The Idealist

By Salvatore Salamone

The IDEALIST begins with a boys imaginary quest to rescue his father from the czars prison. Out of his imagination emerges Georg-Karl Russano, a Socialist journalist and champion of human rights. His father, disillusioned by the Russian Revolution, becomes his bitter enemy. Alessandra, his ?rst love, is from a prominent family whose wealth ?nances Mussolinis rise to power. Georg-Karl shares his fugitive existence with Roberto and Giulia until the secret police capture him.

After a daring escape, Georg-Karl rejoins Giulia and their son in exile. His book Prisons earns him international success, although fame leads him to a betrayal. He seeks redemption in the Spanish civil war. With the execution of his father and mistress, Georg-Karl loses faith in his cause, but the crucible of World War II restores his beliefs. With the Allied victory, Italy becomes a democracy, his ideals enshrined in its constitution. Russano re?ects on his comrades./p>

...their faded faces besieged his memorythe architects of destruction, the blind visionaries, the bright shadows of the underground, the prisoners of principles, the unhappy exiles, the soldiers of the republic, and the heroes of the Resistance. They were his life, his beacons, like the ?ery stars in the night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475925661

Salvatore Salamone

Salvatore Salamone has a master of arts degree in creative writing from Queens College. Originally from Italy, he currently lives in New York City, where he studies history and literature. THE IDEALIST is the tale of the modern hero, the struggle to overcome adversity and sorrow to achieve his fate.

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Copyright © 2012 Salvatore Salamone

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. If there are only a few historical figures or actual events in the novel, the disclaimer could name them

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-2565-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2567-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2566-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012908420

iUniverse rev. date: 5/26/2012

Contents

1

Enfant Terrible

2

My Brother’s Keeper

3

Unhappy Families

4

The Duel

5

The Great War

6

The Revolution

7

Prophets and Pamphlets

8

The Streets of Milan

9

Between Father and Son

10

Secrets

11

Friends

12

Portraits

13

An evening

14

Ashes

15

Last Night Mussolini Attended the Theater

16

Italy Betrayed

17

Summer Solstice

18

The Cellar

19

Identity

20

The Underground

21

Guilt and Innocence

22

Retreat

23

The Conspiracy of Equals

24

Prisons

25

Sea and Sky

26

Paris

27

The Generals’ Rebellion

28

Madrid

29

The Siege

30

An Italian Victory

31

Wounds

32

Healing

33

Winter War

34

The Show Trial

35

Flags and Flowers

36

The Fall of France

37

The Battle of Britain

38

Sons

39

Divine Providence

40

The Fall of a Dictator

41

The Resistance

42

The Partisans

43

Full Circle

44

Behold the Man

Epilogue

The Promise

As Inspiration for

My Nephews

Joseph

Benedict

Matthew

Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.

—Jean Jacques Rousseau

I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.

—Thomas Jefferson

All art is a revolt against man’s fate.

—Andre Malraux

Acknowledgments

The Idealist is a work of the imagination. Part of the Fate and Other Tyrants trilogy, it is the story of a writer’s lifelong struggle against tyranny. It is a tale of idealism, disillusionment, and hope. My main character, Georg-Karl Russano, is a composite of several historic figures who resisted Fascist totalitarianism in Italy, Spain, and Germany; his character is symbolic of the lost generation complete with its heritage and legacy. In a sense, my protagonist is the literary bastard of political science and Russian literature. I owe a great debt to both of these two rich traditions.

A satirist once said, When you steal from one author, it’s plagiarism; if you steal from many, it’s research. If this is true, then I am guilty of grand larceny. I begin my confession by acknowledging my gratitude to the great political tracts of history: Plato’s Republic, Dante’s On Monarchy, Machiavelli’s The Prince, Jean Jacques Rousseau’s The Social Contract, John Locke’s Two Treatises of Government, Thomas Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence, and Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto. I also wish to thank the esteemed historians whose works encompass the historical events in my narrative: Alan Wood, The Origins of the Russian Revolution, 1861–1917; Max Weber, The Russian Revolution; Richard Luckett, The White Generals; Denis Max Smith, Mussolini; A. Rossi, The Rise of Italian Fascism; Max Gallo, Mussolini’s Italy: Twenty Years of the Fascist Era; Charles F. Detzell, Mussolini’s Enemies: The Italian Anti-fascist Resistance; George Orwell, Homage to Catalonia; M. W. Jackson, Fallen Sparrows: the International Brigades; Ronald Frazer, Blood of Spain; Maria Wilhelm, The Other Italy: Italian Resistance in World War II; and Giovanni Pesce, And No Quarter: an Italian partisan in World War II.

If world history is the biography of great men, then literature is the epic of the human spirit. In this regard, I am indebted to the poets and philosophers: Plato, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, Rousseau, J. S. Mills, Jefferson, Blake, Shelley, Hegel, Marx, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Nietzsche, Malraux, Sartre, Hemingway, Koestler, Ignazo Silone, Carlo Levi, and Primo Levi. Their art inspired me, but I wrote my trilogy in tribute to the extraordinary men and women (often nameless and forgotten) who sacrificed their lives to advance the cause of liberty and justice. Let us pass on their torch.

Principal Characters

Book I

The Dictatorship Of The Heart

1

Enfant Terrible

The boy stood on the shore and surveyed his vast kingdom, lifting his wondrous eyes from the deep blue lake to the majestic snow-peaked mountains that nearly touched the clouds. Beyond the horizon, his father, Prince Sergei Andreivich, waged war against the tyrant king. Behind him, a sandcastle perched on the dune faced the rising tide. Nearby, his mother held court under a crimson canopy, encircled by knights, courtiers, and troubadours at her feet. Turning his eyes up the beach, the nine-year-old boy saw two young strangers approaching his sandcastle, and he rushed over to greet them.

Hail, strangers, welcome to my castle.

