Eternal E-Book

Lisa Scottoline

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 762

Beschreibung

FROM #1 BESTSELLING AND EDGAR AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR SOLD OVER 30 MILLION PRINT COPIES WORLDWIDE What war destroys, only love can heal. Elisabetta, Marco, and Sandro grew up as the best of friends, whose fractuous friendship soon blossoms, with both Sandro and Marco hoping to win Elisabetta's heart. But as Mussolini asserts his power in 1937, aligning his Fascists with Hitler's Nazis, this begins to change. As anti-Semitism becomes policy, global war erupts and the Nazis invade Rome, the intertwined fates of the three will be decided, in a heartbreaking coming-of-age love story, exploring the best and the worst that the world has to offer. Eternal is a tale of loyalty, loss, love and war - set in the Eternal City at its darkest moment. This moving novel will be forever etched in the hearts and minds of readers. 'The master storyteller Lisa Scottoline is at the height of her powers with Eternal.' — Adriana Trigiani 'Eternal feels so real you can almost taste the cappelletti, as you get lost in the pages on your glorious and heart-wrenching trip to Italy.' — Martha Hall Kelly

Leseprobe

Praise for Eternal

‘In this book of her heart, Lisa Scottoline delivers what her readers expect and so much more, fast-paced intrigue, but also an authentic, tender coming of age tale of three best friends navigating the complexities of fascism, war, political and family strife and romantic competition’ – Lisa Wingate, author of Before We Were Yours

‘The master storyteller Lisa Scottoline is at the height of her powers with Eternal. This magnificent epic is the story of three childhood friends who come of age during World War II Italy. You are with them in the worst of times as they navigate their lost dreams. You will root for their survival as they find redemption in a post-war world they must build with hope. Love. Faith. Friendship. Courage. It’s all here and it is essential reading’ – Adriana Trigiani, author of The Shoemaker’s Wife

‘Powerful and absorbing… at the heart of the novel is an enduring message, that what’s perhaps most heroic in any life is to love fiercely and completely, in spite of loss and betrayal, and even beyond death’ – Paula McLain, author of The Paris Wife

‘Eternal is remarkable historical fiction that brings to life Rome in the years leading up to and during WWII on the shoulders of unforgettable characters caught up on all sides of terrible events spinning beyond their control. Scottoline’s research is impeccable, her storytelling is propulsive, and the emotional times she describes are deep, moving, and yes, eternal’ – Mark Sullivan, author of Beneath a Scarlet Sky

‘A beautiful, heartbreaking, wrenching love story set in the Second World War. It’s alive with characters I cared about deeply – including the remarkable city of Rome, itself – and their courage in the face of Fascism’ – Chris Bohjalian, author of The Flight Attendant

‘In Eternal, Lisa Scottoline expands her formidable talents to World War II Italy and the heartwarming tale of three families whose intersecting worlds are torn apart. Scottoline captures the tragic beauty of wartime Rome through the eyes of unforgettable characters with whom readers will hope and mourn and cheer. A passionate story of friendship, loyalty, and unbridled heroism’ – Pam Jenoff, author of The Lost Girls of Paris

‘Eternal feels so real you can almost taste the cappelletti, as you get lost in the pages on your glorious and heart-wrenching trip to Italy’ – Martha Hall Kelly, author of Lilac Girls

‘An accomplished historical novel that is both steeped in period detail and full of relatable characters… Scottoline is a master at ramping up the suspense’ – Washington Post

‘Make a plate of fettuccine, pour a glass of red wine, and settle in with this captivating tale. You will cry tears of sadness and joy. Scottoline’s Italian heritage combined with all her diligent research will keep this story in readers’ hearts’ – Library Journal (starred review)

‘This nuanced take on WWII Italy offers a variety of perspectives, but at its heart, this is a love story, with heroes lost being warmly remembered and love conquering all… Best-selling crime writer Scottoline successfully changes course in a coming-of-age WWII love story that will entrance fans and newcomers alike’ –Booklist

‘Scottoline’s admirable foray into historical fiction … expertly brings historical events to life. Fans of WWII fiction will be drawn to this immersive, emotional novel’ – Publishers Weekly

‘Quite a change from Scottoline’s bestselling contemporary thrillers: an ambitious, deeply researched historical account of three Roman families caught in the meltdown of Fascist Italy… Heartfelt’ – Kirkus Reviews

‘A powerfully moving story of loss, loyalty, family and love’ – Woman’s World

‘As Americans go through huge growing pains (hopefully leading to something positive) in terms of their own racist pasts, Eternal offers us hope. Somehow love really can save the day–romantic love, brotherhood, spiritual love, love for a good nation and the democratic process. May the scholarship and literary invention of this extraordinary novel find a home in the hearts of readers everywhere’ – Bookreporter

For my wonderful daughter, Francesca, with all my love

Dramatis Personae

THE D’ORFEO FAMILY, OF TRASTEVERE

Ludovico, father

Serafina, mother

Elisabetta, daughter

Rico and Gnocchi, willful cats

THE SIMONE FAMILY, OF THE GHETTO

Massimo, father

Gemma, mother

Rosa, daughter

Alessandro ‘Sandro,’ son

Cornelia Rossi, nanny and housekeeper

David Jacobs, Rosa’s boyfriend

THE TERRIZZI FAMILY, OF TIBER ISLAND

Giuseppe ‘Beppe,’ father

Maria, mother

Emedio, firstborn son and priest

Aldo, middle son

Marco, youngest son

OTHER CHARACTERS

Giuseppina ‘Nonna’ Servano, matriarch and owner of Casa Servano

Paolo, her son

Sofia, his wife

Commendatore Buonacorso, Fascist officer

Comandante Spada, retiring Fascist officer

Carmine Vecchio, Fascist thug

Stefano Pretianni, Fascist thug

Rolf Stratten, Nazi aide-de-camp

Professor Tullio Levi-Civita, mathematician

Ugo Foà, President of the Jewish Community of Rome

Dante Almansi, President of the Union of Italian Jewish Communities

Lieutenant Colonel Herbert Kappler, highest-ranking officer of the Schutzstaffel, or SS, in Rome

Baron Ernst von Weizsäcker, German Ambassador to the Vatican

Omnia vincit amor.

Love conquers all things.

– VIRGIL

Prologue

Elisabetta

May 1957

Elisabetta had kept the secret for thirteen years, but it was time to tell her son who his father was. She had been waiting until he was old enough, but she didn’t want to delay any longer. He deserved to know the truth, and she had never been comfortable concealing it from him. The secret had grown harder to keep over time, like a bag of groceries carried the first block, then the second, but by the third must be set down.

