for love of country. He had to be brave enough to fight, as his father had in the Great War. After all, Aldo was a son of Lazio. Of Roma.
“Yes, I volunteer,” he answered, after a moment. “For Italy.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Elisabetta
July 1937
Elisabetta headed through the Piazza di Santa Maria in Trastevere with her father leaning on her, her dress spattered with vomit. She felt heartsick to remember the disgust on Gualeschi’s face, and knew she would never work for the newspaper, now. She despaired of the opportunity she had lost, and she felt ashamed that everyone at the restaurant knew about her father.
She had never felt so angry at him, but at the same time she felt guilt for her anger. People filled the piazza, enjoying the summer night, and they looked over, talking behind their hands. She spotted some of her classmates and averted her face, hoping they didn’t see her. Thank God Marco and Sandro weren’t around. She would have been mortified for them to see her this way.
Elisabetta and her father left the piazza and joined the throng in the street, where people flowed in and out of shops or sat at tables outside restaurants. Diners turned away when she and her father struggled past. She spotted her house on the corner, with its lemon-yellow façade and wisteria bower over the front door, next to a brass light fixture. It was so picturesque that tourists would often photograph it, and tonight a group was posing in front of her door.
Elisabetta approached with her father, and the tourists turned to watch them, pointing and chattering. She couldn’t understand what they were saying, but she could guess. She tugged her father to their front door, where she fumbled with the doorknob, helped him inside the entrance hall, and closed the door.
She got him to their apartment door, then eased him slowly to the floor. He sat with his back against the wall, falling asleep. He would be too heavy for her to move without her mother’s help. She unlocked the door and entered the apartment, but the kitchen was empty, so her mother must have gone to bed. Rico rose from the windowsill in a crouch, his tail curling into a question mark.
“Mamma, I need help with Papa!” Elisabetta went to the bedroom, and her mother appeared in the threshold wearing her best dark dress, fully made-up.
“Why are you home so early?”
“Papa came to the restaurant.” Elisabetta noticed a suitcase on the bed. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes.” Her mother turned away and picked up the suitcase. “I’m leaving.”
“What?” Elisabetta asked, confused. “Where?”
“That’s not your concern.” Her mother stiffened, averting her eyes. “I have to go. I can’t stay here anymore.”
“What are you talking about? Where are you going?” Elisabetta spotted her mother’s gramophone in its polished wooden case, sitting by the bed. It was her mother’s most prized possession.
“I’m leaving.”
“Leaving what? Home? For good?” Elisabetta shook her head in disbelief. “But you can’t!”
“I have to. I have one last chance and I’m taking it.” Her mother picked up the suitcase and the gramophone, then walked into the kitchen.
“What do you mean?” Elisabetta hurried after her, stricken. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve given your father my best years. I’m done. Finished.” Her mother grabbed her purse and kept going. “If you’re smart, you’ll learn from my mistake. Marry well.”
“Mamma!” Elisabetta caught her mother’s arm, but her mother wrenched it away, almost dropping the gramophone.
“Elisabetta, let me go.”
“But you can’t just go!”
“Yes, I can. My mind is made up.” Her mother glanced down at her father with contempt.
“He’s your husband!”
“I’ve done enough for him.”
“But what about me?” Anguished tears filled Elisabetta’s eyes. “You can’t leave me.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to. You can take care of yourself. You’re a young woman now. You told me that.”
“What? When?” Elisabetta wracked her brain, her thoughts in tumult. What did her mother mean? Was it the brassiere? Was she leaving because of the brassiere?
“Goodbye.” Her mother turned away and hustled through the entrance hall, but Elisabetta dogged her step, grabbed her arm again, and turned her around to face her.
“Mamma, don’t you love me?”
“Yes.”
“But not enough to stay?”
Her mother’s gaze hardened, and her lips seemed to seal.
Elisabetta burst into tears. She released her grip. Her arm dropped to her side. Her mother turned her back and left, without another word.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Marco
25 July 1937
Marco and Aldo worked behind the counter on a banner day at Bar GiroSport, which was packed with regulars, Sandro and his