The seriousness of his tone amused the dark boy and little girl. She glanced up at his long, blond locks and dark blue eyes. The dark boy critically scrutinized the unusual boy, thinking his hair too long and his face too pretty. He wore a white sailor suit and had a play sword in his belt. The dark boy did not like him.

Did you make it yourself? the little girl asked, admiring the sandcastle.

Yes, although my knights helped me. There, he explained, pointing to the men surrounding his mother.

Those men are not knights, said the dark boy.

They are knights, but they have been exiled from their kingdoms. That is why they are dressed like ordinary men. I am Giorgio, son of Prince Sergei Andreivich.

Is it true? exclaimed the little girl.

"Yes, but the evil czar of Russia has imprisoned him. I am going on a journey to rescue him. Would you like to join me?

Yes, said the girl.

Very well, but I must first knight you. Kneel.

The seven-year-old girl knelt before him and bowed her head. The boy drew out his wooden sword from his belt and gently tapped her shoulders.

I make you a Knight of the Order of the Holy Grail. Rise, Sir Knight.

The girl stood up and smiled. The dark boy watched skeptically, his arms folded against his chest.

Girls cannot be knights, the eleven-year-old boy said flatly.

In my kingdom, a girl can be a knight if she is pure of heart like Joan of Arc.

I don’t believe you. It’s all make-believe.

If you don’t have faith, then you cannot be a knight, said the blond boy, turning away from him. Come, Sir Knight, we must leave with the tide.

He led the little girl to a small sailboat on the beach. He climbed aboard and gave her his hand. Then he told her to go to the stern and take the rudder.

To reach Russia, we must steer the boat through the Arctic Strait of the White Sea. Look. There! The great ice mountains! Do you see them? You must steer away from the dangerous avalanches. Look! To the right! A sea monster!

The boy drew his sword and wielded it against the summer breeze, thrusting and parrying, attacking and evading. So real were his expressions of fear and determination that the little girl saw the monster of his imagination. She stood up to join him in combat, but he insisted that she remain at the rudder lest the boat crash against the ice. After he had slain the sea serpent, he fell back, wounded. The little girl knelt by his side to tend to his injuries. All the while, the dark boy watched in silent resentment.

On the beach, the adults sitting under a wide red umbrella enjoyed his flight of fantasy. Simone Ardaux delighted in her son. Five men sat on a large blanket facing the lovely woman in the yellow dress. She had striking auburn hair, rosy complexion, and daring blue eyes.

Your son has quite an imagination, commented Franz Martien.

Yes, in that way, he’s more like his father than me.

A shade of sadness fell across her smile as she stared beyond the Alpine peaks. Her unhappiness darkened Franz’s mood. They had been friends since childhood, and he was still in love with her. The Geneva banker had imploring eyes, a timid smile, and soft hands.

Have you had any news? Franz asked.

No, not since his arrest, she said. The prince is trying to use his influence at court to obtain his release, but the government has become very reactionary.

That’s not completely true, Simone. You must not forget that the Revolution of 1905 won several important concessions. The czar has expanded the civil liberties of his subjects and permitted the creation of the Duma.

Luigi Porta was a small bearded professor who taught at the University of Milan. He was also a dedicated Socialist who consulted for the Milan newspaper Avanti!. He was a patient man who believed in reason and history. Every August he took his family to his summer villa on Lake Maggiore. This year he invited several of his colleagues from the newspaper—Ernesto Cessi and Pietro Berselli. Simone Ardaux, his protégé, had rented a cottage near his villa. She was a teacher, a freelance writer, and a translator.

A legislative body without power is like a market exchange without money, said Ernesto Cessi, Everyone shouting just to hear his own voice.

Ernesto Cessi was an associate editor at Avanti!. He too was inspired by the fervor of the age. At the turn of the twentieth century, Socialism was the cause of avant-garde intellectuals and free thinkers.

Ernesto is right, Doctor Porta. All the revolutionaries were either imprisoned or exiled, and the workers’ councils were repressed, replied Simone.

At least, you know he’s alive, said Pietro.

Pietro was a journalist and unionist. He and Simone taught at the Labor Councils, which instructed the workers to read and write, and to prepare them for the revolution.

Yes, but the conditions in the camps are brutal. Sergei’s brother, Georgii, died of pneumonia in Siberia. Giorgio was named after him.

You must keep your spirits up for the boy’s sake, said Doctor Porta.

These last three years have been difficult for him. He escapes his loneliness in his books and fantasies, Simone explained.

Doesn’t he have friends at school? asked Hans Berchtold.

Hans Berchtold was a German teacher from Berlin. He was visiting his friend in Geneva when Franz learned that Simone was vacationing on the southern tip of Lake Maggiore. Franz convinced him to accompany him to see the beautiful Alpine lake. Hans was not disappointed—neither in Italy nor in Simone. He was thirty-years old, tall and handsome. He had dark hair and serious gray eyes although a skeptical smile mocked his grave expression.

He is taught at home. I will not have his mind contaminated by the prejudices of a rigid and archaic educational system.

Surely there must be something of value in Western Civilization’s entire canon, said the German teacher.

Perhaps, but I’ll decide what it is.

Who is being rigid now?

Simone stared at his mocking smile. She wondered if the stranger was ridiculing her. Simone was a woman with an independent mind. Her father, once a fine watchmaker in Geneva, saw his skills replaced by the assembly line of a factory. Her mother was the victim of his thwarted frustrations; her brother accepted their legacy of insignificance; but Simone was born for something more. Although she was a bright student, she was refused admission at the university. She left Geneva for Milan in hopes of finding work. Through the recommendation of Doctor Porta, she attended the normal school for teachers. After she graduated, she joined the Socialist Party realizing that only with a workers’ revolution could there be a women’s revolution. Ultimately, the revolution, she believed, had to be a revolution of the mind.

That may be, but it is my right as a parent.

