his black shirt. “I’m not my uniform, and you used to be a Fascist, too.”
“I’m not anymore, and neither is my father. He still wants to be, but he was thrown out of his own party.”
Marco felt a wrench in his chest, not knowing how to respond, and Sandro’s expression softened.
“Look, I don’t mind being different. I’m proud of my Jewishness. What I want is to be equal, the way I used to be. It’s a terrible feeling not to be, and it’s with me all the time. Now I feel inferior, less than others. Apart. Officially.”
“I understand,” Marco said, but he wasn’t sure that he really did. Or that he could.
“You know what’s worse? I don’t feel safe outside the Ghetto anymore. Even here, where we used to play. I’m nervous in my own hometown.”
“I’m so sorry, truly. You’ll always be safe with me.”
“I know that.” Sandro smiled, but it vanished quickly. “But the world has changed, with the war. Do you think we’ll enter? Do you hear anything at work, one way or the other?”
Marco sighed, for the question plagued him, too. “All I hear is that Il Duce doesn’t think we have the gold reserves for war. He wants Italy to stay neutral.”
“Unless he changes his mind, which he does all the time.”
“How?” Marco felt a defensive twinge, having met Il Duce himself. He would never forget that night at the ball, when he had fixed the sash. Mussolini had shaken his hand, thanked him personally, and told him that he was an excellent example of a young Italian Fascist. But Marco could never tell that to Sandro. His best friend didn’t need another blow, and the fact that Elisabetta had been with him at the ball would hurt Sandro, too.
“He changed his mind with the Race Laws, didn’t he? Mussolini never had a problem with Jews before. That’s why my father believed in him, and so did I. He turned on us. It’s a rank betrayal.”
Marco swallowed hard. It was true, and he had to acknowledge as much. “You’re right, but I don’t think he’ll change his mind about the war.”
“I dread to think of Italy, ever, as Hitler’s ally.” Sandro shuddered. “The Nazis are ruthlessly anti-Semitic, violently so. They turned on the German Jews, and rumors are they’re attacking Polish Jews.”
“But that won’t happen here.”
“I’m worried.”
“Don’t be.” Marco touched his arm. “Sandro, what can I do? Can’t I help you in any way?”
“No, thanks.”
“But I’m making money these days. If you need any, I can—”
“No, no, we’re fine.” Sandro straightened up, and Marco changed the subject, not to offend him.
“How’s Rosa?”
“Still in London. Her husband enlisted in the RAF. We get letters from time to time.” Sandro bit his lip, his expression newly grave. “I hope she’s not in harm’s way. Italy would be fighting her husband, if we enter.”
“But we won’t.”
“Again, I hope not,” Sandro said, his anxiety plain, and Marco felt a wave of sadness. He would never have foreseen that his and Sandro’s teenage years would be concerned with matters of life and death. He fell silent a moment, and so did Sandro, but they understood each other without words, in the way that only old friends can.
“Let’s eat something,” Marco said, breaking the spell. “I’m starving. I worked through lunch.”
“You want to go somewhere?”
“No, I grabbed something for us, on the street.” Marco reached for his rucksack, pulled out a paper bag, and took out a brown bag of supplì, releasing a delicious aroma.
“Supplì?” Sandro frowned, his lips parting.
“Yes, you like them, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Sandro answered, after a moment. “But I’m not hungry.”
“You sure?” Marco asked, surprised. “I got four.”
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Marco popped a supplì into his mouth and bit down, releasing the deliciously salty taste of breading, rice, tomato, and cheese.
“I have something to tell you about Elisabetta.” Sandro paused. “My feelings for her have waned. The stronger feelings I used to have for her have gone.”
“Davvero?” Marco exploded with joy, hugging him. He had been falling more deeply in love with Elisabetta, and it would be wonderful not to have to vie with Sandro for her anymore. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, I fell out of love.” Sandro shrugged, but Marco realized what must have happened.
“You’ve met someone else, haven’t you? Come on, tell me the truth.”
Sandro hesitated, then smiled. “Yes, I have.”
“What great news! What’s her name?” Marco felt a wave of happiness for him, because Sandro needed a woman more than he knew. Every man did.