basil in the buttonhole of his jacket. I put it there, last night.”
Marco’s mouth went dry. He didn’t know when Elisabetta and Sandro had started sleeping together, but even a fool could tell that she was deeply in love. “Let me have the note then.”
“Thank you.” Elisabetta handed him a crumpled piece of paper. “It tells him I love him.”
“I assumed that, cara,” Marco said, masking his pain.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN
Marco
16 October 1943
Marco, his parents, Elisabetta, and Gemma gathered around the Terrizzis’ kitchen table. His mother served rolls with jam, and they