my argument on my loyalty to the party. Remember the first day we met, when Sandro was born?”
“Yes, of course. I could never forget.” Beppe gestured outside the bar. “We met right there, on that spot. You had just left the hospital, having been there all night waiting for Gemma to deliver Sandro. We stood out front, together. It was the March on Rome, in 1922.”
Massimo nodded, his eyes briefly shining. “Then we went to Piazza Venezia and saw Il Duce speak. The crowd was packed as far as the eye could see. You were already a member of the party.”
“Yes, I joined in 1919.” Beppe suppressed a pang. So much had changed since then, not for the better. Fascism had betrayed the Jews, and Mussolini had set the party on a course to war, in alliance with Hitler. And now Aldo was gone, tainting Marco with suspicion of complicity.
“There’s an exemption to the Race Laws for Fascists of the First Hour, like you. Those who joined from 1919 to 1922 and the second half of 1924. I joined in 1923, though I was going to meetings from the earliest days. So you see, it’s only a technicality that I was denied the exemption.”
“That’s very true. I’ll help you in any way I can. What can I do?”
“Beppe, you know so many people in the party. I was wondering if you could speak to someone and attest to my loyalty, from those early days. I’m sure your word could make a difference.” Massimo turned to Marco. “And, Marco, you work at the fascio. I know you’re well thought of there. Is there someone you could speak to for us, as well? Commendatore Buonacorso knows me, for as you remember, I introduced him to you. Perhaps you could remind him of my loyalty?”
“Of course, we’ll talk to someone,” Beppe rushed to say, though the timing couldn’t have been worse. He and Marco had no influence since Aldo’s betrayal, but he couldn’t tell Massimo and Sandro the truth about Aldo’s death. It was confidential, and shameful.
Marco pursed his lips. “I’ll ask, too.”
Massimo breathed with relief. “Thank you, both of you.”
Sandro smiled. “Thank you, so much.”
Beppe patted Massimo on the arm. “Now, let’s have a drink, to old friends.”
“To old friends.” Massimo raised his glass.
“To old friends,” Marco said to Sandro, hoisting his wine.
“Yes, to us,” Sandro said, after a moment.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Marco
November 1938
The next morning, Marco sat next to his father on a brocade bench outside Commendatore Buonacorso’s office. They had given the photograph of Aldo’s blond anti-Fascist to Buonacorso and had been told to wait here. That had been two hours ago, during which various Fascist officers, whom Marco didn’t recognize, hurried to and from the office.
He perched on the edge of his seat, tense. His father was somber in the suit he had worn to Aldo’s funeral. They had said barely a word to each other. Marco told himself to relax, but it was impossible. Everything was on the line today.
“Gentlemen,” an officer said, appearing from the office. “Commendatore Buonacorso will speak with you.”
“Thank you,” Marco and his father answered, in unison. They rose, entered the office, and gave the Fascist salute, which Buonacorso returned, then motioned to two cushioned chairs in front of his desk.
“Please, gentlemen. Sit down.” As they did, Buonacorso took a seat behind his desk. “I’m surprised to see you here, Beppe.”
“I came to support Marco. Neither of us had any inkling of Aldo’s shameful and traitorous activities. As Aldo’s father, I should have known. If anyone is to blame, it is me. If anyone should be punished, punish me.”
Marco looked over, touched at his father’s words. “Papa, I’m responsible for myself.”
His father ignored him, his attention on Buonacorso. “We understand each other, as veterans. I tell you, Marco’s loyalty is as solid as mine. I trust that his production of the photograph will serve as proof.”
Buonacorso nodded curtly. “Beppe, I appreciate your words. We all know of your loyalty. Your integrity. We understand now that neither of you had any idea of Aldo’s treachery. Our friends in OVRA have the photograph and will investigate the woman. We feel satisfied that Marco was not collaborating with Aldo and the other anti-Fascists.”
“Thank you. Then I assume that means he gets his job back, at the fascio.”
Marco startled, surprised at his father’s boldness on his behalf.
Buonacorso stroked his mustache, then turned to Marco. “Marco, yes, you have your job back. We shall let this unfortunate episode pass and