It was July 15, 1941, when Mac took the Long Island Railroad to Port Washington with his clothes stuffed in a duffle bag, his grandmother's ring in his pocket, and the Luciano letter of introduction tucked neatly in his briefcase, for the long trip back to Italy. As the Dixie Clipper took off into the morning sun over Manhasset Bay, Mac closed his eyes to grab a short, well-deserved nap.
“Sir, oh sir,” said the steward to Mac, while giving him a little shake. “We are about to land, sir.”
“What? Where are we?”
“Almost to the Azores, sir. You slept the whole way, I am afraid. I did not have the heart to wake you for breakfast or lunch.”
“Oh, my! I guess I was more tired than I thought.”
“You are not very good company,” laughed the woman seated next to him.
“I am pretty hungry,” said Mac to the steward.
“You will have to wait until we re-fuel and take off again. I can give you some crackers in the meantime.”
“How about a drink?”
“I am afraid that will have to wait, as well,” said the smiling steward.
“I am Florence Gould,” said the woman sitting in the seat next to him, sticking out her hand for Mac to shake. “And what is your name, young fellow?”
“Mac Martin, ma’am. I apologize for being such poor company.”
“Don’t be silly. And don’t call me ma’am; it makes me feel old. Florence will do.”
“Very well, Florence.”
“You can have dinner when we take off, after refueling. I will let you buy me a glass of wine to make it up to me,” laughed the attractive older woman.
“What brings you to Europe, Florence?”
“I live there, Mac. I have a hotel on the Riviera, near Nice.”
“Oh!” laughed Mac. “You are a Gould, I get it. I know Jay. I believe I met him recently at the Roosevelt's, in Hyde Park.”
“My father-in-law. I am married to Frank, his son.”
“Ah, very nice.”
“Yes, an American by birth, a Parisian by choice, a Sud de la France a cause de la guerre.”
“Parlez-vous Francais?” asked Mac.
“Oui, mais oui!”
Mac and the woman chatted in French as the plane landed and took off again. Mac wined and dined the aristocrat the rest of the way to Lisbon, she is paying her way with delightful stories of Parisian salon life, her dalliances with Charlie Chaplin and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and life as a hotel empress. More importantly, she told Mac of life under Nazi rule, both in Paris, and in Vichy France. Mac made copious mental notes for his next report to the States.
Mrs. Roosevelt will love this one, pondered Mac to himself, as he checked out the long legs she had crossed under the dining table.
The two parted ways at the airport in Lisbon, Mac going on to Rome, Florence going on to Marseille. Mac promised to come see her, and her husband, of course, if and when the war would allow it.
Upon landing at Ciampino Airport in Rome, Mac took a cab directly to the Inn, hoping to catch Carla before she went home.
“Oh, Mac!” Carla burst into tears when she saw him. “Oh, Mac! I didn’t know if I would ever see you again!”
“I told you that I would be back, Carla. I was distraught every moment without you.”
The couple kissed passionately right in the middle of the dining room of the Inn, with customers still seated at their tables, with Signore Beaumonti standing in the doorway, and Signora Beaumonti drying her hands on a dish towel in the door of the kitchen. One of the women guests began to clap, causing them all to applaud, including the Beaumontis. Carla hid her face in Mac's shoulder, before venturing another quick kiss, to another round of applause.
“Mac, sit down. Let me feed you!” blushed the young girl.
“Let me go change my clothes and wash up. I will be right back. Bring me whatever is good.”
“It's all good, yelled Signora Beaumonti from the kitchen door, as the guests all laughed.
Mac returned to the dining room, as Carla brought out a thick slab of prime rib, with garlic orzo and broccoli. Signore Beaumonti brought him his single malt without being asked, and Signora Beaumonti once again stood in the kitchen door wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
“Carla, you are so beautiful!” said Mac, eying the young girl in her peasant, low-cut, serving dress. “God, did I miss you!”
“I missed you too, Mac. So much! Did you get something from your mother,” laughed Carla at her own impudence.
“Maybe,” said Mac, teasing the young girl. “You are the belle of Washington, by the way. Even the president commented on how beautiful you are!”
“Get out! What are you blabbering about?”
“Yes, apparently, everyone likes my photographs of the beach, with you in every one!”
“Oh, Mac, you didn’t?”
“No, no, the ones of you in your bathing suit. Everyone loves you!”
“Oh, Mac, I am so embarrassed. How did they know who I am?”
“Apparently, Ambassador Phillips.”
“Oh, my!”
“Everyone says I am a lucky man!”
“You needed everyone to tell you that?” laughed Carla.
“Of course not. I just hate sharing you!”
“I am all yours, forever! Forever!”
“I am all yours, Carla, forever!”
The two young lovers gazed into each other's eyes, while Mac ate his dinner, with Carla accepting bites off his fork. One drink led to another, before Mac started showing signs of a day and a half in the air. He kissed Carla goodnight, and he excused himself for the evening.
