FIFTEEN

Lucia

October 16, 1943

Rain drummed the umbrella over Lucia’s head like a percussionist’s mallet. Matteo skipped beside her, tugging on her arm as he jumped puddles. L’Allodola would be coming from the other direction—they’d planned to walk along the Lungotevere De’ Cenci, this riverside street, until their paths crossed. She had little to report. She’d seen Bergmann at the Excelsior, but they’d spoken only briefly. He had, however, asked her for a true date in two weeks. It was something: the promise of more to come.

“Basta, Matteo,” she said, frowning at her little boy. His shoes, worn-out and nearly too small, had cardboard soles. She’d asked the cobbler for leather the last time he patched them up, but there wasn’t any. Rome was running out of everything: food, cooking gas, electricity, leather, textiles. How much longer would the list grow before the Allies came to their rescue?

She imagined the chill in his wet toes and shivered a bit herself. He would certainly catch another cold if he soaked himself. Just the thought made her tense, because colds so easily transformed into bigger beasts. “Piccolo,” she said, trying another tactic as both his feet landed in a puddle, triumphant. “How about we play a game? Pretend the water is lava. Your shoes can withstand the wet pavement, but lava puddles? They’d catch on fire! Sì?”

He giggled, gesturing to the synagogue rising over the street ahead. “And Mamma? That’s the volcano.” He widened his eyes for effect, adding, “It’s erupting.”

She nodded, glancing at the pale building towering over the Lungotevere. It rose at the edge of the Jewish ghetto, mirroring the bulk of the Fatebenefratelli Hospital across the Tiber. A figure materialized in the road flanking the synagogue, and she squinted through the rain while Matteo skipped around puddles, avoiding them now. It was a Nazi, guarding the bridge across from the temple. A bit of dread nudged her interior, but she batted it away. Germans guarded bridges all over Rome. They would continue past him to meet L’Allodola—if they didn’t, she had no way to find the girl again.

They were nearly at the intersection flanking the synagogue when the guard, clutching a rifle against his gray raincoat, looked uncertainly at the neighborhood spreading behind his back. He pivoted, striding not over the bridge, but into the ghetto.

She gripped Matteo’s hand and tugged him forward, hoping to cross the intersection while the guard’s back was turned. They stepped into the street, a shout broke through the rain from the ghetto, and Lucia’s breath caught. Santo cielo. She stared into the ghetto, her heart accelerating. Not in Rome.

A throng of people, mostly women and children, stood in a long line down the street. They huddled at the base of the Portico d’Ottavia, an entry into ruins adjacent to the neighborhood. Rain drove down on them while German soldiers milled, weapons raised, periodically shouting. Behind the crowd, farther up the street, trucks idled.

Lucia shook her head, trying to harness her racing thoughts. The first guard she’d seen now sheltered under an umbrella, bent over a clipboard held by another. What were they studying? They flipped a page and it came to her. Lists. The people murmured and shuffled. A woman stood surrounded by teenage children, who clutched soaking pillows and blankets under their arms. A little girl in a nightdress pivoted, bewildered, gripping a bag. An elderly couple clung to each other. The wife, bent with age, had set down an assortment of things hastily gathered: a large pot, a framed picture, a pillow. A puddle formed around her forlorn belongings.

“Mamma?” Matteo whispered, breaking into her shock. “Why is everyone outside?”

She looked at him, her heart spinning like a broken compass. What could she do? They were taking the Jews. “I don’t know,” she managed, looking from her boy back to the crowd, unable to dislodge her own feet from the pavement.

A pretty woman stood at the edge of the throng, cupping a baby to her chest. The woman’s husband milled a few feet away and glanced furtively up an alley. He looked back to his wife, who jerked her head toward the alley and widened her eyes. Rain gusted over them. Lucia stopped breathing. No, she wanted to shout. Don’t do it.

The man inhaled, again met his wife’s urging stare, and broke from the crowd in a run. Lucia grabbed Matteo and pulled him into her skirt, covering his head with her coat while the man streaked across the cobbles a few blocks away. He ran as though chased; if he made it to the alley, he’d have a chance. She couldn’t let Matteo see. She wrapped him tighter, willing the man’s strides—five, six—and then a shot rang out. The man jerked forward and fell, face-first, in a puddle. The woman with the baby shrieked and tried to scramble to him, but her neighbors held her back by the elbows.

