Nonna gestured. “Ladies, this is Beppe Terrizzi, the owner of the very successful Bar GiroSport, on Tiber Island. Quickly introduce yourself and say the name of your restaurant.”
“I’m Isabella, from Franco’s Ristorante,” began the first woman, and Elisabetta tuned out, composing herself. She hadn’t seen Marco or Sandro since her birthday, and she had exiled them both to the back of her mind. She had asked around to see if anyone knew whether Fascists had broken her father’s hands. No one had any answers, not even Nonna.
After the introductions were finished, Nonna glanced at Beppe. “Last week I distributed a list of vendors that I have had good experiences with. I will make sure you get one.”
Beppe lifted an eyebrow. “You share your vendors with the competition?”
Nonna blinked behind her glasses. “We don’t regard each other as competition. We rise or fall together. I expect you to bring a list of your vendors to the next meeting.”
Beppe nodded, his expression impassive.
“Now, is there any new business?” Nonna looked around the table.
“I have something,” said Gaia, a young, dark-haired mother with a toddler on her lap. “I have some signs. I think they could increase business to our restaurants.”
“Excellent.” Nonna smiled, and heads nodded.
“I had them printed for everyone. My uncle is a printer and did it for free. I’ll show you.” Gaia dug in her tote bag, produced a stack of printed signs, and held one up. NEGOZIO ARIANO, or ARYAN BUSINESS, it read, meaning that the store was owned by Gentiles, not Jews.
Elisabetta stopped typing.
Nonna cleared her throat. “I would never put that sign in my window. It’s offensive. Many of our neighbors in Trastevere are Jewish.”
Gaia frowned. “With respect, I’m putting one up. Anybody else want a sign, for free?”
Leandra raised her hand. “I do, please. I put my family before anybody else’s.”
Isabella raised her hand, too. “I have three children to feed. I can’t afford the niceties.”
Gianna nodded. “I’ll take two signs, one for me and one for my neighbor. She runs a dress shop.”
Nonna leaned forward, placing her arthritic hands on the table. “Ladies, please reconsider. Trastevere is home to painters, musicians, and writers, a veritable artists colony. The effect of the Race Laws on Jewish artists has been devastating. They aren’t permitted to work in public radio, theater, or music, or private entertainment. Textbooks by Jewish authors are no longer in use, nor are maps signed by Jews. They are our neighbors, our friends.”
“I agree.” Elisabetta nodded.
“Of course you do, you work for her.” Gaia smirked, cuddling her baby.
Leandra frowned. “We didn’t write the Race Laws. We’re in business.”
Nonna pursed her lips, her vexation plain. “When I formed this organization, it was to save Trastevere, not merely our businesses.”
“Trastevere will survive if we do,” Gaia shot back.
Nonna frowned. “No. We must lift our gaze from our own plates. A community is comprised of people, all of its people.”
Gaia smoothed her baby’s hair. “Giuseppina, we know you own many houses in the neighborhood. There will always be a roof over your head. I can’t say the same thing.”
The women nodded around the table, siding with Gaia.
“Se posso—” Beppe began to say, then all of the women looked to him, since he was known as a prominent Fascist. “No sign for me.”
In the end, one restaurant owner after another took a sign. The only two who didn’t were Nonna and Beppe, who agreed about nothing else.
* * *
—
It wasn’t until the end of the day that Elisabetta had the chance to finalize her notes from the meeting. She sat behind the Olivetti, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Beppe Terrizzi. His presence lingered, a ghost at the head of the table, and he loomed larger than life to her, since his past intertwined with her own. She wondered how long his affair with her mother had lasted, and how much of her childhood it had spanned. Why it had started, or how it had ended. She doubted she would ever know.
Nonna entered the dining room, holding her purse and a paper bag reeking of leftover fish. “Aren’t you finished? It’s time to go home.”
“Not yet.”
“How long can it take?” Nonna peered at the typed page. “You haven’t started. What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been distracted. I was thinking about the meeting.”