Mac got himself washed up and undressed for bed. A soft knock came at the apartment door, out in the living room. Mac went to answer the door in his boxers.
“Carla!” said Mac, pulling her into the open door. “What are you doing up here, kitten?”
“Mac, please, just a minute. Let me lay in your bed next to you. Just a minute, then I will leave.”
“Quick, come,” said Mac, closing the apartment door, wanting her next to him as much as she did.
He led her into the bedroom and pulled down the covers on the bed.
“For just a minute!” he offered, without any real conviction.
“Oh, Mac,” she cooed, as she pulled her dress up over her head. “Just a minute,” she said again, as she got under the covers with her man.
The warmth between them was more of a fire, as Carla ran her nails down Mac's chest, and he put his hands inside the back of her panties.
“Oh, Mac, you did miss me,” she cooed, as her hands wandered lower and lower.
“Carla, please, you must leave! Soon, kitten, soon! I cannot be without you!”
“You are sure, lover boy?” asked Carla, her hands still wandering around below the sheets.
“Yes, please, we have gone this far. Let's do this the right way! What would the Beaumontis say if they find you up here? What would Alberto say?”
“Oh, Mac,” Carla said despondently, as she gave Mac a good squeeze before she got up out of the bed. “It better be soon, Mac! I am busting inside!”
Mac walked Carla to the door as she straightened out her dress she had just put back on. They kissed once again, as Mac gave her a good squeeze goodnight himself.
The following day, Mac did his daily run through the ruins of ancient Rome, not stopping for breakfast, before going to the office.
“Teresa!” said Mac, as he got off the elevator on the sixth floor.
“Mac!” responded Teresa, running up to him with a big hug. “Welcome home, boss, you want coffee?”
“That would be great, Teresa. Bring it to me in my office. I need to talk to you about something.”
Mac went to his office, sat in his desk chair, and drew a Lucky Strike from the pack in his suit jacket pocket. He lit the cigarette, as Teresa walked into the office with his coffee.
“Have a seat, Teresa. Cigarette?”
“Uh oh, do I need one? Yeah, give me one,” she said, with Mac lighting it for her, and her blowing smoke to the ceiling. “What is it, Mac?”
“I want to marry your sister-in-law.”
“Oh my God, that is what this is all about? Of course, you want to marry my sister-in-law. She is wonderful!”
“What do I have to do, before I make another mistake?”
Teresa laughed with him, taking another drag off her cigarette, as Mac did on his.
“Do I go to Palombara to ask her father, or do I ask Alberto?”
“Oh, I see the issue,” said Teresa, taking another puff on her cigarette.
Just then, the office door burst open, and in walked Balsieri, apparently on his way to court.
“Mac, old boy! Welcome back,” said Balls. “What is this, a damn union meeting?”
“No, no,” laughed Mac. “I am going to ask Carla to marry me, Balls, and I am unsure whether I should ask permission from her father or from her brother.”
“Ask the brother first. The father is in Palombara, no? I know, ask the brother what to do,” laughed Balsieri.
“That sounds right,” said Teresa. “Tell Alberto you want to marry his sister and ask his permission. Then ask him if you should also ask her father. Alberto is more a stickler for respect than is Mr. DeFelice. They will both be thrilled anyway, as am I, Mac. You have my permission,” laughed Teresa.
“Would you tell Alberto that I would like to stop by to see him tomorrow in his office, please? I am sure he will know what I want, but it will give him a chance to think about it before I ask for his sister's hand in marriage.”
“Of course, Mac. I will tell him tonight before Carla gets home from work. He will not say anything to Carla.”
“Thank you, Teresa!”
“Congratulations, old boy,” said Balsieri. “Got to run, I’m late for court. Welcome back!”
“The congratulations are premature, Balls. Hopefully, she will say yes. I’m nervous.”
“Oh, Mac, she loves you with all of her heart,” offered Teresa.
“We’ll see, I guess.”
Mac spent the rest of the day at the Vatican, catching up on his work there, and meeting with Father Leiber. When he returned to the Inn, Carla had already left for the evening, not happy, according to Signore Beaumonti, as Mac did not make it for dinner. Signore Beaumonti brought out some leftovers, warmed up prime rib, and they shared a drink together.
“Do you love her?” asked Beaumonti.
“I do,” laughed Mac at the directness of the older man's question.
“Are you going to ask her to marry you?”
“Yes, I am. I need to get permission first. I’m not going to make that mistake again.”
“Do you have a ring? We have a diamond we are not using if you need one to give to Carla.”
“Oh, Signore Beaumonti, that is very nice, but I brought back my grandmother's engagement ring with me from America. Would you like to see it?” asked Mac, as he reached into his pocket pulling out the rolled-up tissue.
“Oh Madonna!” said the old man. “You keep it rolled up in a tissue? You might throw it out!”
“I won’t. It is the most important thing in my life right now,” said Mac, as he unrolled the tissue, showing Signore Beaumonti the engagement ring.
