Marco headed home on Lungotevere de’ Cenci, and the lights lining its banks were indistinct in the fog. He tilted his head down against the rain. There was little traffic, and he left the Ghetto. He never went there in his uniform anymore, even at night. Heads would turn and expressions vary from fright to disgust. He felt awful that the Jews feared the Fascists, but he couldn’t blame them.
He pedaled harder, approaching the Ponte Fabricio. He slept badly these days. He believed in Fascism except for its new anti-Semitism, which tore him up inside. He didn’t know what else he could do, except to make sure that the Simones didn’t starve.
His father felt the same way. It was the only thing they had in common these days, still barely speaking.
Marco had almost reached the Ponte Fabricio when he detected a car close to him. He sped up, annoyed. The car sped up, too. He glanced over his shoulder to see a dark sedan. He didn’t know why it was harassing him. He accelerated again, risky on slick asphalt.
The car gunned its engine and passed him, and Marco cursed. Suddenly the car veered in front of him and braked sideways, cutting him off.
Marco yelled, shocked. He couldn’t brake in time. There wasn’t enough space between him and the car. Instinctively he jerked his handlebars up. His bicycle jumped onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing the car’s front grille. He dismounted rather than fall. The bike slid into the stone wall lining the Tiber.
“What the hell?” Marco whirled around in fury. The car was a black sedan. He realized it was the type used by OVRA, the secret police.
The driver and passenger sprang from the car, their dark silhouettes mere shadows in the gloom. They ran toward him. He recognized the driver’s bearlike outline. Stefano. The skinny little one was Carmine.
“You’re a piece of shit!” Stefano grabbed Marco by his collar and pinned him to the stone wall. Carmine watched, his hands on his hips. Meanwhile a bus began to honk its horn, its path blocked by their car. Cars on the Lungotevere piled up, unable to pass.
“Get off!” Marco wrenched away, ripping his shirt. They could kill him right now and get away with it. OVRA operated with impunity.
“Why were you in the Ghetto? You’re a Jew-lover!”
“What I do is not your business!” Marco reached for his bike, but Stefano grabbed him again.
“You think we don’t know what you’re up to? Your lunches with your Jew friend? Your visits at night? There’s penalties for fraternizing with Jews! You think the rules don’t apply to you! You should die the way your brother did!”
Marco exploded in grief and fury. He punched Stefano, and Stefano slugged him back. The two of them started fighting, falling to the pavement. Marco rained a flurry of blows on the bigger man, raging out of control. Stefano hit him harder, grunting. Traffic tangled on the Lungotevere, honking.
Marco kept punching, ignoring agonizing pain. Carmine shouted to Stefano. Stefano sprang off Marco, leaving him on the pavement.
Marco staggered to his feet, doubled over. Blood from his face dripped onto the sidewalk. Rain poured onto his back. Stefano and Carmine jumped into their car, closed the doors, and sped off.
* * *
—
Once home, Marco washed his face in the bathroom. His right cheekbone was swelling, and the skin had split. His mother was asleep in bed, and his father stood in the doorway, his arms folded against his naked chest, a formidable figure even in his undershorts. The expression on his face was grave.
“Marco, there were two of them?”
“Carmine and his pet, Stefano.” Marco rinsed blood from the sink.
“Stefano used to be an informer. He got kicked up to OVRA. They say he’s sadistic.”
“Sounds right.” Marco had sensed that Stefano had enjoyed beating him.
“So they’ve been watching you.”
“Evidently.” Marco turned off the water and patted his face dry, gingerly. “They can go to hell. We can’t leave the Simones without help.”
“Of course not. I’ll feed the entire Ghetto, to spite them.”
Marco looked over, surprised to find his father smiling. “Are you enjoying this?”
“Absolutely.” His father chuckled. “There’s nothing like a good fight.”
Marco smiled, feeling closer to his father. They had a common enemy, rather than each other. He rinsed blood out of the towel and hung it up on the rack. “So what do we do now?”
“The same thing as before, but smarter.”
“How so?”
“I have ideas.”