Lucia picked Matteo up, dropping the umbrella, pushed his face into her shoulder, and started to hurry away. She’d only made it a few steps when a Nazi officer turned, a dark shape in the rain, and saw them. He shouted, “Halt!” and Lucia froze, clutching Matteo.

Merda, she breathed under her shudders. Matteo whimpered on her shoulder. “What happened, Mamma? What was that sound?”

“Nothing, piccolo,” she whispered, watching the Nazi stride toward them. Dio santo. She shifted Matteo, pulling their documents from her inside pocket and whispering into his buried ears. “The guard shot at a bird. It’s all right—”

“Why are you here?” the Nazi barked, boots hammering the cobbles.

Lucia shook her head, speaking in quick German. “I have our papers. We were simply walking to the market—”

He squinted at their documents, rain dripping off the end of his long nose. When he looked up, he was impatient, distracted. “Get out of here. Now.”

She nodded, hustling away as quickly as she could carry Matteo, leaving her umbrella tottering in the puddles. When she passed under the synagogue, she released a sob, and Matteo matched it on her shoulder.

“Why was he yelling?” he wept. “What will he do to those people?”

She could no longer protect him from the horrific truth. He’d seen the evil wrapping around Rome, but she’d shied from fully explaining it. Now she understood. Maintaining Matteo’s innocence was like letting him play in the forest, yet never warning him about the wolves lurking there. She walked two more blocks before setting him down on his cardboard soles. She held his shoulders and looked into his eyes, blinking away raindrops and tears.

“The German soldiers are dangerous, Matteo. Nonno may have told you different things, but now you see. We have to treat them like monsters, understand? Don’t speak with them, ever. Hide from them if I tell you to. If they stop me or talk to me, stay quiet and do exactly as I say. Never trust them, capisci?”

He nodded, his lower lip trembling, and whispered, “Monsters. Capisco, Mamma. But those people?”

Her heart broke. “I don’t know what will happen to them, piccolo.” She wrapped him in a tight hug, holding back further tears. Over his shoulder, down the road, a figure trudged through the rain. L’Allodola was coming in their direction, limping along with a cane in one hand and an umbrella in the other. She was nearly upon them when a name fell into Lucia’s mind.

Lidia.

When L’Allodola approached, Lucia reached for her elbow, gripping it too hard. She leaned in, whispering what they’d seen. When she stepped back, the girl’s eyes widened.

“You’re sure?”

Lucia nodded. “And my oldest friend lives in Trastevere.” She swallowed around the clamp in her throat. “She’s a Jew. She and her husband have two little girls. Or three? I haven’t seen her in a long time.” Oddio. Her thoughts rattled through her mind like a swift wind. Had the Germans already come for them? Lidia’s in-laws lived next door to her, with their widowed daughter and her child.

The girl started to walk, detaching from their huddle without preamble.

“Andiamo. We might get to them first.”

They hurried over the Ponte Sisto, winding into the maze of Trastevere. Grazie a Dio, the streets were still quiet. There were no signs of Germans yet; just a few people plodding under umbrellas. Matteo hurried at her side, his big eyes fearful, and her heart hurt.

The girl’s cane punctuated their steps. They turned three corners, and there was the plain wooden door Lucia had visited periodically over the years, bringing flowers or food when a baby was born. She and Lidia had seen each other less as time trudged on. Lidia was immersed in a big family, busy with children and in-laws, while Lucia drifted on waves of loneliness. The last time they’d snuck away for a cappuccino was ages ago, when the war had barely begun, and Lucia had returned home feeling even more alone.

She rapped on the door, praying silently. Because, despite the wedge of years and diverging lives, she loved Lidia. She saw her friend as a child, her dark braids swinging while she ran ahead in the park. And as a teenager, serious, always lugging too many books around. Please open, she thought, staring at the door. What if they weren’t home? What if they’d gone to the ghetto for something?

But then it swung wide, and the new, grown-up Lidia stared out. She wore slippers, a plain dress, and a baby on her hip. Her hair hung in waves, and the baby gripped a chunk, pulling it to his mouth. Lidia’s eyes widened with confusion.

“Lucia? What’s going on?”

“Oh, thank God above,” Lucia stammered. “We’re in time.”

Lidia glanced at Matteo, reaching instinctively for him. “Come on in, bello. You must be freezing!”

