began to fall, so Marco sped up on his bicycle. No one was on the streets, and everyone was asleep, which was why he always ran his secret mission this late. He had been dropping off groceries and money at Sandro’s doorstep for months. He would ride to their new apartment, run up to the third floor, hang the bag on their doorknob, then steal away. He and his father didn’t want the Simones to know it had come from them, as they would have felt embarrassed.
Marco pedaled down Via Catalana, the wide street that ran alongside the front of the synagogue, and his tires bobbled on the cobblestones. The light limestone of the Tempio Maggiore stood out in the darkness, and its square dome rose in a stormy sky. He turned right onto Via del Tempio and rode past the apartment houses, their shutters closed against the chill. A family slept in a doorjamb, huddling under a single blanket.
Marco looked away. It broke his heart to see the deprivation on the Ghetto streets, and he worried the situation was about to get worse. His boss and everyone at Palazzo Braschi believed that Mussolini had changed his mind, and that Italy was going to enter the war on Germany’s side.
Marco headed home on Lungotevere de’ Cenci, and the lights lining its banks were indistinct in the fog. He tilted his head down against the rain. There was little traffic, and he left the Ghetto. He never went there in his uniform anymore, even at night. Heads would turn and expressions vary from fright to disgust. He felt awful that the Jews feared the Fascists, but he couldn’t blame them.
He pedaled harder, approaching the Ponte Fabricio. He slept badly these days. He believed in Fascism except for its new anti-Semitism, which tore him up inside. He didn’t know what else he could do, except to make sure that the Simones didn’t starve.
His father felt the same way. It was the only thing they had in common these days, still barely speaking.
Marco had almost reached the Ponte Fabricio when he detected a car close to him. He sped up, annoyed. The car sped up, too. He glanced over his shoulder to see a dark sedan. He didn’t know why it was harassing him. He accelerated again, risky on slick asphalt.
The car gunned its engine and passed him, and Marco cursed. Suddenly the car veered in front of him and braked sideways, cutting him off.
Marco yelled, shocked. He couldn’t brake in time. There wasn’t enough space between him and the car. Instinctively he jerked his handlebars up. His bicycle jumped onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing the car’s front grille. He dismounted rather than fall. The bike slid into the stone wall lining the Tiber.
“What the hell?” Marco whirled around in fury. The car was a black sedan. He realized it was the type used by OVRA, the secret police.
The driver and passenger sprang from the car, their dark silhouettes mere shadows in the gloom. They ran toward him. He recognized the driver’s bearlike outline. Stefano. The skinny little one was Carmine.
“You’re a piece of shit!” Stefano grabbed Marco by his collar and pinned him to the stone wall. Carmine watched, his hands on his hips. Meanwhile a bus began to honk its horn, its path blocked by their car. Cars on the Lungotevere piled up, unable to pass.
“Get off!” Marco wrenched away, ripping his shirt. They could kill him right now and get away with it. OVRA operated with impunity.
“Why were you in the Ghetto? You’re a Jew-lover!”
“What I do is not your business!” Marco reached for his bike, but Stefano grabbed him again.
“You think we don’t know what you’re up to? Your lunches with your Jew friend? Your visits at night? There’s penalties for fraternizing with Jews! You think the rules don’t apply to you! You should die the way your brother did!”
Marco exploded in grief and fury. He punched Stefano, and Stefano slugged him back. The two of them started fighting, falling to the pavement. Marco rained a flurry of blows on the bigger man, raging out of control. Stefano hit him harder, grunting. Traffic tangled on the Lungotevere, honking.
Marco kept punching, ignoring agonizing pain. Carmine shouted to Stefano. Stefano sprang off Marco, leaving him on the pavement.
Marco staggered to his feet, doubled over. Blood from his face dripped onto the sidewalk. Rain poured onto his back. Stefano and Carmine jumped into their car, closed the doors, and sped off.
* *