“No!” the crowd shouted, but now Sandro didn’t join them.
Mussolini asked, “Out?”
“Sì!” the crowd roared, and Sandro looked around at the faces in the gloom, each one contorted with an angry sort of joy, their lips drawn back to expose their teeth, like snarling dogs.
Mussolini continued his speech, but Sandro was seeing Il Duce and the crowd with new eyes. He flashed on Levi-Civita’s lecture, when someone had called the professor a “dirty Jew,” with venom in his voice. Sandro had never felt that his Jewishness set him apart from his fellow Italians, but he wondered if he had been wrong.
Mussolini was finishing his speech, but Sandro had lost enthusiasm. Everyone around him was shouting, enraged and defiant, a massive display of collective might, power, and emotion that used to appeal to him. He sensed an undercurrent of danger, that the same feverish mob could be turned against him.
“Papa!” Sandro shouted, though he knew the crowd would drown out his voice. He searched the heads for his father’s, but couldn’t find him. Home was only a twenty-minute walk. He turned away from Palazzo Venezia, wedged his way back through the throng, and headed off.
* * *
—
After the rally, Sandro sat at the dining room table, his papers spread out in front of him. He was supposed to be working, but he was worried about his father. Sandro didn’t know if Rosa had gone, but he worried about her, too. His mother was at the hospital, and Cornelia had gone home.
The window was closed against the cold, but Sandro looked outside to see people flooding Piazza Mattei, heading home after the rally. Some were Ghetto residents, others were passing through, and rowdy Blackshirts were stumbling along in groups, drinking from bottles of wine.
Sandro heard talking in the staircase, his father’s voice and Rosa’s. He turned to the door, and they entered the apartment, arguing.
“Rosa, listen to me. You don’t have all the answers.” His father took off his hat and coat, but Rosa left her red wool coat on.
“Papa, I know what I’m talking about. How can I convince you?”
“Convince him of what?” Sandro stood up. “Rosa, were you at Piazza Venezia, too?”
“Yes.” Rosa’s lovely eyes flared with anger. “I went with David and my friend Olinda Miller from the embassy. It was appalling.”
“No, it wasn’t.” His father scoffed. “Must you be so melodrammatica, dear?”
Sandro crossed to them. “I thought it was unsettling, too. What Mussolini said about the Geneva Sanhedrin, right?”
“Yes,” Rosa shot back, “but also the entire speech. Italy is a pariah since we attacked Ethiopia, so much so that the League of Nations sanctioned us, and Mussolini’s solution is to withdraw? What’s next, we withdraw from the civilized world? And we’re fighting to destroy democracy in Spain!”
His father frowned. “Rosa, you’re too influenced by that Brit of yours. Please remind him that Lord Chamberlain has a bond with Mussolini and Hitler.”
“Not everyone at the embassy agrees with Chamberlain, and David thinks appeasement is the wrong approach.”
Sandro interjected, “Papa, I’m concerned, too.”
“Don’t worry.” His father’s expression softened. “You parse words too carefully. You simply can’t do that with Il Duce’s speeches. He spoke with great emotionality, as is typical of him. No one can convince me that Il Duce is an anti-Semite. He isn’t. He’s going home to a Jewish mistress.”
Rosa looked pained. “You’re making excuses for him. You’re more loyal to him than he is to you. To us.”
“No. He’s loyal to the Jewish community, to patriots, to veterans—and I am all of those things. He’s been a strong leader all this time, since 1922.”
“Papa, look forward, not back. Look where we’re going. I’ve heard a rumor that Hitler’s coming to Rome, next spring.”
“So?”
“So that’s not good. You’re not listening to me, and I’ve been telling you and Mamma for months. It’s time.”
“Time for what?” Sandro interjected, confused. “What are you talking about, Rosa?”
“Don’t answer.” Sandro’s father held up his hand, silencing her. “There’s no need to worry your brother.”
Rosa faced Sandro. “Sandro, you’re old enough to know. I’ve told Papa and Mamma, I am coming to believe we should emigrate.”