“Sure.” Marco nodded, his cheeks aflame.
Sandro cleared his throat. “‘As everyone knows, my interest is cycling, and I see Mussolini in that way. Like a cyclist who must keep his balance, no matter the terrain, our leader guides Italy . . .’”
Marco listened with astonishment, and Sandro managed to decipher some of Marco’s horrible handwriting and made up the rest as he went along, inventing insights about cycling and Mussolini that Marco himself would have thought of. Only a friend who knew him so well could accomplish such a feat, and the class listened to the end, then clapped.
Professoressa Longhi nodded. “Marco, that essay was fascinating! Now, Marco, would you read Sandro’s?”
“Certainly.” Marco realized he could make it up, too. “‘Benito Mussolini excels in literature, but particularly, in regard to mathematics. Mathematics requires logical adherence to rules, much like Fascism itself . . .’” Marco continued, moving his eyes back and forth, and Sandro nodded as if Marco were reading exactly what he had written. Marco finished the essay and bowed with a flourish, and everyone clapped again.
“Bravi, boys!” Professoressa Longhi beamed. “Sandro, that is the most thoughtful analysis I have ever heard!”
The boys walked side by side back to their desks.
Elisabetta smiled at them both, and Marco sat down, reassured. He must have been mistaken, and nothing must have happened between her and Sandro that day by the river.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sandro
June 1937
Sandro sighed, sitting next to his mother. Night had fallen outside the window, and the dinner table had been set with their best china, silverware, and crystal glasses. His sister had met a new beau in London and was bringing him to dinner tonight, but they were late, and so was Sandro’s father, Massimo. His mother was annoyed, for as she always said, tardiness was allowable only in babies born past their due date.
His mother, Gemma, was an elegant woman, dressed tonight in a sheath of gray linen with a pearl necklace and matching earrings. She wore her graying hair back in a chic twist, and her eyes were bluish-gray behind her steely glasses, which perched on her long nose. Her face was long, too, but in a refined way, with a neck like a Modigliani painting. She was weary after a long day at the hospital, and Sandro was proud of having a mother who was also a doctor, though the neighbors talked behind their hands about her, for not being at home like a proper mother.
The aroma of fried conch and roasted potatoes wafted in from the kitchen, where their housekeeper, Cornelia Rossi, was preparing the meal. “Mamma, can’t we eat?” Sandro asked, his stomach growling.
“Of course not. We’ll wait for the others.”
“Dottoressa, I can’t keep the first course warm any longer.” Cornelia, a heavyset widow in her sixties with a cheerful temperament, entered the dining room with a platter. She had been Sandro’s nanny, but had stayed on as a housekeeper, and he loved her like a second mother. Her hooded eyes were dark, her nose wide, and her smile omnipresent.
“I understand, thanks.” Sandro’s mother shook her head. “We’ll watch it get cold.”
Cornelia set the platter on the table. “Buon appetito. Sandro, I made olive all’Ascolana.”
“Thank you!” Sandro said. Cornelia was from Ascoli Piceno, and her specialty was its signature dish, breaded olives stuffed with lamb, beef, cheese, vegetables, and seasoning. “Mamma, please, may I start?”
“Just one.”
Sandro popped a fried olive into his mouth, and it exploded with taste on his tongue. The breading was thin, golden brown, and crunchy, and the meat filling had a warm, spicy sweetness. “Delicious, Cornelia.”
“Yes, grazie.” Sandro’s mother reached for an olive.
“You’re welcome.” Cornelia smiled, then left the room.
Gemma turned to Sandro. “So, how was school today?”
“Fine, and I picked up a new assignment from Enzo, Levi-Civita’s graduate assistant.”
“Good.” His mother chewed thoughtfully. “Are you enjoying the work?”
“Yes, but it’s difficult.”
“You can do it.” His mother smiled. “Have you met Levi-Civita yet?”
“No. He’s always busy in his office.”
“Maybe you should introduce yourself. I’m sure he’d love to meet such a brilliant young man.”
Sandro chuckled. “Levi-Civita once found an error that Einstein had made in his calculations, in his Entwurf paper. Do you really think he would love to meet a fairly able student from a local liceo?”
His mother laughed. “You could be the next Levi-Civita. Did you ever think of that?”
“Perhaps, in my dreams.” Sandro wasn’t kidding, for he had dreamed as much.
“You must believe in yourself. Levi-Civita chose you, didn’t he?”
“He also chose a slew of students from all over the world.”
“Still, I’m proud of you.” His mother touched his arm. “I know you think I’m nagging you, but don’t mistake me. I urge you forward not for your own personal ambition, but for something more important. God has given you a magnificent gift in your intellectual abilities, and He did so for a reason. That reason is for you to discover, and pursue.”
Sandro blinked in surprise, having never heard his mother speak that way, and he knew all of her lectures. He had no immediate response, but the conversation was interrupted by the opening of the apartment door, and it was Sandro’s father. Massimo Simone was older than most of the fathers of Sandro’s classmates, and his hair, sparsely black with silvery strands, looked windblown. He was of such a short stature that he had been called Minimo in school, so he had sought refuge in his studies, which had led to his profession as a tax lawyer. Sandro’s father always told the story to show that one could turn disadvantage to advantage.
“Buona sera, sposa e giovanotto.” His father took off his hat, his dark eyes lively behind his bifocals. “Sorry I’m late, but the meeting at the synagogue ran long.” His father came over and kissed his mother. “Guess who’s the new general counsel to the Board?”
“Not you, is it?” his mother asked, with indulgent disapproval.
“Yes, the very same. Perhaps I’ll make something of myself yet.” His father sat down, with a wink.
“But you’re already so busy, Massimo.”
“Perhaps, but this is important, and I’m needed.”
“That’s wonderful, Papa.” Sandro felt happy for his father. The Jewish Community of Rome was governed by a Board of fifteen men called Councilors, who were also responsible for administering its affairs, paying bills, and taking census information. His father had been advising them unofficially on legal matters, spending more and more time at the synagogue, so it was nice to have his role acknowledged, even though Sandro’s mother was probably right about his schedule.