cyclist and popular proprietor of Bar GiroSport, had died suddenly of a heart attack, at his home. His wake would be held on Monday, and his body would lie in an open casket, dressed in a suit that would hide his wounds. His funeral Mass and burial would be held the next morning, and nobody would suspect the truth.
Marco would have preferred a Jewish undertaker for Gemma, but the Nazis had taken them all. He had to settle for Nino, who arrived at the house with two assistants, older men like him, balding and dressed in black suits.
“My God.” Nino scanned the kitchen, appalled.
Marco kept his gaze averted, not to succumb to emotion. “What about for Dottoressa Simone? I told you she was Jewish. You said on the phone you would do right by her.”
“We will bury her tomorrow morning, timely under Jewish law. I have a simple pine casket and have arranged for a plot near the Jewish section in Verano. It would be too dangerous to bury her in the Jewish section. I falsified her death certificate. It’s the best we can do, in the circumstances.”
His mother looked up from the table, tearful. “Thank you, Nino. Gemma was a very dear friend of our family.”
“My deepest condolences, Maria.” Nino gestured to Gemma. “Now, if I may, my assistants and I will take Dottoressa Simone first.”
“We have said our final goodbyes to her.” His mother nodded, but she and Elisabetta wept again as Nino and his assistant went to Gemma with a black velvet sack, trimmed with gold braid. They laid it flat on the floor, unzipped it, and carefully placed her body inside. They zipped up the velvet bag, fetched a canvas stretcher, placed Gemma’s body on it, then carried it downstairs.
Marco cleared his throat. “I should say goodbye to Papa now, before they take him.”
His mother looked over, sniffling. “You don’t have to, now. They’ll give us time before the viewing.”
“Right.” Emedio nodded, his arm around her, and Marco realized he hadn’t had a chance to tell them about their plan.
“Mamma, I’m sorry, but I can’t stay for the viewing, and I might not be back for the funeral.”
“What?” his mother asked, shocked. “What do you mean? You have to be there. It’s your father’s funeral.”
“I can’t stay. We think that Elisabetta persuaded Baron von Weizsäcker to send Sandro and Massimo to Fossoli, instead of out of the country. That means I have to be in place before their train arrives. I have to leave today.”
“Oh no.” His mother nodded, crestfallen. Her lower lip trembled, and Emedio hugged her closer. She nodded in resignation. “I suppose your father would understand.”
“Yes, he would. He and I talked about it on the way home, before . . .” Marco couldn’t finish the sentence.
“And Gemma would, too. You honor her memory, trying to help Massimo and Sandro.” His mother frowned, wiping her eyes. “But you aren’t going to Fossoli alone, are you? Can’t Arnaldo go with you?”
“No, he has to deal with Carmine and Stefano.”
“I’m going with him,” Elisabetta interjected, and they all turned to her.
Marco shook his head. “Elisabetta, you can’t. It’s dangerous.”
“Then it will be dangerous for us both.”
Marco looked at her a long moment, then turned to the sound of Nino and his assistants climbing up the stairs. The undertakers entered the kitchen with the stretcher and another black velvet bag. His mother began to cry softly, and they laid the velvet bag on the ground beside Marco’s father. They were about to move him when Marco stepped forward.
“Let me take care of him,” Marco heard himself say.
Nino looked over, sympathetic. “No, Marco. We can.”
“I want to.” Marco crossed to his father, knelt down beside him, and placed his hands underneath his father’s big shoulder, then shifted it onto the velvet bag. Then he did the same thing with the other shoulder, moving him bit by bit.
His father was heavy, but Marco focused his effort. He kept shifting his father over, then sliding the velvet cover of the bag over him. He covered both sides of his father’s body, then zipped the bag partway up, from the bottom.
He heard his mother and Elisabetta weeping, and Emedio praying, but his heart focused on this final task. His tears fell onto the velvet, though he hadn’t known he was crying. He zippered the bag until it reached his father’s chin.
Marco let his gaze take in his father’s face one last time. Beppe Terrizzi was a strong man with strong