at Taranto was an embarrassment. I’m hoping the Egyptian front goes better, but I feel ambivalent, too.”
“Understood.” Massimo opened his folder, slid a pen from his pocket, and made a note.
“On the other hand, it pains me to admit that the Germans have had success. Their blitzkrieg is something new, altogether. Hitler occupies much of Western Europe.”
“Yes.” Massimo made another note.
“I rue the day we joined forces with the Nazis. We’re Hitler’s vassals, that’s all.” Beppe watched Massimo take notes, which was becoming more frequent. “What are you writing, Massimo?”
“Important things I have to remember, they need to be written down.” Massimo turned the folder around and showed Beppe a line of figures. “See, this is the census, in August 1938. There were fifteen thousand applications for exemptions to the Race Laws—”
“Massimo,” Beppe interrupted him. “You told me this already, many times.”
“Oh, I did?” Massimo blinked. “Did I show you the families who got exemptions based on exceptional merits?”
“Yes. Massimo, how are you feeling, brother?”
“As well as can be expected.” Massimo turned the folder right-side up. “I’m proud of my work, I’m able to serve the Community. You know, I got the exemptions for many of those families. They were granted on applications I prepared or supervised. I wish I could have done it for my own family, I deserved it on the merits. I just missed that one year. I wish I’d joined the party earlier, like you.”
“We’ve discussed this, many times. It’s not your fault.” Beppe paused. “I’m worried about you. You don’t seem like yourself. You need a break.”
“A break?” Massimo’s eyes flared behind his glasses. “It’s not like the old days at the office. The Community needs me, it’s suffering. Nobody has work, there’s no money, and we struggle daily to eat.” His words sped up, running over one another. “I’ve trained people to file the applications. Sixteen people work for me at the synagogue, but every time we file one application, we find another family who needs one. It never ends.”
“I understand that, but you can’t solve everything yourself. I feel as if you’re trying to redeem yourself for not getting the exemption.”
“Perhaps I am, but what’s the harm in that? I don’t want another family to be in our position.”
“I’ll tell you the harm.” Beppe kept his tone without judgment. “You’re trying to redeem yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. You’re neglecting your family in the process. Be home more. That’s your place.”
“But I can’t simply stop.”
“I’m not saying stop. I’m saying cut down.” Beppe closed Massimo’s folder. “Your mind is on your work all the time.”
“That’s what Sandro says.” Massimo frowned.
“He’s right, your son. Talk to me about him, not this folder. How is Sandro these days?”
“I don’t see much of him. I’m at the synagogue. He’s off with Rosa or at school. He runs the house.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s taken over the household finances, such as they are, so I can work.”
“But it’s not his place.” Beppe frowned. “You’re the head of the Simone family. Remember who you are. Resume your proper role. Everything else will fall into place. It will do you good.”
“Maybe I will.” Massimo straightened, blinking. “How’s Marco?”
“He likes working at Palazzo Venezia, and at night he sees girls.” Beppe paused. “Again, I’m sorry for those things he said at your house. I’m ashamed.”
“Of course he didn’t mean it. You apologized already. These are dark and hard times. There’s suffering, and war.”
“But wars end. That, we know. That, we have lived.”
“Yes, they end.” Massimo pursed his lips. “And then, they begin again.”
* * *
—
In time, Beppe slipped Massimo out the side entrance, then locked up. He left to go upstairs when he heard banging on the front door. He turned around to see Carmine Vecchio through the glass, a runty figure in his dark OVRA uniform.
Beppe went to the door and unlocked it, blocking the threshold. “We’re closed,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“You’re feeding that little Jew. I saw you. I know you.” Carmine’s eyes glittered with malice.
“I feed every customer. The day that becomes illegal, throw me in jail.”
“Simone is not a customer, he’s a friend. You think you can get away with it because Marco works at Palazzo Venezia.”
“My son has nothing to do with it. Your grudge with me goes back. You were a punk then, and you’re a punk now.”
Carmine wagged a finger. “Don’t think I can’t get to you.”
“Go ahead. Try.”
“Or your little Jew friend.”
“Don’t dare touch him.”
Carmine snickered. “The Simones are your Achilles’