“Did you wipe it out first?”
“Yes, of course,” Marco said, but it was a lie. Spada finally sipped some water, and Marco consoled himself with the knowledge that the old man was set to retire. Marco was counting the days until then, and the fascio planned to throw Spada a retirement party at a local restaurant. Marco looked forward to celebrating all night.
Buonacorso turned to Terranova. “I think Il Duce’s trip was a stunning success, don’t you? The newspaper accounts were favorable, and the photos even better.”
“I quite agree,” Terranova answered, smiling.
“I don’t.” Spada sniffed, holding his water glass. “I’ll never like the Germans, and they’ll never like us. They regard us as inferiors. I don’t trust them.”
Buonacorso dismissed him with a wave. “But it was almost a weeklong visit, Spada. That’s unprecedented. Parades, tours, and the big speech in the Olympic Stadium. A million spectators, despite the rain. Il Duce spoke in German, isn’t that incredible?”
“Yet they mocked his accent, those bastards. Instead of yelling Il Duce, they yelled Il Dusche. It means ‘shower’ in German, and it was raining.” Spada sneered. “How I abhor the German language! All that clacking gives me a headache. Thank God I don’t hear as well as I used to.”
“Don’t be so contrary, Spada. Be open-minded.”
“Too late. The National Socialists imitate everything we do. The youth group, the propaganda ministry, we did it all first. They ape us. It’s been that way from the beginning. Hitler copied the March on Rome for his feckless Beer Hall Putsch, and all he did was get thrown in jail. They stole the ancient Roman salute from us, too, for their Sieg Heil.”
“And we’re stealing the goose step from them, calling it the passo romano.” Buonacorso chuckled. “Anyway Il Duce is far too clever for Hitler. Il Duce has more strength in his little finger than Hitler has in his whole body. Il Duce’s aggression in Ethiopia is the reason we won that war. He’ll use the Nazis to serve our purposes, you’ll see.”
“Let’s hope so,” Spada shot back, and Marco mentally filed it away. Working here, he learned so much about the party, met important officials, and memorized every name, fact, and figure. He had even managed to hide his inability to read when he had been asked to organize a file system for the fascio’s bills. He couldn’t read the bills or vendors’ names, but he could match them by color and appearance. He was never tasked with taking notes, as his boss employed a secretary for such purposes, a redhead who wasn’t nearly as pretty as Elisabetta.
Marco wished he could get Elisabetta off his mind, but he couldn’t. He had been enticing her by jealousy, when he should have been more straightforward. He kept expecting her to throw herself at him, like Angela and the other girls did, but that wasn’t happening. Perhaps he needed to be more aggressive, like Il Duce with Ethiopia, and press his suit like a campaign, in war.
He wouldn’t win her if he didn’t try harder.
It was time to start.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Aldo
October 1937
Aldo concealed his anguish, as he sat with his back against the frigid wall of the crypt. He could barely listen while Uno and the others talked away, discussing the particulars of Operation First Strike. Aldo had done nothing the past few months but worry about the attack on Spada’s retirement party, for, in a horrifying turn of events, Marco had gotten a job at the fascio working for the top brass, which put him directly in harm’s way.
Aldo had been trying to figure out what to do, but he hadn’t come up with any answers. He tossed and turned, night after night. Some days he could barely keep down a meal, and he lost weight and muscle mass. His father told him to eat more liver, his mother worried that he was ill, and Marco thought he was lovesick, still believing he had a secret love affair. Meanwhile every night at dinner, his brother regaled his family with funny stories about the cranky Spada and others at the fascio, which made Aldo more and more fearful. He had tried to convince Marco to quit the job, saying that it was boring to be a portaborse, but that hadn’t worked. Marco liked the salary, and Aldo sensed that his brother’s self-esteem was growing in his new job, in alarming ways.
Aldo hated that his political beliefs were diametrically opposed to those of his younger brother, in addition to his father, but that was the least of his concerns, with Marco’s very life endangered by Operation First Strike. Aldo prayed every morning at Mass for God to show him a way out of the situation, or send him a sign, but so far nothing had appeared.