“It’s a matter of trust, Marco. I can no longer trust you.”
“Sir, you can. I prove it every day, working for you. I’ve learned confidential information here. It never leaves this building.”
Bam! The OVRA officer slammed his meaty hand on the desk and advanced on Marco, leaning into his face. “Your brother was a criminal subversive! We must assume you are, too!”
“But I’m not.”
“Yes, you are!” The OVRA officer’s glare bored into Marco. “He was in an anti-Fascist cell, and you are, too!”
Marco’s mouth went dry. “I swear to you, I didn’t know anything about it. I’m a patriot, a good Fascist, and I love Il Duce and our party. I would never do anything against—”
“I don’t believe you! You’re in it with your brother!”
“No, no, I swear to you—”
“You work here in order to spy on us!”
“No, that’s not true. I didn’t know.”
“You showed off at the bar for Commendatore Buonacorso! You tricked him into believing you were a patriot!”
“My patriotism is no trick.” Marco could barely respond to the rapid-fire accusations.
“You expect us to believe that he never told you? You lived with your brother! You rode with him!”
“He said he was seeing a married woman.”
“You came home at the same time! You were seen!”
Marco tried to think through his fear, which was intensifying. “We planned it that way, for my father. We lied to him.”
“So you admit you’re a liar! You’re lying to us! You were in cahoots with your brother and the other filthy pigs! Who are they?”
“I don’t know, I’m telling you, I had no idea he was meeting with them.”
“That’s why your father fought you at the funeral! He found out you were an anti-Fascist!”
“The fight had nothing to do with Aldo. It was about my girlfriend.” Marco flashed on Elisabetta, then thought of Aldo’s girlfriend, or whoever she had been. “Wait a minute, listen, one of the anti-Fascists came to the bar that day. She was a pretty blonde, the one Aldo said he was having an affair with, the married—”
“You saw her?” The OVRA officer blinked. “A woman anti-Fascist?”
“Yes.” Marco had forgotten about her, in his grief. “She’s the one you need to talk to.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know, he never told me.”
“Where does she live?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were in cahoots with her!” The OVRA officer shoved a clenched fist in Marco’s face. “Is this what you want? I could take you to the Questura right now! I’ll beat you until you talk! I want to, but your boss says no. He’s a gentleman, I’m not!”
“Wait, listen.” Marco got an idea. “I can find out who she is. It will prove I’m not an anti-Fascist.”
The OVRA officer thought this over. “Do it! You have twenty-four hours! We’ll be watching! Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Twenty-four hours!”
CHAPTER FORTY
Elisabetta
November 1938
Elisabetta stood in the kitchen at home, wiping her brow and surveying her handiwork. She had finally finished packing to move, and piles of boxes surrounded her. She had sold anything she could part with, like her mother’s dresses, shoes, and handbags, which had fetched a tidy sum from the peddlers in the Ghetto. Her father’s clothes had brought in far less money, and for sentimental reasons, she kept his wonderful watercolors, from his heyday as an artist.
Most of the furniture was gone, as she had sold everything she wouldn’t need. She would have a single room from now on, which would simplify her life. She was trying to look forward, not backward. Such thoughts were more productive than thinking of her father’s death. She had come to accept that she was better off without her mother.
She sank into the wooden chair, realizing for the first time that the room was very small. She had always thought of the kitchen as very big, and it seemed paradoxical to her that the kitchen would look smaller without anything in it, but it was true. She saw her home with new eyes, realizing that she was leaving this part of her life behind, now that she was an adult on her own. With Rico.
The cat looked over from his seat atop a tall stack of boxes, from which he had been eyeing her, neither disapproving nor approving, merely watchful. Rico was intelligent enough to understand that they were leaving, and that he was going, too, for he had seen her pack his favorite dishes, which would have allayed any anxiety he might have had.
“Don’t worry, Rico,” Elisabetta told him anyway, but his