She stood at the kitchen sink, finishing her coffee, and the apartment was quiet and still, as her son was out playing soccer. She prepared herself for the conversation, realizing she would have to relive the worst days of her life and even of her country’s history, since her youth had encompassed the ventennio, the twenty years of Mussolini’s rule and a war that had turned Italy topsy-turvy, during which good had become bad and bad had become powerful.

Tears filmed Elisabetta’s eyes, but she blinked them away. She hoped she could make her son understand why she hadn’t told him. The revelation would shock him, as he suspected nothing, resembling her so strongly that it was as if his father’s biology expressed itself in his personality, rather than his facial features.

Her gaze strayed to the window over the sink. She eyed a view ingrained in her memory, from Trastevere to Vatican City, a palimpsest unique to Rome, which had been adding to itself since the beginning of Western Civilization, layer upon layer of travertine marble, brick arches, medieval turrets with crenellations, and the red-tiled roofs of houses with façades of amber and ochre. Church domes dotted the timeless scene, interspersed with palm trees, cypresses, and umbrella pines. Soaring above them all was Saint Peter’s Basilica, its iconic dome gilded by the Italian sun.

Elisabetta withdrew from her reverie and set her coffee cup in the sink. Her son would be home any minute. The kitchen filled with the aroma of lasagna, his favorite meal. She had made it because he was going to hear a difficult story, but one he needed to know. One she needed to tell.

She heard the front door open, and he entered the apartment, dropping his soccer ball. She braced herself. ‘Ciao, amore!’

‘Mamma, are we having lasagna?’

‘Yes! Come in the kitchen, would you?’

PART ONE

Let everyone, then, have the right to tell his story in his own way.

– Ignazio Silone,Fontamara(1933)

The One remains, the many change and pass;

Heaven’s light forever shines, Earth’s shadows fly;

Life, like a dome of many-colour’d glass,

Stains the white radiance of Eternity,

Until Death tramples it to fragments. – Die,

If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!

Follow where all is fled! – Rome’s azure sky,

Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak

The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.

– Percy Bysshe Shelley, ‘Adonais’ (1821)

1

Elisabetta

May 1937

Elisabetta made up her mind. Marco Terrizzi would be her first kiss. She watched him doing bicycle tricks by the river, riding on his back tire, his head thrown back in laughter, his teeth white against his tanned face. His thick, dark hair shone with pomade in the sun, and his legs were knotted with muscles inside the baggy shorts of his uniform. He rode with joy and athleticism, achieving a masculine grace. Marco Terrizzi had sprezzatura, a rare and effortless charm that made him irresistible.

Elisabetta couldn’t take her eyes from him, and neither could the others. They had grown up together, but somewhere along the line, he had gone from boyhood to manhood, from Marco to Marco. That he was terribly handsome there could be no doubt. He had large, walnut-brown eyes, a strong nose, a square jaw, and a broad neck marked by a prominent Adam’s apple. He was the most popular boy in their class, and everything about him seemed more vivid than everyone else. Even now, the sun drenched him in gold, as if Nature herself gilded him.

Elisabetta wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She guessed it would be exciting, even delicious, like biting into a ripe tomato and letting its juices run down her chin. She had never kissed a boy, though she was already fifteen years old, and at night she practiced kissing on her pillow. Her tabbycat, Rico, with whom she slept, had grown accustomed to her routine, as cats endure the silliness of young girls.

Elisabetta had no idea how to make Marco think of her as more than a friend. She usually achieved what she set her mind to, getting good grades and such, but this was different. She was too blunt to flirt. She lacked feminine wiles. She had been a maschiaccio, a tomboy, when she was little, which was how she had grown close with Marco. She was trying to become more womanly, but she still didn’t wear a brassiere. Her mother said she didn’t need one, but the other girls made fun of her, talking behind their hands.

‘Elisabetta, help, I’ll drown!’ Marco raced toward the river, and she was about to call to him, but stopped herself. She had read in a female advice column that denying men the attention they craved drove them mad with desire, so she ignored him, while the other girls responded.

‘Marco, no!’ Livia called back.

‘Marco, be careful!’ Angela gasped.

The boys waited to see if calamity befell Marco, but he cranked the handlebars, veering away from the river’s edge. They laughed and returned to their textbooks, spread out on the grass. They were doing homework, having come from their Balilla meeting, the party’s compulsory youth group. They all wore their uniforms, the boys in their black shirts and gray shorts, and the girls in white muslin shirts and black skirts.

This quiet spot on the riverbank, just north of the Ponte Palatino, had become a hangout of her classmates after school, though Elisabetta typically sat with Marco or Sandro, apart from the other girls. Somehow she had missed her chance to become their girlfriend, and it was too late now, for they rebuffed her overtures. Perhaps they had judged her as preferring the boys, which wasn’t true, and she would have loved to have had a good girlfriend. Whatever the reason, Angela and the other girls kept her at a distance, and she tried not to let it bother her.

‘Look, Betta!’ Marco called again, using her childhood nickname.

‘Use my proper name!’ Elisabetta called back, from behind her newspaper. She did prefer her full name, as she hoped to become a journalist someday. She practiced her byline at night, too. By Elisabetta D’Orfeo.

‘Elisabetta!’ Marco rode over, sliding to a stop on the grass. ‘Hop on my handlebars. Let’s go for a ride.’

‘No, I’m reading.’ Elisabetta hid her smile behind the newspaper.

Angela rose, brushing grass from her skirt. ‘Marco, I’ll go, take me!’

‘Okay!’ Marco extended his hand, Angela clambered onto his handlebars, and the two rode off together.

Elisabetta lowered her newspaper, wondering if the female advice column had been wrong. If she wanted Marco, she would have to attract him another way. She sensed she was pretty enough, now that she had grown into her features, according to her mother. Her large, round eyes were greenish-brown, and her shoulder-length hair was a rich brunette, wavy and abundant. Her nose was strong, but proportional to her prominent cheekbones, and her lips were full. Her problem was her bocca grande, big mouth, which proved a disadvantage when it came to boys, her Latin teacher, and that old bitch at the newsstand.

Elisabetta leaned back on her elbows, breathing in the odors of the Tiber, its water a milky jade with wavelets topped with ivory foam. Swallows skimmed the surface for a drink, cicadas rasped, and dragonflies droned. Pink oleander bushes, umbrella pines, and palm trees lined the riverbank, and the natural oasis was shielded from the hustle-bustle of the city by gray stone walls.

Elisabetta’s gaze found the Ponte Rotto in the middle of the river, a bizarre sight. Centuries ago, the stone bridge had connected the riverbanks, but time had reduced it to only a single arch rising from the water, leading nowhere. Romans called it the broken bridge, but she thought that it was a survivor, standing despite the elements and the Tiber itself, which sent blackish-green vines up its sides, as if trying to pull it underwater.

