EPILOGUE

Elisabetta

May 1957

Elisabetta finished telling her son the story, and Sandro had listened with complete absorption, for he had inherited his father’s characteristic powers of concentration. She had begun the story from its earliest, on that afternoon by the Tiber when she had decided that Marco would be her first kiss, then had been kissed by Sandro. It had taken her most of the morning to tell the story, and she had ended it with the day that Marco had presented her with the reconditioned Olivetti. Her son had heard some of the stories before, but never in the context of finding out the truth about his paternity.

His expression had changed only slightly throughout, except he had burst into knowing laughter at the story of Marco climbing the pillar to retrieve the Fascist flag during the party at Palazzo Braschi, and a troubled frown had creased his young brow over the part about the gold of Rome and the rastrellamento of the Ghetto. Tears had filmed his warm brown eyes toward the end of the story, when Elisabetta had told him what had happened at the Modena train station, where Sandro had been killed saving Marco’s life, but he hadn’t cried, nor had she, remaining in emotional control for his benefit.

The sun streamed through the window of the dining room, filling it with a golden warmth. She liked having a large apartment, which they could afford thanks to Marco’s success with his Bar Terrizzis. Gnocchi slept on her chair at the table, though Rico had passed away, having lived a long and admirable life.

Elisabetta exhaled, with finality. “Well, that’s the whole story. I know it’s a lot to hear all at once, and some parts are very sad, but I wanted you to know the truth, now that you’re old enough. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Sandro nodded, moving a light brown curl from his forehead.

“And you understand that Sandro is your father, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Sandro nodded again, his lips set.

“I know you may feel strange, hearing that. Do you?”

“A little.” Sandro shrugged uncomfortably. “You and Papa talk about him, but I didn’t know that.”

“I understand. Now that you know, it doesn’t mean that Papa loves you any less. He loves you as his own son, and he always has, from when you were a baby. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, and I love Papa.” Sandro smiled, brightening, which reassured Elisabetta, as she had been worried that the revelation would cause distance between him and Marco.

“Now, do you want to ask me anything?”

Sandro hesitated. “Does this mean I’m Jewish?”

Elisabetta was ready for the question. “It means you have Jewish blood, and if you want to attend synagogue and learn about Judaism, Papa and I will support you. He should be home any minute.”

“Where is he?”

“At the market with Giuseppina. I needed greens for dinner.”

“Mamma, is that your book?” Sandro gestured to the manuscript, which Elisabetta had set at the far end of the table, next to the Olivetti.

“Yes.”

“Are you finished?”

“Yes,” Elisabetta answered, although even she couldn’t believe it was true. She had been working on the novel for seven years, writing in fits and starts after their daughter had been born.

“Brava, Mamma.” Sandro broke into a grin. “Is it good?”

“I hope so.”

“And the title is Eternal?”

“Yes.”

“Now will you tell me what it’s about? When I ask, all you ever say is it’s about families and love.”

“It is. It’s the story I just told you.”

“Can I read it?”

“Of course, I’d love for you to.” Elisabetta smiled, gratified that Sandro had inherited her love of books. He even helped Marco with his reading exercises, which they got from a specialist.

“Are you going to try and get it published?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Sandro blinked. “Is that why you’re telling me about my father now? Because you finished it?”

“Yes, I think so.” Elisabetta had asked herself that very same question. “It sounds strange, but I didn’t know the story in full until I told it to myself. You’re the first one to hear it, and that’s as it should be. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mamma.” Sandro jumped up and threw his arms around her neck, clinging to her a moment longer.

Elisabetta released him when they heard the front door open and Marco and Giuseppina entering with the sound of a jingling bicycle chain, since Marco kept his father’s Bianchi inside the apartment. Giuseppina was prattling on, an adorable little girl who had her father’s smile and her mother’s bocca larga, which had become more acceptable in modern times.

“Papa!” Sandro ran out of the dining room, and Elisabetta rose, too. She followed him into the living room to see her son throw himself into Marco’s arms, with more feeling than usual. She felt surprised, as Sandro had been fine only a minute ago, but his emotions must have come to the fore at the sight of Marco.

“Ciao, Sandro.” Marco hugged him back, catching Elisabetta’s eye with bewilderment.

“Marco, I told him about what happened during the war.”

Marco nodded, understanding. He released Sandro from their embrace, ruffling his hair. “So what do you think, son?”

“Papa, do you love me?” Sandro asked, then glanced at Giuseppina. “Even though, you know . . .”

“Of course, I do.” Marco placed his hands on Sandro’s shoulders and looked him directly in the eye. “Sandro, I love you, and that love makes me your father. I will always love you, and the man you’re named for would have loved you, too. He saved my life, and I loved him like a brother. He was a hero.”

“But you’re a hero, too. You went to save him.”

Marco managed a smile. “I don’t think I am.”

“I do,” Sandro shot back, hugging Marco again.

Tears filled Elisabetta’s eyes, and she understood how lucky she was to have been blessed with a wonderful marriage and a happy family. She realized in that moment that she never could have written about families and love, if she had not experienced the love of this very family. Her novel was their story, for every family has a story, and every family’s story begins with love. And uniquely, her family story began with two loves.

Elisabetta imagined her family story joining so many others, layering atop one another over time, a palimpsest of stories encompassing the world entire, a veritable history of humankind told by one generation to the next, building upon each other.

And all of them everlasting, with love.