Aldo shuddered. He had one last hope, so he forced himself to ask. “Uno, which officers do you expect will be there?”
“All of them, as Spada is the grayest of heads. They’re a top-heavy organization, so there are plenty of bosses. Buonacorso, Terranova, DeNovo, and Medaglio will be there, for sure. Buonacorso is our main target, as he’s the rising star, set to replace Spada. He’s the future of the fascio.”
The information confirmed Aldo’s worst fears, though he didn’t let his expression betray him. If Buonacorso would be there, so would Marco. Aldo was running out of time. Somehow he had to make sure Marco came to no harm. He could only pray Marco would quit before then. Aldo would keep trying to convince him.
Uno straightened. “Events have taken a dangerous turn. We must proceed with the utmost caution. Forces are arraying against us, so we must array against them! Men, unite!”
“Unite! Unite! Unite!” everyone chanted, stamping their feet.
Aldo joined in, hiding his despair.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sandro
December 1937
Sandro had never been to a Fascist rally at night, and the magnitude of the spectacle astounded him. It was rumored that almost a hundred thousand people flooded Piazza Venezia, and darkness cloaked the crowd except for a spotlight sweeping back and forth. Armed Blackshirts stood in formation, like dark shadows with white sashes, and soldiers played drums, waved banners, and hoisted Fascist flags.
Men, women, and children filled every available space in front of the buildings, standing on fences and hanging on the pedestals of lampposts. They swarmed the gigantic Vittoriano, the illuminated monument to Vittorio Emanuele II, made of white Brescian marble, and Palazzo Venezia, a stately medieval edifice that was the seat of the Italian government. Mussolini himself was about to speak from the palazzo’s majestic balcony, announcing Italy’s withdrawal from the League of Nations. His father believed that the decision was justified, given that the League had levied unfair sanctions on Italy for the Ethiopian war.
Everybody waited shoulder to shoulder in their heavy coats, chanting “Duce! Duce! Duce!” The many voices shouting in unison thundered in Sandro’s ears, and he chanted with them, growing excited. He had come to the piazza with his father and some higher-ups from the Board, but he had lost sight of them. Marco was at the rally, too, with his boss and the other brass from the fascio, but Sandro didn’t see him, either.
Suddenly Mussolini stepped into a spotlight on the balcony, and Sandro felt a jolt of electricity course throughout his system. He could barely see Il Duce from this distance, but he knew Mussolini’s features as well as his own, from textbooks, newspapers, newsreels, posters, money, and the tribute coins that his father collected, in glassine envelopes. Il Duce’s features were nothing short of theatrical; a fierce, dark gaze under a prominent brow, expressive eyebrows, a strong nose, a large, bold mouth, and the iconic chin, with a jawline as pugnacious as a bulldog’s.
The crowd chanted louder, pumped banners and flags, and waved caps and fezzes. Sandro felt caught up in the enthusiasm until Il Duce silenced them, beginning his speech.
“Blackshirts!” Mussolini bellowed, his voice amplified through loudspeakers. “The historic decision which the Grand Council has acclaimed and which you have welcomed with your very enthusiastic cheering could no longer be put off! For many long years we have tried to offer to the world the spectacle of unheard patience! We have not forgotten and will never forget the shameful attempt at economic strangulation of the Italian people perpetrated at Geneva!”
The crowd roared in collective outrage, and Sandro shouted with them.
Mussolini raised his hands. “And one would have thought that at a certain moment the League of Nations would have made a gesture of reparation! It did not do this! It did not want to do this! The good intentions of some governments were drowned as soon as their delegates came into contact with that deadly environment that is the Geneva Sanhedrin, maneuvered by dark occult forces hostile to Italy and to our revolution!”
Sandro deflated, for the word Sanhedrin meant a Jewish tribunal in Jerusalem. He had never heard Il Duce say such a thing before, suggesting that Jews were a hostile force. Sandro eyed the shouting mob in the darkness, and no one but him was reacting to the reference. Each gaze remained riveted to the balcony, idolizing Il Duce.
Mussolini raised his hands, spreading them. “Under such conditions, our presence in the halls of Geneva was no longer possible! It offended our doctrine, our style, our temperament as soldiers! The hour was approaching when it was necessary to choose in this dilemma! Either in or out. In?”