Sandro had no idea what to say, given that he himself was a Fascist. “But what does it have to do with his being Jewish, anyway?”
“Most Jews are anti-Fascist, aren’t they?”
“No, not all,” Sandro shot back, then hesitated. He had been about to reveal that he was Jewish and a Fascist, but stopped himself. He didn’t know if Enzo was a Fascist, but he assumed Enzo was. He also assumed that Enzo was Gentile, since Enzo hadn’t reacted to the slur. Sandro assumed there were other Jewish students and professors in the Mathematics Department, but he had never given it any thought. Suddenly he could see how politics and religion could get bollixed up, despite their lack of logical connection.
“I have to go. Your next assignment is in my mailbox. See you later.” Enzo hurried out the front door.
Sandro returned to the hallway and turned left into the mailroom, which was a small square room lined floor to ceiling with wooden mailboxes. Each one had a little glass window and the faculty member’s name on a placard. He opened Enzo’s mailbox, retrieved the envelope with his assignment, and tucked it in his backpack. He was just about to leave the mailroom when he stopped himself.
Sandro scanned the placards on the mailboxes, reading the faculty names, and found the one he was looking for. He took out his notebook and pencil from his backpack, tore off a page, and wrote:
Professor Levi-Civita,
It may be presumptuous of me to write to you, but I felt compelled to do so. I attended your lecture and I am inspired by you and your love of mathematics. You are a true genius and obviously a kind and admirable gentleman. It is an honor to work for you, even in my humble capacity, as I am merely a high-school student who reports to Enzo Vigorito. I remain your dedicated servant,
Alessandro Simone
Sandro folded up the note, put it in the mailbox, and left.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marco
August 1937
The summer sun was hot, making the thick black fabric of Marco’s shirt feel itchy and heavy, but he had to wear his Balilla uniform for his interview at the fascio, the local Fascist party. That day in the stockroom at the bar, Commendatore Buonacorso had asked him to apply for a job as his assistant, and Marco’s father had leapt at the chance that his son would work for the party. Marco was intrigued by the job, even though he knew he would only be a portaborse, a briefcase carrier. He wasn’t political at heart, so he wasn’t particularly interested in serving Fascism, but he knew the job had to pay better than working in the bar.
Marco hustled through a bustling Piazza Navona to Palazzo Braschi, the fascio headquarters, which was housed in what used to be the majestic villa of the aristocratic Braschi family. The grand palazzo anchored the south side of the piazza, and it soared several stories high, with a lovely fa?ade of large gray stones and on the bottom, narrow, amber-hued bricks. Its vaulted entrance was a courtyard marked by graceful arches in the front and back, large enough to fit old-fashioned horse-drawn carriages.
Marco had never been inside and approached the entrance, flanked by armed guards, with some trepidation. He and the guards exchanged Fascist salutes, then he went ahead to another pair of guards that flanked a glass-doored entrance and exchanged more salutes. The guards took his name, led him to a desk where he checked in, then told him to go upstairs to the topmost floor. He found himself vaguely intimidated as he ascended a magnificent staircase of gray marble, and each landing was inlaid with black marble triangles framed by warm gold-colored marble. He almost tripped looking up at the massive dome of a ceiling, decorated with large florets; at its top was an oculus, a circular eye to the sky, which seemed to be watching him.
He reached the top floor and approached another reception desk, located in a small room with a floor of multicolored marble and a ceiling covered with friezes of lions, angels, and Roman gods and goddesses. Finally he was shown into a large office, which was dominated by a polished, carved desk covered with stacks of neat papers. Commendatore Buonacorso stood up behind the desk, and flanking him were two other officers, one younger and one old.
“Duce,” Marco said, saluting.
Buonacorso saluted and approached him, extending a hand in his dark uniform, with his quicksilver smile. “At ease, Terrizzi. Please meet the other officers.” He gestured. “On your left is Comandante Spada, and on your right, Comandante Terranova. Gentlemen, this is young Marco Terrizzi.”
“Terrizzi,” Comandante Spada said stiffly. He was bald with a deeply lined face, gray eyebrows that needed trimming, and short gray hair that stood up like a brush. His demeanor was cranky, and his back was curved like a cooked prawn.