CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Sandro
May 1940
Sandro had no idea why Marco wanted to meet at the Spanish Steps, which was mobbed with students and bohemians on this temperate night. He searched for his best friend among the throng talking, drinking, smoking, singing, kissing, playing guitars, and posing for pictures in front of the Chiesa della Trinità dei Monti, the church at the top of the stairs, its alabaster façade and twin spires lit up.
No Marco.
Sandro made his way down to the landing, which was packed with people people sitting hip to hip. No Marco. Sandro began to descend the hundred or so steps, picking his way through.
Still no Marco.
Finally Sandro spotted his best friend against the side wall, sitting among a group of Dutch tourists wearing bright orange hats. Marco had on an orange hat, too, blending in with the Dutch. Sandro assumed Marco was playing a joke, as he made his way over and squeezed in beside him.
“Marco, why the hat?”
“It’s new.” Marco produced another orange hat and plopped it on Sandro’s head. “Here’s one for you, too.”
“Are you kidding? I don’t need a hat.”
“Keep it on. It looks good on you. Watch out, ladies!”
Sandro laughed. “What’s going on? Why are we meeting here, of all places? It’s so noisy I can barely hear you. Were you in the neighborhood?”
“No.” Marco glanced over his shoulder.
“Then why?”
“To see how you are, since the last time we got together.”
“I’m fine, I guess,” Sandro answered, mystified. “Rosa came home and she’s helping out.”
“That’s good. How are your parents? My father sends his regards.”
“Things grow worse, but we cope.”
“And Anna?”
“Who?”
“Anna, the girl you like.”
Sandro had forgotten about his fictional girlfriend. “Oh, Anna’s fine.”
“Are you in love?”
“Almost.”
“A man can’t almost be in love.” Marco laughed. “Either he loves, or he does not.”
Sandro needed to change the subject. “How have you been?”
“Fine. I might get a job at Palazzo Venezia. My boss got a promotion and he’s trying to bring me over.”
“Davvero?” Sandro managed to say, refraining from speaking further on the subject. “Good for you.”
“Thanks, but I know how you feel.” Marco’s expression turned serious under his silly orange cap. “I’m hoping one day I can be in a position to fight these horrible Race Laws.”
“I hope so, too,” Sandro said, though he couldn’t imagine Marco ever having such power.
“Things are tense at work, and I’ve come around to your view on the war. I was wrong before. I think we’re going to enter.”
“I agree.” Sandro feared that if war came to Italy, things would get worse for the Jews, though he didn’t know how that was even possible. Everyone in the Ghetto was out of work, food was growing scarce, and every day seemed to bring another new Race Law.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you posted. I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything.” Marco brightened. “Guess what, I proposed to Elisabetta.”
“Congratulations!” Sandro patted Marco on the back, masking his anguish. He hadn’t guessed Marco would propose so quickly, but he should have. He would love Elisabetta forever, but he had done the right thing in sending her away. He couldn’t offer her anything, and Marco could offer her everything. She would be safe and happy if she married Marco.
Marco pursed his lips. “The only thing is, she didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no. She said she needs time to think it over.”
“So give her time.” Sandro wondered if Elisabetta’s decision had anything to do with him. On the one hand, he hoped it didn’t. On the other, he hoped it did.
“I’m going to, but I don’t see what difference time makes.” Marco rolled his eyes. “We should get married without delay. I love her, and she loves me. She does everything on her own, like always. I feel bad for her, and now she has to take care of Nonna, who’s sick.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I would rather be happy sooner, wouldn’t you? I love and adore her. And I have needs.” Marco snorted in frustration. “Rome is full of beautiful girls, yet I wait for Elisabetta. My brother took a vow of chastity, but I didn’t.”
“Just be patient.” Sandro couldn’t bear the thought of Elisabetta in bed with Marco. He shooed it from his mind.
“And she’s talking about wanting to be a writer or something.”
“She wants to be a novelist.” Sandro flashed on the time after the Deledda lecture, when he and Elisabetta had sat outside, talking. Now it seemed like a magical night from another time.
“Am I supposed to wait for her to finish her novel? One that she hasn’t even started?”
“It sounds as if she’s too busy to write, with Nonna sick.”
“Hmph! If she wanted to write, she would write.”
Sandro felt a pang, for Marco and for Elisabetta. He loved them both, and he wanted Elisabetta to be happy and safe. It struck him that Marco could make her safe, but he himself could make her happy. Suddenly he got an idea. “You want my advice?”
Marco smiled crookedly. “You, give me advice about women?”
Sandro bit his tongue. He would never tell Marco that Elisabetta had chosen him. “Brother, for what it’s worth, encourage her writing.”
“How?”
“Her birthday is next month. Buy her a fancy notebook.”
“How’s that going to make her marry me?”
“It’s not.”
“Then why do it?”
“It will make her start writing, and she’ll be happier. Isn’t that what you want?”
“But I can make her happy. All she has to do is say yes.”
“Writing will make her happy, and maybe if she’s happy, she’ll come around sooner.”
“I should go.” Abruptly Marco glanced over his shoulder. “When I get up, I want you to take my rucksack.”
“Why?”
“It’s for your family.”
“What’s inside?”
Marco pushed his rucksack over with his foot. “Groceries and things.”
Sandro felt torn. His family needed the groceries, but he didn’t want to accept charity. “No, thanks. My family is my responsibility.”
“Please take it, Sandro. My father will kill me if I come home with that rucksack.”
“Tell him I insisted, then. We have money, and we barter. Everybody does. One of my father’s clients leaves us groceries in return for legal help.”
Marco pursed his lips, and Sandro read his expression, since Marco could never hide his emotions.
“Marco, are you the one who leaves the food at our door? And the money?”
“Yes, but don’t make it a big deal.”
Sandro felt grateful, but ashamed to need the help. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You wouldn’t have taken it.” Marco looked over his shoulder again, and Sandro realized what was going on.
“They know you’re helping us, don’t they? They’ve been watching you, haven’t they? We’re meeting at the Spanish Steps, where we never go, wearing these hats . . . I can’t let you do this.” Sandro took off the hat and pushed the rucksack back to Marco.
“Take the bag, please.”
“No, thanks.”
“On our friendship.” Marco rose. “Please. I have to leave. I can’t argue about it any longer.”
Sandro relented, with a sigh. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Good. My bike’s around the corner, and I don’t think I was followed. Nevertheless, wait five minutes, then go.”
“Goodbye, Marco. Stay safe.” Sandro watched Marco thread his way through the students, slip his orange hat into his back pocket, and vanish into the crowd.
Sandro heaved a deep sigh. He despaired that things had come to this, with his family struggling and Marco risking so much to help. It wasn’t the life he had foreseen for himself, Marco, or Elisabetta. He prayed that they would survive whatever the future held in store. It terrified him to think that the three of them were sliding toward war, into the gaping maw of a monster that could swallow them whole, like Jonah into the whale.
Sandro picked up the rucksack and left, heartsick.