He nodded as if to underline his words.
Lindsey saw that Pacinelli gripped the edge of the table, the white linen table cloth that Sara Lazarini had laid on her table, with both hands. His fingers were as white as the cloth, from the pressure he placed on them.
“That still doesn’t answer my question,” Lindsey persisted.
“In the files of the Jewish community of Rome. In the records of the Grand Temple. The rabbis, the congregation, they let me in. They call me their giusto pagano. They are very kind to me, very helpful. When I was a student they gave me a job, I was the beadle, the shabbas goy. I would perform the little tasks that a Hebrew could not on the Sabbath.” He grinned as if recalling a pleasant memory.
“And in the archives of the Memorial to the Jewish Martyrs. I searched ther
