said. He lied to protect you.”
“I never suspected he lied. I believed him.” Elisabetta’s chest wrenched with regret. “I was so wrong.”
“No, you should have believed him. You loved him.”
“But I didn’t appreciate him. I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. I’m proud of him, but I’m finding this out too late.”
“It’s not too late. You can have a feeling of pride in him the rest of your life. It’s good that you found out, even now.”
Elisabetta felt a pang, looking at the countryside whizzing past the window.
Marco cleared his throat, hoarsely. “That’s how I feel about my father. I will always be proud of him.”
Tears came to Elisabetta’s eyes, but she held them back. She felt profoundly sad for her father, for Marco, for his father, and for Gemma. For Sandro and Massimo. For Nonna. For the Ghetto Jews. For Rome.
“And I do have a plan. I’ll give you the details when we get there. You want Sandro, so I’ll get him for you.” Marco kept his eyes front. “You love him, right?”
“Yes.”
“I love him, too. I would have chosen him, too.” Marco paused. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
Elisabetta looked up at him.
Marco managed a shaky smile. “Now go to sleep, cara.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE
Sandro
16 October 1943
Sandro and his father had been in the courtyard all day. The rain had stopped, but the sky stayed cloudy, darkening. The families sat in groups, hungry, thirsty, and frightened. Sandro had been watching them all day, and he had finally thought of a plan. “Papa, stand up.”
“Why?”
“I have an idea.” Sandro extended him a hand and lifted him to his feet.
“What is it?”
“Look, the Nazis are letting anyone go who’s not Jewish.” Sandro pointed to the front of the courtyard, where the Nazi officers had their security desk. Behind them was a short line of Gentiles and Mischlinge, the German term for half-Jewish and half-Gentile, being readied for release.
“We can’t convince them we’re Gentile. I was a board member. My name must be on every record they have.”
“I know, but hear me.” Sandro leaned close to his father. “I’ve been watching all day, seeing our friends and neighbors. I kept noticing the families who are here, but then I realized I was making a mistake. I should have been noticing the families who aren’t here.”
“What do you mean?” His father looked up, intrigued.
“You know who I haven’t seen? Matteo and Giovanni Rotoli. They aren’t here.”
“From across the street?”
“Yes.”
His father shrugged. “They must not have been home when the Nazis came.”
“Exactly.” Sandro felt his heart beat faster. “Matteo and Giovanni aren’t here, so we can assume their identity. Remember, Matteo isn’t Jewish, only his wife, Livia, is. That makes Giovanni, his son, half-Jewish. If the Nazis look up Matteo and Giovanni Rotoli on any list, they will appear as Mischlinge. We can pass as them. We know everything about them.”
“You’re right.” His father smiled, straightening. “We should try.”
“Follow my lead.” Sandro made his way through the crowd, with his father behind him. They reached the front of the courtyard, where a Nazi officer stood at a lectern.
“What do you want?” The Nazi frowned under the bill of his cap.
Sandro willed himself to stay calm. “Sir, I’m Giovanni Rotoli and this is my father, Matteo. I’m Mischlinge and my father is Gentile, a Roman Catholic. We live on Piazza Costaguti and were taken by accident.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
“We were in a classroom. Please, we don’t belong here.”
“Show me your identification cards.”
“We had to leave without them, in a hurry.” Sandro held his breath as the Nazi officer began riffling through papers on his lectern. Behind him, other Nazis were lining up the Gentiles for release. The difference between deportation or salvation was centimeters.
“Ah so, Rotoli.” The Nazi pointed at the Rotoli surname on the papers, then glanced up. “Fine. Get in the line, hurry. Go.”
Sandro masked the relief that flooded his heart. He turned to take his father’s arm, and together they walked around another Nazi, guarding the line for release.
“Get in line!” the Nazi guard said, then looked back at Sandro. “Hey you, what’s in your buttonhole?”
Sandro looked down at his jacket. In his buttonhole was the basil from Elisabetta’s garden, drooping now. She had given it to him last night. “Uh, it’s just some basil.”
“Where did you get it?”
“My girlfriend,” Sandro answered, puzzled.
“Ha! She gave me a note for you. You’re Sandro Simone?”
Sandro froze at the sound of his real name. His