CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Sandro

November 1938

Sandro sat at the table, too nervous to grade papers. His mother gazed out the window, undoubtedly feeling the same way. The first course of dinner, concia di fiori di zucca, fried squash flowers, cooled aromatically on the table. His father was late, and Sandro knew it would drive his mother more crazy than usual, for good reason.

A white envelope sat on the table, still sealed, having been delivered in the day’s mail. The return address was the Demorazza, which was the government agency that administered the Race Laws, so the envelope must contain the agency’s decision on their family’s exemption. His father had filed an application for one on their behalf, and they all hoped the exemption would be granted. They had been awaiting the decision and prayed that the agency went their way. Sandro would have opened the envelope, rather than sit in suspended animation and guess about its contents. But his mother believed the envelope was his father’s to open.

So they waited.

His mother smoothed out her dark sheath, fiddled with her pearl necklace, and linked her elegant hands in front of her. He put away his papers in silence, giving up on getting anything done. The fate of his family lay within the envelope. If they weren’t granted an exemption from the Race Laws, they would lose their house, for Jews could no longer own property under those laws. His father would lose his law practice, too, as Jews could no longer own businesses, either. If his father couldn’t work, it would cut their family income. Worse, it would break his parents’ hearts to lose a house that had been in the family for generations.

Sandro sighed. Unfortunately, even if they were awarded the exemption, it would not readmit him to school because the exemptions applied only to the property provisions of the law. Nor would it permit him to marry Elisabetta, whom he thought about all the time. He still couldn’t believe that she had chosen him over Marco, and it was his dream come true. But it had come too late. He had sent her away for her own good. He had lied to her when he’d told her that he didn’t love her anymore. Of course he still loved her, he always would. But he was no longer a suitable husband for her; he had no job, no prospects, and he couldn’t even marry her anymore. Ironically, he loved her too much to tell her so, which left him miserable and aching, experiencing an odd sort of grief that mourned even the living.

His mother reached for the letter and held it up to the chandelier, trying to read through the envelope. “I can’t see what it says.”

“Mamma, just open it.”

“No, your father wants to be the one, and I told him we would honor his wishes.” His mother set the envelope down. “It will be his triumph.”

“I hope so.”

“I think we’ll get the exemption,” his mother said, as if reassuring them both. “He was practically a Fascist of the First Hour, an officer in the Great War, and he serves the Community.”

“I’m sure we’ll get it,” Sandro said, though he wasn’t sure.

“I’m sorry it won’t permit your return to school.”

“It’s okay,” Sandro said, though the opposite was true.

“How are you enjoying the Jewish school?”

Sandro knew the correct answer. “I like teaching, and it’s good to contribute to the Community.”

“But I’m sure you miss your friends, and working for the professor.”

“Life is trade-offs.”

His mother paused. “That’s what I always say.”

“I know, that’s why I said it.” Sandro smiled.

His mother smiled back, her sharp eyes regarding him, behind her glasses. “I wonder if that means you’re listening—or you’ve stopped listening.”

“It means I’m listening.”

“How’s Marco?”

“He’s fine, working a lot.”

His mother paused again. “And Elisabetta? How is she?”

“Fine, I assume. I don’t see her. I’m not interested in her anymore.”

“Oh.” His mother blinked, her expression softening. “I hope you understood our objection.”

“I do, but I don’t agree with it.”

“Even after this? These awful Race Laws codify a ban against intermarriage.” His mother gestured at the white envelope, but Sandro couldn’t suppress the resentment flaring in his chest.

“Mamma, if anything, that should make you question your view.”

“What are you talking about? The Race Laws prove the necessity for standing together as Jews. Our Community is under dire threat.”

“I choose not to discriminate against those who discriminate. It’s a principled—”

“Oh, Sandro, fine,” his mother snapped. “You’re too smart by half, and I don’t want to fuss. Do we need more upset? Should I have more worries than whatever is in that envelope?”

“So let’s open it then.” Sandro picked up the envelope, annoyed. “If you won’t, I will.”

“No, Sandro, don’t. I forbid it.” His mother reached for the envelope just as Sandro jerked his hand away. The envelope tore in two, leaving her holding one half and him the other. In that moment, the front door opened and his father entered, smiling until he realized that Sandro and his mother were fighting. His father set down his briefcase and hurried into the dining room.

“What’s going on, you two?” he asked, mystified. “What’s that paper?”

“It’s from the Demorazza.” His mother slid the other half of the envelope from Sandro’s grasp and handed them both over. “I’m sorry.”

“Papa, I’m sorry, too,” Sandro said quickly. “It’s my fault. I wanted to open it, and Mamma said we shouldn’t.”

“What have you done? This is an important legal document!” Appalled, his father slid the white paper from the left and right halves of the envelope, then placed both sides on the table, matching them up. His mother stood over his father’s left shoulder, and Sandro came around his right. He looked down to see that the halves of the document were unevenly matched, but the ruling was legible—and horrifying.

NEGATO, read the handwritten scrawl, in capital letters.

“No,” his father said, hushed.

His mother gasped.

Sandro felt stricken.

His father moved both halves of the paper up and down, trying to realign them, as if it would change the outcome. “No, no, no, no,” he said, over and over.

“Oh no.” His mother put a hand on his father’s knobby shoulder, but his father didn’t seem to notice.

“They would not deny us! They would not do this to us! They would not do this to me!” His father kept rearranging the two halves of the decision. “I’m almost a Fascist of the First Hour! I’ve done everything I can for the party! It would not do this to my family! It would not do this to me!”

“Massimo, please.” His mother patted his father’s back. “We will find a way—”

“Il Duce would not do this to me. My country . . .” His father looked up, shaking his head, his eyes wild and his lips trembling.

Sandro felt alarmed, having never seen his father so frantic. Tears came to his mother’s eyes, and she edged away, as unsettled as he was.

Sandro realized he had to do something. He took his father by the shoulders and turned him so they faced each other. “Papa, we have to reason together, the way we always do. We can figure out what to do.”

“We can’t, we can’t, we’re ruined! I don’t know what to do.”

Sandro felt taken aback, but masked his dismay. “Can we appeal? Is there a provision for appeal of these rulings, like a regular court case?”

“No, no, no, nothing like that’s in the law! The decisions are final!” His father looked at Sandro without really seeing him, or so it seemed to Sandro.

“Papa, let’s think. There has to be some way to deal with this, and we will.”

“I’ve gotten exemptions for so many others, how could they deny mine? Why would they deny mine? Why?”

“Are you sure it’s final, even though it’s just handwritten? It barely looks official. I’m wondering if it’s some sort of notation or—”

“No, no! It’s a final determination, many of them are handwritten denials. They’re mere functionaries who decide these things! They’re not lawyers, they’re bureaucrats! They scribble!” His father started shaking his head again. “Perhaps I was a borderline case, in that I didn’t join the party until 1923, and that’s before 1924, when they opened the rolls again. But why would they rely on such a technicality? How could they turn against one of their own? It’s a Fascist body, deciding against one of the most loyal Fascists in the Community, in all of Rome! They have granted so many other exemptions, ones that I wrote, that were far less deserving! How could they deny us? This is a disaster!”

“So there’s no way out, under the law?”

“No!”

Sandro’s mind raced. “What about outside of the law?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think there’s a way,” Sandro said, taking over.