Beyond the Ponte Rotto was Tiber Island, the only island in the river, barely large enough to contain the Basilica di San Bartolomeo all’Isola with its faded-brick belfry, the Church of San Giovanni Calibita, and the hospital, Ospedale Fatebenefratelli, with its rows of green-shuttered windows. Across from the hospital was Bar GiroSport, which Marco’s family owned and lived above. Elisabetta lived only a few blocks away from him in Trastevere, the bohemian neighborhood that she and her father loved. Unfortunately, her mother had ceased loving anything.

It was then that Elisabetta spotted Sandro Simone striding toward her and the others. Sandro was her other best friend, and Marco’s, too, as the three of them had been a trio since childhood. Sandro walked with his characteristically lanky stride, and his light brown curls blew back from his long, lean face. He was handsome in his own way, his features more refined than Marco’s and his build like a sharpened pencil, slim but strong, the way a wire cable supports a modern bridge.

‘Ciao, Elisabetta!’ Sandro reached her, smiling and taking off his fez. He wiped the sweat from his brow, slid off his backpack, and sat down. His eyes, a brilliant azure color with long eyelashes like awnings, narrowed against the sunlight. His nose was long and aquiline, and his lips finely etched into his face. Sandro lived on the east side of the river in the Jewish quarter, called the Ghetto, and throughout their childhood, Elisabetta, Sandro, and Marco had traveled back and forth on an axis from Trastevere to Tiber Island and the Ghetto, riding bikes, playing soccer, and generally acting as if Rome were their private playground.

‘Ciao, Sandro.’ Elisabetta smiled, happy to see him.

‘I stopped to get us a snack. Have one.’ Sandro produced a paper bag from his backpack and opened its top, releasing the delicious aroma of supplì, rice croquettes with tomato sauce and mozzarella.

‘Grazie!’Elisabetta picked up a supplì and took a bite. The breading was light, the tomato sauce perfectly salty, and the mozzarella hot enough to melt on her tongue.

‘Where’s Marco? I brought some for him, too.’

‘Off with Angela.’

‘Too bad.’ Sandro chewed a supplì and glanced at her newspaper. ‘What are you reading?’

‘Nothing.’ Elisabetta used to love reading the newspaper, but her favorite columnists were gone, and she suspected they had been fired. Benito Mussolini and the Fascists had been in power for fifteen years, and censorship had become the order of the day. ‘All the articles are the same, about how great the government is, or they reproduce ridiculous posters like this one.’

‘Let me see.’ Sandro wiped his hands on a napkin.

‘Here.’ Elisabetta showed him a picture of an Italian peasant woman in traditional dress, holding babies in each arm. She read him the caption. ‘“The ideal Fascist woman is to bear children, knit, and sew, while men work or go to war.” It’s propaganda, not news, and anyway, not all women are the same.’

‘Of course they aren’t. The newspaper isn’t always right.’

‘No, it’s not.’ Elisabetta thought of the female advice column. Marco and Angela still weren’t back.

‘Don’t let it bother you.’

‘But it does.’ Elisabetta disagreed with the Fascists, though she didn’t discuss it with anyone other than Sandro and Marco. Those who spoke against the government could be arrested and sent into confino, exile, far from their homes. Informers abounded in Rome, even in Trastevere, and though Elisabetta’s family wasn’t committed to any particular political party, as artists they were congenitally leftist.

‘You don’t like being told what to do.’

‘Who does? Do you?’

‘No, but I don’t take it so much to heart as you.’ Sandro leaned over. ‘Guess what, I have amazing news. I was accepted to an internship with Professor Levi-Civita at La Sapienza.’

‘Davvero?’Elisabetta asked, astonished. ‘You, a high school student? At the university?’

‘Yes, it will be an independent study.’ Sandro beamed with pride.

‘Congratulations!’ Elisabetta felt delighted for him. He was a mathematical prodigy, and his preternatural talent had been plain since primary school, so she shouldn’t have been surprised that he would be at La Sapienza, the city campus of the University of Rome. ‘And this professor is the one you always talk about, right? Levi-Civita?’

‘Yes, and I can’t wait to meet him. He’s one of the greatest mathematicians of our time. He developed tensor calculus, which Einstein used in his theory of relativity. In fact, he just got back from seeing him in America.’

‘How wonderful. How did this come about, anyway? For you?’

‘Professoressa Longhi recommended me, and I’ve been waiting to hear. I just stopped by the hospital to tell my mother.’

‘She must be so proud.’ Elisabetta admired Sandro’s mother, who was one of the few female doctors she had ever heard of, an obstetrician at Ospedale Fatebenefratelli.

‘She was, but she was surprised I hadn’t told her I was being considered.’

‘I am, too. Why didn’t you tell us?’ Elisabetta meant her and Marco.

‘I didn’t want you to know if I failed.’

‘Oh, Sandro.’ Elisabetta felt a rush of affection for him. ‘You never fail, and Levi-Civita is lucky to have you. You’ll be a famous mathematician someday.’

Sandro grinned. ‘And you’ll be a famous journalist.’

‘Ha!’ Elisabetta didn’t know what Marco would become, but dismissed the thought.

‘How can you read in the sunlight?’ Sandro squinted at her newspaper. ‘It’s so bright.’

‘It is, I know.’

‘Allow me.’ Sandro slid the newspaper page from her hand and stood up.

‘No, give me that back.’ Elisabetta rose, reaching, but Sandro turned away, doing something with the newspaper.

‘It’s only the obituaries.’

‘I like the obituaries.’ Elisabetta always read the obituaries, as each one was a wonderful life story, except for the endings.

‘Ecco.’Sandro held out a hat of folded newspaper, then popped it on her head. ‘This will keep the sun from your eyes.’

‘Grazie.’Elisabetta smiled, delighted, and all of a sudden, Sandro kissed her. She found herself kissing him back, tasting warm tomato sauce on his lips until he pulled away, smiling down at her, with a new shine in his eyes that confused her. She had just decided that Marco would be her first kiss.

‘Sandro, why did you do that?’ Elisabetta glanced around, wondering if the others had seen. Her classmates were bent over their homework, and though Marco was approaching with Angela on his handlebars, he was too far away.

Sandro grinned. ‘Isn’t it obvious why?’

‘But you never kissed me before.’

‘I never kissed anybody before.’

Elisabetta felt touched. ‘So why me? Why now?’

Sandro laughed. ‘Who asks such questions? Only you!’

‘But I thought we were just friends.’

‘Are we? I –’ Sandro started to say, but Marco interrupted them, shouting from a distance.

‘Ciao, Sandro!’

