Sandro groaned, anguished. “I told you, I don’t love you anymore.”
“I don’t believe you,” Elisabetta shot back, then pressed herself against him and kissed him on the lips. Sandro kissed her back, feeling all the love in his broken heart.
“What the hell?” Marco appeared at the lower landing, his face red with outrage. “You’re seeing each other behind my back?”
Sandro sprang away from Elisabetta. “Marco—”
Elisabetta shook her head. “Marco, listen—”
“No!” Marco’s agonized gaze filmed with tears. “Sandro, you did it on purpose! You left the notebook without telling me! You did it to sabotage me!” He pointed at Elisabetta, wounded. “You betrayed me with my best friend! Good luck together!”
Marco turned away and flew down the stairs. Sandro went after him, but Marco bolted into the street.
“Marco, wait!” Sandro hurried after him, noticing the neighbors coming to their windows.
“Leave me alone!” Marco whirled around, on the run. “You can have her! I’m done with you both!”
Sandro stopped running. He knew that Marco was beyond reason when he was this emotional, for he had always been ruled by his heart.
“All of you Jews are liars!” Marco yelled. “Filthy liars!”
Sandro shuddered at the ugly words, echoing off the houses. His neighbors popped back into their houses, closing the shutters. He stood watching as Marco vanished into the darkness, his black uniform becoming night.
Sandro turned around and went home.
To send Elisabetta away, again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Marco
9 June 1940
Marco hurried through the Ghetto, tears filling his eyes. His heart pounded, and his chest heaved. He was shaking with anger, stumbling over the cobblestones. He had never been so hurt. Elisabetta and Sandro were together. He had seen it for himself.
A man walking by gave him wide berth, and Marco kept his head down. He had loved Elisabetta and Sandro both, so much. He had trusted them both, without question. Their betrayal stabbed like a blade.
He raked his hair back, dazed and enraged. Wine clouded his head. He never should have shouted such insults. It was the only thing he regretted. He had wanted to hurt Sandro, as Sandro had hurt him.
He hurried past the synagogue, wiping his eyes, then heard a commotion behind him. He turned around to see Carmine and Stefano, the OVRA officers, stepping out of the shadows, on his very heels.
“Back in the Ghetto, eh?” Stefano clamped a hand on Marco’s right shoulder, and Carmine clamped a hand on his left.
“Boy, keep walking.”
Marco felt a bolt of terror. The OVRA officers flanked him, marching him forward. They must have been following him. He didn’t know what to do. They were armed, and he wasn’t. He had been crazy to go to Sandro’s. He had been drunk and angry and blinded by love. And now it would cost him.
“So, Marco,” Carmine said, under his breath. “Sounds like you finally wised up about the Jews.”
“It’s about time.” Stefano hurried him forward.
“Where are we going?” Marco masked his fear.
“Palazzo Venezia. Buonacorso wants you.”
“Why?” Marco asked, surprised.
“Tomorrow, Italy enters the war.”
PART FOUR
è facile saper vivere.
Grande saper morire.
It is easy to know how to live.
Heroic to know how to die.
—Arrigo Paladini
CHAPTER SIXTY
Marco
10 June 1940
Marco stood in the hallway behind a packed crowd of Fascist officers, the cabinet, the Grand Council, and the staff filling the second floor of the Palazzo Venezia. Mussolini was about to give a speech from the balcony, declaring war on Great Britain and France. Marco’s head spun with his turnabout in fortunes, which had flip-flopped in a single night. He was on the top of the heap, only the morning after he’d suffered the lowest of lows, catching his fiancée in the arms of his best friend. The betrayal made him sick to his stomach, but he hardened his heart. He vowed never to see either of them again.
Marco had worked all night without a moment’s sleep. He had been pressed into service fetching coffee, bottled water, food, telegrams, and whatever Buonacorso and anybody else needed for today. Marco could scarcely believe that he was here on this momentous occasion. The gargantuan crowd on the Piazza Venezia was chanting so thunderously that it reverberated inside the building.
“Duce, Duce, Duce!” they roared.
The officers in front of Marco surged forward, and Marco watched from behind, trying to get a glimpse of Mussolini. War had been rumored for so long, and Marco had gotten a behind-the-scenes view of the hurried discussions, shouted phone calls, and officers with their heads bent together over maps and memoranda. Excitement coursed like an electrical charge throughout his body. He was embarking on a great adventure, and so was his country.