hated them for that, too.
His father remained silent, still eating.
His mother looked down.
Marco couldn’t let it go. “Papa, if you keep helping the Simones, you could get me in trouble. You jeopardize my career.”
His father looked up, his dark gaze even. “Today is a joyful day. Your mother cooked this meal for us. In deference to her, and our Lord, I’m going to ignore what you just said.”
Marco met his father’s eye directly.
His mother bit her lip, but said nothing.
Emedio broke the silence. “Good for you, Papa. If you can help the Simones, keep it up. This persecution of the Jews is immoral.”
Marco looked over. “Oh, what’s the Church doing to help the Jews?”
“Our Holy Father is opposed to the Nazis precisely because of their anti-Semitism. If you remember not so long ago, when he was cardinal secretary of state, he helped to write the encyclical to the German churches, Mit Brennender Sorge. In retaliation, the Nazis opposed his selection as Pope. Germany was the only country not to send a representative to his inauguration.”
“You’re not answering my question. Now that Cardinal Pacelli has become Pius XII, what has he done for the Jews?”
Emedio frowned. “Didn’t you hear his homily, broadcasted today? He said the war was a ‘lamentable spectacle of human conflict.’ And that it was ‘a ruthless struggle’ that has been ‘atrocious.’ He asked for charity on the homefront.”
“But did his homily speak of Jews specifically? I doubt it.”
Emedio pursed his lips. “That’s because the Vatican must maintain neutrality, and it has a valid concern about the Communist threat. There are fears that retribution against the Jews will take place if our Holy Father speaks too specifically. Even so, there are those who urge a more active role, and I am one. I condemn Mussolini for the Race Laws. They cause untold suffering.”
Marco felt anger flare in his chest. “Don’t you think it’s hypocritical to ask Papa to keep helping the Jews when the Vatican doesn’t lift a finger? Why should my career be harmed for the Simones?”
Emedio’s dark eyes widened. “Since when are you worried about your career instead of your best friend?”
“He’s not my friend. He can go to hell for all I care.”
“Marco!” His mother set down her glass, shaken. “What’s come over you? You mustn’t criticize our Holy Father, on Pasqua of all days. You’ve accepted too readily this godless view—”
“Maria, let me handle this.” His father raised his hand again. “Marco, Emedio, this is not the day for this discussion. Let it drop.”
Emedio stiffened. “Papa, I’m only trying to understand why Marco has changed so much—”
“I haven’t changed. I’ve always been a Fascist.”
“You used to love Sandro, but now you turn your back on him. You’re befriending Nazis and following whatever Mussolini says.”
“Mussolini is always right,” Marco shot back, but even he realized it was from the Decalogue. “Who are you, to accuse me of following my leader without question? What about you?”
“Me? I’m a priest. You act like a big shot now, in your uniform.”
“No more than you do, in yours.”
Emedio recoiled, grimacing. “I serve God. Whom do you serve?”
“Il Duce and Italy.”
“I know you better than that, little brother. It’s not love of country that motivates you. It’s love of self.”
Marco felt stung, jumping to his feet. “I could say the same of you. Always the perfect son, the perfect priest, follows the rules—”
“What’s come over you?” Emedio rose. “Your heart is turning as black as your shirt.”
“No, it’s not!” Marco found himself walking around the table to Emedio, but Emedio stood his ground, his eyes flashing.
“You’ve become like one of the mob who crucified Christ instead of Barabbas. The Fascist mob that blindly follows the leader—”
“Who are you to judge? You’re a priest, not God himself!”
“—and you’re too stupid to question—” Emedio started to say, but Marco grabbed him by his shoulders and pushed him back against the kitchen wall, knocking down the Learco calendar.
His father leapt to his feet.
His mother wailed.
“Don’t you dare!” Marco raged at an astonished Emedio, then his father succeeded in yanking him off.
His mother covered her face.
Marco fled the apartment to the sound of her sobs.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Elisabetta
April 1941
Elisabetta swept the living room, so the house would be as presentable as possible. Sofia, Paolo’s wife, had told her at work today that one of the family’s female cousins, a refugee from the country, was moving into Nonna’s old room. Elisabetta dreaded the thought of someone sleeping in Nonna’s bed in her cozy little room, among