“Marco?” Rolf asked, puzzled.
“It’s just different, that’s all.”
“Well, I love it here. When the war is over, I think I may move here, like von Weizs?cker. He loves Rome.”
Marco knew he meant Baron Ernst von Weizs?cker, the German Ambassador to the Vatican, who came to Palazzo Venezia from time to time. Weizs?cker genuinely liked Italians, in contrast to the Nazi brass, who carried themselves with an undisguised air of superiority. The entry of the United States into the war had gotten their attention, but the Nazis remained confident of victory.
“My boss is happy that things are going so well for us.”
“Are they?” Marco thought of his father, who was turning out to be right about one thing. There was a difference in the way you viewed the war, depending on whether you were German or Italian. “The Allied bombing is destroying southern Italy and Sicily. The Allies won’t let up.”
“They’re targeting the south because it supports the North African front.”
“Whatever the reason, it’s devastating to us.” Marco realized Rolf didn’t feel the same sympathy because Italy wasn’t his country.
“Look on the bright side. They haven’t bombed major cities like Rome, Venice, and Florence. I doubt they will.”
“But they bombed Genoa, and it’s a major city. Besides, my boss said it’s not only the targets the Allies are choosing, but the way they’re bombing. They’re flying more missions, dropping a greater volume of smaller bombs.” Marco had overheard a phone conversation the other day. “It’s a brutal, relentless campaign. There’s no food and no shelter. Italians are terrified. They didn’t expect any of this. They feel betrayed. They’re losing heart and belief in the war.” Marco heard himself saying they, but he was Italian, so it should have been we.
“The Allies are trying to get Italy to drop out, in order to weaken the Axis. They think Italy is the weak link.”
“We’re not,” Marco shot back, defensive.
“So then, it won’t work. Italy won’t quit.”
“Of course not,” Marco said, but he wasn’t certain. He had sensed a new tension in the air at Palazzo Venezia and an undercurrent of blame that led to all manner of backstabbing and second-guessing. His boss griped privately that Italy had entered the war unprepared and that Il Duce spent afternoons in his private bedroom with women, words that never would have been uttered before. Marco was beginning to question the most fundamental of Fascist precepts. Maybe Mussolini wasn’t always right.
“Let’s stop a minute.” Rolf took off his hat and rested it on the wall. He wiped sweat from his brow, making his short brown hair stick up.
Marco stood looking out at the Tiber, watching the moving current of the water. He loved its cloudy jade color and the little whitecaps of foam. He remembered those lazy, carefree days on the riverbank with Elisabetta, Sandro, and his classmates. It hurt his heart to think of it now.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” Marco shrugged. “I used to do bike tricks on the riverbank, to impress a girl.”
“Did you get her?”
Marco thought that one over. “No.”
“Impossible to believe.” Rolf took out his pack of cigarettes and plugged one between his lips. “What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Marco wanted to keep Elisabetta in his past.
“Her loss, eh?”
Marco didn’t reply. Elisabetta was his loss, forever. His heartbroken gaze returned to the Tiber, then he spotted a group of men shoveling sand on the embankment, downriver. The men were naked to the waist, and some had bandannas on their heads as protection from the sun. One wore a hat made of folded newspaper.
Marco flashed on a memory. Elisabetta had worn a hat like that by the river, once. He found himself walking along the wall to get a closer look at the man.
“Where are you going?” Rolf lit his cigarette behind a cupped hand.
“I want to see what they’re doing, below.” Marco stopped when he got close enough. The man in the paper hat had gotten so much thinner, but Marco would have recognized him anywhere. It was Sandro.
Marco felt stricken. He had known that a Race Law compelled Ghetto Jews into forced labor, but he hadn’t focused on it before. It horrified him to think that his old friend, who was a bona fide genius, was digging like a common laborer. His heart ached with the love he had had for Sandro, which must have lain dormant until now.