Marco
August 1943
It was almost midnight, but Marco was walking home, exhausted. He had returned to work at Palazzo Venezia, but he was already regretting his decision. The Badoglio government had yet to find its footing and still hadn’t signed the Armistice. The feckless Badoglio delayed in choosing between the Germans and the Allies, trying to get Rome declared an “open city,” or neutral zone. Both sides were losing patience with Italy. The Germans had withdrawn to the outskirts of Rome, under Field Marshal Kesselring, and the Allies had dropped leaflets on the city, warning that they would resume bombing if Badoglio didn’t sign.
Marco walked down the Ponte Fabricio, unable to shake his melancholy. He still didn’t know who he was anymore. He didn’t know what to believe in. Fascism had been his identity for so long he didn’t have another alternative. The Badoglio government wasn’t offering any.
He passed a happy family on the bridge, and he wondered if he would ever have a wife and children. He slept with women, but his state of mind grew darker. He still thought of Elisabetta and would walk by her restaurant. He loved her, but he knew that she loved Sandro. Even if she wasn’t with Sandro, she was lost to Marco.
He crossed the bridge and spotted his father closing the outside seating area. When he reached the bar, he said, “Papa, I’ll get an apron and help you clean up.”
“It’s done. Get us some wine and meet me inside.”
Marco went inside, poured them both a glass of red, and took it to a table near the side entrance. He sat down and sipped his wine, but it didn’t improve his mood. His father entered, locked the door, and walked over, sitting down heavily.
“Marco, what’s the matter?”
“Palazzo Venezia. The officers and the politicians. Badoglio’s an idiot, like you said.”
His father took a slug of wine. “So why don’t you quit? Work for me.”
Marco didn’t want to fight. They were only recently getting along better. “Papa, I mean no disrespect, but I don’t want to work at the bar for my life. It’s your business, not mine.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
“If I say I don’t know, you’ll be disappointed. I know I’m not living up to your expectations. I barely ride anymore, I work for Palazzo Venezia. They changed my title, but it’s the same job.” And I can barely read, Marco thought but didn’t say.
“So? You are not your job, son. Life rarely meets our expectations. Do you think I’ve met mine? Did Mussolini meet ours?” His father shook his head, his face falling. “I made a terrible mistake.”
“I made the same mistake.”
“But I should’ve known better. You were taught to follow Mussolini, but I chose to. I ask myself why, over and over. I think I know, now.”
“Why?”
“Years ago, the Unification tried to make us into one Italy. But we didn’t know what that meant. We had no single national identity.” His father met his eye, pained. “Italy had to figure out who she was, and Mussolini told her that she was the greatness that produced Rome. He might have been right, but he lost his way.”
Marco felt the words resonate. He had been trying to figure out who he was, too. He had lost his way, like the land he loved.
“Mussolini is a bully, and I’ll regret joining his party as long as I live. I had my doubts when he pushed the Race Laws, but I went along. So many people suffered. Poor Massimo.”
“How is he?” Marco knew his father still sneaked the Simones food and money.
“He’s praying for Badoglio to lift the Race Laws.”
“And Sandro, how’s he?”
“He’s okay.” His father paused. “So in my view, we’ve made mistakes, but we have an opportunity to set it right. You know what I always say, not every battle is worth fighting. But some are. We have one now, for Italy.”
“I agree. That’s what I tell people at work, but they don’t listen.”
“They’re politicians. You know who’s not politicians?”
“Who?”
“The Nazis.” His father sipped his wine. “The Nazis aren’t going to let Rome go. This city is the prize. The birthplace of Western Civilization. The home of the Vatican. The Eternal City. Kesselring is an Italophile. He wants to own Rome, possess her. He will try to take her, sooner rather than later.”
Marco heard an edge in his father’s words. “What are you saying?”
“I formed a group, mostly veterans of the Great War. That’s where I go at night, when I say I have vendor meetings.”