“Öffne die Tür!”
“Oh, King, you are a helper, a savior, and a shield. You are mighty forever, you are powerful to save,” she mouthed against trembling fingers.
“Open the door!” Another voice shouted in badly accented Italian. Fists beat against the door once more. The doorknob rattled and there was an emphatic shove from the other side, but the lock held with the heavy table as reinforcement. Again, a powerful shove. Eva’s legs started to tremble with exertion.
Two shots rang out above her head, stunning her, and her legs buckled momentarily. German cursing could be heard from the other side of the door. Apparently, the shooter hadn’t warned his comrades to cover their ears. There were two holes in the wall about a foot above Eva’s braced legs. The bullets had easily penetrated the door and buried themselves in the old plaster wall. A cloud of dust lazily floated down around her. Terrified tears ran down Eva’s cheeks, and the prayer died in her throat, but she didn’t move and she didn’t scream.
“No one lives there!” a voice rang out in the hallway. “It was damaged during the air raids in July. It’s been condemned.”
“Something is pushed against the door,” the German argued.
“Debris. The ceiling collapsed in several places. People died.” Eva realized suddenly that the voice belonged to Isabella Donati. The woman’s calm demeanor made her a convincing liar. Her claim that the residents had died should comfort the SS—they wouldn’t need to locate dead Jews. Another shot rang out, right above Eva’s head. Then another, and the table bucked at her back.
One German barked at the other, and then, miraculously, Eva heard them moving away, retreating down the hall to the next apartment. She waited, breath held, listening for their return. She waited for what felt like hours, until there were no more boots, no more cries, and no more confusion in the hall. The silence felt false, like the silence in a room where death waits behind the door, knife raised, waiting for the unsuspecting victim to turn her back.
Eva’s legs gave out when she tried to stand. Her muscles ached, and delayed shock stole her equilibrium. She moaned and steadied herself on the wall, looking down at the table that now had a web of cracks extending in every direction. Either the last bullet, the bullet she’d felt at her back, hadn’t penetrated the marble, or it had miraculously missed her.
She stumbled across the parlor and into the bedroom, crossing the tiny space and flinging the closet door wide, anxious to share the news of their deliverance. Giulia shrieked, one arm extended, clutching her baby, who was latched onto her breast, as if to ward off any would-be attackers. She blinked rapidly at the light, her eyes trying to adjust after an hour spent hiding in the darkness. Apparently, Lorenzo was also temporarily blinded. He barreled out of the closet like a demon freed, and crashed into Eva, fists thrashing, fighting as if his life depended on it.
“You can’t take us! Leave us alone!” he shouted.
“Lorenzo! It’s me! It’s Eva. Shhh! They are gone! They are gone!”
She wrapped her arms around the flailing child as the fight left him, and her eyes found his mother once more. Giulia staggered to the bed and sat weakly upon it, one hand buttoning her gown, the other wrapped tightly around her now squalling infant.
“They’re gone,” Eva reassured. “But they’ve cleared the building. They’ve taken everyone else.” How many? There were hundreds of Jews living in the ghetto neighborhood. Hundreds.
“Oh, God. Oh, dear God,” Giulia moaned in horror. “Mario. What if they arrested Mario?”
Eva could only shake her head helplessly. “Where’s Emilia?” Eva asked suddenly, realizing the little girl was absent.
“She’s in the closet.” Giulia laughed hollowly. “She slept through it all.”
The sudden pounding at the front door had Lorenzo crying out and Giulia staggering to her feet, babe in arms.
“Quiet!” Eva hissed, urging them back toward the closet as she raced for the door, determined to hold it closed once more.
“Giulia! Giulia!” A desperate voice, barely muffled by the door. A key scraped in the lock and Mario Sonnino pressed his face to the small crack in the now opened door.
“Giulia!” he cried.
“It’s Mario!” Eva called, her voice cracking with relief. “Giulia, it’s Mario!”
“Papà!” Lorenzo shouted, racing from the room, ahead of his mother.
“Help me move the table!” Eva instructed, shoving at the heavy furniture, and the little boy was at her side, pushing it out of the way.
Mario fell through the opening, grabbing at his son with one arm, embracing his wife with the other. Eva took the baby from Giulia and held the tiny body against her chest, kissing his downy head and patting his little back. The baby quieted instantly, but Eva’s heart was slower to calm. The stress of the last hour was slowly unraveling her control.
