the life of every other young girl, who came from respectable families and had properly shaped breasts.
“I’ve been dying to get you on this bicycle!” Marco called out, laughing, and Elisabetta flushed with happiness.
She glanced backward to see Sandro in the distance, shading his eyes with his hand. She felt a pang at leaving him behind, but at the same time let herself be spirited away by Marco, by his emotion, and by hers.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Marco
September 1937
The crowd mobbed the Termini train station, music blared from bands, and flags and banners flew. Mussolini was due to arrive in Rome at any moment, having spent the week with Hitler in Berlin. Rallies, parades, and speeches had been scheduled all over the city to celebrate his return. Only dignitaries, officials, and topmost military brass from Palazzo Venezia, the head of national government, and the fascio were authorized to be inside the station, to welcome Mussolini as soon as he disembarked. Each man expected to get a glimpse of Il Duce, except for Marco, who was attending to Comandante Spada at the very back of the crowd, with Commendatore Buonacorso and Comandante Terranova.
“Here you go, sir.” Marco took the cap off the bottle and poured water in a glass for Spada, who had decided that he was thirsty. Marco had found himself indentured to the old man, as Spada’s list of needs never ended and Buonacorso’s were relatively few. Spada tried Marco’s patience at every turn, demanding his espresso blazing hot, his tea medium cool, and his biscotti warm from the morning bake.
Spada squinted at the bottle. “Boy, is this water sparkling, as I asked?”
“Yes, sir, it’s sparkling.” Marco hoisted the bottle to show him, but Spada only frowned.
“You can’t expect me to see that label in this light? With my eyes.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“You know sparkling improves my digestion.”
“Yes, sir.” Marco masked his repugnance, since after Spada drank his sparkling water, he customarily emitted a fetid belch.
“Hurry up, boy. I can barely swallow, I’m so parched.”
“Here we go.” Marco handed the glass to the old man, who took it but didn’t drink.
“Are you sure this glass is clean, boy? I loathe a dusty glass.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Dust is the last thing I need in my throat right now.”
“I understand, sir. The glass has no dust inside.”
“Did you wipe it out first?”
“Yes, of course,” Marco said, but it was a lie. Spada finally sipped some water, and Marco consoled himself with the knowledge that the old man was set to retire. Marco was counting the days until then, and the fascio planned to throw Spada a retirement party at a local restaurant. Marco looked forward to celebrating all night.
Buonacorso turned to Terranova. “I think Il Duce’s trip was a stunning success, don’t you? The newspaper accounts were favorable, and the photos even better.”
“I quite agree,” Terranova answered, smiling.
“I don’t.” Spada sniffed, holding his water glass. “I’ll never like the Germans, and they’ll never like us. They regard us as inferiors. I don’t trust them.”
Buonacorso dismissed him with a wave. “But it was almost a weeklong visit, Spada. That’s unprecedented. Parades, tours, and the big speech in the Olympic Stadium. A million spectators, despite the rain. Il Duce spoke in German, isn’t that incredible?”
“Yet they mocked his accent, those bastards. Instead of yelling Il Duce, they yelled Il Dusche. It means ‘shower’ in German, and it was raining.” Spada sneered. “How I abhor the German language! All that clacking gives me a headache. Thank God I don’t hear as well as I used to.”
“Don’t be so contrary, Spada. Be open-minded.”
“Too late. The National Socialists imitate everything we do. The youth group, the propaganda ministry, we did it all first. They ape us. It’s been that way from the beginning. Hitler copied the March on Rome for his feckless Beer Hall Putsch, and all he did was get thrown in jail. They stole the ancient Roman salute from us, too, for their Sieg Heil.”
“And we’re stealing the goose step from them, calling it the passo romano.” Buonacorso chuckled. “Anyway Il Duce is far too clever for Hitler. Il Duce has more strength in his little finger than Hitler has in his whole body. Il Duce’s aggression in Ethiopia is the reason we won that war. He’ll use the Nazis to serve our purposes, you’ll see.”
“Let’s hope so,” Spada shot back, and Marco mentally filed it away. Working here, he learned so much about the party, met important officials, and memorized every name, fact, and figure. He had even