vendors, hospital employees, ex-Fascists, and tifosi.
The tifosi referred to his father by his proper name, Giuseppe Terrizzi, having read about him, collected his pictures, and memorized his race times.
He could have been one of the greats, one of them had said.
He was, Marco had blurted out, then had fallen silent for fear of saying the wrong thing. It was all he could do lately, the wrong things. His plan had failed. He had gotten his best friend killed. Elisabetta had come to the funeral today, which he appreciated, but he couldn’t look her in the eye. He didn’t know how to go on. He mourned Sandro, his father, Gemma, and Aldo. His grieving heart heaped one loss on top of the other, and their collective weight buried him.
After the cemetery, there was a family luncheon at Bar GiroSport, during which Marco could barely speak. His presence was in body only, and his actions were mechanical. He ate little, then cleared the tables, and when it was over, he knew what he had to do. He crossed to his mother’s side, placing a hand on her arm.
“Mamma, may I be the one to go tell Rosa?”
* * *
—
Marco walked down the hospital corridor. He had spent so much time in a military uniform that the civilian suit felt strange on him. It occurred to him that a suit was a different sort of uniform, one of a successful man, and if so, he wore it as an actor does a costume. He wasn’t successful at anything. He had failed, and now he would have to tell Rosa that her brother was dead and her father left behind.
He reached the end of the hallway and a closed door, with a glass window. He had already told Dr. Cristabello about Sandro and Massimo, which had saddened him. Dr. Cristabello had told him that the hospital was maintaining its Syndrome K story in case the Nazis came back.
Marco looked through the window and spotted Rosa, resting in a bed near the window. He put his hand on the knob, but stopped when he caught sight of his own reflection in the window. He looked haunted, like a ghost trapped in the glass. How could he tell her that he had gotten Sandro killed? He would have to find the strength, for her. He would tell her about her brother’s bravery, and his sacrifice.
Marco opened the door.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-EIGHT
Massimo
22 October 1943
Massimo perked up, thinking that being of such short stature had paid off. Families from the transit camp were being transported in a wooden freight car, otherwise used for farm animals. There was a splintered slat partway up one side, which made a small opening, and Massimo kept his nostrils to the hole, breathing fresh air. It was a lucky break, for the stench was nauseating, since everyone had to defecate and urinate in the corners of the railcar.
The trip was nightmarish, spent in total darkness. Massimo hadn’t eaten in days, and neither had anybody else. He was so thirsty he felt woozy. Once or twice his knees buckled, but there wasn’t room to fall, and his sprained ankle throbbed. Children had stopped asking for food and water, but babies kept crying, a heart-wrenching sound. An infant near him had died in her mother’s arms.
He dozed standing up, but he peeked through the opening from time to time. He could see where they were going, and it was mostly country, then mountainous, undoubtedly the Alps.
He didn’t know their destination, but he assumed it was northward, as the air had grown progressively colder, then frigid. Everyone in the car was accustomed to a warmer climate and dressed too lightly. Again, Massimo counted himself lucky, since he still had on his suit jacket and was the only man wearing a tie, which he regarded as the last vestige of his dignity.
The rhythmic clacking of the wheels began to slow down. Massimo sensed they had reached southern Poland. He guessed that they would be at the labor camp, as he had heard rumors that the other Ghetto Jews were being sent there, too. He brightened, hoping there would be food and drink. Perhaps the Nazis would let them rest before they put them to work. The rumor was that the name of the labor camp was Auschwitz.
Massimo hoped that the camp would need a lawyer. He resolved to make his profession known to the powers that be. He felt certain that even Nazis would see his