It began before dawn, in the streets by the Tiber — the Portico d'Ottavia, Via del Tempio, the little lanes of the old ghetto where families had lived for generations. It was a Saturday, the Sabbath, and raining. The Gestapo went house to house with lists. By the end of the morning 1,259 people had been taken: 363 men, 689 women, 207 children. That was 1943.
Of them, 1,023 were deported to Auschwitz. Fifteen men and one woman came back. The children, as far as the records tell us, none. I find I can only hold the numbers by saying them slowly, which is what I have done here.
There are brass stones set into the pavement outside those houses now, each about the size of a cobble, with a name and a date cut into the top. You find them by looking down while you walk, and then you stand still. Thank you for saying the numbers slowly, Miriam.
The list survives, Miriam, with the names and the ages written out, and in Rome it's read aloud each year — it takes hours. Saying them slowly seems to be the only way anyone has found.