‘Ciao, Marco!’ Sandro called back, waving.

Elisabetta blinked, and the moment between her and Sandro vanished, so quickly that she wondered if it had happened at all.

2

Marco

May 1937

Marco pedaled home from the river on the Lungotevere dei Pierleoni, the wide boulevard that ran along its east side. The sun had dipped behind the trees, shooting burnished rays through the city, which had come to boisterous life as the workday ended. Cars honked, drivers cursed, and exhaust fogged the air. The sidewalks thronged with people, and businessmen hustled to catch trams.

Marco accelerated, preoccupied with Elisabetta. He was in love with her, but she treated him as a pal, the way she always did. She hadn’t even cared when he had taken Angela on his bike. He felt stumped, which never happened to him with girls. He could have his pick, but he wanted Elisabetta. She was beautiful, which was reason enough alone, but he loved her passion, her strength, her fire. She had thoughts about everything, and though her intelligence was superior, she treated him as if he were equally intelligent. Marco would stop at nothing to win her over. He was love’s captive.

He flashed on seeing Sandro by the river today, standing oddly close to her, as if they had been having a great discussion or even sharing a secret. Anxiety gnawed at Marco, and he experienced a flicker of envy at the bond that Sandro and Elisabetta shared, for they were always talking about books or the like. But Marco knew that Sandro and Elisabetta were only friends, and Sandro had no female experience whatsoever.

Marco turned onto the Ponte Fabricio, his tires bobbling on the worn travertine. The footbridge was the oldest in Rome, walled on both sides – and since it connected to Tiber Island, it was essentially the street on which he lived. He dodged businessmen and veered smoothly around a cat that darted in front of him. He reached the top of the gentle span and saw that his father, Beppe, wasn’t standing outside his family’s bar, Bar GiroSport, as he usually did. It meant that Marco was late to dinner.

He sped to the foot of the bridge, passed the bar, and steered around to its side entrance on Piazza San Bartolomeo all’Isola. He jumped off his bicycle, slid it into the rack, then flew inside the crowded bar. He scooted upstairs, dropped his backpack, and entered a kitchen so small that one pot of boiling water could fill it with steam. On the wall hung framed photos of his father in the Giro d’Italia and a calendar featuring Learco Guerra, the great Italian bicycle racer. A small shelf held a framed photo of Pope Pius XI, a crucifix of dried palm, and a plaster statue of the Virgin. Marco’s mother worshipped Christ; his father worshipped cycling.

‘Ciao, everyone!’ Marco kissed his two older brothers, Emedio and Aldo, then his father, as they were sitting down at the table.

‘Marco!’ Emedio smiled, looking like a younger version of their father. Both had curly, dark brown hair, a prominent forehead, and thick brows over coal-dark eyes, wide-set above broad noses and flat mouths. Marco’s father still had the muscular build of a professional cyclist, his skin perennially tanned and his upper lip scarred from a wolf attack in the mountainous farming region of Abruzzo, where he had grown up. The story was that Marco’s father, only ten years old at the time, had been watching the family’s sheep when the wolf had struck, but the boy had wrestled the animal to the ground, then chased it away. No one who knew Beppe Terrizzi doubted the veracity of the story.

‘Ehi, fratello.’Aldo smiled in his tight-lipped way, self-conscious due to his teeth, which were crooked in front. He took after the Castelicchi side, with a quieter temperament, eyes set close together, and a characteristic cleft in the chin. Aldo was the shortest of the Terrizzi sons, but he loved cycling and still had on his sweaty white jersey and bike shorts. If their mother wished he would change for dinner, she would never say so. Everyone knew who ran the household, and it wasn’t her.

‘Mamma, that looks delicious. Brava.’ Marco kissed her as she was ladling pomodoro sauce with whitish chunks of crabmeat onto a platter of spaghetti for the first course. Bright orangey claws stuck through the reddish pulp, their pincers jagged, and the uniquely fishy tomato aroma made him salivate.

‘Ciao.’His mother smiled up at him, her small, light brown eyes warm. Steam billowed from the sink, curling the dark tendrils that had escaped her long braid, and she had a flat nose, a broad smile, and the honest, open face of a country girl. Marco’s parents were contadini, of peasant families, and they had grown up in houses shared with goats and chickens. They had married and moved to Rome, where his father had parlayed his cycling celebrity into Bar GiroSport. The café was frequented by hospital employees, locals, and cycling fans, called tifosi, for they were as crazy as those afflicted with typhus.

‘Just sit, son.’ His father motioned from at the head of the table.

‘Here, boys.’ His mother set the platter of spaghetti near Marco’s father, served him first, then the rest. They prayed over the meal, and everyone ate quickly except for Marco, who savored every bite while his father quizzed Aldo about his training times. Emedio stayed out of the line of fire, having escaped a cycling career by entering the priesthood. Marco could never make such a sacrifice, as he had a duty to the female population. And someday, to Elisabetta.

His mother turned to Emedio, who worked at the Office of the Holy See. ‘What news? Anything?’

‘Did you hear about the German encyclical on Palm Sunday?’

‘No, what is it?’

‘Mit Brennender Sorge. It means “With Burning Anxiety” in German. The Pope issued an encyclical that was distributed to almost thirty thousand German churches, a direct message to German Catholics.’ Emedio leaned over. ‘Cardinal Pacelli assisted in its composition, but I tell you that confidentially.’

His mother drew her index finger across her lips like a zipper, and her eyes twinkled. To her, Vatican gossip was the best gossip.

‘The encyclical was read by German parish priests to their congregations, with no prior notice to anyone. Can you imagine, all those churches, and no one let it slip out? It was printed and distributed in complete secrecy.’

‘Why in secrecy?’ His mother frowned. ‘It’s the word of Our Holy Father.’

‘It was reiterating his teaching that German Catholics should follow God, not Hitler. As a result, Hitler sent the Gestapo to arrest those who had printed and distributed the encyclical.’

‘How terrible!’

His father shot Emedio a look. ‘No politics at the table.’

Emedio fell silent, and their mother pursed her lips. His father was a Fascist of the First Hour, meaning he had joined in 1919, even before the March on Rome in 1922, when the King appointed Mussolini to be Prime Minister. Traditional by nature, his father believed that the party would be good for small business owners, as well as bring law and order to Italy.

His father cleared his throat. ‘Now, as I was saying, this will be a significant year for the Giro, and I know who will win the pink jersey. I predict Bartali will repeat his victory.’

Aldo nodded. ‘I agree, though I’m putting a side bet on Bini. And Olmo, who was so fast in the Milan–San Remo.’

‘No, wrong.’ His father sipped some wine. ‘The Milan–San Remo is child’s play. And Del Cancia won, anyway. You’ll lose your money, Aldo.’

