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Lord Marchiolo, though sympathetic to the rightful prayers of an affectionate father, shook his head as if apologetic.

“Zi Peppe, there’s little you can do for your son, as for the others: the war isn’t turning in favour of the Duce, and all able-bodied young men are needed at the front. Those who desert risk being shot. I can’t do anything this time! A physical exam is one thing, a call to arms is another. In January, at the Military District, I had contacts with the medical lieutenant and could pull some strings: it was a matter of a professional opinion, so we could at least get a chance. And that’s what happened: we made it. Now, however, they call directly from the lists and without medical approval. He who has two arms and two legs go. Is your son an amputee? No! So he’ll have to enlist.”

Zi Peppe took off his cap and wiped his sweat. In front of the honest words of the Sir, he felt powerless, and, with a voice broken by resignation, he tried to advance some faint hope.

“I’ve come to terms with the fact that my son has to leave, but can’t we even stretch things out a little?”