“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know, he never told me.”
“Where does she live?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were in cahoots with her!” The OVRA officer shoved a clenched fist in Marco’s face. “Is this what you want? I could take you to the Questura right now! I’ll beat you until you talk! I want to, but your boss says no. He’s a gentleman, I’m not!”
“Wait, listen.” Marco got an idea. “I can find out who she is. It will prove I’m not an anti-Fascist.”
The OVRA officer thought this over. “Do it! You have twenty-four hours! We’ll be watching! Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Twenty-four hours!”
CHAPTER FORTY
Elisabetta
November 1938
Elisabetta stood in the kitchen at home, wiping her brow and surveying her handiwork. She had finally finished packing to move, and piles of boxes surrounded her. She had sold anything she could part with, like her mother’s dresses, shoes, and handbags, which had fetched a tidy sum from the peddlers in the Ghetto. Her father’s clothes had brought in far less money, and for sentimental reasons, she kept his wonderful watercolors, from his heyday as an artist.
Most of the furniture was gone, as she had sold everything she wouldn’t need. She would have a single room from now on, which would simplify her life. She was trying to look forward, not backward. Such thoughts were more productive than thinking of her father’s death. She had come to accept that she was better off without her mother.
She sank into the wooden chair, realizing for the first time that the room was very small. She had always thought of the kitchen as very big, and it seemed paradoxical to her that the kitchen would look smaller without anything in it, but it was true. She saw her home with new eyes, realizing that she was leaving this part of her life behind, now that she was an adult on her own. With Rico.
The cat looked over from his seat atop a tall stack of boxes, from which he had been eyeing her, neither disapproving nor approving, merely watchful. Rico was intelligent enough to understand that they were leaving, and that he was going, too, for he had seen her pack his favorite dishes, which would have allayed any anxiety he might have had.
“Don’t worry, Rico,” Elisabetta told him anyway, but his only response was to blink, then stretch the way he always did, first extending his front legs and arching his back, then his back legs, with his tail straight up in the air like an exclamation mark.
He crouched, looking down from the box, and Elisabetta realized he was getting ready to jump to the table, but his perch was too high and the table was too far across the room, a dangerous trajectory.
“Rico, no,” Elisabetta said, warning him off.
Rico sat back down, generally disappointed in her for preempting his acts of bravery and athletic daring. He would be good company going forward, and she still had Marco and Sandro. She didn’t want to risk losing one or hurting the other, which would happen if she made her choice.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Rico, who had nevertheless decided to leap from the tower of boxes to the table. Despite the danger, he landed perfectly, then sat down and tucked his tail around himself in a perfect circle, forming a period at the end of his own sentence.
Elisabetta chuckled, admiring Rico for taking the risk, as he trusted himself that much. She found herself wondering if she could learn something from him. If she trusted herself more, perhaps she could choose between Sandro and Marco. She remembered what Nonna had told her, that her heart had already made its choice and would tell her its secret, when she was ready to listen.
She found herself sitting among the boxes, in the hollow husk of her house, with only a male cat for female advice. She closed her eyes, quieted her thoughts, and opened her heart wide enough for it to release its secret, which fluttered out like a dove from a cage, flying heavenward.
In that moment, Elisabetta made a choice, and as soon as she did, her heart affirmed that she had chosen correctly, for the decision resonated within her. Joy suffused her, and her happy gaze met Rico’s.
Prego, Rico said, with his eyes.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Marco
November 1938
Marco ran home over the Ponte Fabricio and found his father working in the outside seating area. They weren’t speaking, but this was an emergency. Out of breath, he took his father aside.
“Papa, do you remember a blond customer who came to the bar the day Aldo was killed? She was pretty and sat outside. She met with him that day.”