‘No matter who wins, he shouldn’t wear the pink jersey. Think of it. Pink?’ Aldo chuckled, and Marco had heard this before. Mussolini had declared that pink was an effeminate color, confusing Fascists and tifosi alike.

His father scoffed. ‘The color of the jersey isn’t the point. The achievement is all. Right, Marco?’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘Marco, you know, I was at the window tonight, watching you when you turned onto the bridge. You were late for dinner.’

‘I’m sorry, Papa.’

‘That’s not my point.’ His father rested his bulky forearms on the table, his gaze newly intense. ‘You rode very well. You held your line. You even picked up speed. You surprised me.’

Marco didn’t interrupt, feeling a knot in his stomach.

‘I saw what happened with the cat, too. It ran into your path, but you didn’t lose a split second. It’s time for you to train in earnest. Imagine what you can do with my regimen, son. You could wear the maglia rosa someday. You could win the Giro, the premier race in all of Italy. You could take your place in cycling history.’

‘Papa, I’m not that good,’ Marco said, since it was the last thing he wanted.

‘I think you can be. It’s in your blood.’

Aldo frowned. ‘Papa, what about me? I’m training hard.’

Their father turned to Aldo. ‘I’ve told you, you’re not building the muscle you should. You’re not getting any faster. You must not be working hard enough.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘Keep at it, then. Prove me wrong. Two are better than one, anyway. You can train together.’ His father’s head swiveled back to Marco. ‘Son, tonight you begin. Understand?’

‘Yes, Papa,’ Marco answered, having no choice in the matter.

3

Sandro

May 1937

Later, Sandro sat alone at the dining room table. The night air wafted through the window, and the crystal chandelier shed a gentle light on his notebook. His family had just had dinner, and he was supposed to be working, but his head was full of Elisabetta. He didn’t understand how to think about anything else while you were in love. He marveled that people did so, every day. He had never felt anything so intensely in his life. His intellect enabled him to think so much, but perhaps until now he had felt too little.

He couldn’t stop thinking about when he’d kissed her, by the river. The thrilling closeness of her body, nearer to him than ever before. He loved everything about her, especially the way she regarded him. As his intellectual abilities had come to the fore, everyone treated him differently, whether for good or ill; the teachers adored him, but his classmates thought him odd. Elisabetta did neither. She had liked him from the beginning, for who he was inside, and so he could be himself with her.

Sandro’s gaze strayed out the window. The Simones lived in one of the houses lining the elegant Piazza Mattei, on the Ghetto’s north side. Their apartment was on the third floor, catercorner to the refined Palazzo Costaguti, and he could see his neighbors through their windows. Giovanni Rotoli was doing homework at the table, and on the floor below him the Nardunos, an older couple, were sharing the newspaper. The Ghetto was typically quiet at night, and the only sound was the water bubbling in the Fontana delle Tartarughe below, the fountain of the turtles.

Sandro loved living in the Ghetto, which was the oldest living Jewish Community in Western Civilization. The Community was established nearly two thousand years ago, when Jerusalem had fallen to the Emperor Titus, who had sacked the Temple and brought Jews back to Rome as slaves. The conquest was commemorated in the grand Arch of Titus in the Roman Forum, which Gentiles viewed as a majestic arch but many Jews considered a symbolic yoke. In 1555, the Ghetto was created, and Pope Paul IV had ordered that walls be built surrounding the neighborhood, with doors that were locked at night and guards on patrol, for which the Community had to pay. There were thousands of Jews in Rome at the time, and they were compelled to wear yellow badges and forced to live in the Ghetto, packed into about a hundred and thirty homes on a handful of city blocks that encompassed less than three hectares, or seven acres. It was considered the least desirable neighborhood in Rome, situated on lowlying ground that flooded every winter from the Tiber, bringing malaria and other diseases. Its streets were narrow and dark, permitting little light or circulation of air. Churches were built at its entrances, and Jews were forced to listen to sermons pressuring them to convert.

The Ghetto walls were torn down in 1888, after Rome had been absorbed into the new nation of Italy in 1870, and Jews were permitted to come and go. The Ghetto was cleaned and an embankment built around the Tiber to prevent flooding. A beautiful synagogue, the Tempio Maggiore, was consecrated in 1904, with its square dome that distinguished it from the hundreds of churches with round ones. Some said that the synagogue was designed to be the tallest building in Rome, since Saint Peter’s Basilica was technically in Vatican City, and it became the spiritual home of the Community. Many Roman Jews still lived in the Ghetto, although those with means had moved away. Sandro’s house had been in his father’s family for generations, so the Simones would never dream of leaving, though they were far better off than their neighbors.

Sandro’s thoughts were interrupted by bickering from the kitchen, where his sister, Rosa, and his mother had begun fussing. His father, Massimo, was in his study, and Sandro heard him close his door. Rosa, an interpreter at the British embassy, could argue in five languages. Suddenly his sister burst from the kitchen, smoothing her hair into its dark, glossy twist. She was a beauty, with quick brown eyes, a straight nose, and lips that looked full, especially when she wore lipstick. She was ten years older than Sandro and always dressed stylishly, tonight in a blue suit with a tiny belt.

Rosa’s disconcerted gaze found Sandro at the table. ‘She drives me crazy!’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I want to go to London.’ Rosa came over and sat down. ‘I got the time off, and I’m spending my own money, but she says I can’t go. I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions.’

‘If you’re an adult, why ask permission?’

Rosa hesitated. ‘If I go, she’ll get mad.’

‘She’ll get over it. You always forgive each other.’

‘Maybe you’re right.’

‘I know I am.’

Rosa eyed his notebook. ‘What are you working on? Would I understand?’

‘No.’ Sandro wondered if Rosa might have advice for him about Elisabetta. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not getting much done. I’m in love.’

‘You’re too young to be in love.’

‘You’re too old to ask permission.’

Rosa laughed. ‘But you look so serious. You don’t seem happy about it.’

‘What’s more serious than love?’ Sandro didn’t add that Elisabetta was a girl to be taken seriously. He doubted his sister would understand, as her hobby was cynicism.

‘Okay, who are you in love with?’

‘Elisabetta.’ Sandro loved saying her name.

‘You pal around with her and Marco like you’re the Three Musketeers. You treat her like one of the boys.’ Rosa looked at him like he was crazy. ‘Do you think women like that, genius?’

Sandro didn’t think anyone was a genius about women, except Marco. ‘So what are you saying? Do you have some advice?’

‘Of course.’ Rosa shifted closer. ‘Start by telling her you like her hair or her dress, and that she looks pretty. That will lay the foundation, and she’ll be more inclined to you. Don’t say it all at once. Spread it over a few days. Give love time to work.’

