could have uttered the slur. If Sandro had ever wondered what an anti-Semite looked like, he realized that they looked like everybody else.
“Come on.” Enzo ushered him out of the auditorium, and they reached the entrance hall, where students flowed around them, leaving the building.
Sandro couldn’t let it go. “Enzo, didn’t you hear that?”
Enzo checked his watch. “I have to get home, and you need to pick up your next assignment.”
“Doesn’t it surprise you?”
Enzo shrugged. “Not these days. Anyway the professor considers himself an agnostic, and his wife is Catholic.”
“So? That’s not the point.” Sandro had never thought about whether Levi-Civita was Jewish. He guessed now that the professor was Jewish, from his name.
“Here, let’s talk privately.” Enzo took Sandro by the arm and led him to the side wall. “It’s his politics.”
“The professor’s? Who even knows his politics?”
“University professors were required to sign a loyalty oath to Fascism, six years ago. If they didn’t, they were fired.” Enzo kept his voice low. “Only twelve out of twelve hundred refused to sign. Vito Volterra, the elder, was one of them. Volterra was a member of Parliament, a Socialist, so of course he couldn’t have signed. As a result, he was fired.”
“What does that have to do with Levi-Civita?”
“It’s rumored that he wrote the university a letter arguing that mathematics wasn’t political, and he didn’t feel it was necessary to declare his political beliefs. I heard it caused quite a stir, and ultimately he signed the oath only because he didn’t want to be fired.”
“But he’s right. Politics has nothing to do with mathematics. The obvious conclusion is that he’s agnostic in religion and politics. It’s a consistent position.”
“Nevertheless, there’s a suspicion that he leans left, and his history is against him. People know that way back in 1925, he signed Benedetto Croce’s letter protesting Fascism, which was published in the newspaper.”
“So?” Sandro knew about the infamous letter from his father, who disapproved. “Hundreds of university professors, journalists, and artists signed that letter. It’s not like Levi-Civita was the only one.”
“I’m just telling you that Fascists don’t admire the professor as much as you and I do.”
Sandro had no idea what to say, given that he himself was a Fascist. “But what does it have to do with his being Jewish, anyway?”
“Most Jews are anti-Fascist, aren’t they?”
“No, not all,” Sandro shot back, then hesitated. He had been about to reveal that he was Jewish and a Fascist, but stopped himself. He didn’t know if Enzo was a Fascist, but he assumed Enzo was. He also assumed that Enzo was Gentile, since Enzo hadn’t reacted to the slur. Sandro assumed there were other Jewish students and professors in the Mathematics Department, but he had never given it any thought. Suddenly he could see how politics and religion could get bollixed up, despite their lack of logical connection.
“I have to go. Your next assignment is in my mailbox. See you later.” Enzo hurried out the front door.
Sandro returned to the hallway and turned left into the mailroom, which was a small square room lined floor to ceiling with wooden mailboxes. Each one had a little glass window and the faculty member’s name on a placard. He opened Enzo’s mailbox, retrieved the envelope with his assignment, and tucked it in his backpack. He was just about to leave the mailroom when he stopped himself.
Sandro scanned the placards on the mailboxes, reading the faculty names, and found the one he was looking for. He took out his notebook and pencil from his backpack, tore off a page, and wrote:
Professor Levi-Civita,
It may be presumptuous of me to write to you, but I felt compelled to do so. I attended your lecture and I am inspired by you and your love of mathematics. You are a true genius and obviously a kind and admirable gentleman. It is an honor to work for you, even in my humble capacity, as I am merely a high-school student who reports to Enzo Vigorito. I remain your dedicated servant,
Alessandro Simone
Sandro folded up the note, put it in the mailbox, and left.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marco
August 1937
The summer sun was hot, making the thick black fabric of Marco’s shirt feel itchy and heavy, but he had to wear his Balilla uniform for his interview at the fascio, the local Fascist party. That day in the stockroom at the bar, Commendatore Buonacorso had asked him to apply for a job as his assistant, and Marco’s father had leapt at the chance that his son