The Incident at Montebello

PART I

MONTEBELLO, ITALIA

SEPTEMBER 1932

PROLOGUE

The three men from Montebello had never seen a machine so fast or so beautiful before. They were smoking near the bridge in an oasis of shade because the summer heat had lingered that year, exhausting nearly everyone except a few children who shrieked and laughed in the stream just beyond the road. In this swelter the men could do little more than start conversations and idly drop them like the ashes flicked from their cigarettes, until one of the policemen glanced down into the valley where pillows of dust were rising from a lone car, speeding past donkeys, ramshackle cottages, and peasants with sun-dried faces, stubbornly farming in the shadow of Monte Vesuvio. He pointed.

The fruit seller crushed out his cigarette and swore that the car was faster than the train he had taken once to Roma. The policeman whistled, recognizing the Fiat 514 Mille Miglia and its driver dressed in black because he was often photographed at the auto races in Monza.

What’s he doing around here? the officer asked.

He’s lost. He was looking for the Coliseum and he took a wrong turn, the fruit seller said.

He rolled on top of her, his face just inches away, blocking out the sun. Making a game of it, he brushed his lips against hers and then pulled back, stirring her hunger, robbing her of her breath. Isolina shut her eyes and the world fell away—the blue swatch of sky, the cicadas whirring in the grass, and the flattop mountain capped with a cloud of steam. When Rodi convinced her to climb up the embankment and stretch out in the field with him, he made her forget her brothers and cousin playing by the stream, he made her forget practically everything, except his mouth and hands cradling her face.

Still, she heard a committee of nuns and priests whispering in her ear, Have children. That’s what they said to the girls too poor to finish school. But she didn’t want to end up like her mother—stuck in Montebello with a houseful of babies, so she managed to whisper, Come to America with me. Say yes, Rodi, why don’t you? But instead of answering, he slid his hands over her breasts and pressed his hips against hers until a low vibrato echoed between them—insistent, sly, bone-to-bone. Helpless against it, she kissed him until shouts broke through the silence.

Wait, she told him, pushing hard against his chest until he rolled off her, sighing. Staggering to her feet, she stumbled to the edge of the clearing and peered down the hill. Through the fringe of trees, she glimpsed the children running and shrieking through the stream. Sofia’s blue dress appeared and disappeared in the bands of sunlight.

I should go, she said.

So go.

I don’t want to.

He laughed and reached for her hand, but she knotted her fingers and stepped back even though it broke her heart for he was truly magnificent, worthy of being painted on a ceiling in Roma: his bold nose as fierce as a falcon’s, his eyes as black as watermelon seeds, and his tender lips, curving easily into a smile or a kiss—all that framed by a tumble of brown hair as soft as wool, curling over his forehead and neck, begging to be stroked, begging to be coiled around her fingers. But she couldn’t stay and he knew it because she was an unmarried girl who didn’t have much besides her reputation. So when she told him, Don’t follow me, don’t let anyone see you, he sighed again, planted a kiss in her palm and plunged into the tall grass, his head bobbling over the stalks of alfalfa rippling towards the abandoned soap factory and the Via Franca.

She took the longer way down the hill, but she couldn’t stop thinking of him and his touch, making her body judder with love and longing, fusing them into one word—Rodi. Even as she neared the stream, her mind was still fixed on him until the church bells clanged in the distance making her blink and start as if awakened from a deep sleep. Only then did she remember the children. Only then did she shout their names, but they were not by the stream. They were not under the trees.

The men left Roma early that morning. For two hundred windswept kilometers the Italian talked, one hand on the steering wheel, the other beating the air. Veering off the highway in Ercolano, they climbed into the mountains, Monte Vesuvio looming on the horizon. At the side of the road, stone markers signaled the fiery reach of the lava, which had smothered every rock, tree and farm in sight in 1872, 1906, and 1929. The American shivered, but Benito Mussolini, the Italian head of state with a fondness for racecars, was immune to the ashes and mud. He swept his arm across the horizon. "The italiani men do not know the fear. We go and make the progress. We let the women cry the hot tears."

But Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr. wasn’t deceived by the grazing sheep or the rustics trudging behind oxen in cobbled patches of green and gold. Dressed in black, they were smudges against the bright landscape except for the tremors of light from the crosses around their necks and a few capped teeth. He knew they stayed because they were poor; only the rich had choices. But even a family fortune had not insulated him from a different shame and despair.

