Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“Julia...”

“Renato?”

“Yes, darling?”

“ Chiaviamoci ,” she whispered.

The Piazza Venezia was thronged with thousands of people carrying crude caricatures and hand-lettered banners. Men in Black Shirt uniforms walked in tight groups down the center of the Corso Umberto toward the square. The students of Rome University had left their classrooms and combined in noisy groups, parading through the city, marching past the United States Consulate on the Via Vittorio Veneto, picking up the frenzy that had begun in the Chamber of Deputies the day before, demanding Italian rights to Corsica, and Nice, and Savoy, and Tunisia. Black-shirted, black-tunicked, their bright silk scarves flapping about their throats, they surrounded the French Embassy and pushed against the restraining lines of the carabinieri , and then converged on the square where il Duce’s balcony was hung with the Italian flag and the Fascist flag, where Renato and Julia tried to find space for themselves against the crush of people.

She glanced up at the balcony, caught in the press of sweating humans, saw the microphone awaiting il Duce , felt an electric excitement in the air, something quite apart from the excitement she ordinarily felt with Renato. There were men in shabby suits and caps, women in house dresses with sweaters thrown over them, students in their brightly colored Pied Piper hats covered with insignia, “ Il Gruppo Universitario Fascista ,” Renato explained, and men selling ices, and over it all the current in the air. It could have been this way when Caesar spoke to the people of ancient Rome, she thought, it could have been this.

“ Duce! Duce! Duce! Duce! ” the crowd began to chant.

They carried banners with il Duce’s image, the familiar black-and-white drawing that stared down from every vacant wall in the nation, the leader in his black eagled helmet, wearing epaulets on his shoulder, the strong jaw, the eyes in deep shadow beneath the helmet, the mouth firm and sensuous, the words CREDERE, OBBEDIRE, COMBATTERE beneath the drawing. They milled noisily in the square, and those in the black shirts began clapping, and the applause spread to the rest of the crowd as they turned their eyes and their faces toward the balcony, applauding the microphone there. “ Duce, Duce, Duce, Duce ,” they chanted, and suddenly he appeared! A tumultuous welcome went up from the crowd, the applause rose wildly. The cheering deafened Julia. She put both hands over her ears, lowered them only when it seemed he was ready to speak. He was wearing the uniform of a corporal of honor in the Black Shirt Militia. A field hat was tilted at a rakish angle over his forehead. He raised his arms and the crowd fell silent.

“ Duce! Duce! ” a lone Black Shirt voice cried, and then was still.

“Officers,” he began, “noncommissioned officers, soldiers, Black Shirts, and people of Rome,” and his voice was drowned out by renewed shouting.

“Tunisia!” a group of students yelled.

“Corsica!” from across the square.

“Savoia!”

Il Duce held up his hands, and the square was silent again. He leaned into the microphone. “Tomorrow,” he said, “on the plains of Volturara, before His Majesty, Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy and Emperor of Ethiopia, will pass more than sixty thousand men, two hundred tanks, four hundred pieces of heavy artillery, three thousand machine guns, and twenty-eight hundred armored cars. This aggregation of men and means is imposing, but it represents, at most, a modest and almost insignificant total compared with the total of men and means on which Italy can surely count.

“I invite Italians to take absolutely to heart this declaration of mine. Not despite the African war, but as a consequence of the African war, all the armed forces of Italy today are more efficient than ever. At any time, in the course of a few hours and after a simple order, we can mobilize eight million men. The Italian people should know that their internal peace will be protected and with it the peace of the world.”

The students and the Black Shirts were restless. They had come here for amplification of Ciano’s statement, had come here to learn whether or not Italy truly attempted to press claims on French lands, of whether the uproar yesterday had all been staged. So far, il Duce had told them nothing they did not already know.

“With the most crushing of victories,” il Duce said, “in one of the most just wars, Italy’s with war in Africa, has acquired an immense, rich, imperial territory where for many decades she will be able to carry out the achievements of her labors and of her creative ability. For this reason, but only for this reason, will we reject the absurdity of eternal peace , which is foreign to our creed and to our temperament.”

“Bravo!” a voice shouted. It was joined by another. “Bravo!” and then another. “Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!” until the square rang again with frenzied cheering and applause. Julia looked around her, suddenly frightened. She took Renato’s arm and whispered, “He’s just said there will be war.” There was a questioning tone in her voice. Renato, smiling thinly, did not answer her. He touched her hand where it clutched his arm.

“We desire to live a long time at peace with all,” il Duce said. “We are determined to offer our lasting, concrete contribution to the project of collaboration among peoples. But after the catastrophic failure of the disarmament conference, in the face of an armaments race already under way and irresistible from this time on, and in the face of certain political situations which now are in the course of uncertain development, the order of the day for Italians...”

His voice rose. He clenched one fist and shook it at the microphone.

“... the order of the day for Italians, for Fascist Italians, can be only this: We must be strong! We must be always stronger! We must be so strong that we can face any eventualities and look directly in the eye whatever may befall! To this supreme principle must be subordinated and will be subordinated all the life of the nation!”

The shout began as a low murmur of approval in the throat of the crowd. It gained in volume and momentum, thundered into the square, rose to the balcony. The flags and banners were waved, the people began to applaud, il Duce grinned and put his hands on his hips, thrusting his chin out characteristically.

“Let’s go,” Renato said.

He took her arm. They pushed their way through the crowd silently. There was a troubled look on his face. She glanced at him nervously, and her hand tightened on his arm again. Behind them, they could still hear il Duce’s voice, “... spirit of the Black Shirt revolution, the spirit of this Italy, the spirit of this populous Italy, warlike and vigilant on sea, on land, and in the heavens!”

“ Porca miseria ,” Renato muttered.

“... how many events, how much history has passed in these twelve months! They have been rich in events the influence of which is felt today, but will be felt still more in the course of time.”

“I’m frightened, Renato,” she whispered.

“No. Hold my arm.”

“I ask you,” il Duce shouted into the microphone, “were old accounts settled?”

“Yes!” the crowd shouted. “Yes! Yes!”

“And have we marched straight ahead up to now?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“I tell you,” he bellowed into the microphone, “I promise you, we shall do likewise tomorrow and always! ”

He lay on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head, the trouble still in his eyes. She watched him, wanting to touch him, aware of his trouble and disturbed by it, and still frightened by what she had seen and heard from the balcony of the Palazzo Venezia.