“I wonder if that means you’re listening—or you’ve stopped listening.”
“It means I’m listening.”
“How’s Marco?”
“He’s fine, working a lot.”
His mother paused again. “And Elisabetta? How is she?”
“Fine, I assume. I don’t see her. I’m not interested in her anymore.”
“Oh.” His mother blinked, her expression softening. “I hope you understood our objection.”
“I do, but I don’t agree with it.”
“Even after this? These awful Race Laws codify a ban against intermarriage.” His mother gestured at the white envelope, but Sandro couldn’t suppress the resentment flaring in his chest.
“Mamma, if anything, that should make you question your view.”
“What are you talking about? The Race Laws prove the necessity for standing together as Jews. Our Community is under dire threat.”
“I choose not to discriminate against those who discriminate. It’s a principled—”
“Oh, Sandro, fine,” his mother snapped. “You’re too smart by half, and I don’t want to fuss. Do we need more upset? Should I have more worries than whatever is in that envelope?”
“So let’s open it then.” Sandro picked up the envelope, annoyed. “If you won’t, I will.”
“No, Sandro, don’t. I forbid it.” His mother reached for the envelope just as Sandro jerked his hand away. The envelope tore in two, leaving her holding one half and him the other. In that moment, the front door opened and his father entered, smiling until he realized that Sandro and his mother were fighting. His father set down his briefcase and hurried into the dining room.
“What’s going on, you two?” he asked, mystified. “What’s that paper?”
“It’s from the Demorazza.” His mother slid the other half of the envelope from Sandro’s grasp and handed them both over. “I’m sorry.”
“Papa, I’m sorry, too,” Sandro said quickly. “It’s my fault. I wanted to open it, and Mamma said we shouldn’t.”
“What have you done? This is an important legal document!” Appalled, his father slid the white paper from the left and right halves of the envelope, then placed both sides on the table, matching them up. His mother stood over his father’s left shoulder, and Sandro came around his right. He looked down to see that the halves of the document were unevenly matched, but the ruling was legible—and horrifying.
NEGATO, read the handwritten scrawl, in capital letters.
“No,” his father said, hushed.
His mother gasped.
Sandro felt stricken.
His father moved both halves of the paper up and down, trying to realign them, as if it would change the outcome. “No, no, no, no,” he said, over and over.
“Oh no.” His mother put a hand on his father’s knobby shoulder, but his father didn’t seem to notice.
“They would not deny us! They would not do this to us! They would not do this to me!” His father kept rearranging the two halves of the decision. “I’m almost a Fascist of the First Hour! I’ve done everything I can for the party! It would not do this to my family! It would not do this to me!”
“Massimo, please.” His mother patted his father’s back. “We will find a way—”
“Il Duce would not do this to me. My country . . .” His father looked up, shaking his head, his eyes wild and his lips trembling.
Sandro felt alarmed, having never seen his father so frantic. Tears came to his mother’s eyes, and she edged away, as unsettled as he was.
Sandro realized he had to do something. He took his father by the shoulders and turned him so they faced each other. “Papa, we have to reason together, the way we always do. We can figure out what to do.”
“We can’t, we can’t, we’re ruined! I don’t know what to do.”
Sandro felt taken aback, but masked his dismay. “Can we appeal? Is there a provision for appeal of these rulings, like a regular court case?”
“No, no, no, nothing like that’s in the law! The decisions are final!” His father looked at Sandro without really seeing him, or so it seemed to Sandro.
“Papa, let’s think. There has to be some way to deal with this, and we will.”
“I’ve gotten exemptions for so many others, how could they deny mine? Why would they deny mine? Why?”
“Are you sure it’s final, even though it’s just handwritten? It barely looks official. I’m wondering if it’s some sort of notation or—”
“No, no! It’s a final determination, many of them are handwritten denials. They’re mere functionaries who decide these things! They’re not lawyers, they’re bureaucrats! They scribble!” His father started shaking his head again. “Perhaps I was a borderline case, in that I didn’t join the party until 1923, and that’s before 1924, when