“Come on, boy, run for it! Make it fun!”
A club whacked him from behind. He heard his scapula crack and splinter. Excruciating pain shot through his body. He refused to cry out. If he was going to die, it would be with bravery.
“Come on, get up and run, you good-for-nothing!”
The men began pounding Aldo with clubs, breaking his ribs. His elbow. His legs. He writhed in agony. Someone kicked him in the head. He began to lose consciousness.
Suddenly Aldo felt no pain. His life began to ebb away. He recited the Hail Mary. It was the hour of his death. His soul left his body, and he felt himself looking down on the young man lying beside a country road, being beaten by the men who had stolen his country.
He thought of his family. He loved them so much. He regretted that he had never let them know him, truly. He had kept himself to himself.
He regretted that he had never been loved by a woman. He would have been the most devoted of husbands. He hadn’t wanted to leave his life, so soon.
Yet he knew he was going to a better life, an eternal one, in the embrace of a just and loving God.
And in his last moment, he felt the deepest anguish, for now he could no longer protect his beloved Marco.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Marco
October 1938
It was a slow morning at Bar GiroSport, with Marco at the counter with Letizia, since Aldo hadn’t come home last night. His parents had been surprised to wake up to Aldo’s absence, and they had worried, so Marco had told them that Aldo had been seeing a married girlfriend and had undoubtedly overslept there. Now both sons were in trouble, with their parents angry at them for lying, and at Aldo for having an affair with a married woman. Marco simmered at the utter hypocrisy of his father’s reaction, and resentment boiled within him.
He looked up from the counter, surprised to see his boss, Commendatore Buonacorso, entering the bar with his father. Marco wondered if he was getting a promotion, since things had been going so well at work. His father motioned him forward, so Marco asked Letizia to take over, left the counter, and saluted his boss.
“Commendatore Buonacorso, it’s good to see you.”
Buonacorso nodded, his expression unusually grim. “I’m here to speak with you and your parents.”
Marco followed his father and Buonacorso into the kitchen, which had a small hallway before the cooking area and oven in the back. His mother looked up from the stove and wiped her hands on her apron as she came forward.
“Commendatore,” she said, smiling, “I’m pleased to see you. May I get you something for breakfast?”
“No, thank you, signora.” Buonacorso took off his hat. “Marco, is there a seat, perhaps?”
“Yes, Commendatore.” Marco grabbed an old stool and pushed it toward his boss. “Sir, please, sit down.”
“No, the seat is intended for your mother.” Buonacorso motioned. “Signora, please. Sit down.”
“Thank you, how thoughtful.” His mother eased onto the seat, obviously impressed by the commendatore’s manners.
Buonacorso cleared his throat. “Beppe, Maria, Marco, I’m sorry, but I have terrible news. There is no way to mince words. I regret to inform you that your Aldo is dead. He was an anti-Fascist. He was killed while transporting pistols to Rome, presumably for his comrades.”
Marco gasped, horrified. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“No,” his father said hoarsely. “This can’t be. You must be mistaken.”
His mother’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening with horror, but she made no sound.
“The incident took place last night, outside Orvieto,” Buonacorso explained. “Aldo was stopped as he rode south to Rome. Five pistols were found in a package on his bicycle. He also had a pistol on his person. He resisted arrest and shot at the officers, almost killing one. Aldo was killed in self-defense.”
“This can’t be.” His father shook his head.
His mother covered her face with her hands.
Marco’s mind reeled. His lower lip trembled, but he found his voice. “Sir, there must be some mistake. Aldo was with his girlfriend last night. I’m sure he’s still there. I promise you, he’ll be home any minute.”
“Marco, there is no mistake. These facts are true.”
“But I know he’s with his girlfriend, he went there last night. He goes there at night when he’s supposed to be training, he’s in love—”
“That is not where he has been going, Marco.” Buonacorso frowned. “I cannot divulge further details, but OVRA has been surveilling the members of an anti-Fascist cell. The traitors have been meeting in the catacombs at night. Aldo has been identified as being there, routinely, among them.”