They stepped into the tiled foyer, and a little girl close to Matteo’s age appeared.

“Rosa,” Lidia said to her, “take Matteo and find a towel. Help him warm up.”

Lidia pivoted back, the question clear in her eyes, and Lucia stepped closer.

“Lidia, you have to gather your family and your things. Right now. The Germans are rounding up Jews in the ghetto.”

Lidia shook her head as if Lucia’s words didn’t make sense. She glanced at the rooms spreading beyond the foyer. The apartment smelled of steaming broth, and at the kitchen table a toddler sat in an older woman’s arms, playing a clapping game. Lidia’s mother-in-law paused her clapping. Wrinkles formed around her eyes.

“I saw it myself, Lidia,” Lucia whispered. “They could be coming as we speak. We need to get your entire family out of here. Fetch your shoes and coats.”

Lidia glanced at the baby on her hip, and the child reached to touch her lips with a dimpled hand. “Surely, the Nazis wouldn’t be interested in us?” Her black eyes flipped up, but her voice was fringed with doubt. “My husband and father-in-law . . . Dio mio. Lucia—they went to the ghetto on an errand. A half hour ago.”

Lidia pivoted, blanching while her mother-in-law stood, walking quickly across the apartment, the toddler on her hip.

“Grazia,” Lidia said. “What should we do?”

“You saw it yourself?” Grazia, the older woman, stared at Lucia.

“Sì. We have to go right now.”

“I knew it.” Grazia’s eyes narrowed, and she set the toddler down and knelt before her. Her wrinkled hands shook while she worked a shoe onto the tiny girl’s foot, speaking quickly. “Get shoes and coats, Lidia. I told them—I told Enzo and Davide we should hide. But they trusted the rabbi . . . Oddio. I have to go and find them. Where’s Rosa’s coat? Hurry. Hurry now.”

Grazia dropped a pair of shoes next to Lidia’s slippered feet.

Lucia took the baby from her friend, cradling his soft little body so Lidia could wriggle into a coat and shoes. L’Allodola motioned for Rosa to hold out her arms, threading them into sleeves. Matteo looked between the adults, silent.

“What about Papà and Davide?” Lidia took the baby back, hands trembling. “We can’t just leave them. What if they return to an empty house?”

Grazia looked stricken, as if this new, terrible reality was hitting her in waves. “I’ll go and find them,” she repeated, struggling to button her coat.

The baby released a fussy cry as they filed out the front door.

Moments later, they were in the street, along with Lidia’s sister-in-law and ten-year-old niece from next door. They huddled under two umbrellas as the rain gusted sideways. They hadn’t taken even a second to discuss where to go next.

“My house?” Lucia said. She calculated quickly—there was plenty of room. The baby would give them away to the neighbors, but she’d have to take that chance. Only old Signor Bianchi, downstairs, might care. She’d have to find a way to conceal them from her parents, if they ever came over. But surely, they, too, would protect Lidia? They’d known her all of her life.

L’Allodola bit her lip, shaking her head and interrupting Lucia’s speeding thoughts. “It’s too far away. We’d have to travel right through the city center, and if we’re stopped in the street . . .” She frowned. “We need a closer hiding spot, at least for now while they’re out sweeping neighborhoods.”

Lidia bounced her baby as he fussed, gripping her lapels. “My parents are safe, sì? Surely, they won’t raid Via Veneto . . .” She blanched. “Lucia. We have to get my parents.”

L’Allodola shook her head, interrupting before Lucia could respond. “We have to get your family to safety first. Lucia and I can warn your parents afterward.”

Lucia thought of her own parents, who lived in the same affluent building as Lidia’s mother and father. Would they help, if they understood what was happening? Their neighborhood was filling with Fascists and Germans, and Nonna Colombo was thrilled by it. No—she couldn’t be trusted. Lucia swallowed a bead of shame. Her own family was the enemy.

The sister-in-law spoke up, blinking large eyes. Her daughter, a smaller copy of her, shivered at her side. “I have a friend in Centocelle who would shelter us. He’s not Jewish—”

“Again, much too far,” L’Allodola interrupted. “But listen. The Fatebenefratelli Hospital is minutes away. I have a hunch they’ll help.”

Lucia stared at her. “How can you be sure?”

