Free The Italians at Cleat's Corner Store by Jo Riccioni

Padre Ruggiero and Professore Centini, who still tugged at his cummerbund.
    â€˜And yet,’ his father continued, ‘we are on the cusp of a new era.’ There was a murmur of agreement. Lucio became aware of his own held breath, his awe at the way his father spoke in public. Vittorio had inherited this gift: it dazzled Lucio, the way they could both work a crowd, whether in the schoolyard or the osteria, gathering allies as swiftly and skilfully as sheaves of wheat in the harvest.
    â€˜Il Duce has already begun to lead us back to the glory of the empire. But rediscovering that strength requires commitment and sacrifice from us all. I, and the other men recalled to arms, are proud to perform our duty in the restoration of our great nation. And what better farewell could we ask than this festival? What greater reason to fight than to honour what we love: the traditions of our ancient culture?’ His father paused to allow the crowd to cheer and clap, for his words to be shouted again into the ears of the old folk on their raffia chairs, for the women to cross themselves and mutter their prayers to Santa Lucia. Lucio heard his mother’s breath beside him, saw her gaze drifting up to the mountains, which brooded like some prehistoric beast in the night.
    â€˜In the meantime,’ his father began again, stretching his hand wide to the side of the stage, ‘it falls upon our young Avanguardisti and Balilla to safeguard Montelupini. I know they’ll do the job honourably, like true sons and daughters of the she-wolf.’ At this, Professore Centini clapped his hands for two groups of uniformed boys to take the platform. Lucio spotted Vittorio in the middle row of Balilla, the only one among them who was bareheaded.
    â€˜Where’s your brother’s hat?’ his mother asked. Lucio didn’t answer. She knew as well as he did that Vittorio detested the fez and would go to great lengths to avoid wearing it. She had already sewed the tassel back on twice. ‘How can Il Duce be leading us back to glory if we look like monkeys on a pianola?’ Vittorio complained to the mirror when they dressed for Fascist Youth meetings. On the stage, the angle of his jaw, pointed at his father, showed what he thought of Mussolini’s dress sense.
    â€˜He’ll feel your father’s belt over it,’ his mother said.
    â€˜I think he’d take the belt over the hat.’ Lucio saw her mouth twitch in amusement.
    He picked up his own fez, dusty and discarded on the floor. He should have been the one to get the thrashing — always playing truant during festival parades, never going on stage with the other boys. Yet his father turned a blind eye when he slipped away to the battlement walls: it was the one thing they seemed to share, this unspoken pact, this understanding that they would spare the village the pain of witnessing Lucio squirming on stage.
    Who could blame his father? Who in the village would notice Gufo’s absence when there was Primo to enjoy? He listened to his brother open Giovinezza , singing a solo, his mouth wide and certain, his chest expanded with breath. And, like the rest of the crowd, Lucio could do nothing but watch him: his shining skin, his eyes rich and promising as a newly opened chestnut, his lips full enough to make grown women blush. His body was wiry, already tight as a gymnast’s, so quick and agile that even the older Avanguardista boys could not best him in a tackle at football, a climbing dare, a race on the campo. The wages of the schoolyard proved it: a comb, two half-smoked Nazionale, a straight razor, a dented tin whistle, a jar of hair pomade — and a cigarette card of his namesake, the world heavyweight champion Primo Carnera. Sometimes Lucio studied these things, piled on the nightstand next to their shared bed, like offerings at the altar of some juvenile god. ‘You’ll let me win it back tomorrow, won’t you,