to discriminate against Jews. They’re not going to give us an exemption for helping Jews, are they?”
“Good point, but this law also classifies Jews, as illustrated by the provisions regarding what constitutes a Jew. So, we are going to file applications for exemptions for as many Jews as we can and show how exceptional they are.” Massimo gestured around the room. “These men are leaders of business, scholars, and professionals. We can make arguments for all of them.”
Luciano’s dark eyes lit up. “You know, we could give out titles to suggest that the duty they perform benefits the Community or Rome.”
“Good idea!” Armando sat taller, rallying.
“Great idea!” Massimo smiled. “We’ll centralize our efforts here, at the synagogue. Everyone can come, and we’ll interview them, elicit useful facts about them, and draft exemptions for them.”
Armando blinked. “But, Massimo, we’re not lawyers. You’d have to supervise us.”
“I will,” Massimo agreed, though he’d never supervised anyone but his secretary. “Gentlemen, I know how unjust this law is and how dire our position, but we are the leaders of this Community. Everyone counts on us. We have to move to a solution. It will take work, but we can do it, as we did with the schools.”
“Massimo, stand up, right now. Everyone, listen!” Luciano rose, then clapped to get attention. Heads began to turn, and every man faced him.
Massimo stayed in his seat, unaccustomed to the limelight, but Luciano hoisted Massimo up by his arm, and began speaking:
“Friends, as you may know, Massimo Simone is one of the best lawyers in the city. He has just told me a strategy for us to cope with these terrible Race Laws.”
“What is it?” a man called out, then others joined in. “Tell us!” “What can we do?”
“Massimo will tell you!” Luciano called back, stepping aside.
“I will?” Massimo asked, nervous.
“Massimo, you explain it better than I do. Tell them.”
Massimo picked up his notepad with a shaking hand. “I’ll begin by explaining the law . . .”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Marco
November 1938
Marco walked through Piazza Navona much more slowly than the businessmen, shopkeepers, and tradesmen around him. It was his first day at work after Aldo’s funeral, and he felt heartsick and grief-stricken, having been barely able to sleep. He wasn’t speaking to his father, and they avoided each other. His mother had taken to bed, bereft.
Marco approached the grand archway to Palazzo Braschi and saluted. “Good morning, Nino.”
“Sorry about your brother.” Nino snapped his eyes forward, unusually official.
“Thank you.” Marco passed through the vaulted entranceway and turned right to the glass doors, where Giuseppe and Tino stood guard, their demeanor similarly cool. Marco saluted them, too. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Marco. Condolences.”
“Thank you.” Marco realized that they must have heard that Aldo had died an anti-Fascist, but he wasn’t about to let their hard eyes bother him. He headed for the grand marble staircase and reached the top floor, which was flooded with sunlight from its floor-to-ceiling windows. He crossed to Commendatore Buonacorso’s office, as he always checked in before the day started.
“Good morning,” Marco said to Pasquale, who stood guard by the arch, and they saluted each other.
“Condolences,” Pasquale said, and Marco went to his boss’s office and knocked on the mahogany door.
Buonacorso called him to come in, and Marco opened the door and saluted, but was taken aback at the sight. His boss sat behind his desk, but standing next to him was an OVRA officer built like a bear, with a bald head and a fierce glare. OVRA was Mussolini’s secret police, a law unto themselves.
Marco felt a tingle of fear as he walked to the desk. “Commendatore Buonacorso, good morning. May I get you anything?”
“No.” Buonacorso motioned. “Sit down.”
“Yes, sir.” Marco sat, and the OVRA officer glared at him without introducing himself, a bad sign.
Buonacorso frowned. “Marco, you’re fired. You can’t continue at fascio headquarters, now that we know you had a subversive for a brother.”
Marco recoiled. “But Aldo truly wasn’t like that, I promise you.”
“How can you defend him?” Buonacorso’s dark eyes flashed. “He tried to kill an officer of the law. He was a violent anti-Fascist and a Communist co-conspirator. He was transporting guns to use against us.”
“He may have, but he paid the ultimate price, and—”
“Which is as it should be,” Buonacorso interrupted sternly.
“I am not my brother, sir. I had no idea of his leftist politics. We never discussed it. He kept it to himself.”
“Is that true?” Buonacorso arched an eyebrow. “You had no idea?”