“Your children must be Jewish. Your mother and I want Jewish grandchildren. You know how important our lineage is, too. Our family has history here. We are history here.”
Rosa turned to their father. “But, Papa, Elisabetta is a lovely girl, and plenty of Jews intermarry. You made that point the first time we had dinner with David, remember?”
His father recoiled. “I was speaking in the abstract, not with respect to my own son.”
Sandro felt bewildered. His father was always so rational, but this didn’t stand to reason. “Why should the result be different? It shouldn’t turn on whether it’s me.”
“We Jews shouldn’t intermarry more often than we do. Our numbers are small enough.” His father pursed his lips. “Son, we forbid you to see Elisabetta.”
His mother straightened. “Your father’s right. You can be friends with her, but we won’t allow more than that.”
Sandro caught Rosa’s eye, and they exchanged glances. He wondered if she remembered what he had told her once, that asking permission was inconsistent with adulthood. “Mamma, Papa, I’m sorry to upset you, but I’ll continue to see Elisabetta.”
Suddenly the sound of chatter came from the stairwell outside the apartment, and they all turned to the door in dismay.
“Happy Passover!” a voice called out, over the sound of knocking. “It’s the Ferraras!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Marco
April 1938
Marco sat in the office waiting for the school principal, Preside Livorno. The two older secretaries, Edda and Natalina, sat at their desks, typing so rapidly on their black Olivettis that the keystrokes sounded like a fusillade. The waiting area contained the same old wooden furniture, stacks of files, and cluttered bulletin boards as every other room in school, and the same Italian flags and framed photographs of King Vittorio Emanuele III and Mussolini. Sunlight struggled to make its way through the dirty windows, and the air smelled of cigarette smoke.
Marco fidgeted in the smooth wood of the chair. The King, Mussolini, and Preside Livorno put him in mind of his father, whom he had not been able to look in the eye since learning about his infidelity. It left him unhappy and unmoored, tied to nothing and admiring even less. He felt essentially fatherless, leaderless, and try as he might to make sense of the revelation, he couldn’t. It didn’t help that he couldn’t discuss it with anyone, as he was angry at Emedio, forbidden to tell Aldo, and too embarrassed to tell Sandro.
The bell ran loudly, signaling the end of the school day. The building erupted with the talking, laughter, and shouting of hundreds of students, so loud that it came through the walls of the office. Marco glanced out the door, which had a window in its upper half, and a horde of students piled into the hallway to leave school. Suddenly he spotted Elisabetta walking down the hallway with Sandro.
Marco salt bolt upright, newly impatient. He didn’t want to give them a chance to be alone together, as at school, he and Sandro were constantly jockeying for her time. Elisabetta had started working in the afternoons, like Marco at the fascio and Sandro at La Sapienza, so their carefree days at the riverbank were no more.
Preside Livorno emerged from his office, holding a cigarette with falling ash. “Marco—”
“Sir! I’m ready, let’s meet.” Marco jumped up, hurried into the office, and sat down in a chair in front of the principal’s desk, which was covered with piles of papers, school records, notebooks, and an overflowing ashtray. Behind the desk was a thick shelf that held books and photos of Preside Livorno’s family with a brown-and-white pony. Smoke fogged the air.
Preside Livorno closed the door and crushed out his cigarette as he eased into his seat. White hair billowed on either side of his head, and heavy glasses perched atop his hawkish nose, magnifying his dark, hooded eyes. He was old and thin, lost in a worn gabardine suit with a tricolor lapel emblem.
“Preside Livorno, I hope this won’t take long.” Marco wanted to catch up with Elisabetta and Sandro. “I’m late for work.”
“What work is that?” Preside Livorno asked, his voice raspy.
“I work after school at the fascio. I serve as assistant to Commendatore Buonacorso.”
“Commendatore Whoever will have to wait.” Preside Livorno linked his arthritic hands on top of a thick manila file. “Marco, I have reviewed your academic records and I am concerned. Your grades have been declining for a long time. The consensus among your teachers is that you have not applied yourself. Your assignments are sloppy and not proofread.”