By the time I descended the rear staircase and exited the kitchen door into the alley, the bombing had stopped. I had no idea how long this respite would last, so I moved quickly through cobbled alleys filled with smoke. All around I heard the rumble of tumbling stones, the shouts of men, water rushing from broken pipes, and, oddly, the sound of a violin bow straining over strings from a distant apartment.
Suddenly I resented the Fascists’ violence and grift, Mussolini’s unholy bargain with Germany, and the Allies’ determination to bomb us until we were dust.
I hurried past a boarded-up carpenter’s shop and along the piazza toward the steps leading up to the modest church of Saint Luca. I raced inside the building now filled with women and children seeking shelter. The women whispered the prayer “Ave Maria, gratia plena, fa’che non suoni la sirena,” their hushed tones drifting to the vaulted stone ceiling. Several of the young priests administered last rites to the injured while nuns tended to the earthlier needs of water and food.
I never considered asking for permission as I normally would as I rushed down the side aisle to Padre Pietro Franco’s closed office door and pushed it open. I found the priest sitting behind a carved desk that dated to da Vinci. He looked solemn, and his expression was tight with concentration as he spoke to a tall man wearing a dark suit of moderate quality. They both turned to me, the priest’s face telegraphing shock while the stranger regarded me with suspicion.
Padre Pietro’s long face had thinned, and his dark hair now was feathered with gray. “Yes?”
“I am Signora Isabella Mancuso, and I attend services here.”
“Yes, I know you. You work in the dress shop on the Via Veneto and deliver clothes to the children in the ghetto,” Padre Pietro said.
I wasn’t surprised. The priest knew this city well. “Yes.”
The stranger tensed, watching me closely, his keen gaze outwardly absorbing a thousand little details, as if he were determining whether I was a threat.
I stepped forward so they could both see the still babe in my arms. The priest removed his glasses, as if he needed a moment. He looked older, more fragile, without the lenses. “Mia Ferraro gave birth to a child that never drew a breath.”
The stranger’s expression shifted, his interest piqued. I could not tell if he was annoyed by the intrusion or sad for the loss. “I’ll leave you.” His accent was distinctly Roman, but he had the air of a man who traveled. “We will speak later, Padre Pietro.”
“Yes, of course,” the priest replied.
The man nodded slightly as he passed me. “Signora.”
When the door closed behind the man, the priest focused his attention on the child. “I haven’t seen Mia in months. I had heard she was in Assisi with her aunt.”
The last six months in Rome had been chaotic as the city’s population had swelled with refugees, deserters, spies, and more Germans. A girl hiding out to keep her pregnancy secret was an easy detail to overlook.
Padre Pietro slid on his glasses and thankfully regained some of his vigor as he rose. Stone dust smeared his dark cassock, and blood-soaked dirt smeared his hands. I imagined him with his flock, trying to dig out the survivors from the rubble.
“Let me see,” he said.
I drew back the blanket and revealed the child’s angel face. Ivory skin was offset by dark curly hair, and her bow lips, though pale, were perfectly formed. Perhaps if the child had been born in a hospital or if Mia had not been riddled with worry for the father, the child would have lived. But she had not survived, and now there was only her eternal soul to consider.
Padre Pietro made the sign of the cross over the infant. “I am sorry to hear this. How is Mia?”
“Physically she appears to be fine.”
A bitter smile tugged at the edges of his lips. “It’s a blessing she will recover.”
“Will you bury the child on consecrated land?” I asked.
“Who is the father?”
“Mia never said.”
There was little Padre Pietro did not know about in this part of Rome. “They did not marry?”
This familiar story had become more common in the last year. “No.”
Padre Pietro absently rubbed his raw knuckles. “Has the father acknowledged the child as his own?”
“Mia assures me that he would if he could.”
The priest sighed. “You’re asking much, Isabella,” he said, moving toward the sanctuary of his desk. “The church does not accept