“What do you do?” Marco asked, astonished.
“Acts of sabotage.”
Marco’s mouth dropped open. “You’re an anti-Fascist?”
“Yes, in our own cell, a network of partisans. Many other networks are forming. The Fronte Militare Clandestino della Resistenza under Montezemolo. The Comitato di Liberazione Nazionale. There’s a power vacuum in Palazzo Venezia. Politicians and officers offer talk. We defend the city.”
Marco felt his pulse quicken. “How long has this been going on?”
“Months.”
“Does Mamma know?”
“No. Better for her if she doesn’t.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You weren’t ready. Now you are. I could tell by the way you walked down the bridge tonight. I’ve been watching you walk home since you were young. Remember when I saw you dodge that cat, riding home? That’s when I knew you were ready to race. Now I know you’re ready to fight. Join me.”
Marco realized he had been watching his father, too, always expecting to see him at the foot of the bridge. “I fought for Fascism, now I’ll fight for Italy.”
“Bravo.” His father smiled. “But you have to follow my orders. I’m in command.”
“Agreed.” Marco raised his glass, and then had a heartbreaking thought. “To Aldo.”
His father hoisted a glass. “To our Aldo.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Marco
10 September 1943
Marco stood with his father and the partisans in a basement in Testaccio, a neighborhood south of central Rome. The Nazis were on the march toward the city. News of their imminent invasion had spread overnight. Shamefully, Marshal Badoglio and King Vittorio Emanuele III had fled the capital for Brindisi, out of harm’s way. Badoglio hadn’t even left behind a battle plan to defend the city. The Italian Army was on its own, with only partisans for support.
“Here, Marco.” His father handed him an M91 Carcano carbine long gun. Its heft weighed in Marco’s hand, and he felt the gravity of their mission. He had fired rifles in Balilla, but never faced a live enemy.
His father scanned the men with a steady gaze. “Any questions before we go?”
“Beppe, how many volunteers are there?” one of the partisans asked.
“Several thousand, deployed throughout the city.”
“How many are with us?”
“Perhaps a thousand.”
“Which of our army divisions will we be fighting with?”
“With us in the south are the Piacenza and Granatieri di Sardegna Divisions. As for the Nazis, we fight regular Wehrmacht and Fallschirmj?ger, the paratroopers. Most of you know their reputation as elite line infantry. Our troops outnumber the Nazis significantly.”
His father paused, scanned the men for more questions, then continued.
“Gentlemen, I’m not one for talk. Our mission is clear. Hold Porta San Paolo. Prevent the Nazis from passing through the gate into the city. Our infantry will be on the ground with heavy weaponry. We will fire from rooftops and houses. We have a battle plan. We will execute it. This fight could last all day. By its end, we will emerge victorious. We fight for freedom and our magnificent city. We will hold Rome. Viva l’Italia! Viva Roma!”
They all shouted in accord. Marco shouldered his gun, swallowing hard.
The partisans left the house and jogged down the street. It was a lower-middle-class neighborhood, comprised of the meatpacking district and nondescript stucco homes. No sound came from the homes or shops. Their shutters and metal grates remained closed. The residents waited for the battle to begin, as they knew the Nazis would attempt to enter the city here. Invaders had done so since the ancient days of Rome, as far back as the Visigoths.
Marco jogged up the street, looking ahead. The Porta San Paolo, the Gate of Saint Paul, was a massive brick edifice called the Castelletto, as it looked like a medieval castle with a crenellated top over a gatehouse flanked by large turrets. In the center was the arch of the gate, which led to a fork that offered two ways to enter Rome, Via Mamorata to the west and Viale della Piramide Cestia to the east. To the south, the major artery from Porta San Paolo was Via Ostiense, and that was where the Nazis were expected to attack. Next to the Porta San Paolo was the ancient Pyramid of Cestius, which was embedded in the Aurelian wall, part of the earliest fortifications of the city. Its white marble glowed in the early morning light, and its apex impaled the rising sun.
Marco could see the Italian Army taking positions around the Porta San Paolo and the Pyramid. Soldiers grouped in loose formation, checking their equipment. A fleet of Italian tanks and motorized assault vehicles stood in front of the Porta San Paolo, and one tank was stationed under the arch of the gate. Soldiers loaded a row of self-propelled guns, the Obice 100mm Howitzers, held long guns in front of the gate, and set up tripods for machine guns along Via Ostiense.