‘You make it sound like magic.’

‘It is, in a way. And bring her a gift. What does she like?’

‘Newspapers.’

‘I meant something romantic, like flowers.’

‘Books are romantic. She likes to read.’

Rosa rolled her eyes. ‘Fine, a book. Then, after you have done those things, tell her you love her and kiss her.’

Sandro hadn’t realized he was supposed to bring gifts, then kiss her. Evidently there were steps like a mathematical proof, and he had done them out of order. He felt stupid, a sensation he disliked. ‘What if she sees me only as a friend?’

‘Be optimistic. Your feelings grew. Maybe hers did, too.’

‘What if she likes somebody else?’

Rosa smiled warmly. ‘That’s not possible. Who’s better than you?’

‘Marco.’

‘Oh no.’ Rosa’s smile faded. ‘Does Marco like her, too?’

‘Marco’s better, isn’t he?’

Rosa burst into laughter. ‘No, I was kidding!’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

Sandro didn’t believe her, but he didn’t ask again.

4

Marco

May 1937

The night was cool, and Marco rode far behind his brother Aldo, who was turning onto the Lungotevere Aventino. Traffic congested the boulevard, and Marco didn’t know why his brother was riding ahead of him. They had grown up training in the conventional method, taking turns in each other’s draft to save energy. Marco’s breath grew ragged, and his thighs burned. If it was hurting him, it had to be killing Aldo.

Marco put on a burst of speed and caught up with him. ‘Aldo, slow down!’

‘No!’ Aldo pedaled like a madman. Sweat slaked his face and drenched his jersey.

‘What’s wrong with you? Stop!’

‘Leave me alone!’ Aldo accelerated, and so did Marco. They were flying, one brother beside the other, blood racing blood. Marco clamped a hand on Aldo’s forearm, and both bikes wobbled crazily, but Marco was the stronger rider and he kept his grip on Aldo, forcing him to slow. The traffic zoomed past them as the two bikes skidded to a rough stop, side by side.

‘What’s the matter?’ Marco shouted, angry. He hunched over, panting, and his mouth tasted of exhaust fumes.

‘I don’t want to ride with you!’ Aldo’s eyes flashed with anger in the headlights.

‘Because Papa said to? It’s not my fault! I don’t want to race!’

‘Everybody knows that but him!’

‘So don’t blame me!’

Aldo exhaled heavily. ‘Marco, listen, I didn’t want to tell you this, but I don’t really train at night. I only pretend to. That’s why I’m not getting any faster.’

‘What do you mean?’ Marco felt dumbfounded.

‘I go elsewhere, and you’re ruining it. I can’t ride with you at night.’

‘What are you talking about? Where do you go?’

Aldo hesitated. ‘I have a woman.’

‘You, Mr Shy Guy?’ Marco burst into astonished laughter. ‘Bravo, Aldo! You’ve been lonely too long, brother!’

Aldo didn’t brighten. ‘She’s married.’

‘Married?’ Marco repeated, worried. Aldo had had his heart broken before, as he was too reserved a fellow to press his suit, and his only loves had gone unrequited. As a result, he could be naïve when it came to the opposite sex, and there were plenty of husbands with jealous hearts.

‘Don’t tell. It would kill Mamma and Papa.’

‘Agreed.’ Marco nodded, knowing their mother. There weren’t enough novenas in the world.

‘How long have you been seeing her?’

‘About six months. I met her by chance, on the street. Her husband works the night shift, so this is the only time she can see me.’

‘You love her?’

‘Deeply. It pains me not to be with her all the time, but I can’t not love her.’

Marco felt the same way about Elisabetta. She had been a part of his life for all of his life, and if he had to pinpoint the moment he had fallen in love with her, it had been when he was only eleven. She had tumbled into his arms while they were playing soccer, and the unexpected warmth of her touch had raced through his body like an electrical charge.

Aldo shifted onto his bicycle seat. ‘I’m going to see her. Meet me at the bridge at ten thirty. We’ll ride home together, with no one the wiser. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’ Marco felt a mixture of pride and concern, watching Aldo until he lost sight of his white jersey.

5

Aldo

May 1937

Aldo left Marco and raced down Via dei Cerchi, surprised that he had convinced his younger brother of the story. He was a bad liar because he had never had anything to lie about, until now. He had known that Marco would accept the story because romantic love motivated his younger brother. But Aldo was his own man, and though he had been unlucky with women, he believed that love came in many forms. Love of God, love of country. There was more to him than anyone in his family knew. He was charting his own course in life, and the stakes were getting higher for him, in ways he could never have imagined. He was past the point of no return.

He lowered his shoulders and pedaled southward, toward the quiet outskirts of the city. Traffic diminished, and trees and grass appeared, then became abundant. The night grew darker, since there were no streetlights and little ambient light, and sweat cooled on his forehead. He breathed in a deep lungful of air, and it smelled like grass, hay, and manure. He sailed past the Circo Massimo, deserted at this hour, and maintained his speed past the ruins of Terme di Caracalla, hulking shadows in the dark.

He reached the Via Appia Antica, the most ancient route of this ancient city. There was less traffic, but nevertheless it was perilous to cycle here, for he had to keep his tires from wedging between the cobblestones and the road was narrow, made for pedestrians, horses, and even chariots. Tree limbs grew overhead, and he struggled to see in the darkness. In time there were no lights at all, and no houses or buildings. If it hadn’t been for the moonlight, Aldo wouldn’t have been able to see where he was going.

His jersey was soaked, his thighs burned, and his heart pumped hard. He kept his pace even though the wind blew stronger here, and the elevation was higher. He reached a vast, open pasture near a quarry for pozzolana, volcanic rock, and raced across a dirt road in a pasture. He spied an overgrown ravine marked by a lone tree, which was the appointed spot.

He pedaled there, jumped off his bicycle, and slid the flashlight from the pack under his seat, then turned it on. He moved the vines aside and exposed the other bicycles that lay camouflaged on the ground. He left his bicycle with them and covered it with underbrush, an excessive precaution in this rural area, but he could take no chances. He walked thirty paces south, lighting the way to a spot where more vines had been used as a cover. He moved them aside, revealing a tunnel barely big enough to accommodate him.

He crouched into a racer’s tuck and scrambled into the tunnel, then covered the entrance behind him. He used his flashlight to light the way, and the tunnel was earthen on all sides, connecting to the ancient catacombs of the early Christians, an underground cemetery containing hundreds of thousands of graves, a veritable necropolis, city of the dead. Some of the entrances were known, but some weren’t, which made the catacombs the perfect meeting place.