Benito Mussolini took credit for the lush soil, improved crop yields, and the stark beauty of the countryside and his people. Jabbing his finger towards the volcano, he said, "You see, nothing can stop the italiani people, even the great Vesuvio." And then he laughed, showing off his teeth as strong and square as little shovels.

Vanderbilt nodded and smiled. He had given up contradicting the Italian.

The motorcar surged through a village, rising out of the rock and rubble of the surrounding hillsides. Beyond the bridge and the sharp curve in the road, barefoot children were waving and tossing flowers. Vanderbilt was still smiling when a little girl dashed into the road, trying to keep pace with the car. She was no more than a flash of dark hair, a blue dress, and skinny arms. Mussolini swerved, but in the next moment, the car shuddered, its wheels rising and falling. To his horror, Vanderbilt glimpsed the child crumpled in the dust. Someone’s hurt.

Mussolini clamped his hand on the millionaire’s knee. What’s one life in the affairs of a State?

But it’s a child.

Mussolini rammed the accelerator and Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr. gripped the dashboard. Underneath his fawn kid gloves, the knuckles of the shocked millionaire were most definitely white.

When they heard the wail of the brakes and the screams, the policemen ran, reaching the children ahead of the fruit seller. The barefoot boys weren’t hurt, but the girl in the blue dress was sprawled in the road, her legs crushed, her blood seeping across the cobblestones.

Officer Pullucca wrapped Sofia in his jacket and carried her to Dottore di Matteo’s, and Officer Pazzarini followed him with the boys cradled in each arm. The streets were hushed. Even the dogs were quiet, sniffing the air, their ears flat against their skulls.

Santa Maria! the doctor’s maid cried, making the sign of the cross when she opened the door and saw the boys crying for their mother, and Sofia, so still—her skin smeared with grease and dirt, her curls matted with blood. "Che disastro. The doctor is visiting a patient in Grappone and won’t be back until suppertime."

Officer Pullucca’s legs were weakening. He imagined the child’s mother sewing in innocent silence in her dress shop, and how in one horrible moment her peace and contentment would shatter. Tell the doctor to hurry, he said, his voice rising. Tell him Sofia was hit by a car and left in the road like a wounded animal. Tell him we know who’s to blame.

Officer Pazzarini cut him off. These children need their mothers, he said, his eyes flashing a warning. And so, after a long pause, the men trudged down the Via Condotti.

Through the trees Isolina saw it all—the car roaring towards the children, her cousin’s foolish dash towards the road, the blast of the horn as the fender smacked against Sofia’s legs, jerking her forward and trapping her under the grill. Long after the car sped away, Sofia’s screams cut through the stillness. Swaying, Isolina fell to her knees, her head bowed. Dear God, she whispered. Dear God.

When she looked up, the policemen were carrying the children away and the fruit seller was left standing in the middle of the road, smeared with blood. Yanking his cap off his head, he rubbed the brim between his fingers. When a cry escaped from her mouth, he turned and squinted in her direction, but she could only stare at him, her eyes filling with tears, her knuckles pressed against her mouth. Tiberio slipped the cap on his head and strode towards her, shoving her deeper into the woods.

What are you doing? she demanded, but he said nothing until they reached the stream.

In a hoarse whisper, he told her, You didn’t see it.

But I did, Tiberio. I wish I hadn’t. But I did.

No, you didn’t, he repeated. It’s too dangerous. Do you understand me?

She nodded.

Now go home. Take the back way through the trees, so no one sees you.

She hesitated, but he pushed her towards the grassy slope where moments before she was stretched out with Rodi, where moments before her heart quickened with happiness.

CHAPTER 1

Isolina staggered down the crooked streets, cut by shadows. Her house on the Via Condotti, usually a jumble of inefficiency filled with shouting boys, steaming pots, and her mother’s prayers for divine mercy, was oddly hushed. Her heart pounding, she headed further down the street to Sofia’s house, jammed with relatives, neighbors, policemen, and the priest. Looking grim, her father and uncles stood by the door, caps in hand. Isolina’s mother Amelia was already wailing, but her grandmother silenced her with a few sharp words.

Amelia grabbed Isolina’s sleeve. Where were you? You were supposed to be watching the children. Your brothers are all right, thank God, but your cousin Sofia… She broke off, tears falling.

Isolina remembered Tiberio’s warning and lowered her eyes. I’m sorry mamma, but I fell asleep by the stream. When I woke up, the children were gone.

Her grandmother stood next to Amelia like a big shadow. She was dressed in black, as always, and a silver cross slid back and forth across her chest like a finger raised in warning not to do this or that as if she were still teaching school. Sleep? How could you sleep? Those children are never quiet, Nonna Angelina said.

