Luciano leaned over. “That’s you, isn’t it, Massimo? You’re a Fascist of the First Hour, so you’re exempted, aren’t you?”
“Close, but not technically. I joined in 1923.”
“We’re not Fascists. There are no exemptions for us.”
“Yes, there are.” Massimo pointed to the last provision. “This brings me to my strategy. There is an express exemption for any Jew with ‘exceptional merits,’ to be evaluated according to Article 16.”
Armando scoffed. “That’s a catchall term. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I beg to differ,” Massimo corrected him. “Article 16 is going to be our salvation. The tax code works in the same way. It contains terms that invite ambiguity, and when I see them, I turn that disadvantage to an advantage.” He ran his finger down the page. “For example, I think the exemption for exceptional merits applies to both of you. You both served in the Great War, and I believe one of you even received a medal for valor, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Luciano answered proudly.
“What else is a medal, if not an example of exceptional merit? I served as an army officer in the Twenty-Ninth Piedmont Infantry, and I will be sure to include my military service on my own application. Likewise, you’re both leaders in the business community, which is exceptional, per se.” Massimo grew encouraged. “Do you see? The provision has to mean something. All we have to do is come up with rationales to construe it in a way that exempts the most members of our Community.”
Armando frowned. “But this law intends to discriminate against Jews. They’re not going to give us an exemption for helping Jews, are they?”
“Good point, but this law also classifies Jews, as illustrated by the provisions regarding what constitutes a Jew. So, we are going to file applications for exemptions for as many Jews as we can and show how exceptional they are.” Massimo gestured around the room. “These men are leaders of business, scholars, and professionals. We can make arguments for all of them.”
Luciano’s dark eyes lit up. “You know, we could give out titles to suggest that the duty they perform benefits the Community or Rome.”
“Good idea!” Armando sat taller, rallying.
“Great idea!” Massimo smiled. “We’ll centralize our efforts here, at the synagogue. Everyone can come, and we’ll interview them, elicit useful facts about them, and draft exemptions for them.”
Armando blinked. “But, Massimo, we’re not lawyers. You’d have to supervise us.”
“I will,” Massimo agreed, though he’d never supervised anyone but his secretary. “Gentlemen, I know how unjust this law is and how dire our position, but we are the leaders of this Community. Everyone counts on us. We have to move to a solution. It will take work, but we can do it, as we did with the schools.”
“Massimo, stand up, right now. Everyone, listen!” Luciano rose, then clapped to get attention. Heads began to turn, and every man faced him.
Massimo stayed in his seat, unaccustomed to the limelight, but Luciano hoisted Massimo up by his arm, and began speaking:
“Friends, as you may know, Massimo Simone is one of the best lawyers in the city. He has just told me a strategy for us to cope with these terrible Race Laws.”
“What is it?” a man called out, then others joined in. “Tell us!” “What can we do?”
“Massimo will tell you!” Luciano called back, stepping aside.
“I will?” Massimo asked, nervous.
“Massimo, you explain it better than I do. Tell them.”
Massimo picked up his notepad with a shaking hand. “I’ll begin by explaining the law . . .”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Marco
November 1938
Marco walked through Piazza Navona much more slowly than the businessmen, shopkeepers, and tradesmen around him. It was his first day at work after Aldo’s funeral, and he felt heartsick and grief-stricken, having been barely able to sleep. He wasn’t speaking to his father, and they avoided each other. His mother had taken to bed, bereft.
Marco approached the grand archway to Palazzo Braschi and saluted. “Good morning, Nino.”
“Sorry about your brother.” Nino snapped his eyes forward, unusually official.
“Thank you.” Marco passed through the vaulted entranceway and turned right to the glass doors, where Giuseppe and Tino stood guard, their demeanor similarly cool. Marco saluted them, too. “Good morning.”