blue suit, and there was no trace of the powerful, magnetic man who had shaken his hand that night and run the country for over twenty years. Italy had taken major blows with the Allied invasion of Sicily and the bombing of San Lorenzo. More than two thousand people had been killed and thousands more injured in the bombardment, which had lasted over two hours. The Allies had sent some nine hundred bombers over the railway in San Lorenzo and Littorio, and two air bases at Ciampino. One of the B-17s had reportedly been piloted by American actor Clark Gable.
Marco heard the shouting surge outside, which told him that Mussolini’s car had left Palazzo Venezia. The shouting went on and on, no longer the chanted “Duce, Duce, Duce,” but hooting, hollering, and incomprehensible cursing. Everyone blamed Mussolini for leading the country into war.
Marco descended the marble stairs, ignoring the officers rushing this way and that. They would attempt an impossibly herculean task, that of righting a national government. It was rumored that the King was about to appoint Marshal Badoglio as the new Prime Minister, but Marco had grown up hearing his father curse Badoglio. Badoglio was a weak career officer responsible for the humiliating defeat at Caporetto, in the Great War. Badoglio was supposed to negotiate the terms of Italy’s surrender, without provoking Nazi retaliation or drawing the anger of the Allies. No one at Palazzo Venezia believed Badoglio could do the job.
Marco put it all behind him, walking slowly down the steps. He wasn’t working today. He didn’t know about tomorrow. He had been so wrong to believe in Mussolini. He was appalled that he had supported the war, which had caused death, starvation, and destruction. Vast regions of his homeland lay in rubble. Turin, Milan, Bologna, Palermo, Messina, Brescia, Catania, and Naples had been bombed. Half a million Italians were dead.
Marco left Palazzo Venezia, astounded at the jubilant, chaotic, and drunken crowd packing the piazza, ablaze with sun. Men, women, and children danced, waved flags and banners, sang, held up posters of the King, and played trumpets and horns.
He wedged his way between them, exhausted. Confetti fluttered through the air, and wine bottles were hoisted high. Men climbed ladders against the buildings and chiseled off Fascist emblems. Posters of Mussolini were ripped from kiosks. A plaster bust of Il Duce flew from a window and crashed onto the street, to gales of drunken laughter. A truck careened recklessly past, its bed full of cheering men, flying Italian flags and banners of the King.
Marco made his way through the mob. A woman kissed him, and another one gave him a bottle of wine, which he drank thirstily. He finally reached the end of the piazza, hoping to leave the crowd behind him, but more people flooded the streets from every direction. He couldn’t share their joy, for they celebrated husbands and sons coming home, but he could only think of those who wouldn’t. He didn’t know what his fellow Italians had died for. Everyone had believed in the same tragic delusion.
Not Aldo.
Tears flooded his eyes. Marco realized that he would never see Aldo again, never ride with him, never tease him at dinner. He had kept his love for his brother locked inside, with his love for Elisabetta and Sandro, and there was so much love locked away in him, too much, his heart simply didn’t have the chambers to hold it and it couldn’t be contained anymore.
He hurled his wine bottle at a building, where it shattered into flying glass. A woman laughed raucously, and Marco kept going, making his way through the riotous crowd, staggering more than walking. He reached the Ponte Fabricio, traveled up and then down the footbridge, spotting his father in front of Bar GiroSport, wearing his long apron and organizing an unruly crowd outside the restaurant.
Marco had never been so happy to see his father, which gave him a deep pang of guilt. They had hardly spoken to each other in so long, but he let his legs carry him down the hill, like a car running out of fuel.
“Papa?” Marco called, and his father’s head turned instantly, looking at him with an expression that mirrored his own love, anguish, and regret. His father ran to meet him and scooped him up in his strong arms, embracing him as if he were a little boy again, and Marco buried his face in his father’s big, warm, sweaty neck, beginning to cry.