Simone, you have done a superb job. The boy is bright and imaginative, added Doctor Porta. You should be proud of him.

Simone was proud of her son although at times he was strong-willed and domineering. Like his father, he wanted to rule over others, not engage them. Still he had a gentle nobility of spirit. She saw it in his play as he caught the little girl leaping from the boat. He led her toward the sandcastle.

After a journey of three thousand miles, we have arrived. There! Do you see that citadel? The evil czar keeps my father a prisoner in the dungeon. Be careful though. There is a lion and Minotaur guarding the gate.

What is a Minotaur?

Half-man, half-bull. There he is, said Giorgio, pointing to the dark boy.

I will kill it, shouted the little girl.

Stop it, Giulia! I’m not playing your stupid game, said the dark boy, pushing her away. He’s a liar. He’s not a prince, and this is just a sandcastle.

The dark boy strode up to the sandcastle and kicked down the towers and walls. Giorgio looked at his castle in ruins. The dark boy faced the blond boy and expressed all his resentments.

Your father’s not a prince. Neither are you! My mother says you’re a bunch of radicals, troublemakers, good-for-nothings. Your mother is not even married to your father. She’s a slut, and you’re a bastard, not a prince!

Giorgio stood eye to eye with the dark boy. His eyes grew fierce, and his teeth clenched. Rage rose from the depths of his heart. He wielded his wooden sword and struck his face. Dropping to his knees, the dark boy gripped the gash over his eye and wailed. Blood seeped through his fingers.

Giorgio! shouted Simone.

At once, the adults scrambled to their feet and ran toward the children. The little girl stared at her noble knight, suddenly frightened by him. She began to cry. The men arrived and examined the injured boy. Simone stood over her angry son, terrified.

Is it his eye? she asked the men.

No, the cut is just above it. It’s not too bad. He’s more frightened than hurt, said Franz. A doctor should take a look at him, though.

I know his parents, said Doctor Porta. Don’t cry, Paolo. Let us take you home. Help me, Ernesto.

Ernesto lifted the boy up, and Doctor Porta led them up the beach. Pietro took the little girl’s hand and followed them. Simone abruptly turned toward her son.

Why did you hit him? You could have blinded him. Well?

Giorgio did not reply. He felt justified.

Violence is never an answer, Giorgio. Do you have an explanation?

The boy wanted to tell his mother, but he could not repeat the terrible things the boy had said about her.

Very well, then. Let’s go home. You can sit in your room and think about it.

Simone marched her son up to the rented cottage. The cottage had four rooms: a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, and a bedroom. She led him to the dining room where she sat on a chair and faced her defiant son.

Aren’t you sorry at all? What if you had blinded him? He would never see the sunlight again. Imagine that. That would be a terrible thing to cause just for one moment’s anger. Do you understand?

The unrepentant boy stared at the floor; he did not respond. He was still angry. He was only sorry that he had frightened the little girl.

Very well, then. Come with me.

The mother led the boy to the window, which had a splendid view of the lake and the distant, white-caped peaks.

Beautiful, isn’t it? Do you see what a precious gift sight is?

The boy folded his arms and stared at the lake. He was unyielding. Simone took a deep breath. The woman went to the bedroom and came back with a long, black scarf. Then she wrapped it around the boy’s eyes.

Imagine the world that way for a while.

The boy stood defiant staring into the blackness of the scarf. Simone looked at her son and walked away. Ten minutes later, Franz and Hans entered the cottage. The harshness of her punishment surprised them.

Simone, I think you’re overreacting. It was just a little fight, said Franz.

This is worse than corporal punishment, Hans accused.

How dare you! You are guests in my home, and you dare lecture me. Get out!

But we didn’t mean anything—

Get out, Franz.

Offended, Hans stormed out of the cottage. Franz hesitated a moment, but he knew it was useless to argue against her. She went to the kitchen to prepare supper. After a while, she began to reconsider her stance.

If you promise to apologize to the boy tomorrow, you can take off the scarf.

She saw the lines of his jaw grow tense. It had become a war of wills. She could not back down now. She had to make him understand that other people had feelings too. Simone returned to the kitchen and cooked a light supper.

Supper’s ready. You can take off the scarf to eat.

The proud boy shook his head; Simone stared at her son and wrung her hands. She walked to the table, sat down, and nibbled on her fillet of fish. She sipped her white wine and pretended indifference. Afterward she stored the fish and fruit in the icebox. Then she washed and dried the dishes. She paced back and forth, wanting to say something yet not knowing what to say. As she moved nearer to him, she noticed the sun descending behind the mountains. Simone reached to stroke his hair, but she saw his fingers curled into a fist. She sighed and went back to the table where she rested her aching head on her arm.

Oh, Sergio, where are you? I cannot do it anymore. Why did you leave us? Why did I fall in love with you?

Simone sat motionless for hours indulging her maudlin self-pity. At last, she stood up, defeated. She walked over to her son. The evening was serene, and the stars shone brightly. She sighed and removed the scarf from his eyes. Instead of seeing defiance, she saw his face grimaced in pain, his repentant eyes full of tears.

Oh, Giorgio, I’m sorry, cried Simone, falling to her knees. Please forgive me. It’s so hard for me—I am alone. Sometimes, I don’t know what is right. Forgive me.

Simone took him into her arms, and the boy squeezed her neck tightly. Then she held her son at arms’ length.

Don’t you see, though? It’s wrong to hurt an innocent boy like that.

The boy stepped back; his frown returned to his face. His sense of outrage broke through his reticence.

He is liar. He said I was not a prince. He said you were a slut—and I was a bastard.

What? Is that true?

The woman looked at the crescent moon above the white peaks wondering how to explain the circumstances of her life.

