Elisabetta’s heart sank. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the dinner, and he didn’t know that she was working here today. It hadn’t occurred to her that he would be interested in another girl, but maybe he was. He could have become impatient, waiting for her to decide between him and Marco. But he had said that he loved her, and she had never known him to be anything but true to his word.
Elisabetta stalled, loath to serve them. Sandro sat down next to the daughter, chatting her up. She had rich brown eyes, shiny, dark hair, and a blue dress with a tailored cut. The families had been celebrating the World Cup victory, dressed up in nice clothes, wearing the blue scarves of the Azzurri. As a group, they looked sophisticated, well-heeled, and respectable.
The restaurant manager motioned to Elisabetta, signaling that she serve Sandro’s table. She braced herself, took her pad from her apron pocket, and walked over. “Hello, welcome to Il Cacciatore,” Elisabetta said, with a professional smile. The Simones were reading their menus, and the father of the other couple, seated at the head of the table, looked up.
“Thank you, we’re celebrating Italy’s victory! It’s back-to-back wins for us! What a day for the Azzurri and the Blackshirts, eh?”
“Yes, what a day.” Elisabetta forced a smile. “May I get you some water? Still or sparkling?”
“We’d like a bottle of your finest prosecco! We are lucky to live in the time of Meazza!”
“I’ll send the sommelier over immediately.” Elisabetta glanced at Sandro, whose head was down, reading his menu. Meanwhile Signor Simone and Dottoressa Simone had recognized her, with unhappily surprised expressions.
Signor Simone smiled tightly. “Elisabetta, how nice to see you.”
Dottoressa Simone smiled, equally tightly. “Yes, these are our friends, the Ferraras.”
Sandro looked up, then burst into a grin. “Elisabetta? I never expected to see you here!”
Evidently not, Elisabetta thought. “It’s good to see you.”
Signor Ferrara looked over. “Oh, Sandro, do you know the waitress?”
Elisabetta held her breath. She didn’t know how Sandro would answer. She wished she could flee to the kitchen.
Signor Simone interjected, “Yes, this is Elisabetta D’Orfeo. She’s a classmate of Sandro’s.”
Dottoressa Simone nodded. “Elisabetta grew up with Sandro, a childhood friend.”
“Mamma, Papa, that’s not quite correct.” Sandro turned his attention to Signor Ferrara with a sly smile. “Elisabetta is far more than a childhood playmate. I’m in love with her, and I hope she’ll be my girlfriend someday.”
Elisabetta laughed, and a surge of happiness raced throughout her body. Sandro was wonderful to stand up for her so publicly, when he could easily have let it pass. She met his shining blue eyes with hers, feeling the strength of the bond between them.
“Elisabetta, allow me to introduce you.” Sandro gestured. “You know my parents, and our guests are my father’s clients, the Ferraras and their daughter, Rachele.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Elisabetta said to the Ferraras.
“Elisabetta, it’s very nice to meet you.” Signor Ferrara nodded politely.
“Yes, very nice,” Signora Ferrara added.
“Ciao, Elisabetta.” Rachele smiled sweetly.
“Ciao,” Elisabetta said, sympathetic.
“Glad we cleared that up!” Sandro winked at her.
“The prosecco is on me,” Elisabetta said, in a newly celebratory mood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Marco
14 July 1938
The morning sun streamed through the stone archway at Palazzo Braschi, and Marco picked up the heavy box and carried it inside the entrance hall, sweating from the effort. His wool uniform tortured him in the heat, and he did all the heavy lifting at work, as the youngest and strongest. The bosses were away today, and the guards Giuseppe and Tino were reading the newspaper, their heads bent together and the black tassels of their fezzes falling into their faces.
“Marco, did you see this article?” Giuseppe asked him.
Tino shook his head, reading. “Madonna, this is big news!”
“What?” Marco set the box on a stack by the elevator, in a small lobby behind the reception area.
“Look.” Giuseppe held up the front page, but Marco averted his eyes, as he couldn’t read a word.
“Read it aloud so I can keep working, would you?”
“Okay. It’s a letter called the ‘Manifesto of the Racial Scientists,’ and it’s signed by forty-two scientists. In the beginning, it says obvious facts like ‘human races exist,’ then in paragraph six, it says, ‘There exists by now a pure Italian race.’” Giuseppe continued reading aloud. “Then it says there is a ‘pure blood kinship that unites today’s Italians with the generations that for millennia have populated Italy. This ancient purity of blood is the greatest measure of the Italian nation’s nobility.’”