CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Marco

Marco fell into step with his friend Rolf, and they walked along the Tiber on the Lungotevere dei Sangallo. Marco had been working around the clock at Palazzo Venezia, and he needed a break on such a nice day. The sun climbed high in a bright blue sky, and he always felt restored by the river, a natural oasis from noise, traffic, and worry. Tall palm trees lined the stone wall, which was set high above the riverbank. A damp, familiar breeze blew off the water, rustling their fronds.

He breathed in a fresh lungful, and Rolf sipped from his silver flask. The Nazi’s dimpled cheeks had a boyishness that women loved, though his fondness for beer gave him a belly that strained the buttons of his uniform. Otherwise Rolf had an athletic frame, having been a stellar soccer player in his hometown of Osnabrück, in northern Germany.

“You’re quiet, Marco,” Rolf said in German. He looked over, his narrow brown eyes shifting under the black patent bill of his cap. His lips, which were thin, formed a flat line, uncharacteristically so.

“I’m tired,” Marco answered, also in German. Rolf had taught him the language, and he had become fluent. But when he was tired, it felt effortful. “Do you mind if we speak Italian?”

“Not at all,” Rolf answered, switching languages easily. He spoke Italian like a native, thanks to Marco.

“My boss is driving me crazy. I really needed to get out today.”

“Here.” Rolf offered his flask to Marco, who shook his head no.

“My boss would smell it on my breath. He stands so close when he talks, I smell his garlic.”

“Mine would never know.” Rolf capped the flask.

“Germans don’t stand as close as Italians.”

“Genau,” Rolf said, which meant exactly, a word that Germans used as often as Italians used allora. He looked around, with a smile. “This is such a beautiful city.”

“It was better before,” Marco heard himself say, though he hadn’t realized he felt that way.

“How so?”

Marco fell silent, having seen so many changes in Rome since Italy had entered the war. The city functioned and stores remained open, but the lines for food and other necessities were endless, and Romans looked harried, their faces showing the strain. Everyone’s clothes were worn, and the military presence dominated the sidewalks and streets, with uniformed personnel and vehicles everywhere. He missed the carefree, pretty girls, walking this way and that, the lovers kissing at a café, and the noisy schoolchildren with gelato dripping over their fingers. Rome used to have brio, a life and spirit unique to this remarkable city, but it was gone.

“Marco?” Rolf asked, puzzled.

“It’s just different, that’s all.”

“Well, I love it here. When the war is over, I think I may move here, like von Weizsäcker. He loves Rome.”

Marco knew he meant Baron Ernst von Weizsäcker, the German Ambassador to the Vatican, who came to Palazzo Venezia from time to time. Weizsäcker genuinely liked Italians, in contrast to the Nazi brass, who carried themselves with an undisguised air of superiority. The entry of the United States into the war had gotten their attention, but the Nazis remained confident of victory.

“My boss is happy that things are going so well for us.”

“Are they?” Marco thought of his father, who was turning out to be right about one thing. There was a difference in the way you viewed the war, depending on whether you were German or Italian. “The Allied bombing is destroying southern Italy and Sicily. The Allies won’t let up.”

“They’re targeting the south because it supports the North African front.”

“Whatever the reason, it’s devastating to us.” Marco realized Rolf didn’t feel the same sympathy because Italy wasn’t his country.

“Look on the bright side. They haven’t bombed major cities like Rome, Venice, and Florence. I doubt they will.”

“But they bombed Genoa, and it’s a major city. Besides, my boss said it’s not only the targets the Allies are choosing, but the way they’re bombing. They’re flying more missions, dropping a greater volume of smaller bombs.” Marco had overheard a phone conversation the other day. “It’s a brutal, relentless campaign. There’s no food and no shelter. Italians are terrified. They didn’t expect any of this. They feel betrayed. They’re losing heart and belief in the war.” Marco heard himself saying they, but he was Italian, so it should have been we.

“The Allies are trying to get Italy to drop out, in order to weaken the Axis. They think Italy is the weak link.”

“We’re not,” Marco shot back, defensive.

“So then, it won’t work. Italy won’t quit.”

“Of course not,” Marco said, but he wasn’t certain. He had sensed a new tension in the air at Palazzo Venezia and an undercurrent of blame that led to all manner of backstabbing and second-guessing. His boss griped privately that Italy had entered the war unprepared and that Il Duce spent afternoons in his private bedroom with women, words that never would have been uttered before. Marco was beginning to question the most fundamental of Fascist precepts. Maybe Mussolini wasn’t always right.

“Let’s stop a minute.” Rolf took off his hat and rested it on the wall. He wiped sweat from his brow, making his short brown hair stick up.

Marco stood looking out at the Tiber, watching the moving current of the water. He loved its cloudy jade color and the little whitecaps of foam. He remembered those lazy, carefree days on the riverbank with Elisabetta, Sandro, and his classmates. It hurt his heart to think of it now.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.” Marco shrugged. “I used to do bike tricks on the riverbank, to impress a girl.”

“Did you get her?”

Marco thought that one over. “No.”

“Impossible to believe.” Rolf took out his pack of cigarettes and plugged one between his lips. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Marco wanted to keep Elisabetta in his past.

“Her loss, eh?”

Marco didn’t reply. Elisabetta was his loss, forever. His heartbroken gaze returned to the Tiber, then he spotted a group of men shoveling sand on the embankment, downriver. The men were naked to the waist, and some had bandannas on their heads as protection from the sun. One wore a hat made of folded newspaper.

Marco flashed on a memory. Elisabetta had worn a hat like that by the river, once. He found himself walking along the wall to get a closer look at the man.

“Where are you going?” Rolf lit his cigarette behind a cupped hand.

“I want to see what they’re doing, below.” Marco stopped when he got close enough. The man in the paper hat had gotten so much thinner, but Marco would have recognized him anywhere. It was Sandro.

Marco felt stricken. He had known that a Race Law compelled Ghetto Jews into forced labor, but he hadn’t focused on it before. It horrified him to think that his old friend, who was a bona fide genius, was digging like a common laborer. His heart ached with the love he had had for Sandro, which must have lain dormant until now.

Suddenly Sandro lifted his face and looked up at Marco, holding his gaze. Marco’s mouth went dry, and in that moment, he saw himself as Sandro saw him, a witness to his own actions, a Fascist standing with a Nazi. And Marco didn’t recognize himself.

Sandro resumed digging, but Marco experienced an epiphany. He didn’t know who he was anymore. He didn’t know what he had become. He had performed so well at Palazzo Venezia this past year, a rising star. But his father had been right about that, too; there were bosses on top of bosses, like a ladder that never ended. Marco didn’t know why he was climbing it anymore. He didn’t even know where it led.

He felt embittered with shame, for all that he had said and done, for all he had become. He had once told Sandro that he wasn’t his uniform, but he had been wrong. He had become his uniform, and now, he was disgusted with himself.

“Marco, do you know one of those guys?”

Marco blinked, shaken. “Yes. The one in the paper hat.”

“Who is he?” Rolf blew out a cone of cigarette smoke.

“My best friend.”

Rolf frowned. “Your best friend was a Jew?”

“Yes.” Marco averted his eyes. “Let’s go.”

“Where? Back to work?”

“I don’t know,” Marco answered, lost.