“They are rounding up all the Jews. Going from house to house. I ran all the way here. I was in the queue when the news hit, and everyone left the line, running in different directions, afraid for their lives. I didn’t get our rations, Giulia,” Mario said sadly, as an afterthought. “I thought I was too late. I thought they’d taken you and the children and left me behind.”
“You were lucky!” Eva spoke up. “If you’d arrived when they were still here, you would have been taken. And you might have given us away.”
“How did you manage? How?” Mario was weeping now, relief and joy seeping from his eyes, unchecked. “Is everyone all right? The baby? Emilia?”
“We hid in the ripostiglio.” Lorenzo puffed out his small chest and placed his hands on his hips. “And we were so quiet they thought no one was home!”
“You hid in the closet? All of you?” Mario whispered. His gaze lingered on his wife’s face, noting her pallor and the strain that tightened her mouth and lined her eyes.
“Not Eva! Eva held the door closed,” Lorenzo offered up.
All eyes were suddenly on Eva, Mario’s wide with awe.
“Your neighbor told them no one lived here. I don’t know if they would have moved on if not for her.” Eva’s mouth trembled.
“Signora Donati is gone,” Mario whispered. “Her door was wide open. All the doors are open. All down the hall. All, except ours. The SS police must have entered each one, making sure no one was left behind. It looks like the phone lines have been cut too.”
“They didn’t find us!” Lorenzo crowed.
“Where will they take them, all those people?” Giulia asked quietly.
“I don’t know.” Mario shook his head in disbelief. “But it won’t stop with the ghetto. I heard someone say they have addresses. Names. Rome is no longer safe for Jews.”
“My sister and her family!” Giulia cried, suddenly realizing, now that Mario was safe, that she had others to be worried about. The same thing had just occurred to Eva. Uncle Augusto and his family needed to be warned.
“I have to go.” Eva thrust the baby into Giulia’s arms and turned toward the door, halting as she realized she was shoeless.
She ran to the lumpy sofa, shoving her feet into her shoes and her arms into the long red coat she had always loved. Now she wished for a coat in the drabbest brown, something that wouldn’t draw attention or admiration. She needed to be invisible. Hadn’t Babbo always said, “Keep your head down and your manners in place”? The thought of him made her stomach clench painfully. She missed him! Oh, God, she missed him so much. Had the SS dragged him away like Isabella Donati? Loaded him up in the back of a truck, never to be seen or heard from again?
“Oh, Eva. Be careful!” Giulia warned.
Eva kissed her cheek and embraced Lorenzo before looking up at Mario.
“Will you be okay without me?” she asked softly. “I will come back when I can, and we will finish your new documents. Giulia needs to be in bed, resting. But you know you can’t stay here. If you have nowhere else, come to the Convent of Santa Cecilia. We will figure something out.”
“I will take care of my family,” Mario said firmly, but his eyes found hers and held. “Thank you, Eva. Don’t worry about us. We are the lucky ones today. Do you have your pass?” She nodded, knowing that he wasn’t referring to the papers that labeled her a Jew. He was referring to the fake ones, the ones that claimed she was Eva Bianco from Naples.
“Mamma?” a sleepy voice said from the bedroom doorway. “Are we playing hide-and-go-seek? I want to count.” Little Emilia was rubbing at her eyes and yawning widely, completely oblivious to the terror of the morning. Her parents laughed quietly, and the laughter broke into grateful tears as they clung to each other and to their small children.
Eva slipped out then, letting the young family have a moment together, her mind on what remained of her own family, and the danger they all faced.
CHAPTER 11
TRASTEVERE
The alley leading out onto the Via del Portico d’Ottavia was eerily quiet, the four cramped blocks wedged between the Tiber and the Teatro di Marcello gutted of their inhabitants. The dome of the church in the nearby piazza peered down at Eva, making her feel exposed and small. She wanted to run from doorway to doorway, from tree to bush, hiding herself in spurts, but she made herself walk at a leisurely pace.
It was early, but not terribly so, and the streets were filling with Romans going about their day. It was as if the terror of the predawn was just a strange mirage, shimmering in and out of focus. She saw a single German truck, thick flaps obscuring its cargo. She didn’t duck her head or slink. She walked, telling herself that running would only draw attention, even as her stomach twisted more tightly with each step. She walked across the Garibaldi Bridge and down the wide Viale di Trastevere, too unfamiliar with her surroundings to duck onto side streets. It took too long, and when she finally turned onto the narrow street lined with palms and little stores, she was numb with fear. The street was too quiet, just like Via d’Ottavia, and she finally started to run.