Giorgio, you are a prince. Your grandfather, Ivan Andreivich, was a prince in the court of Czar Alexander II. He had four sons and one daughter—Alexei, Mikhail, Georgii, Sergei, and Natasha. When the good czar was murdered, his son, Alexander III, became a cruel dictator. He arrested all those who opposed him. Your Uncle Georgii, whom your father idolized, was one of these men. Your grandfather, fearing for your father’s life, sent him to study in Italy. I met him in Milan, and we fell in love. And you were born—Prince Giorgio.

The boy smiled. Then he thought about the other remarks.

But why did he call you a—?

Because he has a small mind, she replied, agitated. The world and all its tyrants want to make us slaves, but we are free. Kings, politicians, capitalists, and priests, all want us to live by their rules, but I will not. You were born out of love, not marriage. They hate us for it. They call us names and revile our cause, but someday we shall topple their decadent civilization and create a free society ruled by goodness and justice. And you will be a true prince.

Her long speech had exhausted Simone. It was difficult to explain her complex relationship with his father. The boy understood little of her speech, but it made him proud. His mother always made him feel important as though he was born to some great purpose. Simone kissed her son’s forehead and stood up.

Come, you must eat your supper. Afterward we’ll go down into town and have some ice cream. Then we’ll search for Franz and his friend. One more thing, though, if you see that boy again, I want you to—

The boy’s eyes grew fierce. She smiled at his defiance.

I want you to go up to him and gently—chop off his head!

The mother and son laughed at her joke.

Over the next few days, Giorgio saw the dark boy on the beach, but he did not apologize to him, nor did he chop off his head. The little girl admired his beautiful hair and eyes, but from a distance. Giorgio played by himself. In the morning, Hans and Franz had helped him rebuild his sandcastle. He thought of his father in that distant dungeon, and he felt alone. He walked back to his mother who lifted her eyes from her book.

Where’s Franz? he asked.

He and his friend went to town to buy some food. Are you hungry?

The boy nodded. She took a towel, dried his hair, and brushed the sand off his skin. As his mother gathered their things, the boy noticed a tall stranger scanning the shore from the strand. Simone stood up and lifted the basket and blankets. She froze. Then dropping everything, she raced toward the stranger and flew into his arms. They kissed passionately. The boy stared at the man. His dream had come true; yet he could not believe it. After a while, Simone led his father to him. He was tall and powerful, but not as great as he remembered. The man knelt before him.

Is he really my son? He has grown so much.

He will be tall like his father, predicted Simone.

And beautiful like his mother, added Sergei. Giorgio, do you remember me?

Yes, you are Prince Sergei Andreivich.

Yes, said Sergei, smiling, and your father.

The prince embraced and kissed his son. Sergei Andreivich had high cheekbones, pale smooth complexion, and the feline blue eyes above a long mustache. He lifted the boy up in his arms. Giorgio noticed gray strands among the short spikes of his hair. Then Sergei spoke the words he had uttered in the labor camp a thousand times.

Let’s go home.

They walked to the cottage. At the dining table, the boy sat between his father and mother. They did not speak; they merely stared at each other. Sergei appeared older than his forty years, Simone younger than her thirty-three years.

You look tired.

Only disappointed, he said, referring to his experience.

How did you escape? asked the boy.

I did not escape. My father appealed to the court of justice. After two years of petitions, the czar released me, but I am banished from Russia for life.

Just then, Franz and his friend entered the cottage, their arms full of groceries. Seeing a man at the table, they ceased speaking. Then Franz recognized him.

My God, it’s you! How wonderful to see you, Sergei! expressed Franz, placing the bag down and shaking his hand. We thought we’d never see you again.

I’m sorry to disappoint you, he said, turning his cold eyes toward Simone.

Franz has been staying with us for a few days. This is his friend, Hans Berchtold. Doctor Porta and his family are here as well.

It’s pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, said Hans.

Some of it good, I hope.

All of it.

We must celebrate your return, suggested Franz. After lunch, I will go to Doctor Porta and arrange everything. Many of your friends are vacationing at the lake.

Yes, but not tonight, said Simone. Saturday.

After lunch, they set about their separate tasks. Franz and his friend went to arrange for the party while Simone washed the dishes. Serge decided to take a nap.

Go and play outside. Your father needs to rest. He’ll see you later.

Giorgio reluctantly obeyed; he wanted to hear about his adventures. He walked down to the shore where he saw his sandcastle in ruins. He sought out the dark boy, but he was nowhere in sight. Lost in his daydreams, the boy walked along the water. When he emerged from his fantasies, the sun was low in the sky, and the boy started back for the cottage. He began to run. His father often came and left unexpectedly. His pulse raced as he burst through the door, but there he was—quietly sipping his coffee.

Where’s the fire? Come here, Giorgio, said Sergei, wrapping his arm around his waist. Did you miss me?

The boy nodded.

I miss you too, but now we shall spend all week together. I shall teach you to swim and sail, and we will share many adventures. Oh, I almost forgot. I have a gift for you. Come with me.

His eyes brightened. Sergei led him to his suitcase. He opened it up and took out a scabbard. As he drew out the saber, the brilliant gleam of the steel mesmerized the boy. It was a cavalry sword with a curved blade and ornate handle.

Is it mine? he asked in disbelief.

Yes. A prince should possess his own saber. It is yours, but your mother will keep it until you’ve grown up.

May I hold it?

No, Sergei, he’s too young, warned Simone.

Just for a moment, but you must be careful. The edge is sharp.

Serge handed the saber to his son. The boy held it upright; it was heavier than he imagined. He raised it above his head as though swearing allegiance to a noble cause. Sergei and Simone smiled. The prince took back the blade and slipped it into its sheath.

For the rest of the week, father and son were inseparable. Sergei was proud of his son. He had a fine body, strong yet agile; and his mind was curious and perceptive. In the morning, they swam; in the afternoon, they sailed; and in the evening, they went for long walks along the shore. The prince often incorporated useful lessons in his adventures.

There is the city we must capture, said the prince, pointing to a tiny fishing village on the other side of the lake.

But the wind is against us. How can we reach it?

