“Just sit, son.” His father motioned from at the head of the table.
“Here, boys.” His mother set the platter of spaghetti near Marco’s father, served him first, then the rest. They prayed over the meal, and everyone ate quickly except for Marco, who savored every bite while his father quizzed Aldo about his training times. Emedio stayed out of the line of fire, having escaped a cycling career by entering the priesthood. Marco could never make such a sacrifice, as he had a duty to the female population. And someday, to Elisabetta.
His mother turned to Emedio, who worked at the Office of the Holy See. “What news? Anything?”
“Did you hear about the German encyclical on Palm Sunday?”
“No, what is it?”
“Mit Brennender Sorge. It means ‘With Burning Anxiety’ in German. The Pope issued an encyclical that was distributed to almost thirty thousand German churches, a direct message to German Catholics.” Emedio leaned over. “Cardinal Pacelli assisted in its composition, but I tell you that confidentially.”
His mother drew her index finger across her lips like a zipper, and her eyes twinkled. To her, Vatican gossip was the best gossip.
“The encyclical was read by German parish priests to their congregations, with no prior notice to anyone. Can you imagine, all those churches, and no one let it slip out? It was printed and distributed in complete secrecy.”
“Why in secrecy?” His mother frowned. “It’s the word of Our Holy Father.”
“It was reiterating his teaching that German Catholics should follow God, not Hitler. As a result, Hitler sent the Gestapo to arrest those who had printed and distributed the encyclical.”
“How terrible!”
His father shot Emedio a look. “No politics at the table.”
Emedio fell silent, and their mother pursed her lips. His father was a Fascist of the First Hour, meaning he had joined in 1919, even before the March on Rome in 1922, when the King appointed Mussolini to be Prime Minister. Traditional by nature, his father believed that the party would be good for small business owners, as well as bring law and order to Italy.
His father cleared his throat. “Now, as I was saying, this will be a significant year for the Giro, and I know who will win the pink jersey. I predict Bartali will repeat his victory.”
Aldo nodded. “I agree, though I’m putting a side bet on Bini. And Olmo, who was so fast in the Milan–San Remo.”
“No, wrong.” His father sipped some wine. “The Milan–San Remo is child’s play. And Del Cancia won, anyway. You’ll lose your money, Aldo.”
“No matter who wins, he shouldn’t wear the pink jersey. Think of it. Pink?” Aldo chuckled, and Marco had heard this before. Mussolini had declared that pink was an effeminate color, confusing Fascists and tifosi alike.
His father scoffed. “The color of the jersey isn’t the point. The achievement is all. Right, Marco?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Marco, you know, I was at the window tonight, watching you when you turned onto the bridge. You were late for dinner.”
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
“That’s not my point.” His father rested his bulky forearms on the table, his gaze newly intense. “You rode very well. You held your line. You even picked up speed. You surprised me.”
Marco didn’t interrupt, feeling a knot in his stomach.
“I saw what happened with the cat, too. It ran into your path, but you didn’t lose a split second. It’s time for you to train in earnest. Imagine what you can do with my regimen, son. You could wear the maglia rosa someday. You could win the Giro, the premier race in all of Italy. You could take your place in cycling history.”
“Papa, I’m not that good,” Marco said, since it was the last thing he wanted.
“I think you can be. It’s in your blood.”
Aldo frowned. “Papa, what about me? I’m training hard.”
Their father turned to Aldo. “I’ve told you, you’re not building the muscle you should. You’re not getting any faster. You must not be working hard enough.”
“I’m trying.”
“Keep at it, then. Prove me wrong. Two are better than one, anyway. You can train together.” His father’s head swiveled back to Marco. “Son, tonight you begin. Understand?”
“Yes, Papa,” Marco answered, having no choice in the matter.
CHAPTER THREE
Sandro
May 1937
L ater, Sandro sat alone at the dining room table. The night air wafted through the window, and the crystal chandelier shed a gentle light on his notebook. His family had just had dinner, and he was supposed to be working, but his head was full of Elisabetta. He didn’t understand how to think about anything else while you were in love. He marveled that people did so, every day. He had never felt anything so intensely in his life. His intellect enabled him to think so much, but perhaps until now he had felt too little.
He couldn’t stop thinking about when he’d kissed her, by the river. The thrilling closeness of her body, nearer to him than ever before. He loved everything about her, especially the way she regarded him. As his intellectual abilities had come to the fore, everyone treated him differently, whether for good or ill; the teachers adored him, but his classmates thought him odd. Elisabetta did neither. She had liked him from the beginning, for who he was inside, and so he could be himself with her.
Sandro’s gaze strayed out the window. The Simones lived in one of the houses lining the elegant Piazza Mattei, on the Ghetto’s north side. Their apartment was on the third floor, catercorner to the refined Palazzo Costaguti, and he could see his neighbors through their windows. Giovanni Rotoli was doing homework at the table, and on the floor below him the Nardunos, an older couple, were sharing the newspaper. The Ghetto was typically quiet at night, and the only sound was the water bubbling in the Fontana delle Tartarughe below, the fountain of the turtles.
Sandro loved living in the Ghetto, which was the oldest living Jewish community in Western Civilization. The Community was established nearly two thousand years ago, when Jerusalem had fallen to the Emperor Titus, who had sacked the Temple and brought Jews back to Rome as slaves. The conquest was commemorated in the grand Arch of Titus in the Roman Forum, which Gentiles viewed as a majestic arch but many Jews considered a symbolic yoke. In 1555, the Ghetto was created, and Pope Paul IV had ordered that walls be built surrounding the neighborhood, with doors that were locked at night and guards on patrol, for which the Community had to pay. There were thousands of Jews in Rome at the time, and they were compelled to wear yellow badges and forced to live in the Ghetto, packed into about a hundred and thirty homes on a handful of city blocks that encompassed less than three hectares, or seven acres. It was considered the least desirable neighborhood in Rome, situated on low-lying ground that flooded every winter from the Tiber, bringing malaria and other diseases. Its streets were narrow and dark, permitting little light or circulation of air. Churches were built at its entrances, and Jews were forced to listen to sermons pressuring them to convert.