“The King of Italy! Vittorio Emanuele! The Pope was here an hour ago!”
Elisabetta craned her neck. She caught a glimpse of uniformed Republican guards and Fascists, forming a protective escort for the gray-bearded King Vittorio Emanuele III. It was bizarre, a King amid the hellish scene, resplendent in his uniform with its shiny brass buttons, fancy ribbons, and gold-braided epaulets. His elegant wife was in their gleaming black limousine, and a uniformed aide was giving money to the crowd.
“Keep your money, you bastard!” The crowd threw it back, jeering and spitting. “We want peace!”
“You’re no good!” a woman yelled at the King. “Look what you’ve done to Italy!”
“It’s your fault!” Another man hurled rubble at the limousine. “You got my wife and daughter killed! Their blood is on your hands!”
“You betrayed us!” an old woman screamed. “You ruined us!”
“Down with the King! Down with Mussolini!” The crowd began throwing rocks, turning violent.
Elisabetta edged away in fear and grief. She sank to her knees on the hard rubble, holding the boy to her chest. It was all too horrific. War and death. Kings and Popes. Bombs. Nonna. The boy. She couldn’t take it anymore. She felt as if she were losing her mind.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. She kissed the boy’s sweet face and told him that his mother loved him very much.
And she stayed with him until a nurse came and took them both away.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Marco
25 July 1943
Marco was on the second floor of Palazzo Venezia, standing with a grim crowd of Fascist officers. In the early morning hours, the Grand Council had voted a motion of no confidence in Mussolini, and Il Duce was being escorted to the grand marble staircase. Many said it was the end for Mussolini, and that King Vittorio Emanuele III would be taking command of the armed forces. Italians hoped that the war would be over for Italy. Outside on Piazza Venezia, thousands were celebrating.
Marco watched, reeling, as Mussolini passed him. Il Duce looked haggard in a rumpled blue suit, and there was no trace of the powerful, magnetic man who had shaken his hand that night and run the country for over twenty years. Italy had taken major blows with the Allied invasion of Sicily and the bombing of San Lorenzo. More than two thousand people had been killed and thousands more injured in the bombardment, which had lasted over two hours. The Allies had sent some nine hundred bombers over the railway in San Lorenzo and Littorio, and two air bases at Ciampino. One of the B-17s had reportedly been piloted by American actor Clark Gable.
Marco heard the shouting surge outside, which told him that Mussolini’s car had left Palazzo Venezia. The shouting went on and on, no longer the chanted “Duce, Duce, Duce,” but hooting, hollering, and incomprehensible cursing. Everyone blamed Mussolini for leading the country into war.
Marco descended the marble stairs, ignoring the officers rushing this way and that. They would attempt an impossibly herculean task, that of righting a national government. It was rumored that the King was about to appoint Marshal Badoglio as the new Prime Minister, but Marco had grown up hearing his father curse Badoglio. Badoglio was a weak career officer responsible for the humiliating defeat at Caporetto, in the Great War. Badoglio was supposed to negotiate the terms of Italy’s surrender, without provoking Nazi retaliation or drawing the anger of the Allies. No one at Palazzo Venezia believed Badoglio could do the job.
Marco put it all behind him, walking slowly down the steps. He wasn’t working today. He didn’t know about tomorrow. He had been so wrong to believe in Mussolini. He was appalled that he had supported the war, which had caused death, starvation, and destruction. Vast regions of his homeland lay in rubble. Turin, Milan, Bologna, Palermo, Messina, Brescia, Catania, and Naples had been bombed. Half a million Italians were dead.
Marco left Palazzo Venezia, astounded at the jubilant, chaotic, and drunken crowd packing the piazza, ablaze with sun. Men, women, and children danced, waved flags and banners, sang, held up posters of the King, and played trumpets and horns.
He wedged his way between them, exhausted. Confetti fluttered through the air, and wine bottles were hoisted high. Men climbed ladders against the buildings and chiseled off Fascist emblems. Posters of Mussolini were ripped from kiosks. A plaster bust of Il Duce flew from a window and crashed onto the street, to gales of drunken laughter. A truck careened recklessly past, its bed full of cheering men, flying Italian flags and banners of the King.
Marco made his way through the mob. A woman kissed him, and another one gave him a bottle of wine, which he drank thirstily. He finally reached the end of the piazza, hoping to leave the crowd behind him, but more people flooded the streets from every direction. He couldn’t share their joy, for they celebrated husbands and sons coming home, but he could only think of those who wouldn’t. He didn’t know what his fellow Italians had died for. Everyone had believed in the same tragic delusion.