I will show you. Let’s get the boat into the water.

They pushed the small sailboat into the water. Once they were beyond the white spume, Sergei lifted his son into the boat, and a moment later, he leapt aboard. Sergei unfurled the sails, tied the ropes, and took the rudder. The boy watched the sails billow in the wind. He noticed the wind sweep into the curve of the canvas, and the boat cut through the water. He felt the breeze, the waves, and the swift movement of the boat.

See how the wind blows into the sail. The design of the hull and the rudder takes the force of the wind and redirects it forward, always at an angle, never directly into the wind. By tacking, zigzagging back and forth, we will reach our destination. We must adjust our direction now. By shifting the sail to the other side, we correct our course. By doing this every so often, we will reach at our destination. Do you understand?

The boy nodded. He studied his father as he worked the lines and adjusted the sails. He believed his father knew everything there was to know. He inhaled deeply. At last, his father was home, and they would do all the things he had dreamed about.

May I steer the boat? asked the boy.

Yes, but together at first.

By Friday, Giorgio was an accomplished little sailor. In the afternoon, he invited his mother on their sail. He wanted to impress her with all he had learned. Simone and Sergei watched him work the lines and sail out on the lake. Their smiles encouraged him, but he sensed an uneasy tension between them. He had heard them quarrel in the night.

He’s a fast learner, commented Sergei.

In everything. Don’t forget your party tomorrow at Doctor Porta’s villa.

Is that really necessary? We’ve scarcely had any time alone. With Franz and that German camped outside our bedroom—

Franz has been my friend since childhood.

He’s still in love with you.

Don’t be ridiculous. That was a long time ago. We are just friends now. They’re all our friends.

Yes, but they’re still pompous intellectuals, said Sergei.

Doctor Porta’s party was a chaotic affair. He had a large family, and his children were boisterous and undisciplined. The central tenet of his life was Socialism, and he encouraged the unrestricted freedom of expression. His sons, Carlo and Pino, understood this to mean that opinions were truer when screamed. His Socialist friends were quieter though just as opinionated. At seven o’clock, Sergei, Simone and their son arrived at his villa. Maria Porta and her daughters served dinner in the garden. Men and women sat around long tables, nibbled on the antipasto, and waited for a lull to express their splendid ideas. Although Sergei shared many of their views, his revolutionary fervor was a spontaneous response to an unjust society, not the Marxist belief in the class struggle. He hated the czar because he had unjustly imprisoned his brother. At heart, he was an anarchist who rebelled against all forms of tyranny. His aloof bearing belied his beliefs. In his mind, even a free society needed rulers elected from among the brightest and noblest. His was an aristocracy of merit, not inheritance. As he entered the garden, he heard the intellectuals expounding on the issues of the age.

No, only in a capitalist society can the revolution of the proletariat succeed. The workers will be organized, sophisticated, and militant. Only then will we sweep away the state and established a classless society, said Doctor Porta.

Why? Italy is an emerging industrial power. The last ten years have witnessed tremendous economic growth, observed Hans Berchtold. Say what you will, but the old Liberal has led Italy to an era of prosperity.

What’s more, moderate Socialists have initiated many reforms, added Franz.

All of that is quite true, but we must not compromise the cause of the revolution for minor concessions. We want to build a new society, not—

Seeing Sergei, Doctor Porta stood up and rushed to embrace him. He introduced him to his guests, and then he led him to a chair at the head of the table. Giorgio stood by his father’s side; Simone sat to his right. Doctor Porta lifted his glass and toasted his return. Everyone drank and the party grew loud again. Signora Porta and her daughters came out of the house carrying large pots. They dipped their ladles into the pots and poured the soup into deep dishes. Afterward they served pasta smothered in presto sauce, and for the main course, swordfish.

Signora, the food is delicious. My compliments, Sergei said.

Tell us of your experience. What was it like? asked Pietro Berselli.

Serge looked at the eager faces at the table, and he told his story.

I arrived in Petersburg in late January, a week after Bloody Sunday. I went to the Winter Palace square where dead flowers still littered the bloody snow. I was told it was a peaceful march led by a priest to petition the czar for higher wages. For some reason, the army troops fired into the crowd. More than a hundred strikers were killed, and far more wounded. The outrage awakened sleeping Russia. Uprisings and rebellions took place everywhere. Workers went on strike; peasants abandoned the land; soldiers and sailors mutinied. Minorities, like the Poles and the Finns, revolted. All authority was challenged—the czar, ministers, generals, officers, industrialists, managers, landowners, field bosses, even husbands and fathers. In the major cities, workers established democratic councils. Discussion group sprang up everywhere. New parties were born—the liberal Cadets, the Socialist Revolutionaries, and Liberationists. Old parties resurged. The Social Democrats split into the Bolsheviks and Mensheviks. Every person with a grievance had an agenda. Everyone was a visionary. It was glorious chaos.

The women interrupted his narrative to serve coffee and pastries for dessert.

It must have been wonderful, said Doctor Porta.

The city was vibrant. There was such hope and expectation in the eyes of the people—and such illusions. I distrust parties as much as governments, but my brother Mikhail was a Liberationist, a union of professionals advocating a constitutional monarchy and the introduction of civil liberties. In May, they created a Union of Unions, uniting fourteen different unions including the Union for the Equality of Women and the Union for Jewish Equality. The All-Russian Peasant Union advocated the abolition of private property. In the midst of all this excitement, the Russian fleet suffered a terrible defeat in its war with Japan. The czar’s regime was in danger of collapse. Yet the summer waned into an endless stream of congresses and forums, some of them quite absurd. Factory workers who could barely read or write wanted to be on the board of directors. A woman’s council wanted to set limits on the number of conjugal visits for their husbands. In August, the czar promised to create a consultative assembly consisting of nobles and men of property. This proposal ignited further strikes and discontent in the country. In October, the revolution reached its crisis with the general strike of railroad workers. Then the czar issued his October manifesto promising civil liberties and new laws subject to the approval of the newly created Duma. This action appeased the leaders of the unions. They left the streets for the halls of power while the people remained on the streets with nothing.

