tiny and cramped, the kitchen barely big enough to contain the table. Of course there was no chandelier, only a glass fixture that cast harsh light. There was a window, but it didn’t overlook the charming Piazza Mattei, just a dirty brick wall. Sandro pointed out that the apartment was sunny, making the best of things though he looked as drained and thin as her parents.
“Here, darling.” Her mother set down a serving bowl that was only half-full of spaghetti, the tomato sauce thinned with water. There was no other course; no fish, meat, potatoes, or vegetable, nor was there bread or wine. Gone were the delicious meals from better times, the mouthwatering braciola or aliciotti con l’indivia, anchovy and endive casserole, served piping hot on platters.
“It looks wonderful, Mamma.” Rosa exchanged a look with Sandro, who was undoubtedly reading her mind. Her mother doled out small portions, and after her father said a prayer over the meal, they began to eat. Rosa tried not to notice that they gobbled their pasta, truly famished. She ate, noting that her father returned his attention to a thick folder of papers, making notations. He had greeted her happily when he had come home, but since then, he barely lifted his head from the folder.
“So, Papa,” Rosa began gently. “How have you been?”
“Fine,” he answered without looking up, which wasn’t like him. He’d always been chatty at the dinner table, but he was completely preoccupied. He was still dressed in his suit and tie, but it had become too large for him, its frayed collar leaving space around his neck. He was balder and grayer, too.
“What’s in the folder, Papa? What are you doing?”
Her mother interjected, “Your father prepares exemptions from the Race Laws for members of the Community.”
“Oh, that’s good.” Rosa turned to her mother. “And how are you, Mamma?”
“I’m fine, too.”
“You must miss the hospital.”
“Yes, but I feel needed here. I midwife and patch skinned knees.” Her mother smiled briefly. “The Community has come together, and we help each other. We barter when we can, goods for services. Someone leaves us food and money in a bag on the door. We think it’s one of your father’s clients, in return for his legal services.”
“That’s nice.” Rosa knew her savings would do them good.
“Your brother’s been teaching mathematics at the Jewish school. He’s a born teacher.” Her mother pushed her empty plate away, and Rosa turned to Sandro, feeling a rush of love for him.
“Good for you.”
“Thanks. I teach three classes of about forty students each. The ages are all over the lot.” Sandro smiled gamely, but to Rosa’s eye he looked thin, too. His cheeks were hollowed out of his handsome face, emphasizing his remarkable blue eyes. But they didn’t have their usual brightness, as if hardship had diluted their hue.
“Do you hear from the professor?”
“No.”
Rosa felt a pang for him. “What’s going on with your independent study? Do you work on your own?”
“No, I don’t have time. I have to prepare lesson plans and grade exams.”
Rosa wanted to change the subject, but each one seemed worse than the last. “How’s Marco doing, after Aldo’s death?”
“He’s coming around.”
Rosa felt the loss of Aldo, whom she had always liked. “Poor Maria and Beppe. Emedio, too.”
“Marco works for the fascio, at Palazzo Braschi. He and his father tried to help us get an exemption, but they couldn’t. Good of them to try. What about Elisabetta?”
Rosa remembered that Sandro had been crazy about Elisabetta. “Whatever happened with you and her?”
“Marco liked her, too, and she chose him.” A frown buckled Sandro’s forehead, and somehow this struck Rosa as the saddest news of all.
“I’m so sorry.”
“If I have to lose her to somebody, I’m happy it’s him.”
Rosa could see Sandro was hurt, but putting on a brave face. “So, you had your first heartbreak. My advice is to move on. You’re a good catch. Are you seeing anyone?”
“No. I’m too busy.”
“There’s a lot of fish in the sea, Sandro.”
Her mother interjected, “That’s what I tell him.”
“Jewish fish,” Rosa added, to make Sandro laugh, which it did.
“I’m glad you’re home, Rosa.”
Rosa smiled, happy that she had come home, too. They needed her, tested in a way they never had been before.
Sandro asked, “You must be worried about David, eh?”
“Yes, of course,” Rosa answered, as David was always in her thoughts.
“Then we’ll worry together.” Sandro reached for her hand. “As a family.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Marco
February 1940
It was the dead of night in the Ghetto, and a cold drizzle