Aldo scrambled downward in the tunnel, descending lower and lower. He reached the bottom of the crypt and found himself in a narrow hallway with a packed floor. The air was coldest here, chilling his skin in the damp jersey, and he made the Sign of the Cross on his chest, out of respect for this sacred place. The walls on both sides contained loculi, rectangular niches in tiers excavated into the tufo, a grayish-red volcanic rock. They were stacked from floor to ceiling, a hallway lined with the remains of the early Christians, which had been wrapped in sheets, closed behind the loculus, and then sealed inside the tomb with lime. Here and there he spotted the shorter graves of children.

Aldo hurried ahead through a bone-cold maze. He was taking his life in his hands, coming here. At nineteen, he was old enough to follow his heart, even if it led him down a dark tunnel. He had joined a cell of fervent anti-Fascists opposing the regime, and as such, had become an enemy of the state. Informers abounded, and Mussolini’s secret police, OVRA, were known to arrest, torture, and kill anti-Fascists with impunity.

Aldo had tried to be the son his father wanted, a cyclist and a Fascist, but he had doubts about the party from its earliest days. When he was younger, walking with his father on an errand, they had seen a cobbler beaten in the street for making a joke about a Blackshirt. His father had said the man was one of the ‘thuggish element’ in the party, but the crime had made Aldo wonder whether thugs were the exception, or the rule.

He had noticed that the textbooks changed in school, publishing only propaganda, and Mussolini had made radios inexpensive so that his speeches could be heard everywhere. The party exalted ultra-patriotic pride in Rome, Romanità, and in Italy, Italianità, but that troubled Aldo, too. He didn’t believe that one race was superior to others, but rather that all men were children of God, beloved in His eyes. Aldo shared his mother’s deep faith, so he was appalled to see the Fascists follow Mussolini as if he were Christ himself, calling him Il Duce and replacing the Ten Commandments with the ten Decalogues. No mortal could erase God from Aldo’s heart, and soul. He had witnessed Mussolini’s rise, feeling daily more oppressed, his heart had grown heavy, and he felt as if he was living life with his head down, until he realized he had to stand up and fight for the country he loved.

He kept going, and as he got closer to the others, he heard their voices echoing, inflected with a mixture of dialects, for they came from all over Rome and its outskirts. They had been meeting for about six months, but they changed their meeting places in case they were being surveilled.

Aldo’s step quickened, driven by purpose, and he hurried toward the light at the end of the hallway.

6

Elisabetta

June 1937

The morning sun peeked through the shutters, but Elisabetta was already awake, cuddling her tabbycat, Rico. His face was perfectly proportional, with not too long a nose, Tiber-green eyes, and a mouth that occasionally revealed a tooth, as evidence of his ferocity. An excellent mouser, Rico would occasionally bite her, albeit without malice. Otherwise he accepted the affection she showered on him, since he regarded himself as the most important thing in her world, and perhaps all of Italy.

Elisabetta got out of bed and slid off her nightgown, pausing to gauge the growth of her breasts, cupping them as if her hands were scales. They felt nice and soft, and they were heavier, which satisfied her. She remembered when they had first appeared on her chest, feeling like olives under her skin, but they had grown to apricots, then lemons, and finally tangerines. Surely they were fruity enough to justify a brassiere.

She dressed in her uniform, then opened the shutters, breathing in the natural perfume of the star jasmine climbing up the wall. Her window overlooked the back of their house, which offered a view of small gardens stuffed with potted plants, flowers, and herbs. She loved flowers and wanted a garden when she grew up, so Rico could chew the parsley plants.

The sky was clear, and the sun rose over the east bank of the river, above the Ghetto. Elisabetta knew Sandro would be waking up, too, and she wondered if he was thinking of her, after that kiss. Oddly, nothing had seemed different between them since then. Marco had been his usual self, too, but showing more interest in Angela than her. Elisabetta wondered if boys were worth the trouble.

She left the bedroom and hurried into the kitchen with Rico at her heels, his tail held like an exclamation mark, as all cats have punctuation in their repertoire. He jumped to the table while she went to the refrigerator, which they had come into after the old man upstairs had died. She found a sardine tin and forked some fish onto a plate, mashing the oily gray flesh and flimsy bones.

She started the coffee brewing, got fette biscottate, twice-baked bread, and put them on plates. She ate while Rico purred and chewed, sounding like clothes on a washboard. The coffee began to percolate, and she turned off the stove and poured some for her mother and father.

‘Mamma, coffee!’ Elisabetta called out, and her mother came hurrying into the kitchen, off to teach singing. Her mother, Serafina, had a heartshaped face with remarkable light blue eyes, an unusually fine nose, high cheekbones, and a small mouth. Her caramel-brown curls had been combed into a loose topknot, and her filmy dress clung to the lovely curves of her body. She had the stunning beauty of the artists’ model she had once been, which was how she had met Elisabetta’s father, posing for his painting class. She still carried herself as a woman aware of her effect on men, though lately she worried about getting wrinkles, spending hours with a cold rag to the corners of her mouth, hoping to forestall them. And her unhappiness at their home life was palpable, as if it had become a member of the family.

‘Good morning.’ Elisabetta handed her mother her coffee.

Her mother drank it, squinting. ‘Oh, that’s hot.’

‘Mamma, I really think I need a brassiere. Can we –’

‘No, I told you, you don’t need one. Stop asking me. When I was your age, my breasts were twice your size.’

Elisabetta’s face burned. Her mother’s breasts were grapefruits, but that wasn’t the point. ‘Still, mine are big enough.’

‘I said no. You’re too young. Brassieres are for women, not girls.’

‘I’m the only girl in my class who doesn’t have one.’

‘You can’t be.’ Her mother scoffed, setting down her coffee.

‘I am. I see through their shirts, and they see through mine. They tease me.’

‘Ignore them. You don’t need them. Women are jealous creatures.’ Her mother picked up a fetta biscottata and went to the chair for her purse, but Elisabetta went after her.

‘Mamma, please, I’m old enough. You don’t even have to buy it for me. I bet I can sew one myself, if you let me keep my pay. The sewing teacher says that cotton costs –’

‘Basta. I’m late.’ Her mother opened the door and left, closing it behind her.

Elisabetta shook off her disappointment, picked up her father’s coffee and fetta biscottata, and went to the living room, where he was sleeping on the couch. His face was long and slender, unshaven, his shaggy hair a dark brown. An empty wine bottle rested in his misshapen fingers, which had healed improperly after a bicycle accident when Elisabetta was an infant. The injury had ended his painting career and started his drinking career. His vibrant watercolors of Trastevere covered the walls of their apartment, capturing the neighborhood’s charm as well as its mystery, with its tiny alleyways that disappeared into darkness. It was almost inconceivable to Elisabetta that her father had painted them, given his current condition, but they showed her the colors that illuminated his soul.

