Not Aldo.
Tears flooded his eyes. Marco realized that he would never see Aldo again, never ride with him, never tease him at dinner. He had kept his love for his brother locked inside, with his love for Elisabetta and Sandro, and there was so much love locked away in him, too much, his heart simply didn’t have the chambers to hold it and it couldn’t be contained anymore.
He hurled his wine bottle at a building, where it shattered into flying glass. A woman laughed raucously, and Marco kept going, making his way through the riotous crowd, staggering more than walking. He reached the Ponte Fabricio, traveled up and then down the footbridge, spotting his father in front of Bar GiroSport, wearing his long apron and organizing an unruly crowd outside the restaurant.
Marco had never been so happy to see his father, which gave him a deep pang of guilt. They had hardly spoken to each other in so long, but he let his legs carry him down the hill, like a car running out of fuel.
“Papa?” Marco called, and his father’s head turned instantly, looking at him with an expression that mirrored his own love, anguish, and regret. His father ran to meet him and scooped him up in his strong arms, embracing him as if he were a little boy again, and Marco buried his face in his father’s big, warm, sweaty neck, beginning to cry.
“I know, son,” his father said quietly. “I know.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Sandro
26 July 1943
Sandro scanned the happy scene in front of the house, and the amazing news had drawn everyone into the street to celebrate. Mussolini was on his way out, and it appeared that Italy would exit the war. Ghetto Jews could see the end of their long, horrible ordeal. The Simone family sat among their neighbors, who were singing, laughing, and hugging each other at tables set up for an impromptu party.
Their street was too narrow to enjoy full sun, but a sliver of brightness was all they needed. There was no food to spare, but they shared. There was no wine or real coffee, but they made do with water and whatever else they had. They had suffered for five years, stripped of their citizenship, professions, jobs, homes, and savings. They had been brought to the brink of starvation, suffering sickness and deprivation. They had been denied justice and all of their rights, but they had persevered to see this glorious day.
“To Italy!” Sandro said, raising his glass of water.
“To Italy!” His father, mother, and Rosa raised their glasses.
Sandro sipped his water. He could only imagine the emotions his sister was feeling. She would be worried about David, as she hadn’t had news of him since he had entered the special operations group. Italy might have dropped out of the war, but it raged on for Britain and the Allies against Germany and Japan.
Sandro touched her hand. “Rosa, I know David will be home soon.”
“I agree.” Rosa smiled back, gamely. “The end is in sight now.”
“Yes, it is, darling,” their mother said, putting her arm around her.
“It has to be.” Their father’s eyes danced behind his glasses. “I hope the Race Laws will be repealed, as the first order of business. The Community has already dispatched an emissary to the Badoglio government.”
“I would love to go back to school.” Sandro brightened, expecting that the Jewish faculty would return to La Sapienza—even if Levi-Civita hadn’t lived to see this day.
“I can go back to the hospital,” his mother said, delight etched into her weary features.
His father grinned. “I can reestablish my practice.”
Sandro leaned forward. “So, Papa, how long will it take to negotiate the Armistice?”
“I don’t know for sure. It’s a tricky business. Badoglio is in charge, so it will be poorly executed. If he drags his feet, the Allies will teach him a lesson.”
Their mother nodded. “Let’s hope it comes quickly.”
Sandro’s thoughts strayed to Marco, back to the day he had been digging sand on the riverbank and had looked up to see Marco, with a Nazi. The sight had horrified him, but he knew his best friend was still in there, somewhere under the Fascist uniform. They would probably never again be close, since Marco suspected that he had been seeing Elisabetta behind his back.
Sandro’s heart wrenched at the thought of her. He remembered when she had confessed her love to him, at school. By now, she had probably met another man, maybe even married. Elisabetta would never become his wife, but his heart would always belong to her.
“To a brighter future!” his father said, raising his glass.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE