“è vero.” Marco picked up another box.
“Viva l’Italia!” Tino raised a fist.
Giuseppe continued, “‘The conception of racism in Italy must be essentially Italian and with an Aryan Nordic tendency. This doesn’t mean, however, that theories of German racism should be introduced unchanged into Italy . . .’”
Tino lifted an eyebrow. “Of course it doesn’t. Hitler wishes he could be Duce.”
Marco set the box on the stack. He didn’t like Hitler, though he kept that to himself, especially since the rally in Piazza Venezia. There had been increasing talk of war at work, but nobody knew if Italy would choose Germany’s side or Great Britain’s. Despite Hitler’s visit to Rome, Italy had signed an agreement with Great Britain, in April. Everybody at Palazzo Braschi held his breath to see which way Italy would go, and Marco sensed this country was like Elisabetta, trying to choose between two suitors.
Giuseppe cleared his throat. “Here’s the big news. The ‘Manifesto of the Racial Scientists’ says in paragraph nine, ‘Jews do not belong to the Italian race.’”
“What?” Marco didn’t understand what he was hearing. He stopped hauling boxes. “You must be reading it wrong. Of course Jews belong to the Italian race. They’re Italian Jews.”
“Not anymore.” Tino lifted an eyebrow. “It says so, right here in the manifesto. This must be the position of the party, as of today. This manifesto wouldn’t have been published without approval of the big bosses at Palazzo Venezia.”
“But it can’t be.” Marco recoiled. “Il Duce wouldn’t do that. Jews have always been considered Italians. It’s never been any other way.”
“It’s changing, Marco.” Tino shot him a warning look. “That’s what Giuseppe’s trying to tell you.”
Giuseppe frowned over the newspaper. “Hold on, I’m almost finished with the article. It says, ‘The Jews represent the only population that has never assimilated in Italy because it is racially non-European, completely different from the elements that created Italians.’”
“But that’s not true.” Marco felt stricken. He knew Sandro would be horrified when he read the newspaper. “Jews are no different from us. They were born in Italy. They’re Italians and Europeans. My best friend is Jewish.”
“Marco, enough.” Tino lowered his voice. “Keep that to yourself from now on, capisce?”
“He’s right, Marco.” Giuseppe looked up, his lips pursed.
“Okay, enough politics.” Marco concealed his emotions, out of prudence. “Why don’t I go get us some biscotti? I know a great bakery. It’s a short ride away. What do you say?”
“Great idea!” Tino answered, nodding.
Giuseppe brightened. “I agree.”
“I’ll get my bicycle,” Marco said, taking off.
* * *
—
Marco rode to see Sandro with a dozen anisette biscotti in his backpack, having used the errand as an excuse. The Ghetto was a quick ride from Palazzo Braschi, and he hoped he could catch Sandro before he left for La Sapienza. He entered the Ghetto from the north side, closer to Sandro’s house. His tires bumped over the cobblestones as he reached Piazza Mattei, where a group of men stood discussing the manifesto, newspapers in hand. He recognized the elderly Signor Narduno and the Ingegnere Rotoli, who were so upset they barely noticed him.
Marco sympathized. It bewildered him to think that with the stroke of a pen, some so-called racial scientists would arbitrarily decide that Italian Jews would no longer be considered Italian. He could only hope that Il Duce would disavow the manifesto in the days to come.
He hopped off his bicycle and looked up at Sandro’s house, its well-maintained fa?ade an ochre hue, and its shutters the conventional dark green. It was one of the loveliest homes lining this quiet, refined piazza, which was comfortably shady in summer, and at its center stood the elegant Fontana delle Tartarughe, a fountain that had four turtles perched at the top of its white marble bowl. Water gurgled from its spouts, still fed by an ancient Roman aqueduct, the Acqua Vergine, and its cool spray misted the air.
“Sandro!” Marco called up to the open window, the way he always did, and Sandro’s face popped into view.
“I’ll be right down!”
Marco leaned his bicycle against the wall, and after a few minutes, Sandro emerged from the house, dressed for La Sapienza in a white shirt and tan pants with leather shoes. They greeted each other warmly, then Marco asked him, “Do you have time to catch up? I sneaked out of work to see you.”