“My fiancé was friends with the younger doctors. Trust me.”

Her fiancé? Lucia fit that into what she knew about this mysterious girl. Which, she realized, was nearly nothing.

“But it’s right next to the ghetto,” Grazia said. “We could be seen.”

L’Allodola nodded, her gaze darting while she thought. “We could be seen anywhere. We’ll walk toward the bridge to Fatebenefratelli, and you can all hide in an alley while I go ahead and see if it’s clear. If it’s not, we’ll take the risk of walking to Lucia’s.”

“It’s a gamble,” the older woman said.

“Everything’s a gamble,” the girl countered.

Grazia struggled to say her next words. “My son and husband.” Grief strangled her voice. “I’ll go look for them in the ghetto, once the children are hidden. I have to—”

“I’ll look for them. The second you’re all safe,” Francesca interrupted. “But the longer we wait here, the less the odds are on our side. Andiamo.”

As if to prove her right, the rumble of a truck echoed somewhere beyond their little alley. Gears shifted, and a motor grew louder, approaching. The women met one another’s stares. The Germans had requisitioned most vehicles in Rome. If there was a motor running, it was theirs.

They hurried in the other direction in the blowing rain, the baby fussing on Lidia’s chest. Lucia’s heart pounded, and she grew light-headed with fear. Motors growled in the streets behind them, then died. Somewhere in the rainy neighborhood, a shout echoed.

Lucia hurried up to L’Allodola and took her cane and her arm. Supporting the girl on one side and Matteo on the other, they quickened. Their feet slapped stone, impossibly loud despite the rain. The cobbled alley rolled down a hill toward the river, and Lucia led the way while her thoughts tumbled over themselves.

Please don’t let the Nazis see us. Please let the way be clear.

At the edge of the alley, where the neighborhood intersected with the Tiber, they stopped. L’Allodola met Lucia’s stare. She motioned for the adults and children to wait, and she walked out into the street by herself. She swung forward to the rhythm of her cane, striding into what appeared to be an empty, rain-washed avenue overlooking the river. Lucia could barely breathe while she crossed. Then she stood, a silhouette above the riverbank, alone against a backdrop of rain and fog. If someone was looking, they would see her. Lucia’s heart dropped, and she realized: that was the point. The girl was testing the street, offering herself like bait to whomever might be watching, tempting them to approach.

L’Allodola stood at the railing under the skeleton of a tree, already stripped of leaves, for what felt like a long time. She looked up and down the river. Then she stared, unmoving, at the hospital looming dark and silent beyond the bridge. Would the doctors inside hide a family?

Finally, she pivoted around her cane, raised a hand waist high, and beckoned them forward. Lucia glanced back at the huddle of women and children. They’d have to walk along the riverside for a block before reaching the Ponte Cestio, which spanned the Tiber to the hospital. For a few minutes, they would be completely exposed. What if they were on the bridge when more Germans came, following their lists to the Jews in Trastevere?

They strode on, silent, trusting the hunch of the girl leading the way with her cane. Even the baby didn’t make a noise. Wind gusted, soaking through their coats and rippling the puddled street. Lucia walked with her shoulders back, but inside she flinched with each step, ready for a voice to ricochet off the river, yelling, “HALT!” What would the Nazis do if they caught them? Would she be arrested? The thought made her stomach drop. What would become of Matteo?

But then they were on the bridge, spanning a river swollen with rain. The hospital hung, ghostly, over the water, its bricks and stone disappearing in the mist. Somewhere ahead, across the island and the arc of the next bridge, lay the besieged ghetto. Shouts and cries drifted over the water. A pair of gunshots cracked in the distance. Lucia hurried faster.

They were halfway across when another engine rumbled behind them. Lucia tightened her grip on Matteo’s hand. The engine echoed through the rain, coming from Trastevere.

L’Allodola pivoted and motioned to them. Hurry.

They scurried from the bridge to the island, turning into the piazza in front of the hospital. The engine grew louder. Lucia lifted Matteo, and they ran, all of them, moving as one toward the hospital doors. What would they do if the doctors didn’t let them in? Lucia’s heart pounded against her breastbone, and Matteo’s shoes bounced off her hips. The truck’s gears ground. In seconds, it would pass the bridge. But L’Allodola was already holding open the door, ushering them out of the rain, and Lucia stepped aside while the children filed in. Lidia and the baby disappeared, the other women followed, and Lucia turned, letting the door fall shut behind them all. Through its crack, she saw a truck rock past, in plain view across the Tiber. A huddle of people stared out from under its canopy.

