words, echoing off the houses. His neighbors popped back into their houses, closing the shutters. He stood watching as Marco vanished into the darkness, his black uniform becoming night.
Sandro turned around and went home.
To send Elisabetta away, again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Marco
9 June 1940
Marco hurried through the Ghetto, tears filling his eyes. His heart pounded, and his chest heaved. He was shaking with anger, stumbling over the cobblestones. He had never been so hurt. Elisabetta and Sandro were together. He had seen it for himself.
A man walking by gave him wide berth, and Marco kept his head down. He had loved Elisabetta and Sandro both, so much. He had trusted them both, without question. Their betrayal stabbed like a blade.
He raked his hair back, dazed and enraged. Wine clouded his head. He never should have shouted such insults. It was the only thing he regretted. He had wanted to hurt Sandro, as Sandro had hurt him.
He hurried past the synagogue, wiping his eyes, then heard a commotion behind him. He turned around to see Carmine and Stefano, the OVRA officers, stepping out of the shadows, on his very heels.
“Back in the Ghetto, eh?” Stefano clamped a hand on Marco’s right shoulder, and Carmine clamped a hand on his left.
“Boy, keep walking.”
Marco felt a bolt of terror. The OVRA officers flanked him, marching him forward. They must have been following him. He didn’t know what to do. They were armed, and he wasn’t. He had been crazy to go to Sandro’s. He had been drunk and angry and blinded by love. And now it would cost him.
“So, Marco,” Carmine said, under his breath. “Sounds like you finally wised up about the Jews.”
“It’s about time.” Stefano hurried him forward.
“Where are we going?” Marco masked his fear.
“Palazzo Venezia. Buonacorso wants you.”
“Why?” Marco asked, surprised.
“Tomorrow, Italy enters the war.”
PART FOUR
È facile saper vivere.
Grande saper morire.
It is easy to know how to live.
Heroic to know how to die.
—Arrigo Paladini
CHAPTER SIXTY
Marco
10 June 1940
Marco stood in the hallway behind a packed crowd of Fascist officers, the cabinet, the Grand Council, and the staff filling the second floor of the Palazzo Venezia. Mussolini was about to give a speech from the balcony, declaring war on Great Britain and France. Marco’s head spun with his turnabout in fortunes, which had flip-flopped in a single night. He was on the top of the heap, only the morning after he’d suffered the lowest of lows, catching his fiancée in the arms of his best friend. The betrayal made him sick to his stomach, but he hardened his heart. He vowed never to see either of them again.
Marco had worked all night without a moment’s sleep. He had been pressed into service fetching coffee, bottled water, food, telegrams, and whatever Buonacorso and anybody else needed for today. Marco could scarcely believe that he was here on this momentous occasion. The gargantuan crowd on the Piazza Venezia was chanting so thunderously that it reverberated inside the building.
“Duce, Duce, Duce!” they roared.
The officers in front of Marco surged forward, and Marco watched from behind, trying to get a glimpse of Mussolini. War had been rumored for so long, and Marco had gotten a behind-the-scenes view of the hurried discussions, shouted phone calls, and officers with their heads bent together over maps and memoranda. Excitement coursed like an electrical charge throughout his body. He was embarking on a great adventure, and so was his country.
“Duce! Duce! Duce!”
The officers around Marco fell silent, and from the balcony came the sound of Il Duce being introduced. The crowd shouted so loudly in response that the officers covered their ears and turned to one another grinning, their eyes wide. The crowd kept roaring until at last the speech began.
“Fighters on the land, on the sea, and in the air!” Mussolini shouted. “Blackshirts of the revolution and the legions! Men and women of Italy, of the empire, and of the Kingdom of Albania! Listen!”
Marco stood spellbound as Mussolini continued to speak, his voice amplified by loudspeakers broadcasting the speech throughout Rome and every major Italian city.
“An hour that has been marked out by destiny is sounding in the sky above our Fatherland! The hour of irrevocable decisions! The declaration of war has already been handed to the Ambassadors of Great Britain and France—”
“Marco,” someone said behind him, and Marco turned to see Officer DiFillipo, a minor official. “Go to the Communications Room. There’s an unsecured telegram for me. Bring it up.”
“Yes, sir.” Marco threaded his way out of the