He approached Piazza Bocca della Verità, which was out of the way and contained a small park, unusually quiet and peaceful. The piazza was in one of the oldest parts of the city, just outside the Ghetto, and the scale of the ancient buildings allowed for plenty of sunny sky. Only a few people walked by, and traffic was light on Via Luigi Petroselli and Via di Santa Maria in Cosmedin.
He spotted Sandro waiting for him on a stone bench, but the sight gave him cause for concern. His friend hunched over a newspaper, reading, but his posture was uncharacteristically stooped and he looked older in a worn brown jacket and tie. Marco had been worried about him, which was why he’d invited him to meet today.
“Sandro!” Marco called to him. “Remember we used to play here?”
Sandro looked up, then broke into a grin, setting aside the newspaper. “Just like the old days, eh?”
“Yes.” Marco greeted him, sitting down. “We used to get so dizzy, running around the temple.” He meant the Temple of Hercules Victor, a small, round building of Greek marble in the piazza, which was surrounded by tall columns holding up a roof of red tile. “It’s a miracle we didn’t get sick.”
“You did, don’t you remember? You threw up.”
“I forgot.” Marco chuckled. “We spent more time here than at school. And had more fun.”
“Remember, you’re talking to a teacher now.”
“Oh, right.” Marco looked over, eyeing Sandro with concern. “How is it going, brother?”
“Terrible.”
“Dimmi tutto.” Tell me everything.
“My mother lost her job and she volunteers as a midwife. My father spends all day at the synagogue.” Sandro shook his head. “He’s helping people, but something’s wrong with him. He’s not doing well, mentally. I think losing the house was too much for him.”
“Oh no.” Marco’s heart felt heavy. “I’m so sorry we didn’t get you the exemption. My father is still trying.”
“Thanks.” Sandro smiled, but shook his head. “I don’t think it will work, though. My father says they’re clamping down. It’s so terrible to feel you don’t belong where you always have. Now, because I’m Jewish, I’m not Italian. It changes everything.”
“You’ll always be Italian to me. We’re the same, you and me.”
Sandro’s lower lip puckered. “No, we aren’t, I know that now. I have a new clarity about this, and much else.”
“What do you mean? We’re the same. We always have been.”
“No, I’m Jewish, and I always have been.” Sandro met his eye evenly. “You think it’s the same because you’re not in my position. Your life hasn’t changed, but mine has. We’re not equal, according to the Fascists.”
“But not all Fascists support the Race Laws.”
“Nevertheless, they’re responsible for them.”
“I’m not,” Marco said, pained. He felt suddenly aware of his black shirt. “I’m not my uniform, and you used to be a Fascist, too.”
“I’m not anymore, and neither is my father. He still wants to be, but he was thrown out of his own party.”
Marco felt a wrench in his chest, not knowing how to respond, and Sandro’s expression softened.
“Look, I don’t mind being different. I’m proud of my Jewishness. What I want is to be equal, the way I used to be. It’s a terrible feeling not to be, and it’s with me all the time. Now I feel inferior, less than others. Apart. Officially.”
“I understand,” Marco said, but he wasn’t sure that he really did. Or that he could.
“You know what’s worse? I don’t feel safe outside the Ghetto anymore. Even here, where we used to play. I’m nervous in my own hometown.”
“I’m so sorry, truly. You’ll always be safe with me.”
“I know that.” Sandro smiled, but it vanished quickly. “But the world has changed, with the war. Do you think we’ll enter? Do you hear anything at work, one way or the other?”
Marco sighed, for the question plagued him, too. “All I hear is that Il Duce doesn’t think we have the gold reserves for war. He wants Italy to stay neutral.”
“Unless he changes his mind, which he does all the time.”
“How?” Marco felt a defensive twinge, having met Il Duce himself. He would never forget that night at the ball, when he had fixed the sash. Mussolini had shaken his hand, thanked him personally, and told him that he was an excellent example of a young Italian Fascist. But Marco could never tell that to Sandro. His best friend didn’t need another blow, and the fact that Elisabetta had been with him at the ball would hurt Sandro, too.