Isolina lifted her chin, meeting Nonna Angelina’s gaze. The sun was so warm I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Nonna Angelina’s lips were pressed together in a disbelieving line, but Isolina stuck to her story even though her lies made her queasy with guilt.

God is punishing us, Amelia said, shaking her head. Wiry hairs escaped from her topknot, which slid to the left and right. I dreamt last night my teeth were falling out and everyone knows that’s a bad sign. But I didn’t say a word to anyone. Who would believe me? But look, it’s come true.

Years before, Amelia had sacrificed her prettiness and youth for her boys, all six of them, and Isolina, the oldest. Even though she was expecting another child in a few months, her squat, plump body looked no different to Isolina.

Edging past a throng of women murmuring about Sofia’s misfortune and the evil eye, Isolina glimpsed her cousin, so pale and lifeless, stretched out on the kitchen table and her Aunt Lucia mechanically stroking Sofia’s curls. Her steps slowed and then stopped as her eyes darted over Sofia, her spine crushed by the wheels, her leg bones snapped like kindling, her skin ripped raw and bloody by the gravel and rocks. Even her dress with the Peter Pan collar, which Lucia had lovingly embroidered with daisies, was in tatters. Tremors rattled through Isolina, climbing up her legs and through her chest, so she could barely squeeze out, Zia Lucia.

When Lucia’s eyes finally swept over her, Isolina kissed her on both cheeks, but Lucia treated her like a stranger. My daughter needs me, she said, before turning away, her beautiful face frozen in grief.

Hours passed. Word came that the doctor was delayed in Grappone.

Do something, Lucia begged the midwife. So, Cecilia Zanotti, who doubled as the town witch, chanted a spell and slipped the powerful cimaruta charm around Sofia’s neck. Not to be outdone, the priest lit a candle and read from the Book of Job. Afterwards, Isolina’s relatives murmured among themselves, arguing whether their preferred method of treatment—prayer or sorcery—was more effective.

Still, Sofia’s lips were fading. Isolina didn’t have her mother’s faith. She was quite certain only a miracle would save her cousin and God wasn’t likely to grant her one. She gripped Amelia’s sleeve. She’s going to die, mamma, if we don’t do something.

Pray, Amelia replied, pulling out her rosary. Her fingers climbed the beads as if they were rungs on a ladder leading to heaven.

Fear and hopelessness caught in Isolina’s throat. She could do nothing to save Sofia and this horrified her as much as her guilt. Her mind leapt back to just hours before when Sofia was playing in a pool of sunshine on the dress shop floor. When she had grown tired of drawing pictures and designing outfits for her doll with strips of cloth, she climbed into Isolina’s lap, fingered the ribbon tied to Isolina’s braid and brushed it against her cheek. Even now, Isolina could still see her curls, big brown eyes and mouth that was petal pink and rarely stopped moving. And she could almost feel the weight and warmth of her and inhale the scent of her hair, which smelled as fresh as summer grass. Play with me, Sofia had begged, but in a fit of impatience, Isolina pushed her off her lap. Can’t you see how much work your mamma and I have to do? she said, ignoring Sofia’s mouth scrunched into a knot.

Isolina choked back a cry and took refuge in the parlor amidst Lucia’s collection of alabaster angels poised on the mantel and leather-bound books in French, containing suspicious ideas and romantic foolishness, according to Nonna Angelina who used them as evidence that Lucia couldn’t be trusted.

By the fireplace, one of the policemen was whispering to the priest, who nodded, his black berretta quivering on his bald head. As she walked closer, she heard the policeman say, That big shot from Roma has no heart. How else could he leave a child to die like a dog in the middle of the road?

She didn’t have a chance to puzzle over this for long because the priest caught sight of her and murmured to the officer, This is best saved for the confessional. He grasped her by the shoulders and said, How unfortunate Sofia was in your care when she was hurt.

She swiped away tears, but others followed, running down her cheeks. Padre Colletti handed her the handkerchief tucked into his sleeve. As she wiped her eyes, she told him, "It’s my fault, padre. And I can’t do anything to help her."

Of course you can, dear child. A wise person turns to the Lord in a time of need. He’s a balm to all wounds. He soothes the soul, even the most troubled one.

Isolina nodded, her throat squeezed tight.

