“To old friends.” Massimo raised his glass.
“To old friends,” Marco said to Sandro, hoisting his wine.
“Yes, to us,” Sandro said, after a moment.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Marco
November 1938
The next morning, Marco sat next to his father on a brocade bench outside Commendatore Buonacorso’s office. They had given the photograph of Aldo’s blond anti-Fascist to Buonacorso and had been told to wait here. That had been two hours ago, during which various Fascist officers, whom Marco didn’t recognize, hurried to and from the office.
He perched on the edge of his seat, tense. His father was somber in the suit he had worn to Aldo’s funeral. They had said barely a word to each other. Marco told himself to relax, but it was impossible. Everything was on the line today.
“Gentlemen,” an officer said, appearing from the office. “Commendatore Buonacorso will speak with you.”
“Thank you,” Marco and his father answered, in unison. They rose, entered the office, and gave the Fascist salute, which Buonacorso returned, then motioned to two cushioned chairs in front of his desk.
“Please, gentlemen. Sit down.” As they did, Buonacorso took a seat behind his desk. “I’m surprised to see you here, Beppe.”
“I came to support Marco. Neither of us had any inkling of Aldo’s shameful and traitorous activities. As Aldo’s father, I should have known. If anyone is to blame, it is me. If anyone should be punished, punish me.”
Marco looked over, touched at his father’s words. “Papa, I’m responsible for myself.”
His father ignored him, his attention on Buonacorso. “We understand each other, as veterans. I tell you, Marco’s loyalty is as solid as mine. I trust that his production of the photograph will serve as proof.”
Buonacorso nodded curtly. “Beppe, I appreciate your words. We all know of your loyalty. Your integrity. We understand now that neither of you had any idea of Aldo’s treachery. Our friends in OVRA have the photograph and will investigate the woman. We feel satisfied that Marco was not collaborating with Aldo and the other anti-Fascists.”
“Thank you. Then I assume that means he gets his job back, at the fascio.”
Marco startled, surprised at his father’s boldness on his behalf.
Buonacorso stroked his mustache, then turned to Marco. “Marco, yes, you have your job back. We shall let this unfortunate episode pass and not speak of it again.”
“Thank you, sir.” Marco smiled with relief. “You won’t be sorry, sir.”
His father interjected, “That, I guarantee.”
“Thank you.” Buonacorso glanced over as the door opened behind them, and Marco assumed someone had come in, as he smelled cigarette smoke.
“One last thing, Commendatore,” his father said, raising a finger. “You know our mutual friend Massimo Simone. He has been denied an exemption from the new Race Laws, to which I believe he is absolutely entitled. I’m sure you agree.”
“Denied, you say? Massimo?”
“Yes, and this injustice must be rectified. His exemption should be granted, given his years of service and loyalty to the party. I vouch for him in every particular. I was hoping you would help him.”
Buonacorso shrugged. “Beppe, I have no say in such matters, as much as I would like to help. It’s outside the scope of my authority.”
“I expected that was the case, so I wrote a letter on Massimo’s behalf. I’m hoping that you will place it in the proper hands.” His father reached inside his jacket pocket, extracted an envelope, and set it on the desk.
“I will, thank you.” Buonacorso picked up the envelope, and just then, harsh laughter erupted from the back of the office.
Marco and his father turned around as two uniformed OVRA officers walked to the desk, their black boots clicking on the parquet floor. Marco shuddered to recognize one of them as the bearlike OVRA officer who had interrogated him about Aldo. The other OVRA officer was short and skinny, holding a cigarette between slim fingers. Marco didn’t know him, but he was casting hard eyes at his father.
“Do you remember me, Beppe?” asked the skinny OVRA officer.
“Carmine Vecchio,” his father answered matter-of-factly.
“Tell me, are you surprised to see me as a superior officer?”
“No officer is the superior of any trencherman.”
Marco swallowed hard, as OVRA wasn’t to be provoked.
“Bah!” Officer Vecchio dragged on his cigarette. “You haven’t changed, you old warhorse.”