The Ghetto walls were torn down in 1888, after Rome had been absorbed into the new nation of Italy in 1870, and Jews were permitted to come and go. The Ghetto was cleaned and an embankment built around the Tiber to prevent flooding. A beautiful synagogue, the Tempio Maggiore, was consecrated in 1904, with its square dome that distinguished it from the hundreds of churches with round ones. Some said that the synagogue was designed to be the tallest building in Rome, since Saint Peter’s Basilica was technically in Vatican City, and it became the spiritual home of the Community. Many Roman Jews still lived in the Ghetto, although those with means had moved away. Sandro’s house had been in his father’s family for generations, so the Simones would never dream of leaving, though they were far better off than their neighbors.
Sandro’s thoughts were interrupted by bickering from the kitchen, where his sister, Rosa, and his mother had begun fussing. His father, Massimo, was in his study, and Sandro heard him close his door. Rosa, an interpreter at the British embassy, could argue in five languages. Suddenly his sister burst from the kitchen, smoothing her hair into its dark, glossy twist. She was a beauty, with quick brown eyes, a straight nose, and lips that looked full, especially when she wore lipstick. She was ten years older than Sandro and always dressed stylishly, tonight in a blue suit with a tiny belt.
Rosa’s disconcerted gaze found Sandro at the table. “She drives me crazy!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I want to go to London.” Rosa came over and sat down. “I got the time off, and I’m spending my own money, but she says I can’t go. I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions.”
“If you’re an adult, why ask permission?”
Rosa hesitated. “If I go, she’ll get mad.”
“She’ll get over it. You always forgive each other.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I know I am.”
Rosa eyed his notebook. “What are you working on? Would I understand?”
“No.” Sandro wondered if Rosa might have advice for him about Elisabetta. “To tell you the truth, I’m not getting much done. I’m in love.”
“You’re too young to be in love.”
“You’re too old to ask permission.”
Rosa laughed. “But you look so serious. You don’t seem happy about it.”
“What’s more serious than love?” Sandro didn’t add that Elisabetta was a girl to be taken seriously. He doubted his sister would understand, as her hobby was cynicism.
“Okay, who are you in love with?”
“Elisabetta.” Sandro loved saying her name.
“You pal around with her and Marco like you’re the Three Musketeers. You treat her like one of the boys.” Rosa looked at him like he was crazy. “Do you think women like that, genius?”
Sandro didn’t think anyone was a genius about women, except Marco. “So what are you saying? Do you have some advice?”
“Of course.” Rosa shifted closer. “Start by telling her you like her hair or her dress, and that she looks pretty. That will lay the foundation, and she’ll be more inclined to you. Don’t say it all at once. Spread it over a few days. Give love time to work.”
“You make it sound like magic.”
“It is, in a way. And bring her a gift. What does she like?”
“Newspapers.”
“I meant something romantic, like flowers.”
“Books are romantic. She likes to read.”
Rosa rolled her eyes. “Fine, a book. Then, after you have done those things, tell her you love her and kiss her.”
Sandro hadn’t realized he was supposed to bring gifts, then kiss her. Evidently there were steps like a mathematical proof, and he had done them out of order. He felt stupid, a sensation he disliked. “What if she sees me only as a friend?”
“Be optimistic. Your feelings grew. Maybe hers did, too.”
“What if she likes somebody else?”
Rosa smiled warmly. “That’s not possible. Who’s better than you?”
“Marco.”
“Oh no.” Rosa’s smile faded. “Does Marco like her, too?”
“Marco’s better, isn’t he?”
Rosa burst into laughter. “No, I was kidding!”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Sandro didn’t believe her, but he didn’t ask again.
CHAPTER FOUR
Marco
May 1937
The night was cool, and Marco rode far behind his brother Aldo, who was turning onto the Lungotevere Aventino. Traffic congested the boulevard, and Marco didn’t know why his brother was riding ahead of him. They had grown up training in the conventional method, taking turns in each other’s draft to save energy. Marco’s breath grew ragged, and his thighs burned. If it was hurting him, it had to be killing Aldo.
Marco put on a burst of speed and caught up with him. “Aldo, slow down!”
“No!” Aldo pedaled like a madman. Sweat slaked his face and drenched his jersey.
“What’s wrong with you? Stop!”
“Leave me alone!” Aldo accelerated, and so did Marco. They were flying, one brother beside the other, blood racing blood. Marco clamped a hand on Aldo’s forearm, and both bikes wobbled crazily, but Marco was the stronger rider and he kept his grip on Aldo, forcing him to slow. The traffic zoomed past them as the two bikes skidded to a rough stop, side by side.
“What’s the matter?” Marco shouted, angry. He hunched over, panting, and his mouth tasted of exhaust fumes.
“I don’t want to ride with you!” Aldo’s eyes flashed with anger in the headlights.
“Because Papa said to? It’s not my fault! I don’t want to race!”
“Everybody knows that but him!”
“So don’t blame me!”
Aldo exhaled heavily. “Marco, listen, I didn’t want to tell you this, but I don’t really train at night. I only pretend to. That’s why I’m not getting any faster.”
“What do you mean?” Marco felt dumbfounded.
“I go elsewhere, and you’re ruining it. I can’t ride with you at night.”
“What are you talking about? Where do you go?”