At last, the doctor arrived, handing his imperious hat to Nonna Angelina who ordered everyone from the kitchen except Lucia, of course, and Isolina, who was given the task of boiling water and making bandages. Working fast with a pair of scissors, she slashed a pillowcase into strips, but her eyes flickered over Sofia, naked and shivering on the table, and her aunt scrutinizing the doctor who pressed leeches on Sofia’s arms.

Lucia stopped him. Won’t that weaken her? she asked, startling the doctor whose authority was rarely questioned—at least to his face.

Of course not, he explained. It’s advantageous to bleed the patient to eradicate the bad blood.

But she’s lost a lot of blood already, Lucia said.

"I suggest you stick to sewing clothes, signora. It’s what you know best."

It’s just common sense.

Dottore di Matteo reached for his bag. In that case, I’ll leave her in your care.

Nonna Angelina touched his arm and Isolina flinched, dreading what was coming next. Her grandmother was about to deliver one of her blunt opinions—which she dispensed often and with great satisfaction. She told the butcher he didn’t know how to debone a chicken. She told the baker his oven was too hot. She told the priest to add organ music to his Sunday services so he’d draw a bigger crowd. But the doctor was different. For years he had treated her for a variety of ailments, real and imagined, and she greatly respected his erudition and skill. My daughter-in-law is in shock, she insisted. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Without a doubt, you’re the finest doctor in the South.

That might not be far from the truth. Isolina knew only one other physician practicing within fifty kilometers and he was a drunk.

I know perfectly well what I’m saying, Lucia said, but Nonna Angelina silenced her with a fierce whisper.

You can be sure my son is going to hear about this.

Everyone in town knew that for the past four years Nonna Angelina and her son Donato exchanged letters nearly every day between Montebello and Boston. To his wife Lucia, he wrote considerably less.

Dottore di Matteo pressed his lips together in a faint smile as he pulled off the leeches and re-packed his bag. If she makes it through the night, it will be a miracle, he said. It’s in God’s hands now. Just keep her warm and comfortable. Pray to God to have mercy on her soul.

There’s no need to worry about her soul, Lucia shot back. She’s closer to God and the angels than you or I will ever be.

Once again, Nonna Angelina apologized, but Lucia turned away, her eyes fixed on Sofia, who was still shivering. As Lucia wrapped her in a blanket, she whispered, Take me, dear Mother of God. Not her. My sweet flower.

Isolina shivered too. Put on a sweater, child, Nonna Angelina said. The temperature’s starting to drop.

At midnight, the priest dipped his thumb in oil and pressed it against Sofia’s forehead, making the sign of the cross. As he murmured the Latin prayer for the dying, his voice rose on the final "…quidquid deliquisti, Amen."

With that, nearly everyone went home, exclaiming about the abrupt end of summer. Just the midwife and Isolina lingered, helpless witnesses to Sofia and Lucia’s pain. In desperation, Isolina seized a broom and started sweeping, but the midwife shook her head and pointed to Lucia, still cradling Sofia and humming lullabies to her little girl who drew in ragged breaths, her chest heaving with the effort.

In the cheerless stretch before dawn, Lucia’s eyes fluttered shut and the midwife dozed in a chair near the stove, but Isolina’s mind kept spinning in guilty circles. Even a whisper of a thought—Rodi’s lips pressing against hers—brought tears to her eyes because from this day forward her love for him and sadness were irreparably intertwined.

Her limbs were heavy, craving sleep. As she sank onto the rug in front of the fire, Lucia’s brown and white dog crawled out from under the table and settled down next to her with a sigh. Looping her arm around its neck, she rested her head against its fur, comforted by its warmth and the rhythmic rising and falling of its chest. She struggled against sleep and lost, sinking into a well of forgetfulness until the fire flared and a piece of wood broke off with a shower of sparks, startling her and Lucia.

As Lucia blinked and glanced around the room, she noticed Isolina curled up on the rug. Why are you still here? she demanded.

Isolina lurched to her feet. "I can’t leave you, zia."

Go, Lucia insisted. You don’t belong here. I need to be alone with my daughter.

Stricken, Isolina could simply stand there until the midwife grasped her arm and led her deeper into the shadows lapping around the room. You can’t help her now, no one can, she whispered. As Isolina seized the doorknob and twisted it, Sofia took one great, shuddering breath. The dog sniffed the air and howled.

CHAPTER 2

Elio Sardolini was escorted through Montebello in handcuffs. The prisoner calculated distances: the town was two hundred kilometers from Roma and fifty years behind the times. No electricity, telephones, or cars. Half-naked children splashed in a puddle by the village well and stone houses tippled and sagged against each other like drunken men. In the distance, Vesuvio smoked and threatened. No wonder the ancients called this spot the Valle dell’ Inferno, the entrance to Hades.

