Italian citizens who, according to the laws, are considered as belonging to the Jewish race are excluded from the PNF, the Partito Nazionale Fascista.
Massimo couldn’t comprehend what was before his eyes. He was a lawyer, baffled by a law. The Fascists had betrayed him, even though he and other Jews had helped put Il Duce in power. Massimo had believed in Il Duce, even loved him. But Il Duce had betrayed him, too. The newspapers were calling it a “purge” of Jews.
The door to his study was closed, and Massimo could hear Gemma and Sandro talking in the kitchen. The law had upset them, but hadn’t devasted them the way it did him. He didn’t know who he was if he wasn’t a Fascist. The party was more than politics to him. It was a rubric like the law itself, a system of orderly government that allowed men to achieve their fullest potential.
He thought back to the March on Rome, the beginning of the party’s rise. It was only sixteen years ago. He had ties as old as that. Shoes, even. It was the year Sandro was born, and Massimo had felt so much hope back then, a new father to a new son, witnessing a new father to his beloved country. He had believed that his life and times had converged in a wonderfully auspicious way, especially as a Roman. He had expected the future to shine bright and glorious.
His gaze wandered around his study, with his framed diplomas and bookshelf filled with tax regulations and textbooks. They were artifacts of his past life as a tax lawyer, like a fragment of a marble column at the Roman Forum. He had become a ruin.
He caught sight of his reflection in the window. He looked haunted, and he felt so. He thought again of the exemption he had failed to obtain. If he had succeeded, he would still be a party member, but he had let himself and his family down.
He prayed that Beppe and Marco could make the difference.
PART THREE
Nessun maggior dolore
che ricordarsi del tempo felice
nella miseria.
There is no sorrow greater than in times of misery, to hold at heart the memory of happiness.
—Dante Alighieri, Inferno, Canto 5, 121–23
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Elisabetta
July 1939
Elisabetta and Nonna had a nightly routine, sharing a nightcap of anisette, a sweet anise liqueur. Challenging times were upon them, as rumors of impending war were on everyone’s lips. Business had taken a bad turn at Casa Servano, since the tourist trade was down and Trastevere Jews had been harmed by the Race Laws, which the Trasteverini regarded as an abomination.
Elisabetta thought of Sandro all the time, heartbroken that he didn’t love her anymore. She loved him still and wept at night, missing him and worrying about him. She avoided Marco, not to lead him on now that she knew Sandro was the one. Luckily Marco had gotten busier at Palazzo Braschi.
“Eh, what a dreadful day.” Nonna eased into her chair at the head of the walnut table, where an overhead lamp of milky Murano glass emitted a halo of light. The window was open, but the breeze was warm and barely moved the lace curtains. Via Fiorata was typically quiet at night, and the only sound was Rico purring on the cushioned chair, atop the doily that protected it from his cat hair. His eyes were closed and his paws tucked under him, his tummy full of branzino scraps.
“Things will get better, Nonna.”
“Not before they get worse, girl.”
Elisabetta sipped anisette from a tiny carved glass, which was one of hundreds that Nonna owned. It turned out that the old woman collected all manner of glassware and myriad sets of antique china, as well as breakfronts, credenzas, and display cabinets to store the collection. The cabinetry lined every room in the small, cheery house, set cheek by jowl, displaying stacked sets of Royal Doulton, Limoges, majolica, Capodimonte, Minton, and other china manufacturers. It was somewhat eccentric, but it made the house feel surprisingly homey.
There was a knock, and Elisabetta rose, crossed the living room, and opened the door to find Marco in uniform, with a grin on his face and a large, gaily wrapped box under his arm.
“Buona sera, Elisabetta!” Marco swept her up with his free arm and kissed her on the cheek.
“What a surprise!” Elisabetta said, flustered. “It’s good to see you.”
“Elisabetta, where are your manners?” Nonna called out. “Who’s there? Why don’t you invite him in?”