Sergei paused; he sipped his wine and looked into the impatient eyes of his listeners.

Of course, the radicals continued to strike and protest, but they were isolated. My sympathies were with them. I was on my way to attend Christmas dinner at my brother’s home when I walked past a demonstration of women marching toward Crosses Prison. A cavalry regiment stood at the head of the bridge. The officer rode up to the crowd. He told the women to go back home—the czar has forgiven the people. An angry young woman hurled a snowball at the officer, but it struck the horse instead. The animal reared up, and the soldiers believing they were under attack charged the crowd. The women scattered in a panic; the horses trampled the fallen. When I saw an officer whipping a helpless girl, I grabbed his whip and dragged him off his horse. I would have beaten him to death had the other soldiers not restrained me. They arrested me for conspiracy and treason. Even the influence of my father and brothers was of no use. I received a ten-year sentence in a Siberian labor camp. During my imprisonment, the czar dissolved the Duma and revised the electoral laws to keep the power among the elite. After two years of appeals, I was released and banished from my country. And here I am.

The listeners pitied the disillusioned man.

A bitter experience, said Doctor Porta.

Not really, said Sergei, strangely farsighted. I learned one thing—with the right historical circumstances, a small group of daring men could topple an empire.

Yes, history is with us, said Doctor Porta.

It was late, and the guests began to leave. Sergei and his party were among the last to go. He had drunk quite a lot. He stood up and staggered toward the door.

Here, let me give you a hand, said Franz.

Sergei pushed his hands away. Simone stared at his rudeness.

I have a strong son that I can lean on, he said. Giorgio, let’s go home.

He leaned on his son’s shoulder and left the villa. Simone thanked the hosts and wished them a good night.

Keep your voice down. You’ll wake him.

Giorgio lay quietly in his bed. He peeked over the sheets and saw the shadows of his father and mother standing by the window.

I want to know the truth. Have you been sleeping with him?

How dare you accuse me of infidelity when it’s you who have been unfaithful?

She is my wife.

It makes no difference to me. Do you still love her?

Not like I once did, but I cannot leave her.

Marriage means nothing to me, but I will not be your property. We have not waited three years to return to a life apart. You will not enslave my heart.

I don’t want to enslave anyone, but I cannot abandon her. Not now. It will break her heart. She is not strong like you. Then there is Giovanni. He knows about us. When I returned home, I saw the disappointment in his eyes. He hates me. My own son.

What about Giorgio? He’s your son too. For three years, he has talked of nothing but you. Now you’ve come back into his life, lifted up his hopes—only to abandon him again.

Giorgio lay still, scarcely breathing. His head spun, unable to understand the meaning and consequences of these secrets; he realized, though, that he was not a lawful prince, but a bastard.

No matter what happens he’ll always be my son. The annuity from my mother will support you. My father has disinherited me. We shall not receive anything from him. He saved me from prison, but I am dead to him.

I don’t care about your money or your title. I only want you.

It’s for the boy and his education. He has great promise. I must go now, he said, bowing his head to kiss her.

She turned her head away and asked, And what shall I tell him?

Tell him that the prince must return to Italy on a noble quest. It is not far from the truth. I shall see him next Sunday in Milan.

Hearing him approach the bed, the boy buried his head in the pillow. Prince Sergei Andreivich kissed his son’s blond head, whispering his nonbeliever’s prayer.

Be good, be true.

2

My Brother’s Keeper

Giorgio still felt alone; only now, jealousy and resentment tainted his loneliness. His father had come home, but not to stay. He visited him only on weekends, and their relationship grew awkward. Giorgio was obedient and polite, but he was not affectionate. Sergei sensed the change, and it saddened him. His relationship with Simone also grew tense. They frequently argued, and when they did, the boy fled to his room. He went to his saber on the mantelpiece and admired it only to realize that he was not the true heir of the prince, but a bastard son. His fantasies lost their magic. On Sunday evenings, when his father left their modest apartment in Milan, he did not leave to seek out noble quests, but to return to his wife and his true son.

There were other changes in his life as well. Giorgio began to attend public school. Without the income from Sergei’s inheritance, Simone had to accept a full-time job. This left no time for educating her son. Giorgio did not adapt to the rigid formality of a traditional curriculum. Advanced beyond his years, the administrators placed him in higher classes. His grades in mathematics and science were exceptional, but his grades in the humanities were abysmal.

Giorgio, this is not what I taught you about the French Revolution, said the history teacher, returning the exam punctuated with a big red zero on top of the page.

Sir, I thought you wanted the correct answer, not what you taught us.

There were gasps of disbelief in the class followed by giggles. Stunned, the teacher did not know what to say. He took a deep breath and gave the obstinate student detention for the week. Challenging their traditional ideas, Giorgio befuddled all his teachers. He knew the facts, but his interpretations were radical. As the semester progressed, the teachers and students grew accustomed to his extreme views.

In feudal times, it was believed that the divine right of kings was authority derived from God, the political science teacher explained. What does our young radical think of this concept?

This was their justification to maintain their power and privilege. The nobles and the priests were in league to keep the people in the dark. If there is a God, then he is the tyrant of tyrants.

The teacher, no longer shocked by his ideas, smiled. His classmates merely rolled their eyes and smirked. He was no longer amusing. He was arrogant and conceited, and they disliked him. After a while, Giorgio realized his teachers and classmates ignored his opinions, and he retreated into a world of his own. His father, though, was not pleased.

I don’t understand it. How can he be so good in the sciences and so bad in the humanities?

He refuses to compromise—to regurgitate the same vomit spewed out by his teachers. And I am proud of him for it, Simone said, defending his stance.