He wanted to linger in the sun-lit piazza where men gathered around a funeral poster of a little girl, but his guards tugged him towards a fountain on the far side of the square. Sardolini licked his lips. When the guards unlocked his handcuffs, he plunged his hands into the pool of water and splashed his face. In the middle of his long drink, a farmer stopped to water his flea-bitten donkey. The guards howled when Sardolini and the animal lifted their heads, water running off their chins.

The younger guard, nicknamed Pigro, told his partner Guzzo, They could be brothers.

Guzzo jerked his thumb in Sardolini’s direction. He’s the smarter one. But not by much. And he’s more stubborn and thick-headed.

Just like all those goddamn anti-Fascists, Pigro said.

Sardolini managed a wry smile. No doubt half his family would be divided on the same subject. Years before, his father had warned him that fighting the Fascists would bring him no victory, no glory, and possibly even death. Being young and foolish, he hadn’t listened. He told the guards, Time will tell who’s the smarter one. I suspect it’s our friend here. He rested his hand on the donkey’s flank.

Instead of reporting immediately to the police, his hungry guards got directions to a caffè off the piazza, which was empty except for the owner Mosca who was washing dishes behind the bar, a long ash dangling from his cigarette. If you want something to eat, you’re out of luck, he said.

Pigro reached for the doorknob, but Guzzo, with a stomach as round as a tire, peered over the bar and gestured to the stove in the corner. What’s in the pot over there?

Just a little soup.

Do you have some bread to go with it?

Mosca hesitated and jutted his chin toward Sardolini. What about him? I don’t want any trouble.

"He’s a politico." Pigro shrugged as if that explained everything.

Poor bastard, Mosca muttered. Does he get to eat?

Sure, Guzzo said. "The politici can’t live on ideas and talk, no matter what they say."

Mosca laughed.

After they sat down, Mosca brought them some scamorza cheese, a basket of pane rustica bread, smoked prosciutto, bowls of soup, and wine. Sardolini reached for the warm bread and took greedy bites.

The guards wolfed down their soup and never stopped talking. The last train’s at seven, Guzzo said. We’d better be on it.

Pigro jerked his thumb at Sardolini. He gets to stay in this hell hole for three years. Poor bastard.

Guzzo licked butter off his fingers. Well, at least he won’t starve.

Watch out for the women, Pigro warned Sardolini. They’re on the lookout for a fellow like you—someone who’s single, not so bad looking, and knows how to count to ten.

The younger ones aren’t so bad, Guzzo said. At least they’ve got teeth. But the older ones are all witches. One of them will get a piece of your hair and cast a spell on you and you’ll never leave.

Sardolini shrugged as the men chuckled. In truth, he was so ensnared in guilt, he hadn’t even thought of another woman for months, but he had to protect his pride. You may be right, he told the guards. But I’d rather share my pillow with a witch than go back to jail with you ugly fellows.

The men smirked and poured the last bit of wine.

After turning Sardolini over to the chief of police, his guards made their exit. Sardolini glanced around Prefetto Balbi’s office on the second floor of the town hall, which was fit for a baron with its wood cabinets, leather chairs, massive desk, and bird’s-eye view of the piazza. To Sardolini’s surprise, an electric lamp blazed on Prefetto Balbi’s desk, tinting his face and papers a sallow yellow. Beyond the fringe of light, four guards scrutinized him. Judging by their looks, these tough louts were sons of poor, local farmers. Instead of Fascist uniforms, they wore mismatched pants and shirts, all black. One of them had slipped a hunting knife into his belt and another had knotted a scarf around his throat, partially concealing a vivid scar. On a signal from Balbi, two farm boys grabbed Sardolini, shoved him across the room, and stood guard on either side of him.

Balbi walked around the desk. His uniform jacket with double rows of brass buttons fit well over his shoulders, but strained at the waist and hips. The police chief squinted at Sardolini, whose time in prison had sharpened his powers of perception and taught him to be a quick judge of character. He had classified the Fascists into three types: The sadists—who used their power to intimidate and humiliate the underdogs and puff themselves up. He dreaded them the most. The opportunists—who joined the Fascist Party to advance their careers. Balbi’s office surely gave credence to that possibility. And the chameleons—the least threatening of the three, who played it safe by touting the party line while trying to save their own skin.

