making fun of a bicycle race? Calling it silly? That’s our stock in trade!” His father smacked him on the side of the head. “I finished twentieth in the Giro d’Italia, need I remind you? It was the proudest day of my life!”
“Papa!’’ Marco felt stung. “I was only trying to help!”
Suddenly the door opened, and Massimo stood smiling in the threshold, gesturing to the party official who was standing next to him. “Beppe, excuse me. Allow me to introduce Commendatore Buonacorso, who is the commander of the local fascio. He wanted to meet you.”
“Piacere, Commendatore Buonacorso,” his father said, extending a hand.
“Piacere, Beppe. Please, call me Romano.” Buonacorso shook his father’s hand, flashing a politician’s smile. His eyes were small and brown-black, his pencil mustache shiny with oil, and his nose unfortunately bulbous. He was of average height, reasonably fit, and impeccably groomed, with the creases of his uniform pressed into sharpness.
“Romano, to what do I owe the pleasure of this introduction?”
“Your son Marco is an impressive young man. May I speak with you both?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sandro
August 1937
Sandro could barely wait for Professor Levi-Civita’s lecture to start. The lecture hall was the largest at La Sapienza, filled with university administrators, professors, and staff from the mathematics and physics departments, even in the summertime. He was proud to be sitting with Enzo and the graduate students. Everything was so much more grown-up than high school, and he was among the most brilliant mathematicians and physicists of his time. For once, Sandro wasn’t at all the smartest person in the room, and the notion electrified him. He had so much more to learn, and they could teach him. Someday, he would make a contribution of his own to Italian mathematics. He realized that his mother had been right in that regard, and he knew now what she had meant. God had given him his gift for a reason. Maybe the reason was to give to his country.
Professor Levi-Civita appeared from the side of the stage and walked to the lectern, and the audience burst into applause. Sandro was charmed by Levi-Civita’s demeanor and appearance, having seen the great mathematician only once or twice in person. Levi-Civita smiled modestly, then adjusted the microphone downward, since he was of remarkably short stature, perhaps 152 centimeters. He had thinning silvery hair, his face was a small oval, and his eyes twinkled behind his round glasses. He wore an old-fashioned suit with wide lapels, light pinstripes, a stand-up collar, and a silk ascot.
Levi-Civita began to speak, his voice calm and soft, so that the audience had to lean forward, and Sandro listened, spellbound. He could barely understand in some places, but his attention remained riveted on the professor, and he didn’t take notes because he preferred to concentrate. In time, Levi-Civita rolled over a blackboard and began to scribble calculations as he spoke. Sandro’s mind engaged like never before, so galvanized during the entire lecture that he felt dazed when it ended and Professor Levi-Civita bowed in an old-fashioned way.
Sandro leapt to his feet and clapped, and the audience gave Levi-Civita a standing ovation that lasted for fifteen minutes, then the faculty and dignitaries surged toward the stage. Students began to file out, flooding the aisles toward the exits, but Sandro was in no hurry, wanting to stay in the room, soaking in the experience for as long as possible.
“Sandro, this way.” Enzo touched his arm.
“Okay,” Sandro said reluctantly, and he followed Enzo to a side entrance, then heard someone say:
“I’ll be damned if I’ll clap for a dirty Jew.”
Sandro stopped. He turned around to see who would say such a thing, but the crowd was moving. Two students who looked old enough to be graduate level stood closest to him, and he sensed they were the likeliest culprits. “What did you just say?” he asked them.
“Nothing,” the one answered, with apparent nonchalance.
The other shrugged.
“Someone just called Professor Levi-Civita ‘a dirty Jew.’” The insult curdled on Sandro’s tongue. His anger emboldened him, even though he was younger than they. “Was it you?”
The graduate student shook his head. “We didn’t say anything.”
“Sandro, let it go.” Enzo tugged him forward.
“No.” Sandro kept an eye on the graduate students. “If you didn’t say it, did you hear it? You must have.”
“We didn’t hear anything, either.” The students hurried to the left, and Sandro’s sense of fairness prevented him from accusing them further, as he couldn’t be sure. He scanned the scholarly, well-dressed audience, appalled that one of them