the League had levied unfair sanctions on Italy for the Ethiopian war.
Everybody waited shoulder to shoulder in their heavy coats, chanting “Duce! Duce! Duce!” The many voices shouting in unison thundered in Sandro’s ears, and he chanted with them, growing excited. He had come to the piazza with his father and some higher-ups from the Board, but he had lost sight of them. Marco was at the rally, too, with his boss and the other brass from the fascio, but Sandro didn’t see him, either.
Suddenly Mussolini stepped into a spotlight on the balcony, and Sandro felt a jolt of electricity course throughout his system. He could barely see Il Duce from this distance, but he knew Mussolini’s features as well as his own, from textbooks, newspapers, newsreels, posters, money, and the tribute coins that his father collected, in glassine envelopes. Il Duce’s features were nothing short of theatrical; a fierce, dark gaze under a prominent brow, expressive eyebrows, a strong nose, a large, bold mouth, and the iconic chin, with a jawline as pugnacious as a bulldog’s.
The crowd chanted louder, pumped banners and flags, and waved caps and fezzes. Sandro felt caught up in the enthusiasm until Il Duce silenced them, beginning his speech.
“Blackshirts!” Mussolini bellowed, his voice amplified through loudspeakers. “The historic decision which the Grand Council has acclaimed and which you have welcomed with your very enthusiastic cheering could no longer be put off! For many long years we have tried to offer to the world the spectacle of unheard patience! We have not forgotten and will never forget the shameful attempt at economic strangulation of the Italian people perpetrated at Geneva!”
The crowd roared in collective outrage, and Sandro shouted with them.
Mussolini raised his hands. “And one would have thought that at a certain moment the League of Nations would have made a gesture of reparation! It did not do this! It did not want to do this! The good intentions of some governments were drowned as soon as their delegates came into contact with that deadly environment that is the Geneva Sanhedrin, maneuvered by dark occult forces hostile to Italy and to our revolution!”
Sandro deflated, for the word Sanhedrin meant a Jewish tribunal in Jerusalem. He had never heard Il Duce say such a thing before, suggesting that Jews were a hostile force. Sandro eyed the shouting mob in the darkness, and no one but him was reacting to the reference. Each gaze remained riveted to the balcony, idolizing Il Duce.
Mussolini raised his hands, spreading them. “Under such conditions, our presence in the halls of Geneva was no longer possible! It offended our doctrine, our style, our temperament as soldiers! The hour was approaching when it was necessary to choose in this dilemma! Either in or out. In?”
“No!” the crowd shouted, but now Sandro didn’t join them.
Mussolini asked, “Out?”
“Sì!” the crowd roared, and Sandro looked around at the faces in the gloom, each one contorted with an angry sort of joy, their lips drawn back to expose their teeth, like snarling dogs.
Mussolini continued his speech, but Sandro was seeing Il Duce and the crowd with new eyes. He flashed on Levi-Civita’s lecture, when someone had called the professor a “dirty Jew,” with venom in his voice. Sandro had never felt that his Jewishness set him apart from his fellow Italians, but he wondered if he had been wrong.
Mussolini was finishing his speech, but Sandro had lost enthusiasm. Everyone around him was shouting, enraged and defiant, a massive display of collective might, power, and emotion that used to appeal to him. He sensed an undercurrent of danger, that the same feverish mob could be turned against him.
“Papa!” Sandro shouted, though he knew the crowd would drown out his voice. He searched the heads for his father’s, but couldn’t find him. Home was only a twenty-minute walk. He turned away from Palazzo Venezia, wedged his way back through the throng, and headed off.
* * *
—
After the rally, Sandro sat at the dining room table, his papers spread out in front of him. He was supposed to be working, but he was worried about his father. Sandro didn’t know if Rosa had gone, but he worried about her, too. His mother was at the hospital, and Cornelia had gone home.
The window was closed against the cold, but Sandro looked outside to see people flooding Piazza Mattei, heading home after the rally. Some were Ghetto residents, others were passing through, and rowdy Blackshirts were stumbling along in groups, drinking from bottles