“Sure.” Sandro gestured him to the fountain, and they sat down on the ledge together, another thing they always did.
“Here, have some biscotti.” Marco took the box from his backpack and opened it, releasing the fresh scent of baked anise. He handed a biscotto to Sandro. “Did you see the manifesto in the newspaper?”
“Yes, it’s shocking. Insulting.” Sandro frowned, pursing his lips. “I’m Italian, no matter what they say.”
“Of course you are.” Marco was about to take a biscotto, but lost his appetite. It hurt him to see Sandro hurting.
“There’s no valid science behind it. It’s not fact-based in the least.”
“I know, and it doesn’t make sense. I can’t abide this happening to you and your family, or to anyone in the Ghetto. I have to believe it will be discredited.”
Sandro exhaled slowly. “My father thinks it will. He says it’s pure propaganda, but I’ve been worrying that Mussolini is becoming more like Hitler.”
“He can’t be.” Marco felt disgusted by the very notion. “We can’t be.”
“My father says the manifesto doesn’t address Fascist Jews. He sees us as an exception.”
“But the manifesto didn’t say that, did it?”
“No, but my father says it lacks the force of law. You know how he is, he seeks the rational explanation. He likes to put a good face on everything and hope for the best.” Sandro shook his head, chewing his biscotto.
“So what can we do?”
“Nothing.” Sandro looked away, chewing, and Marco felt terrible for him.
“It will be discredited. You’re Italian, and that’s all there is to it.”
“It’s . . . anti-Semitism.” Sandro fell silent, the word dropping between them with a weight of its own. Marco felt its gravity, even though he wasn’t Jewish.
“That’s exactly right. If I hear anything new about it at work, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.” Sandro sighed.
“How’s La Sapienza?”
“Wonderful, and challenging. I learn something new every day.”
Marco shook his head. “And as for romance, we’re at an impasse. Elisabetta still hasn’t decided between us.”
Sandro chewed his biscotto. “We can’t push her. She’s so busy, with a lot on her shoulders.”
“True. I feel sorry for her.”
“So do I.” Sandro looked over, finishing his biscotto. “I think about her all the time.”
“So do I.” Marco rolled his eyes. “It won’t go away. Sometimes I wish it would.”
“I feel the same way. I don’t concentrate as well as I need to, at work.”
“I know what you mean, and when I’m riding at night, I peek in the window of the restaurant, trying to catch a glimpse of her. It’s pathetic.”
Sandro smiled. “And you still date no one else? No other girl tempts you?”
Marco smiled back. “Not a one. I live like a priest. I’m the second Father Terrizzi.”
Sandro laughed. “Look at us, lovesick. Mooning over the same woman.”
“Mah!” Marco said, frustrated.
“I’d better get going.” Sandro rose, swinging his rucksack over his shoulder. “It was good to see you.”
“Me, too.” Marco stood up, giving Sandro a hug goodbye. It struck him as no longer fun that they were competing for the same woman, and for the first time, Marco realized that no matter which of them Elisabetta chose, he would lose.
For he loved Sandro, too.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Elisabetta
August 1938
Papa, wake up.” Elisabetta set her father’s coffee next to the couch, then kissed him on the cheek. She could smell that he needed a bath, and he had been wearing the same clothes for days, despite her protestations. He had become terribly thin, and his unshaven face had a yellowish tint, as he had been diagnosed with cirrosi epatica, cirrhosis of the liver. The doctor had ordered him to stop drinking, and from that day she had refused to bring him another bottle. Unfortunately, the result had been that he went out drinking at night.
“Papa, I have your coffee.” Elisabetta patted his arm.
“Eh?” Her father stirred, and his eyelids fluttered open. His bloodshot gaze found her face, but it was unfocused. “She was beautiful . . . the way she looked . . . her eyes, the perfect blue . . .”
“Papa, wake up.” Elisabetta thought he could be sleeping with his eyes open, as if in a waking dream.