“That disgusting sign?” Nonna eased into her chair, setting down her things. “Weak people abound, strong people abide.”
Elisabetta had heard her say that before, many times.
“There have always been anti-Semites, as there have always been fleas. Both are insignificant and brainless, having no purpose other than to torment their betters. I pray that someday we will be rid of them, but until then, we can only bathe, to keep them at bay.”
“It was strange at the meeting, with Beppe there.”
Nonna smiled slyly. “Oh yes, it killed him to agree with me.”
“He agreed because of his friendship with Massimo Simone, Sandro’s father.”
“No, he agreed because I’m right.” Nonna snorted. “Handsome Beppe Terrizzi. Did you see those women? The ones who weren’t salivating were lactating.”
Elisabetta chuckled.
“So is that what’s been distracting you? Marco again? Or Sandro? When are you going to put them behind you? You don’t think I hear you at night, crying like a little baby? Boo-hoo.” Nonna imitated her.
Elisabetta felt taken aback. “That’s not nice.”
“Have we met?” Nonna arched a gray eyebrow. “Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”
“I’m not ready to start dating again.”
“Was I talking about men? Why must it always be about men? Don’t you remember when I told you, ‘preserve your independence’？”
“Nonna, I can’t be more independent than I am. I live like a nun.”
“Virginity and independence are not the same thing. Sex, love, romance, men—that’s all that fills your head. What about this, under your nose?” Nonna gestured at the Olivetti. “Remember when you wanted to become a writer? When I introduced you to Gualeschi? When Marco, Sandro, or whoever bought you a notebook? How much encouragement do you need, Elisabetta? How many others will dream your dreams for you? What will it take for you to become the woman whom God intended you to be?”
Elisabetta felt hurt, for Nonna sounded right.
“What are you waiting for? When do you want to begin your future? What time is better than now?” Nonna tapped the typewriter with her curved fingernail. “If you were Jewish, you wouldn’t be permitted to write. You’re throwing away a right denied to others, for no reason. By fleas.”
Elisabetta felt ashamed. It was true. “But I don’t know if I can write or what to write about.”
“You live in fascinating times. Write about them on a typewriter made by the Olivetti family, which hates Fascism. If you can’t write now, you’re no daughter of mine.”
Daughter? Nonna must have misspoken, but Elisabetta wasn’t going to correct her.
Nonna eased from her chair. “Let’s go home. The cats await, and that typewriter is portable for a reason.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Sandro
October 1940
Sandro and Rosa walked down Via del Portico d’Ottavia, under gray skies. They were on their way to buy bread from their black-market connection, a transaction that required the two of them. Sandro would make the purchase while Rosa served as lookout, the method a necessity because Jews caught buying on the black market would be fined, and if they couldn’t pay, arrested. They had no choice but to buy on the black market because food and other essentials were scarce, especially in the Ghetto, where so many shops had closed.
They greeted neighbors as they passed, but the main thoroughfare was emptier than ever. Nobody was selling anything on the street anymore, after another set of Race Laws had revoked the licenses for peddling of any kind, which had the effect of denying income even to rag traders. Worst of all, last week, Mussolini had ordered all Jews to leave the country. Most Jews ignored the law, as they were too poor to travel to any country that would accept them.
“What do you think we should do about the new law?” Sandro asked, looking over at his sister. They often discussed important matters outside the house, so as not to upset their parents, especially their father.
“I think Fascists want us out. They made it official.” Rosa shook her head, walking along. Her hair was up in a twist, and her face was lovely, if leaner. Like all of them, she had lost weight, so that her red coat fit loosely. Its bright color had dulled, and the lapel stitching had come free.
“We don’t have the money to emigrate now, even if we wanted to.”
“Correct.” Sandro knew the numbers, and they kept him up at night. He stretched every lira they had left.