area. When he reached the bar, he said, “Papa, I’ll get an apron and help you clean up.”
“It’s done. Get us some wine and meet me inside.”
Marco went inside, poured them both a glass of red, and took it to a table near the side entrance. He sat down and sipped his wine, but it didn’t improve his mood. His father entered, locked the door, and walked over, sitting down heavily.
“Marco, what’s the matter?”
“Palazzo Venezia. The officers and the politicians. Badoglio’s an idiot, like you said.”
His father took a slug of wine. “So why don’t you quit? Work for me.”
Marco didn’t want to fight. They were only recently getting along better. “Papa, I mean no disrespect, but I don’t want to work at the bar for my life. It’s your business, not mine.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
“If I say I don’t know, you’ll be disappointed. I know I’m not living up to your expectations. I barely ride anymore, I work for Palazzo Venezia. They changed my title, but it’s the same job.” And I can barely read, Marco thought but didn’t say.
“So? You are not your job, son. Life rarely meets our expectations. Do you think I’ve met mine? Did Mussolini meet ours?” His father shook his head, his face falling. “I made a terrible mistake.”
“I made the same mistake.”
“But I should’ve known better. You were taught to follow Mussolini, but I chose to. I ask myself why, over and over. I think I know, now.”
“Why?”
“Years ago, the Unification tried to make us into one Italy. But we didn’t know what that meant. We had no single national identity.” His father met his eye, pained. “Italy had to figure out who she was, and Mussolini told her that she was the greatness that produced Rome. He might have been right, but he lost his way.”
Marco felt the words resonate. He had been trying to figure out who he was, too. He had lost his way, like the land he loved.
“Mussolini is a bully, and I’ll regret joining his party as long as I live. I had my doubts when he pushed the Race Laws, but I went along. So many people suffered. Poor Massimo.”
“How is he?” Marco knew his father still sneaked the Simones food and money.
“He’s praying for Badoglio to lift the Race Laws.”
“And Sandro, how’s he?”
“He’s okay.” His father paused. “So in my view, we’ve made mistakes, but we have an opportunity to set it right. You know what I always say, not every battle is worth fighting. But some are. We have one now, for Italy.”
“I agree. That’s what I tell people at work, but they don’t listen.”
“They’re politicians. You know who’s not politicians?”
“Who?”
“The Nazis.” His father sipped his wine. “The Nazis aren’t going to let Rome go. This city is the prize. The birthplace of Western Civilization. The home of the Vatican. The Eternal City. Kesselring is an Italophile. He wants to own Rome, possess her. He will try to take her, sooner rather than later.”
Marco heard an edge in his father’s words. “What are you saying?”
“I formed a group, mostly veterans of the Great War. That’s where I go at night, when I say I have vendor meetings.”
“What do you do?” Marco asked, astonished.
“Acts of sabotage.”
Marco’s mouth dropped open. “You’re an anti-Fascist?”
“Yes, in our own cell, a network of partisans. Many other networks are forming. The Fronte Militare Clandestino della Resistenza under Montezemolo. The Comitato di Liberazione Nazionale. There’s a power vacuum in Palazzo Venezia. Politicians and officers offer talk. We defend the city.”
Marco felt his pulse quicken. “How long has this been going on?”
“Months.”
“Does Mamma know?”
“No. Better for her if she doesn’t.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You weren’t ready. Now you are. I could tell by the way you walked down the bridge tonight. I’ve been watching you walk home since you were young. Remember when I saw you dodge that cat, riding home? That’s when I knew you were ready to race. Now I know you’re ready to fight. Join me.”
Marco realized he had been watching his father, too, always expecting to see him at the foot of the bridge. “I fought for Fascism, now I’ll fight for Italy.”
“Bravo.” His father smiled. “But you have to follow my orders. I’m in command.”
“Agreed.” Marco raised his glass, and then had a heartbreaking thought. “To Aldo.”
His father hoisted a glass. “To our Aldo.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Marco
10 September 1943
Marco stood with his father and the partisans in a basement in Testaccio, a neighborhood south of central