and spoke to him for a time, then clapped him on the arm. Marco beamed from ear to ear, and the moment galvanized Elisabetta, as she knew it was once in a lifetime for him. The crowd hollered and clapped, and Marco was grinning as he left the stage. Blackshirts and his friends surged toward him, congratulating him, and Elisabetta realized that he had just fixed whatever had bothered them, in a way that only he could.
The crowd settled down, and Mussolini retook the lectern, beginning with thanking Marco, by name. Marco acknowledged the honor with a nod, then threaded his way through the crowd as Mussolini resumed his speech, from where he had left off.
Elisabetta didn’t hear a word. She felt so full of pride in Marco, who kept his eyes on her even as he made his way through the crowd. Partygoers stopped him, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back, but Marco kept glancing up at her, as if he couldn’t wait to return to her side.
He reached her grinning, and she practically leapt into his arms, kissing him. He kissed her back softly, then deeply, and Elisabetta felt him bringing her broken heart back to life. She felt won over, and the love she had for him rekindled.
Still there.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Marco
September 1939
Marco hurried to meet Sandro, catching snippets of conversation from businessmen. They talked in worried groups, and everyone buzzed about the outbreak of war. Hitler had invaded Poland earlier this month, and Europe erupted in conflict and fear. Great Britain and France declared war on Germany, and Romans lived on tenterhooks. Italy had yet to enter the conflict, but Palazzo Braschi was on high alert. Marco had been working around the clock, and there was volatility in the very air.
He approached Piazza Bocca della Verità, which was out of the way and contained a small park, unusually quiet and peaceful. The piazza was in one of the oldest parts of the city, just outside the Ghetto, and the scale of the ancient buildings allowed for plenty of sunny sky. Only a few people walked by, and traffic was light on Via Luigi Petroselli and Via di Santa Maria in Cosmedin.
He spotted Sandro waiting for him on a stone bench, but the sight gave him cause for concern. His friend hunched over a newspaper, reading, but his posture was uncharacteristically stooped and he looked older in a worn brown jacket and tie. Marco had been worried about him, which was why he’d invited him to meet today.
“Sandro!” Marco called to him. “Remember we used to play here?”
Sandro looked up, then broke into a grin, setting aside the newspaper. “Just like the old days, eh?”
“Yes.” Marco greeted him, sitting down. “We used to get so dizzy, running around the temple.” He meant the Temple of Hercules Victor, a small, round building of Greek marble in the piazza, which was surrounded by tall columns holding up a roof of red tile. “It’s a miracle we didn’t get sick.”
“You did, don’t you remember? You threw up.”
“I forgot.” Marco chuckled. “We spent more time here than at school. And had more fun.”
“Remember, you’re talking to a teacher now.”
“Oh, right.” Marco looked over, eyeing Sandro with concern. “How is it going, brother?”
“Terrible.”
“Dimmi tutto.” Tell me everything.
“My mother lost her job and she volunteers as a midwife. My father spends all day at the synagogue.” Sandro shook his head. “He’s helping people, but something’s wrong with him. He’s not doing well, mentally. I think losing the house was too much for him.”
“Oh no.” Marco’s heart felt heavy. “I’m so sorry we didn’t get you the exemption. My father is still trying.”
“Thanks.” Sandro smiled, but shook his head. “I don’t think it will work, though. My father says they’re clamping down. It’s so terrible to feel you don’t belong where you always have. Now, because I’m Jewish, I’m not Italian. It changes everything.”
“You’ll always be Italian to me. We’re the same, you and me.”
Sandro’s lower lip puckered. “No, we aren’t, I know that now. I have a new clarity about this, and much else.”
“What do you mean? We’re the same. We always have been.”
“No, I’m Jewish, and I always have been.” Sandro met his eye evenly. “You think it’s the same because you’re not in my position. Your life hasn’t changed, but mine has. We’re not equal, according to the Fascists.”
“But not all Fascists support the Race Laws.”
“Nevertheless, they’re responsible for them.”
“I’m not,” Marco said, pained. He felt suddenly aware of