“He changed his mind with the Race Laws, didn’t he? Mussolini never had a problem with Jews before. That’s why my father believed in him, and so did I. He turned on us. It’s a rank betrayal.”
Marco swallowed hard. It was true, and he had to acknowledge as much. “You’re right, but I don’t think he’ll change his mind about the war.”
“I dread to think of Italy, ever, as Hitler’s ally.” Sandro shuddered. “The Nazis are ruthlessly anti-Semitic, violently so. They turned on the German Jews, and rumors are they’re attacking Polish Jews.”
“But that won’t happen here.”
“I’m worried.”
“Don’t be.” Marco touched his arm. “Sandro, what can I do? Can’t I help you in any way?”
“No, thanks.”
“But I’m making money these days. If you need any, I can—”
“No, no, we’re fine.” Sandro straightened up, and Marco changed the subject, not to offend him.
“How’s Rosa?”
“Still in London. Her husband enlisted in the RAF. We get letters from time to time.” Sandro bit his lip, his expression newly grave. “I hope she’s not in harm’s way. Italy would be fighting her husband, if we enter.”
“But we won’t.”
“Again, I hope not,” Sandro said, his anxiety plain, and Marco felt a wave of sadness. He would never have foreseen that his and Sandro’s teenage years would be concerned with matters of life and death. He fell silent a moment, and so did Sandro, but they understood each other without words, in the way that only old friends can.
“Let’s eat something,” Marco said, breaking the spell. “I’m starving. I worked through lunch.”
“You want to go somewhere?”
“No, I grabbed something for us, on the street.” Marco reached for his rucksack, pulled out a paper bag, and took out a brown bag of supplì, releasing a delicious aroma.
“Supplì?” Sandro frowned, his lips parting.
“Yes, you like them, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Sandro answered, after a moment. “But I’m not hungry.”
“You sure?” Marco asked, surprised. “I got four.”
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Marco popped a supplì into his mouth and bit down, releasing the deliciously salty taste of breading, rice, tomato, and cheese.
“I have something to tell you about Elisabetta.” Sandro paused. “My feelings for her have waned. The stronger feelings I used to have for her have gone.”
“Davvero?” Marco exploded with joy, hugging him. He had been falling more deeply in love with Elisabetta, and it would be wonderful not to have to vie with Sandro for her anymore. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, I fell out of love.” Sandro shrugged, but Marco realized what must have happened.
“You’ve met someone else, haven’t you? Come on, tell me the truth.”
Sandro hesitated, then smiled. “Yes, I have.”
“What great news! What’s her name?” Marco felt a wave of happiness for him, because Sandro needed a woman more than he knew. Every man did.
“Anna.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“At school. She just moved here with her family. She’s beautiful.”
“And she likes you back?”
“Yes.”
“Bravo, Sandro!” Marco’s heart lifted, for them both. “So you’re out of our competition? You promise?”
“Yes.” Sandro nodded. “Elisabetta’s yours.”
“Thank you, friend! Now we both can be happy!” Marco flooded with relief. “I lost sleep, worrying she’d choose you.”
“No, Marco. It was always you.” Sandro smiled again, a little sadly.
“I wish you the best with Anna.”
“And I wish you the best with Elisabetta.”
“We’re friends forever, Sandro. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” Sandro repeated, sealing the bond.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Elisabetta
October 1939
The late-day sun streamed through the lacy curtains in Nonna’s bedroom, and Elisabetta entered to check on her. Nonna had fallen ill with bronchitis and lay in bed in her pink-flowered nightgown, covered by a white quilted coverlet. Her bedroom felt cozy, if crowded, containing four mismatched breakfronts of china, as well as the conventional bed, ladder-back chair, a pine night table, and a dresser. A ceramic crucifix hung over her headboard next to a faded photo of the last Pope, though Nonna refused to hang any of the present one. She was a Roman Catholic, but considered herself a higher power.