Once Night Falls

by Roland Merullo

Democracy is beautiful in theory; in practice it is a fallacy. You in America will see that some day. —Benito Mussolini

Dictators ride to and fro upon tigers which they dare not dismount. And the tigers are getting hungry. —Winston Churchill

Full of doubt themselves, they’d been seduced by his exaggerated self-certainty. And their egos weren’t immune to his promises to bring Italy back to greatness.

Now he understood all too well that war was the most purely evil aspect of life. Sin in the flesh, not thrilling or romantic in the least. And heroism, he suspected, was always, always, peppered with terror.

And then he walked on in search of that impossible thing: an inexpensive lunch in the city of Milano. Food, the Italian sacrament.

“Tell me,” il Duce said, watching her, “why do you wear that cross?” The woman reached up and twirled the gold crucifix between her second and third fingers. “Why, Excellency, does it bother you?” He shook his head. “I just ask why you wear it. What does it mean to you?” “It means the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. For us. For our sins.” “Ah. And you really believe he existed, that what happened to him, what is said to have happened, is actually true.” “Of course, Excellency!” she said in a surprised voice. “It says so in the Bible!” “But you never consider that someone may have tampered with the facts of the story, exaggerated. For the purposes of . . . propaganda?”

“I’m Sicilian. We’re born doing this kind of work. Our mother is giving us the nipple, and we’re reaching into the pocket of her dress to see what we might find.”