CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Marco
April 1940
Marco hurried down the crowded sidewalk to the Piazza Venezia, his heart thundering with anticipation. He had been summoned to see Commendatore Buonacorso, who had been promoted to working for the Partito Nazionale Fascista, the National Fascist Party. The commendatore’s office was now in Palazzo Venezia, which was the very seat of Fascist power, located in the heart of Rome. Il Duce himself had his office there and delivered his speeches from its iconic balcony.
Scores of Fascist officers in black uniforms hurried in and out of Palazzo Venezia, climbing into waiting cars or hustling off in groups. There was a stronger military presence in the capital and an undercurrent of urgency, now that war loomed larger. Palazzo Venezia had become the most important building in all of Italy, and Marco couldn’t wait to see inside. It had been built in the 1400s and was medieval in aspect, with a crenellated roofline like a castle and its turret soaring into the blue sky.
Armed guards flanked the entrance, their demeanor exemplifying military professionalism, unlike the jovial guards back at Palazzo Braschi. Marco saluted them crisply, they saluted him back, then he was shown into a security office, where he identified himself. Fascist officers hurried to and fro, their expressions grave and conversations conducted in low tones. There was no talking, laughing, or joking around, also unlike Palazzo Braschi.
Marco was ushered into the Hall of Feats of Hercules, a magnificent vaulted hallway of marble, covered with painted friezes of Hercules fighting lions, oxen, dragons, deer, and a centaur. He gazed at the grand murals in awe, realizing that he stood within shouting distance of Mussolini’s office, the Sala del Mappamondo. Il Duce worked famously hard, so the lights remained on until late at night, though some gossiped it was for show. Il Duce also had a private bedroom attached to his office, where it was rumored that he would bed his mistress and other women.
Marco strained to hear Il Duce’s voice, perhaps in conversation or on the telephone, but the hallway was quiet. He didn’t know if he believed the gossip, as some were jealous of Il Duce and everyone had stories about him. Marco felt a personal connection to Il Duce since he had shaken his hand. Of course Marco loathed the anti-Semitic Race Laws, but perhaps if he worked here, he could maneuver himself into a position to change them.
Commendatore Buonacorso’s new office was grander and more elegantly appointed than his old one, with a polished parquet floor, oil paintings, marble statues, and a crystal chandelier. His desk was larger and fancier, ornately carved, and Buonacorso looked more powerful merely because he stood behind it. Otherwise his appearance hadn’t changed and he still sported his trimmed and oiled mustache, his neatly pressed dark uniform, and his shiny tall boots.
Buonacorso remained standing, unsmiling, his expression formal. He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Marco, sit down.”
Marco obeyed.
“You know I think highly of you. I look out for you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Marco had been expecting a promotion, but he was getting the impression he had been wrong.
“Your fortunes have been up and down with the party, have they not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was very proud of you the night of Il Duce’s speech, when you leapt so quickly to corrective action. You turned an embarrassment into a victory for the fascio.” Buonacorso met his eye, newly stern. “However, it has come to my attention that you had a recent encounter with OVRA. You have been fraternizing with Jews, rendering them aid and assistance.”
Marco stiffened. Carmine and Stefano must have reported his midnight runs to Buonacorso.
“Marco, those who fraternize with Jews can be expelled from the party. You must know this. Hundreds have already been expelled. Pietisti are no longer tolerated. That applies to you.”
Marco’s heart sank. Pietisti were those who were compassionate toward Jews.
“I stood up for you with respect to your brother Aldo. I cannot do so again, if you continue to fraternize with Jews.”
“But these are the Simones. They are close friends of my family. You know Massimo. His son, Sandro, is my best—”
“Basta!” Buonacorso raised a hand. “I don’t want to know such things. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Buonacorso frowned. “I called you here to help you. I think you show great promise. I have groomed you to take your place in our party. It hasn’t been easy, given your brother’s treachery. I placed my own reputation on the line for you. It’s time for you to grow up, son.”
Marco swallowed hard.
“When we get older, we leave our childhood behind. Classmates must be cut loose. These are only historic relationships, and they must go. You cannot live in the past and still have a future. Do you follow?”
“Yes,” Marco answered, but he wasn’t sure he agreed.
“Marco, I know you well.” Buonacorso narrowed his eyes. “I can tell you disagree with me. You follow your heart and not your head. Wise up! Don’t be a testardo. If there is another such report from OVRA, you will be expelled from our party. Your father, too. Where would your family be then? If the Terrizzis are no longer in good standing, we’ll find another bar. You can lose Bar GiroSport.”
Marco blinked, shaken. It was true, if disturbing.
“Now you’re listening.” Buonacorso smiled tightly. “Do as I say. Trust my judgment. I have plans for you here. I am planning to offer you a position, in the eventuality that Italy enters the war.”
War. The word echoed with gravity, especially in these halls.
“The stakes are higher for you now. In time of war, the decisions that one makes are crucial. That’s true on the front lines, and on the homefront. From now on, if you help the Simone family, you risk your own.”
Marco’s gut wrenched.
“It comes down to you or them, Marco. Choose wisely.”