“He’s not my friend. He can go to hell for all I care.”
“Marco!” His mother set down her glass, shaken. “What’s come over you? You mustn’t criticize our Holy Father, on Pasqua of all days. You’ve accepted too readily this godless view—”
“Maria, let me handle this.” His father raised his hand again. “Marco, Emedio, this is not the day for this discussion. Let it drop.”
Emedio stiffened. “Papa, I’m only trying to understand why Marco has changed so much—”
“I haven’t changed. I’ve always been a Fascist.”
“You used to love Sandro, but now you turn your back on him. You’re befriending Nazis and following whatever Mussolini says.”
“Mussolini is always right,” Marco shot back, but even he realized it was from the Decalogue. “Who are you, to accuse me of following my leader without question? What about you?”
“Me? I’m a priest. You act like a big shot now, in your uniform.”
“No more than you do, in yours.”
Emedio recoiled, grimacing. “I serve God. Whom do you serve?”
“Il Duce and Italy.”
“I know you better than that, little brother. It’s not love of country that motivates you. It’s love of self.”
Marco felt stung, jumping to his feet. “I could say the same of you. Always the perfect son, the perfect priest, follows the rules—”
“What’s come over you?” Emedio rose. “Your heart is turning as black as your shirt.”
“No, it’s not!” Marco found himself walking around the table to Emedio, but Emedio stood his ground, his eyes flashing.
“You’ve become like one of the mob who crucified Christ instead of Barabbas. The Fascist mob that blindly follows the leader—”
“Who are you to judge? You’re a priest, not God himself!”
“—and you’re too stupid to question—” Emedio started to say, but Marco grabbed him by his shoulders and pushed him back against the kitchen wall, knocking down the Learco calendar.
His father leapt to his feet.
His mother wailed.
“Don’t you dare!” Marco raged at an astonished Emedio, then his father succeeded in yanking him off.
His mother covered her face.
Marco fled the apartment to the sound of her sobs.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Elisabetta
April 1941
Elisabetta swept the living room, so the house would be as presentable as possible. Sofia, Paolo’s wife, had told her at work today that one of the family’s female cousins, a refugee from the country, was moving into Nonna’s old room. Elisabetta dreaded the thought of someone sleeping in Nonna’s bed in her cozy little room, among her lovely china. Elisabetta had had no say in the matter, and she told herself to be charitable, for war was ravaging the provinces, sending people fleeing to the city. Housing was at a shortage, and Rome’s population swelled from a million and a half to two million.
Elisabetta swept the dirt into the dustpan, feeling the heaviness in her heart. Nonna hadn’t passed away that long ago, and grief had become a part of her body, folded into her very soul, like an egg kneaded into dough. Rico and Gnocchi mourned Nonna, too, restlessly looking for her in her bedroom or meowing at odd hours of the night. Otherwise they followed Elisabetta everywhere, and even now they watched her from the dining room, curled up on their respective chairs atop their doilies. She never scolded them, and being cats, they were free to express how they felt, unlike humans.
There was a vigorous pounding on the door, and loud voices on the front step. She leaned the dustpan and broom against the wall and went to the door, smoothing her hair into place. She opened the door, taken aback to find two middle-aged women, one short and one tall—and with them were eight scruffy children, boys and girls of varying ages. Their clothes were shabby and their faces dirty, and they carried bulging sacks and a rolled-up blanket of their belongings.
Elisabetta had been expecting only one person, but it would have been rude to say so. “Piacere, I’m Elisabetta and you must be—”
“Madonna!” The tall woman stepped inside the house, her mouth agape. Her features were plain, her skin weathered, and she wore her long dark hair in a braid to her waist, country-style. She dropped her sack on the floor. “What a beautiful house!”
“Che bella! Look at these rugs, this furniture!” The short woman climbed inside after her, her face gaunt and her body bony, with scraggly brown hair and a worn brown dress. She looked around in astonishment, and the children piled in behind them, dropping their bags and sacks like a small invasion. They raced to the breakfronts and started opening and closing the doors, leaving smudgy fingerprints on the glass windows.