‘Papa, good morning, wake up.’ Elisabetta set the breakfast down on a side table.

‘Oh, my head hurts.’ Her father opened his eyes, a bloodshot brown, and he broke into a smile. ‘Such a pretty one you are. I love you so much, my darling.’

‘I love you, too.’ Elisabetta meant it, even though her mother called her father an ubriacone, a drunk. Her parents used to quarrel, but even that had stopped and her mother had withdrawn from him. Elisabetta understood her mother’s unhappiness, but didn’t share it. Her father had tried many times to stop drinking, and he hated himself for his failing. She couldn’t blame him when he blamed himself so harshly, and she knew that he loved her. Wine made one speak the truth, and her father’s words to her were always tender.

Her father stroked her cheek. ‘My darling little Betta, are you happy? Are you?’

‘I am, Papa. Here, have some coffee.’ Elisabetta helped him bring the cup to his lips.

‘Delicious.’ Her father shifted upward on the sofa. ‘That helps my headache. What would I do without my girl? Your heart, it’s as fierce as a lion. Mark my words, that’s what matters in life.’

‘I’m sure.’ Elisabetta smiled, for she had heard this many times.

‘Tell me, have you gotten the newspaper yet? What’s that thug up to now? Parades and marches? Guns and knives? Those idiots follow him like sheep! But he is the wolf!’

‘Shh, Papa.’ Elisabetta worried that passersby would hear, since their apartment was on the ground floor and the window was open.

‘Is it a nice day? Perhaps I’ll paint al fresco.’ Her father closed his eyes again. ‘I’ll paint something wonderful, I just know it. I feel the tingling in my fingers. How they itch for the brush.’

‘You rest.’ Elisabetta had heard this before, too. Sometimes she wondered if he said it for her benefit, or if he even knew that he hadn’t painted in years. She kissed his grizzled cheek, then rose with the empty wine bottle. ‘I have to go to school. Bye, now.’

‘Of course, goodbye, my darling girl, my special light, I love you so much.’

‘I love you, too, Papa.’

‘Fetch me a bottle before you go, will you, my dear?’

7

Marco

June 1937

Marco watched dustmotes swirl in a shaft of sunlight, while his classmates were getting their essays from their backpacks. The classroom was stifling, small, and devoid of decoration other than the Italian flag, a large wooden crucifix, and portraits of King Vittorio Emanuele III and Il Duce. A sign bore the party credo, CREDERE, OBBEDIRE, COMBATTERE – Believe, Obey, Fight. There were thirty other students in his class, including Elisabetta and Sandro, all dressed in their uniforms.

Their teacher, Professoressa Longhi, was an older woman with thick glasses and gray hair in a bun, thick-waisted in her dark dress, which sported the tricolor emblem. She motioned for them to sing ‘Giovinezza,’the party anthem, and the class rose halfheartedly, weary of the routine this late in the school year. She didn’t reprimand them, and Marco suspected she had joined the party only to keep her job, as he had noticed her rolling her eyes at their textbooks from time to time. The standard joke was that some teachers joined the PNF, the Partito Nazionale Fascista, but others joined Per Necessità Famigliare, only to support their family. Secretly he felt the same way, a Fascist because of his father, and it was the only way he knew. At heart, he believed in love, not politics.

Marco began to sing with his classmates, loudly to make Elisabetta laugh:

‘Your warriors’ valor,

Your pioneers’ virtue,

Alighieri’s vision,

Today shines in every heart.’

Marco turned around to see if Elisabetta was laughing, but instead she was looking at Sandro, whose desk was near the front. Her face bore a curious expression, one that Marco hadn’t seen before, and he had seen all of her expressions. She lifted her right eyebrow when she listened, she frowned when she read the newspaper, and she wrinkled the bridge of her nose when she laughed hard. She could even look dreamy-eyed, like when she watched the screen at the movies. Oddly, she was looking that way now, at Sandro.

Marco felt bewildered, remembering the afternoon that he had seen Sandro and Elisabetta standing close at the river. What if something had happened between them? Were they becoming more than friends? Neither of them had told him so, but then he hadn’t told either of them about his own feelings. Marco couldn’t imagine competing with Sandro for Elisabetta, and it was inconceivable that any girl, even she, would come between them.

‘Class, please take your seats,’ Professoressa Longhi said after the song ended. ‘Let’s get started. Take out your essays.’

Marco sat down, retrieved his essay from his backpack, and hid his paper so no one would see his handwriting. His letters were large and deformed, as if written by a much younger student. His teachers thought he was sloppy or careless, but the truth was worse. Writing and reading were a struggle for him, even at his age. His classmates could read with ease, even aloud, but every time he looked at a page, the words appeared to him as a collection of nonsensical squiggles and he had to figure out their meaning from the context, or from what the teachers said. He didn’t recognize any of the words except for the ones that reoccurred, like Mussolini, and Marco had begun to fear that he was simply born stupid, which shamed him. His grades were falling, and last year, one of his teachers had summoned his mother, telling her that he had to study harder. His mother had nagged him and prayed to Saint Thomas Aquinas and Saint Joseph of Cupertino, but Marco knew he would have been better off with Saint Jude, Patron Saint of Lost Causes.

‘Okay, class, let’s begin. Who would like to read their essay aloud?’

Marco raised his hand, according to one of the stratagems he had devised to hide his deficiency. He would volunteer to read, instead of waiting to be called upon, so he could control when he spoke. Then he would pretend to read his essay aloud, making his eyes move back and forth like the others did, but he would simply be speaking about the subject of the assignment. Marco had an excellent recall, able to remember everything the teacher had said, so he had learned the information, and he loved attention, so he was an entertaining speaker. None of his classmates had guessed his secret, so far. But every day, he worried that the king of the class would become its buffoon.

Last night’s homework had been to write an essay entitled ‘Mussolini’s Greatness from My Unique Viewpoint,’ and Professoressa Longhi had explained the assignment was to be a personal essay, rather than the generic treatise that filled the new textbooks, showing Il Duce commanding vast crowds, firing a gun, harvesting wheat bare-chested, piloting an airplane in goggles, leaping over obstacles on horseback, swimming, hiking, and even playing with a lion cub.

‘Marco,’ said Professoressa Longhi, ‘come read your essay. Sandro, you’ll read yours next, after Marco.’

Marco rose and walked to the front of class, then Professoressa Longhi cocked her head, as if she had a second thought. ‘Marco, why don’t we do something different this time? Why don’t we switch? You read Sandro’s essay, and, Sandro, you read Marco’s.’

‘No, wait,’ Marco said, his mouth going dry, but it was too late, as Sandro was coming to the front of the class.