Don’t be silly. To be a leader, you must be of an age, the embodiment of its lies and illusions, its hopes and ideals, replied Sergei. Giorgio, you must conquer the world before you can change it. I want you to get good grades.

No, Giorgio, you must be true to yourself. Always.

Simone stared defiantly at Sergei; her eyes accused him of hypocrisy. Sergei twisted his mouth in disgust, but he did not reply. Instead, he walked out of the apartment slamming the door as hard as he could. Simone rushed to the door.

Don’t come back tonight! Don’t come back—ever!

Simone ran to her room sobbing. Giorgio shuffled to his room wondering if he would ever see him again. That very night, though, a loud crash in the dining room woke him up. The boy leapt from his bed and ran to the mantel for the saber. At the door, he saw his drunken father lurched over his fallen mother. He had smashed the door open and knocked her down. The boy lifted the heavy saber over his head. Serge’s glazed eyes turned toward his son.

Look how bravely he defends you, he said, crawling on his knees. I didn’t mean to hurt her.

The father opened his arms beckoning his son to him, but the boy did not move. He pitied him, but he did not lower the sword. Sergei dropped his arms.

You’d better go, said Simone, struggling to stand up.

Where can I go, Simone? I’m a man without a country, a man without—a home, he slurred.

You can sleep on the sofa, if you like.

No thanks, he said as he stood up and walked out the door.

After that incident, Sergei did not return for a month. When he did, he was polite and cordial, but withdrawn. As usual, he took the boy to the theater or museum on Saturdays, and the parks or sporting events on Sundays. During these afternoons, Sergei forgot himself and he laughed aloud. In the evenings, he remembered his isolation and slipped back into his reticence. Then he retired to a small hotel, no longer staying at their apartment. Simone and Sergei rarely spoke; the boy felt the icy silence between them. This pallor of sadness persisted throughout the winter and spring. Their estrangement intensified after Franz and Hans visited Simone during Easter. Walls of resentments and suspicions kept them apart. There were secrets between the adults that the boy did not understand.

Are you going to the lake this summer? Sergei asked.

Of course, it is our only vacation? One week a year is not much to ask for.

Will Franz be visiting you again?

If he is free, I suppose.

Aren’t you coming, Papa?

No, the cottage isn’t big enough for all of us, he said resentfully.

In August, Simone and her son took the train to Lake Maggiore. Franz and his friend Hans were at the cottage waiting for her arrival, their expressions reflecting a restless longing. They greeted the boy politely, but their thoughts converged on her needs and desires. Ignored, the boy wandered along the shore exploring and daydreaming. Giorgio wanted to go sailing, but Simone thought it too dangerous. To please her, Franz volunteered to take him, but he did not sail far from shore. He pretended excitement, but his worried eyes gravitated toward the beach.

Let’s go to the other side of the lake.

No, it’s too far, expressed Franz. I think we should go back.

Later in the week, Doctor Porta arrived with his family, and Giorgio played with his teenage sons. Since he was the youngest player, he never played a leading role in the games. In the afternoons, they would organize a soccer match on the beach. A fierce competitor, Giorgio often challenged the older players, but they knocked him down and ran around him. He struggled to his feet and ran after them, but by the time he caught up to them, his team had the ball, and they were running the other way. He shouted for the ball, but they ignored him. He kept running back and forth hoping for a chance at a goal. Exhausted, he bent down and grabbed his knees trying to catch his breath. Just then, the opponents struck a long pass to the wing for a breakaway. Only Giorgio stood between the winger and the goalkeeper. The boy dashed to cut off the teenager. As they converged on the goalkeeper, the winger lifted his leg to strike the ball while the boy slid to tackle the ball away. The teenager and the boy crashed into each other. The teenager rolled in the sand gripping his knee in pain; he swore and cursed at the boy. Giorgio lay on the ground, stunned, as the players squared off, pushing and shoving one another.

Pino, are you all right? said Doctor Porta who was officiating the game.

He broke my leg! That little bastard broke my leg.

Doctor Porta examined his son’s leg and smiled. It was merely a sprain. His teammates helped him to his feet, and he limped to the sidelines.

That was a very dangerous play, Giorgio. You could have injured him badly and yourself as well.

It was a clean tackle, he retorted, glaring at the whining teenager.

I think you’re too young to play. Better sit down.

Giorgio walked away, his head down. He strolled down the beach for a long time wallowing in self-pity. Looking up, he noticed the sky had turned purple crimson. He turned away from the sunset and headed home. At the cottage, he saw the silhouette of a man kissing a woman through the transparent curtains.

Father, he thought, rushing into the cottage.

Standing near his mother was Hans Berchtold—and no one else. Surprised, Simone saw his accusing eyes. It angered her.

Look at you! You’re a mess. Go and wash up before supper.

He trudged into the bathroom, confused. He wondered what the kiss meant. His mother had always had many male friends, but only his father had ever kissed her. Supper was quiet. Furtive glances accented their polite etiquette. Giorgio glanced at Hans, Hans at Franz, Franz at Simone, and Simone at her son. It was a rondo of deceit. The boy retired early. As he lay in bed, he brooded over his mother’s betrayal.

The boy woke up at dawn. He dressed quietly so as not to wake up his mother. Giorgio had a glass of milk and a biscuit. He ran out of the cottage, and he felt the radiance of the cold morning. He looked at the snow-capped peaks of the Alps. From the top, he imagined you could see the entire world. Inspired, the boy decided to climb the Alps. He began his ascent on a small hill at the edge of the village. Although there were roads that spiraled to the summit, he decided on a vertical ascent. At first, it was easy, but then it grew very steep. The boy went from rock to rock clinging to the cracks and shrubs. Soon he came to a crag where the angle of the slope was nearly vertical. He glanced back down and realized that if he fell, he would be badly hurt. He took a deep breath and grabbed the rock. He inched his way up, pausing often, pressing his cheek against the stones. He wedged his shoes in the fissures of the cliff and pulled himself up scrapping his knees on the rocks. After an hour, he reached the ledge and the small wall that bordered the road. An old man leaning his cane against the wall had observed the boy’s climb.

