His father cleared his throat. “But that’s beside the point. Germany is Germany, and Italy is Italy. We defeated the Germans in the Great War. I myself served as an army officer, in the Twenty-Ninth Piedmont Infantry, and many Jewish veterans belong to our party. We wanted a strong leader, and the economy has grown under Mussolini. He simplified our byzantine tax laws, and my practice is more robust than ever. I represent many small businessmen, and all of them are doing better.” His father picked up his fork. “One prominent Jewish banker, Ettore Ovazza, encourages more Jews to become Fascists. I may travel to Turin to see him, in my newfound capacity.”
His mother interjected, “Really, Massimo? When?”
David frowned. “Signor Simone, the question isn’t how you view yourself, but how others view you.”
Rosa shifted again in her chair, and this time Sandro spotted David wince.
His father cocked his head. “I can tell you, our fellow Italians view us as Italian Jews, which we are. The Simone family is among the most Roman of Romans, and our family’s ancestors came to Rome not only before Christ, but before the destruction of the Temple.” His father rested his forearms on the table. “Jews have completely assimilated here, as shown by the rate of intermarriage, about fifty percent. A former Prime Minister, Luigi Luzzatti, was Jewish, and so was a former Mayor of Rome, Ernesto Nathan. I could go on and on, listing prominent Jewish citizens and leaders.”
Sandro had heard this speech before. His father kept a running tally of successful Jews, as if keeping score for the home team.
“I agree with my husband,” his mother interjected.
“Thank you, dear.” His father flashed his little smile. “A rare victory.”
Everyone laughed, lightening the mood, and his mother sipped her wine. “David, I never experience antipathy at the hospital, though it’s associated with the Church. My colleagues feel the same way.”
His father added, “And Mussolini is no anti-Semite. He has a Jewish mistress.”
“Massimo, please.” His mother glanced at Sandro, who already knew what a mistress was, but his father continued.
“He lives with her and her daughter. Ovazza told me so, he knows Mussolini personally, isn’t that something?”
His mother rolled her eyes. “You’re still not going to Turin. You don’t have the time.”
David nodded. “Then I stand corrected. As a Jew, I never underestimate anti-Semitism—”
“David, on to brighter topics,” Rosa interrupted him. “Why don’t you tell my parents about your family in Gloucestershire? I’m sure they would love to hear!”
CHAPTER NINE
Elisabetta
July 1937
After school, Elisabetta changed into her blue-and-white checked dress for her waitressing job, and Rico watched from the bed, his eyes narrow with resentment. She hadn’t had time to give him attention, as she had to finish her housework and make dinner for her father, who had taken to bed.
“I’m sorry, Rico.” Elisabetta scratched him, but he didn’t forgive her enough to purr. She left the bedroom just as her mother came home with her friend Giulia Martorano, whom Elisabetta adored. Giulia was as warm and exuberant as her mother was chilly and sour, and Elisabetta always wondered why Giulia remained friends with her mother, who treated her badly, tolerating her rather than enjoying her company. Giulia had big brown eyes, plump cheeks, and an oversized smile, with a face framed by glossy black curls. Her clothes were from a palette that only an art teacher would wear successfully; a blouse of pink and red flowers paired with a voluminous emerald-green skirt and a long necklace of millefiori beads.
Elisabetta met them in the kitchen. “Ciao, Mamma, Giulia.”
“Ciao.” Her mother looked typically lovely in a white pique dress that showed her figure to advantage, and she set down her purse with a heavy sigh. Elisabetta knew that her mother wanted to be asked what was wrong and she was about to do just that, when Giulia swept her up in a hug.
“How’s my girl?” Giulia kissed her, and Elisabetta kissed her back.
“I’m good, grazie.”
Giulia beamed. “You’re more beautiful every day, and I loved the essay you wrote. Your mother gave it to me to read.”
“Oh, how nice!” Elisabetta relished the praise. Last week, she had written an essay entitled “On the Necessity of Cats,” hoping to submit it to a newspaper and get an internship. She had gotten the idea from Sandro and wanted to try, even though she had never written anything outside of school, except for various letters to the editor, which the newspapers didn’t publish. She had wanted to write on a weightier