“Oh, Madonna, it is beautiful, Signore. Just beautiful! So big!”
“It was my mother's mother's. Over two carats, they tell me. Is that good?”
“Very, Signore, but who cares how big it is? It is the size of the heart that comes with it. She will love it, because it comes from you, Signore. When will you give it to her?”
“Soon, after I get permission from her family. Maybe this weekend!”
“God bless! Carla is a good girl. You are a good boy. You belong together!”
“Thank you, Signore Beaumonti, thank you!”
The following morning, Teresa told Mac that Alberto would expect him in his office early afternoon, and she gave him the address. Mac took a car to the Piazza Venezia, where Alberto had his office. Galeazzo Ciano, his boss, and Alberto, had their office in the same building as Mussolini, the Sala del Mappamondo. When Mac arrived, he immediately noticed the balcony where Italians would gather to hear Il Duce speak, which he had seen many times in photographs, and on newsreels back in the States.
Mac entered the building, finding Alberto's office on the first floor, according to the building directory.
“Signore Martini, Signore DeFelice is expecting you,” announced the pretty, buxom blond of obvious German heritage. “Let me show you the way,” said the woman as she winked at Mac, and before she sashayed down the hallway.
“Mac, welcome back,” said Alberto, as the young lady brought Mac into his office, closing the door behind her as she left.
“Nice receptionist, Alberto.”
“Ciano's Amanté, what can I say? He thinks he scores points with the Nazis having one of their spies here in the office with us.”
“Alberto, I have a request of you?”
“Sit down, Mac, before you fall down.”
“Sorry. I must admit, I am nervous.”
“Go ahead, Mac.”
“Alberto, I would like to marry your sister. I have come to ask for your permission. I am not sure if I should ask you, or go up to Palombara, to ask your father for his daughter's hand. I do not want to make a mistake of etiquette again.”
“Mac, of course, you have my permission. Welcome to our family, brother. You can ask my father when you see him to make him feel good, but go ahead, and ask Carla.”
“Thank you, Alberto. I am thrilled to have you as a brother.”
“As I am to have you as a brother, Mac. But remember what you promised me!”
“I will always take care of your sister with my life, Alberto. I love her with all my heart.”
“Thank you, Mac. It is a relief to me to know that she is in good hands, no matter what happens with this stupid war. Please get her out of here if it should happen, I mean between our two countries. She belongs with you, her husband, in America.”
“Do you know something, Alberto? You sound awful morose about it.”
“Not specifically, Mac, but things will get more difficult soon, I expect. The United States will be drawn into this thing, whether they want to, or not.”
“How do you know that?”
“It is the Japanese, Mac. They are chomping at the bit, and they have no sense.”
“Alberto, you are talking in riddles. What do you know?”
“I will be right back, Mac. I must use the restroom,” said Alberto, nodding toward the papers on his desk with his chin.
As Alberto left the room, Mac stood up, scanning the papers on his future brother-in-law's desk upside down, as lawyers are prone to do. There he saw a letter from the Emperor of Japan to Adolph Hitler, a copy to Mussolini. Mac tried to read the letter upside down, but the meaning was unclear. It said that the Imperial Forces of Japan will strike “at their foes” in the coming months, and that they were giving notice to their Axis partners that war will ensue, and that they would expect, as per their pact, for them to declare war as well. While the letter did not mention the United States, the intent was very clear.
Mac pulled his matchbox camera out of his trouser pocket, snapping pictures of the two-page document. As he never used the camera before, he was hoping that he was doing it properly. He finished his work, sitting back down in his chair.
“Do you see what I am talking about?” said Alberto, as he came back into the room. “Promise me, you will get my sister out of here if the worst should happen.”
“I promise, Alberto. What about Teresa, and yourself?”
“She is not married to an officer of the United States Navy, Mac! If things get bad here, I will take her to my parents’ home. No one will come to Palombara Sabina looking to fight. Who wants to climb that hill?”
“I must take this back to my people, Alberto. You understand that?”
“Do what you have to do, Mac.”
“Thank you, Alberto. I think, under the circumstances, we should marry as soon as possible.”
“Assuming she says yes,” laughed Alberto.
“Oh, don’t even say that. I am nervous enough, as it is.”
“I am kidding. She could not live without you. At least I will get her out of my house! Where are you going to ask her?”
“I thought it might be nice to take her up to Florence this weekend, for the day, of course.”
“Very nice, she will love that. You have my permission to take my sister to Florence to propose, but you better get Carla home by her curfew,” laughed Alberto.
“Of course, I wouldn’t think of doing anything else.”
The brothers got up to hug and pat each other on the back. They reassured each other that they would always be there for one another. Mac left Alberto's office with a tear in his eye, as he walked down the Piazza Venezia, thinking about the war that was coming.
He went directly to the Ambassador's office to drop off the film in his matchbox camera, with instructions to get it to Washington immediately.