they opened the rolls again. But why would they rely on such a technicality? How could they turn against one of their own? It’s a Fascist body, deciding against one of the most loyal Fascists in the Community, in all of Rome! They have granted so many other exemptions, ones that I wrote, that were far less deserving! How could they deny us? This is a disaster!”
“So there’s no way out, under the law?”
“No!”
Sandro’s mind raced. “What about outside of the law?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think there’s a way,” Sandro said, taking over.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Beppe
November 1938
Beppe was relieved to show the last of the customers out of the bar. He was ready for bed, always exhausted lately, for he mourned Aldo so deeply. His grief weighed him down, but he bore it privately, a father’s burden. Sometimes he felt as if he would collapse of its weight; other times it reminded him of his time in the Great War. He had served in the Third Division of the Bersaglieri, an infantry unit of elite cyclists who carried not only a rucksack, but also a bicycle, on their backs. He had been on the Isonzo front in the snowy Dolomites and at Caporetto, a brutal defeat that still caused him nightmares. The battle of Caporetto was infamous for its desertions, but Beppe had fought on, day after day, battling the enemy and his own despair. He felt the same way, grieving Aldo.
As he finished cleaning up, he wracked his brain for what he had done wrong with Aldo. How he had missed so many signs. Why his middle son had betrayed his country. Beppe felt as if he hadn’t even known the boy, his own beloved child. He would never have believed that Aldo would resort to violence for any reason, much less against his own government. He had failed Aldo as a father.
Beppe gathered a dirty napkin and took it to the counter. Marco looked up from cleaning the coffee machine, but said nothing. Since the fistfight at Aldo’s funeral, he and Marco spoke only when they had to. Beppe experienced the rift between them as another loss, depressing him further. His wife, Maria, had taken to bed, and neither Emedio nor prayer could console her. The Terrizzis had never been so miserable, and Beppe bore that as his failure, too. The happiness of a man’s family was his responsibility, no less than putting food on the table.
He was heading to the door to lock up when he saw Massimo and Sandro hurrying over the Ponte Fabricio toward the bar. It was an unusual hour for a visit, but Beppe waved to them, and Massimo waved back. When the Simones reached the foot of the bridge, Beppe opened the door to welcome them.
“Buona sera, Massimo, Sandro.”
Massimo and Sandro greeted him, hustling inside the bar.
Massimo frowned, his anxiety plain. “We’re sorry to intrude this late.”
“Not at all. Come in, both of you.” Beppe closed the door behind them, turning the sign on the door to chiuso. “Thank you for coming to Aldo’s funeral.”
“Of course, and you have our deepest condolences. Aldo was a wonderful young man.” Massimo patted Beppe on the arm, and Beppe was thankful that Massimo was tactful enough not to mention the fight with Marco.
“Please, sit down.” Beppe pulled chairs out from the nearest table, Massimo and Sandro sat down, and Marco came over, carrying four glasses of red wine on a tray.
“Buona sera.” Marco set the wine in front of them, then sat down.
Massimo and Sandro greeted Marco, and Beppe could see that there was something weighing on Massimo’s mind. His old friend took a big gulp of wine.
“Massimo, what’s the matter?”
“I need your help.”
“Then you shall have it, brother.”
“Absolutely,” Marco added.
Massimo and Sandro seemed to ease, letting down their shoulders. Massimo met Beppe’s eye. “You know about these new Race Laws, forbidding Jews from owning property or businesses.”
“Yes, and you know my view. They’re a disgrace. I loathe our party’s discriminatory laws. I don’t countenance the persecution of Italian Jews, and it’s the wrong direction for the party and for Italy.”
“Thank you for saying that. Sadly, the worst has happened. I was denied an exemption.”
“Oh no!” Beppe recoiled, taken aback. He and Massimo had been reasonably certain that the Simones would get an exemption, and he certainly deserved one.
“If we can’t get this reversed, we’ll be ruined. We’ll lose the house and my practice.”
“Is there a way to appeal it?”
“None, legally.” Massimo’s forehead buckled. “I based