You know you could have walked up here by this road, he said, smiling. But I guess that wouldn’t have been as much fun.

The boy smiled triumphant. Climbing the wall, he stood akimbo looking down on the villas along the lakeshore. He saw his cottage, and near the water’s edge, he saw his mother, Franz, Hans, and several people searching the shore. He sensed something was wrong. He jumped from the wall and raced down the road to the beach. When Simone saw him, she sprinted to him, fell to her knees, and embraced him.

Where have you been? We thought you had—do want to break my heart too?

I was climbing the Matterhorn, he explained, pointing to the small hill.

She smiled and shook her head, Come, let’s go home. You have to clean up. We’re invited to Doctor Porta’s villa.

Supper at the villa was loud and contentious. It was politics as usual. Giorgio ate heartily; after dessert, he wanted to play cards with the teenagers, but Pino, still resentful, refused to let him play. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away. He curled up on the sofa and dozed off. A short time later, a crash of furniture startled him. He opened his eyes and saw Franz on the floor, his mouth bleeding. Several men were restraining Hans who dared him to stand and fight. Franz clenched his fist and rose to answer his dare, but other men held him back.

Stop it! At once! There are women and children here, shouted Doctor Porta.

Simone rushed to her son, and gripping his hand, she led him back home.

Why were they fighting?

Because they’re men! Promise me you won’t grow up to be one.

Giorgio looked at his mother curiously, not knowing how to respond. The next day was the last day of the vacation. Franz and Hans had left the cottage before he rose. Giorgio spent the entire day with his mother; it was the happiest day of the vacation. That evening they took the train back to Milan.

Giorgio did not see his father for several months. Simone had to borrow money from Doctor Porta to pay the rent. When his father came back, Simone poured out her fury against him. She accused him of betrayal, of not loving her or their son.

You know that is not true, said Sergei, exasperated.

How perfectly wonderful! At last, you’ve found happiness in your petty bourgeois life—with your wife and son—and your money!

Trembling, Sergei raised his hand to slap her, but he held up in time. He collapsed in the chair and shook his head.

You don’t understand. If you knew— he said, tired and defeated. What has happened to us, Simone? We loved each other so much once.

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out some money. A letter fell under the table unnoticed.

I’m sorry, Simone, but this is all can spare. I just found work as a day laborer. There’ll be more next month.

I don’t believe you, she said.

I have never lied to you, he said, getting up. I’m sorry, Giorgio, but I cannot stay this weekend. I will come back at Christmas. Goodbye.

Sergei kissed his son’s forehead and walked toward the door. He tried to kiss Simone, but she turned her face away. Unable to explain, he walked out of the apartment. Disappointed, Giorgio lowered his head. His eyes fell on the letter on the floor. He bent down and picked it up. Simone took it from the boy’s hand and stared at the envelope. After a moment’s hesitation, she opened it up and read it. Her eyes widened; she collapsed in the chair. The boy asked her about it, but Simone said it was just a medical bill. She stuffed the letter in her pocket and fled to her room. Outside the door, the boy heard her crying.

His father returned a few days before Christmas, but he stayed for only one evening. He had lost weight; his eyes were sunken; and his face pale. He looked very sick. Simone was kind to him; he was grateful. A quiet sadness replaced their arguing.

Here’s some money. I’ve repaid Doctor Porta.

It’s not necessary. I sold some articles to feminists’ quarterlies. How are you?

As well as can be expected, but Giovanni is taking it hard. He blames me, and he is right. I loved her once—so much. I still love her.

His head fell across his arms. Simone reached across the table and stroked his hair. Giorgio listened to them, not fully understanding yet feeling a terrible foreboding. His father’s visits were less frequent; his stays brief. His parents spoke in secret whispers, everything shaded in silence and sadness. There was no time for play and fun. Giorgio feared that one day his father would leave and never return.

In April, on a dreary, rainy day, Sergei Andreivich returned home, but he was not alone. A young lanky teenager stood by his side. His face was dark, his cheeks hollow, and his blue eyes very sad.

Giorgio, this is Giovanni—your brother. He is going to live with us.

The boy resentfully looked at the reserved stranger.

I’m happy to meet you, Giovanni, Simone said, breaking the silence.

His jaw tensed; he looked at her with undisguised contempt.

Father, I want to live with my uncle. In a few years, I plan to enter the seminary. You need not concern yourself about me.

You are my son. I will always be concerned about you. As for the seminary, you’re too young to make that decision. You will sleep in Giorgio’s room until we can find a larger apartment.

He lifted the valise and led him to the bedroom. While Giovanni unpacked, Sergei set up a temporary cot. Surprised by it all, Giorgio just watched them.

Giorgio, the cot is too small for your brother. You’ll have to sleep on it for now.

The boy stared at the stranger. A bitter scowl darkened his face. This stranger had usurped his rightful place; now he was even taking his bed. Giorgio glared at his brother like a mortal enemy. Dinner was tense. Sergei talked about his plans for the family—a new apartment, new schools, and a new future. Giorgio resented his father’s happiness. Simone noticed that Giovanni had not eaten a bite.

Don’t you like the veal? she asked.

I am fasting.

I went to a lot of trouble—that is veal—it’s very expensive.

I’m sorry, Signora, but I did not ask for it. I do not want to be here. As long as I am under your roof, I am a prisoner.

His tone was so vindictive that Simone was speechless. She took his plate and went to the kitchen.

Why must you blame her? She was innocent.

Really?

Giovanni stood up and retired to his room. Sergei looked at the boy’s puzzled expression.

Giorgio, your brother is very sad. His mother died a week ago. You must be kind to him. Will you do that?

The boy nodded. Ten minutes later, he entered his