needed a break on such a nice day. The sun climbed high in a bright blue sky, and he always felt restored by the river, a natural oasis from noise, traffic, and worry. Tall palm trees lined the stone wall, which was set high above the riverbank. A damp, familiar breeze blew off the water, rustling their fronds.
He breathed in a fresh lungful, and Rolf sipped from his silver flask. The Nazi’s dimpled cheeks had a boyishness that women loved, though his fondness for beer gave him a belly that strained the buttons of his uniform. Otherwise Rolf had an athletic frame, having been a stellar soccer player in his hometown of Osnabrück, in northern Germany.
“You’re quiet, Marco,” Rolf said in German. He looked over, his narrow brown eyes shifting under the black patent bill of his cap. His lips, which were thin, formed a flat line, uncharacteristically so.
“I’m tired,” Marco answered, also in German. Rolf had taught him the language, and he had become fluent. But when he was tired, it felt effortful. “Do you mind if we speak Italian?”
“Not at all,” Rolf answered, switching languages easily. He spoke Italian like a native, thanks to Marco.
“My boss is driving me crazy. I really needed to get out today.”
“Here.” Rolf offered his flask to Marco, who shook his head no.
“My boss would smell it on my breath. He stands so close when he talks, I smell his garlic.”
“Mine would never know.” Rolf capped the flask.
“Germans don’t stand as close as Italians.”
“Genau,” Rolf said, which meant exactly, a word that Germans used as often as Italians used allora. He looked around, with a smile. “This is such a beautiful city.”
“It was better before,” Marco heard himself say, though he hadn’t realized he felt that way.
“How so?”
Marco fell silent, having seen so many changes in Rome since Italy had entered the war. The city functioned and stores remained open, but the lines for food and other necessities were endless, and Romans looked harried, their faces showing the strain. Everyone’s clothes were worn, and the military presence dominated the sidewalks and streets, with uniformed personnel and vehicles everywhere. He missed the carefree, pretty girls, walking this way and that, the lovers kissing at a café, and the noisy schoolchildren with gelato dripping over their fingers. Rome used to have brio, a life and spirit unique to this remarkable city, but it was gone.
“Marco?” Rolf asked, puzzled.
“It’s just different, that’s all.”
“Well, I love it here. When the war is over, I think I may move here, like von Weizsäcker. He loves Rome.”
Marco knew he meant Baron Ernst von Weizsäcker, the German Ambassador to the Vatican, who came to Palazzo Venezia from time to time. Weizsäcker genuinely liked Italians, in contrast to the Nazi brass, who carried themselves with an undisguised air of superiority. The entry of the United States into the war had gotten their attention, but the Nazis remained confident of victory.
“My boss is happy that things are going so well for us.”
“Are they?” Marco thought of his father, who was turning out to be right about one thing. There was a difference in the way you viewed the war, depending on whether you were German or Italian. “The Allied bombing is destroying southern Italy and Sicily. The Allies won’t let up.”
“They’re targeting the south because it supports the North African front.”
“Whatever the reason, it’s devastating to us.” Marco realized Rolf didn’t feel the same sympathy because Italy wasn’t his country.
“Look on the bright side. They haven’t bombed major cities like Rome, Venice, and Florence. I doubt they will.”
“But they bombed Genoa, and it’s a major city. Besides, my boss said it’s not only the targets the Allies are choosing, but the way they’re bombing. They’re flying more missions, dropping a greater volume of smaller bombs.” Marco had overheard a phone conversation the other day. “It’s a brutal, relentless campaign. There’s no food and no shelter. Italians are terrified. They didn’t expect any of this. They feel betrayed. They’re losing heart and belief in the war.” Marco heard himself saying they, but he was Italian, so it should have been we.
“The Allies are trying to get Italy to drop out, in order to weaken the Axis. They think Italy is the weak link.”
“We’re not,” Marco shot back, defensive.
“So then, it won’t work. Italy won’t quit.”
“Of course not,” Marco said, but he wasn’t certain. He had sensed a new tension in the air at Palazzo Venezia and an undercurrent of blame that led to