not belong to the Italian race.’”
“What?” Marco didn’t understand what he was hearing. He stopped hauling boxes. “You must be reading it wrong. Of course Jews belong to the Italian race. They’re Italian Jews.”
“Not anymore.” Tino lifted an eyebrow. “It says so, right here in the manifesto. This must be the position of the party, as of today. This manifesto wouldn’t have been published without approval of the big bosses at Palazzo Venezia.”
“But it can’t be.” Marco recoiled. “Il Duce wouldn’t do that. Jews have always been considered Italians. It’s never been any other way.”
“It’s changing, Marco.” Tino shot him a warning look. “That’s what Giuseppe’s trying to tell you.”
Giuseppe frowned over the newspaper. “Hold on, I’m almost finished with the article. It says, ‘The Jews represent the only population that has never assimilated in Italy because it is racially non-European, completely different from the elements that created Italians.’”
“But that’s not true.” Marco felt stricken. He knew Sandro would be horrified when he read the newspaper. “Jews are no different from us. They were born in Italy. They’re Italians and Europeans. My best friend is Jewish.”
“Marco, enough.” Tino lowered his voice. “Keep that to yourself from now on, capisce?”
“He’s right, Marco.” Giuseppe looked up, his lips pursed.
“Okay, enough politics.” Marco concealed his emotions, out of prudence. “Why don’t I go get us some biscotti? I know a great bakery. It’s a short ride away. What do you say?”
“Great idea!” Tino answered, nodding.
Giuseppe brightened. “I agree.”
“I’ll get my bicycle,” Marco said, taking off.
* * *
—
Marco rode to see Sandro with a dozen anisette biscotti in his backpack, having used the errand as an excuse. The Ghetto was a quick ride from Palazzo Braschi, and he hoped he could catch Sandro before he left for La Sapienza. He entered the Ghetto from the north side, closer to Sandro’s house. His tires bumped over the cobblestones as he reached Piazza Mattei, where a group of men stood discussing the manifesto, newspapers in hand. He recognized the elderly Signor Narduno and the Ingegnere Rotoli, who were so upset they barely noticed him.
Marco sympathized. It bewildered him to think that with the stroke of a pen, some so-called racial scientists would arbitrarily decide that Italian Jews would no longer be considered Italian. He could only hope that Il Duce would disavow the manifesto in the days to come.
He hopped off his bicycle and looked up at Sandro’s house, its well-maintained façade an ochre hue, and its shutters the conventional dark green. It was one of the loveliest homes lining this quiet, refined piazza, which was comfortably shady in summer, and at its center stood the elegant Fontana delle Tartarughe, a fountain that had four turtles perched at the top of its white marble bowl. Water gurgled from its spouts, still fed by an ancient Roman aqueduct, the Acqua Vergine, and its cool spray misted the air.
“Sandro!” Marco called up to the open window, the way he always did, and Sandro’s face popped into view.
“I’ll be right down!”
Marco leaned his bicycle against the wall, and after a few minutes, Sandro emerged from the house, dressed for La Sapienza in a white shirt and tan pants with leather shoes. They greeted each other warmly, then Marco asked him, “Do you have time to catch up? I sneaked out of work to see you.”
“Sure.” Sandro gestured him to the fountain, and they sat down on the ledge together, another thing they always did.
“Here, have some biscotti.” Marco took the box from his backpack and opened it, releasing the fresh scent of baked anise. He handed a biscotto to Sandro. “Did you see the manifesto in the newspaper?”
“Yes, it’s shocking. Insulting.” Sandro frowned, pursing his lips. “I’m Italian, no matter what they say.”
“Of course you are.” Marco was about to take a biscotto, but lost his appetite. It hurt him to see Sandro hurting.
“There’s no valid science behind it. It’s not fact-based in the least.”
“I know, and it doesn’t make sense. I can’t abide this happening to you and your family, or to anyone in the Ghetto. I have to believe it will be discredited.”
Sandro exhaled slowly. “My father thinks it will. He says it’s pure propaganda, but I’ve been worrying that Mussolini is becoming more like Hitler.”
“He can’t be.” Marco felt disgusted by the very notion. “We can’t be.”
“My father says the manifesto doesn’t address Fascist Jews. He sees us as an exception.”
“But the manifesto didn’t say that, did it?”
“No, but my father says it lacks the force