“Sandro, do you really mean this?” Elisabetta asked, her heart breaking.
“Yes, I do.” Sandro glanced at the door, and the clamor of students echoed in the hallway. “My class is coming back. Please, don’t make a scene.”
“I’m begging you, give us a chance.”
“No, Elisabetta. You need to go.”
Elisabetta ran from the classroom, wiping tears from her eyes, and hurried down the hallway past the students. Her heart was in tumult, her gut wrenched. She loved him, but she had decided too late. It was all her fault. Sandro was lost to her now.
Elisabetta ran from the school and hurried through the Ghetto, holding back her tears. She ran to Trastevere, reached the house, and flew inside, avoiding Nonna’s bedroom downstairs. She raced upstairs and ran to her bedroom, where she collapsed on the floor.
Finally letting the tears flow.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Sandro
November 1938
Sandro sat at the table, too nervous to grade papers. His mother gazed out the window, undoubtedly feeling the same way. The first course of dinner, concia di fiori di zucca, fried squash flowers, cooled aromatically on the table. His father was late, and Sandro knew it would drive his mother more crazy than usual, for good reason.
A white envelope sat on the table, still sealed, having been delivered in the day’s mail. The return address was the Demorazza, which was the government agency that administered the Race Laws, so the envelope must contain the agency’s decision on their family’s exemption. His father had filed an application for one on their behalf, and they all hoped the exemption would be granted. They had been awaiting the decision and prayed that the agency went their way. Sandro would have opened the envelope, rather than sit in suspended animation and guess about its contents. But his mother believed the envelope was his father’s to open.
So they waited.
His mother smoothed out her dark sheath, fiddled with her pearl necklace, and linked her elegant hands in front of her. He put away his papers in silence, giving up on getting anything done. The fate of his family lay within the envelope. If they weren’t granted an exemption from the Race Laws, they would lose their house, for Jews could no longer own property under those laws. His father would lose his law practice, too, as Jews could no longer own businesses, either. If his father couldn’t work, it would cut their family income. Worse, it would break his parents’ hearts to lose a house that had been in the family for generations.
Sandro sighed. Unfortunately, even if they were awarded the exemption, it would not readmit him to school because the exemptions applied only to the property provisions of the law. Nor would it permit him to marry Elisabetta, whom he thought about all the time. He still couldn’t believe that she had chosen him over Marco, and it was his dream come true. But it had come too late. He had sent her away for her own good. He had lied to her when he’d told her that he didn’t love her anymore. Of course he still loved her, he always would. But he was no longer a suitable husband for her; he had no job, no prospects, and he couldn’t even marry her anymore. Ironically, he loved her too much to tell her so, which left him miserable and aching, experiencing an odd sort of grief that mourned even the living.
His mother reached for the letter and held it up to the chandelier, trying to read through the envelope. “I can’t see what it says.”
“Mamma, just open it.”
“No, your father wants to be the one, and I told him we would honor his wishes.” His mother set the envelope down. “It will be his triumph.”
“I hope so.”
“I think we’ll get the exemption,” his mother said, as if reassuring them both. “He was practically a Fascist of the First Hour, an officer in the Great War, and he serves the Community.”
“I’m sure we’ll get it,” Sandro said, though he wasn’t sure.
“I’m sorry it won’t permit your return to school.”
“It’s okay,” Sandro said, though the opposite was true.
“How are you enjoying the Jewish school?”
Sandro knew the correct answer. “I like teaching, and it’s good to contribute to the Community.”
“But I’m sure you miss your friends, and working for the professor.”
“Life is trade-offs.”
His mother paused. “That’s what I always say.”
“I know, that’s why I said it.” Sandro smiled.
His mother smiled back, her sharp eyes regarding him, behind her glasses.