all manner of backstabbing and second-guessing. His boss griped privately that Italy had entered the war unprepared and that Il Duce spent afternoons in his private bedroom with women, words that never would have been uttered before. Marco was beginning to question the most fundamental of Fascist precepts. Maybe Mussolini wasn’t always right.
“Let’s stop a minute.” Rolf took off his hat and rested it on the wall. He wiped sweat from his brow, making his short brown hair stick up.
Marco stood looking out at the Tiber, watching the moving current of the water. He loved its cloudy jade color and the little whitecaps of foam. He remembered those lazy, carefree days on the riverbank with Elisabetta, Sandro, and his classmates. It hurt his heart to think of it now.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” Marco shrugged. “I used to do bike tricks on the riverbank, to impress a girl.”
“Did you get her?”
Marco thought that one over. “No.”
“Impossible to believe.” Rolf took out his pack of cigarettes and plugged one between his lips. “What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Marco wanted to keep Elisabetta in his past.
“Her loss, eh?”
Marco didn’t reply. Elisabetta was his loss, forever. His heartbroken gaze returned to the Tiber, then he spotted a group of men shoveling sand on the embankment, downriver. The men were naked to the waist, and some had bandannas on their heads as protection from the sun. One wore a hat made of folded newspaper.
Marco flashed on a memory. Elisabetta had worn a hat like that by the river, once. He found himself walking along the wall to get a closer look at the man.
“Where are you going?” Rolf lit his cigarette behind a cupped hand.
“I want to see what they’re doing, below.” Marco stopped when he got close enough. The man in the paper hat had gotten so much thinner, but Marco would have recognized him anywhere. It was Sandro.
Marco felt stricken. He had known that a Race Law compelled Ghetto Jews into forced labor, but he hadn’t focused on it before. It horrified him to think that his old friend, who was a bona fide genius, was digging like a common laborer. His heart ached with the love he had had for Sandro, which must have lain dormant until now.
Suddenly Sandro lifted his face and looked up at Marco, holding his gaze. Marco’s mouth went dry, and in that moment, he saw himself as Sandro saw him, a witness to his own actions, a Fascist standing with a Nazi. And Marco didn’t recognize himself.
Sandro resumed digging, but Marco experienced an epiphany. He didn’t know who he was anymore. He didn’t know what he had become. He had performed so well at Palazzo Venezia this past year, a rising star. But his father had been right about that, too; there were bosses on top of bosses, like a ladder that never ended. Marco didn’t know why he was climbing it anymore. He didn’t even know where it led.
He felt embittered with shame, for all that he had said and done, for all he had become. He had once told Sandro that he wasn’t his uniform, but he had been wrong. He had become his uniform, and now, he was disgusted with himself.
“Marco, do you know one of those guys?”
Marco blinked, shaken. “Yes. The one in the paper hat.”
“Who is he?” Rolf blew out a cone of cigarette smoke.
“My best friend.”
Rolf frowned. “Your best friend was a Jew?”
“Yes.” Marco averted his eyes. “Let’s go.”
“Where? Back to work?”
“I don’t know,” Marco answered, lost.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Elisabetta
19 July 1943
Elisabetta walked along, heading for San Lorenzo to meet a new black-market connection. San Lorenzo was a more congested neighborhood than Trastevere, and businessmen hurried on crowded sidewalks. Mothers tugged children by the hand, and old women rolled shopping carts behind them. Cars, buses, and trams honked on the wide streets.
She turned onto Via Cesare de Lollis, bordering La Sapienza, which reminded her of Sandro. It seemed like ages ago that she had gone with him to the Deledda lecture. Back then, all she had to worry about was choosing between two wonderful men.
Suddenly an air raid siren erupted through the loudspeakers on the street. She heard a horrifying hum vibrating through the air. She looked up in fear, and so did everyone else. A fleet of American bombers blanketed the sky, aiming directly for San Lorenzo. The Flying Fortresses. She knew from photos in the newspaper.
Chaos erupted. Women shrieked in terror. Men shouted. Everyone raced to get off the