When the police chief loomed close, Sardolini started to sweat. Well, see here, Signor Sardolini, he said, poking the skinny politico in the chest. I’m up to my neck with paperwork from the higher ups in Roma, so I don’t want any trouble from you. Here are the rules. He enumerated each directive with a jab against Sardolini’s breastbone. "One. You must stay within the boundaries of the town. The graveyard to the north and the bridge to the south. Two. You must register with me every morning and evening. Failure to do so won’t be treated lightly. Three. You may write letters, but you must bring them to me unsealed so I can read them. And four. You are forbidden to practice your profession or engage in any political activity. Do you understand?"

Sardolini had heard nothing about jail, which was certainly good news. The town was probably too poor to build one. He gave Balbi a firm nod. Still, he had to ask, But if I can’t work, how will I eat?

You’re educated. You’ll figure it out.

And where will I live?

Ask around. Someone is sure to have a room to rent.

Can you give me some names?

If you have money, they’ll find you. And with that, he took refuge behind his desk.

On a signal from Balbi, the guards released him with a shove. He stumbled downstairs, sickened by his forced obedience. Without a doubt, Balbi and his militia would keep him on a short leash, effectively guaranteeing his submission. Perhaps, he was more closely related to the donkey in the piazza than he had thought.

Stepping outside, he plunged into a wall of people, filling the piazza with somberness and gloom. At first he supposed they had gathered to honor one of the saints in endless supply in the South, but then he glimpsed a horse-drawn cart with a small coffin blanketed with lilies and blood-red carnations. Behind it, a tattered band straggled, the vibrant wails from their trumpets and clarinets swirling though the air. Immediately following, a throng of women, shrouded in black, shrieked and beat their chests with their fists. Some of them tore at their dresses, ripping off buttons and lace collars.

A slim woman caught his eye. She wasn’t dressed like the others. Her stylish suit with wide lapels, tapered waist, and flared skirt belonged in the Piazza del Duomo in Firenze. Even her shoes with square toes and heels were mail ordered from some other fashionable place. His eyes lingered on the strong and angular lines of her face—he could capture it in a few brush strokes. But he’d never come close to expressing her beauty and that indefinable something in her eyes—part intelligence, part sorrow—which made him shiver.

As she passed him, she stumbled. He stretched out his arms towards her, but several women rushed forward and seized her by the elbows. Then she was swallowed up in a crowd of men and solemn-faced children carrying funeral posters of the girl with a bow in her hair. At the end of the procession, a priest shambled past with a cluster of boys and girls, his black-tasseled berretta swaying as he shepherded them down the street.

Sardolini turned to an old man leaning heavily on a cane. His neck and hands were speckled with moles, some as big as coins. What happened? How’d she die?

The villager eyed him warily. Run over by a car.

A car? Here?

The man shrugged. You’re a stranger here. What do you know?

Apparently, not enough.

Good. Keep it that way. Let the dead bury the dead.

He had no idea what the man meant, but he knew it was a warning to leave well enough alone. After all he had been through in the past year, he should have learned the dangers of sticking his neck out. Still, he was curious. Questions on his lips, he turned to the man, but he had disappeared.

CHAPTER 3

ROMA, ITALIA

A bullet stopped Mussolini in mid-sentence. A moment before, he was delivering his Sunday speech on the balcony of the Palazzo Chigi, his people spread out beneath him in the piazza, their faces upturned like a field of sunflowers. From a distance, they were beautiful to him.

He paused, hands on hips while they chanted, Fight, win, obey. Pleased, he extended his hand towards them and swept the air in a grand arc the way a father might to his sons or a general might to his troops in a display of pride and triumph, acknowledging that this moment in time, in history belonged to them all—well, almost all, except for those slackers and laggers in his administration hovering behind him. Ignoring them, he raised his hand and jutted out his chin and chest, a signal for silence from the crowd.

He shook a warning finger. We have to watch our backs. Do I need to tell you why? That’s right. Our neighbors to the north and west are building up their armies. Britain is suspicious of our power and wants us to stay within our borders.

The crowd booed. He nodded and stuck out his bottom lip. So now I ask you, how can we trust them? They stabbed us in the back at Versailles. They stole our land, our pride. For years, we kept quiet. We licked our wounds. But, enough of that. We’re ready. The great power of the Caesars is stirring inside us. When the time is right, we will act. For we are not cowards. We are men.

The crowd roared, Duce, Duce, Duce.

He frowned and jerked his chin up and down. That’s right. We’re men who aren’t afraid to fight, we’re men who aren’t afraid… Then, in a flash, pain gripped his arm and he staggered backwards amidst the