Cory Holt

The next day, Sunday, following morning mass, Gianni visited his brother, Lodovico, who lived with his wife and daughter a few blocks away, on Via dei Baullari. While there, the brothers alone, Gianni explained in as few words as possible his predicament. Lodovico, himself a passionate but quiet anti-Fascist, and even more passionate anti-Nazi, took immediate interest. Because Lodovico was popular in his neighborhood, and rather well-connected, whereas Gianni was more reserved and less known, he was able to give immediate advice.
"You must go to Father Benedetto," replied Lodovico, "at Chiesa di Sant'Angelo," referring to a nearby church, "and tell him you have four Jews in your cellar."
"What will he do?"
"Help you keep them alive."
"How do you know I can trust him?"
Lodovico gave a smirk, the type he had always given to those who had questioned his trust. Gianni knew and asked no more.
"Now, do you know how to get food on the black market?"
"What kind of food?"
"Bread, vegetables, some meats, occasionally some cheese."
"How do I get it?" asked Gianni, realizing that with his ration card he could scarcely keep the Levi's alive.
"Go to the morgue."
"The morgue? What have we become? Cannibals?"
"Gianni, do you want to starve, or do you want to eat?"
"Can I get food there?"
"Yes, you can get food there. Go there, preferably in the afternoon. Do not go to the front. There is an alley that runs along the back of the morgue. It is much darker there, especially in the afternoon. It is more difficult to be seen. There you can get food. It is not cheap, but if you want to keep from starving…," Lodovico shrugged.
On Sunday afternoon, Gianni walked the short distance to Chiesa di Sant'Angelo. Seeing only a few people at the altar, he knelt to pray, keeping one eye open. Soon, an elderly priest knelt beside Gianni. After a few moments of silence, Gianni leaned toward the priest and asked, "Are you Father Benedetto?"
The elderly priest simply pointed discreetly toward a confession booth which stood in a corner of the sanctuary. Gianni noticed the curtains were open. Without wishing to further interrupt the priest, he decided not to thank him, then walked nervously toward the booth.
After closing the curtain behind him, Gianni spoke softly to the priest whom he could not see.
"Father Benedetto?"
"Yes."
"I was sent to you by my brother because I am hiding four Jews in my cellar."
"I understand."
Gianni licked his lips nervously, fearful that this was some trap, fearful that the man he could not see was a Fascist, or worse, a Nazi. And yet, as quickly as his fear had risen, it was quelled by a sublime sense of peace and comfort, and he felt a surprising faith in this unseen man. He even smiled slightly.
"We can help provide you with means for a little extra food and much blessing," the priest replied and slipped an unused ration card through a slit in the screen between them. "Come back to me next month, once you have used up the ration card."
"Thank you, father."
That evening, Gianni faithfully prepared dinner for the Levi's. Except for a small lunch of raw tomatoes and a little bread, they had not eaten, and Gianni now realized the enormity of the endeavor in sustaining them. His rationed food supply, though now doubled, would still fall woefully short of feeding the five of them. Although he did not eat large meals, there was still very little left of this supply. Not only would he be forced to eat less, but he would also have to rely heavily on the black market as a source of food.
Gianni had never been forced to eke out a day-to-day subsistence. He usually went shopping when his food supply started to run low, but until the war, he had never seen an empty cupboard, never had to ignore hunger pains, and was never so preoccupied with fulfilling basic needs. Fear overwhelmed him, for not only was he responsible for feeding five, but Gianni was risking his life in providing them sanctuary. He tried vainly to wish the situation away, but he realized there was no alternative. He could not denounce the Levi's. He could not dismiss them, for he could not imagine where they would go.
Gianni never questioned their Jewishness. Theirs was faith with which he did not agree, yet strangely, he thought of them not as Jews, not as fellow Romans, nor fellow countrymen. It was true that Giancarlo had been a friend and colleague, but it had been almost five years since the racial laws had forced him from the bank. Gianni did not think of them necessarily as friends, even though they had maintained contact during the long years since. No, the Levi family, a husband and wife who deeply cared about their children and each other, a son and daughter trapped in childhoods that were no longer innocent, were simply fellow human beings who were in need. Gianni, acting solely on his faith, was to be their caretaker.
On this day following the Rome roundup, no newspaper carried the story. No Italian government official is known to have protested publicly this German act against legal Italian citizens. There was also no mention made in official newspapers of the train which made its way northward toward the Brenner Pass, filled with these citizens.