Then the door closed.

L’Allodola was already at the intake desk, dripping on the floor and speaking quietly to an older doctor with a mustache. He glanced up through his spectacles, assessing the shivering family before him and nodding.

“Sì, sì,” he murmured, motioning to a young doctor who appeared in the hallway behind the desk. “We’ve had several already this morning.”

The younger doctor strode over, a clipboard tucked under one arm.

“Francesca?” he asked, scanning the family. “I heard about Giacomo—”

She shook her head, quieting him, and the older doctor stepped closer. “It’s another group with Syndrome K, Vittorio. Take them back and fill out the intake paperwork.”

Vittorio held up a hand and beckoned the dripping family down the hallway. Grazia paused, whispering, “You’ll search?” and both Lucia and L’Allodola nodded. Grazia inhaled, as though forcing her desperation to wait, and walked little Rosa and the toddler down the hall.

Lidia’s sister-in-law sent her daughter down after them, but she stepped forward before following. Her lovely, dark eyes rested first on Lucia, then on the green-eyed girl. Francesca.

“I don’t know how to thank you for warning us.”

“There’s absolutely no need to thank us,” Francesca said quietly.

“My father.” The woman’s voice cracked. “And my brother. You’ll try to find them?”

Francesca’s voice was fierce. “I’ll search as if they were my own.”

The sister nodded. She leaned across the gap and kissed Francesca’s cheeks.

Lidia was at the intake desk, speaking quietly to the older doctor as he hung up a telephone. She walked over. The baby was quiet on her hip, yawning, ready for a nap.

“He’s sending a runner to my parents’ house, Lucia. We tried to call, but nobody answered the telephone. I don’t know if it’s not working, or—” Tears glittered in Lidia’s dark eyes. “Oddio. I need my husband. How will I get through this without him? My poor children—” The words seemed to stick in her throat, and Lidia looked away, blinking fast. She smoothed the fine hair around her baby’s ears, inhaling shakily, as though she could store her grief for later. “Lucia,” she said, “you saved my children.”

It was difficult to speak. “You’d do the same for mine,” she managed, and Lidia nodded. Lucia reached for her, squeezing her free hand. “As soon as the Germans leave the neighborhood, I promise we’ll search for your husband and your parents.” Again Lidia nodded, and Lucia struggled with her next words, but they had to be said. They’d nested in her soul for far too long. “Lidia, I’m so sorry. When you were barred from university, ostracized in your own country—I should have been there for you. It was cowardice that allowed me to fall away. It was cowardice that kept me passive while terrible things happened.”

“We fell away from each other, Lucia. It wasn’t just you.” Her eyes glistened. “But you were here for me today.” Lidia stepped over and wrapped Lucia in a hug. They held on to each other for a long moment.

Then Lucia watched her oldest friend drift down the hall with the doctor, disappearing around a corner. She turned to L’Allodola, sighing as the knot of fear loosened a bit in her chest. A question hung in her mind.

“What’s Syndrome K?”

L’Allodola stared down the hallway. “A fake disease. The doctors are going to tell the Nazis that it’s deadly and highly infectious.” A hint of a smile brushed her lips. “The K stands for Kappler and Kesselring.”

“What’s Kesselring?” Matteo murmured, snuggling his face into Lucia’s waist.

“A German commander, piccolo.” She pulled him close, removing his cap to clear the damp hair off his forehead, and swallowed a lump of grief. She’d do anything to protect him. The mothers across the river, being herded into trucks right now, also yearned to protect their children.

Lucia blinked back tears and turned to the girl, Francesca. “I want you to know that I’ll do whatever it takes.” She covered Matteo’s visible ear with her palm, pressing gently and speaking carefully. “I won’t stop until they’re out of Rome.”

The girl nodded, meeting her stare. “I believe you this time.” She glanced at Matteo, leaning close to whisper, “I’ll tell my contacts about your Nazi suitor. Carry on with your plan.”

“I will.” Lucia caught her green gaze with her own. “Francesca, sì?”

“Keep that between us.” L’Allodola crossed her arms, shivering. “Now, andiamo. We’re not finished yet.”