5 June 1944

PORTO SANT’ANDREA
10:15 A.M.

Relaxed, tanned, and looking a good deal the better for his month at some mountain spa, Ugo Messner waves a languid hand toward the Mediterranean a thousand meters below. “Bombing has improved this place!” he decides. “The vista is enlarged. There is a breeze.”

A rabbit-toothed waiter delivers Artur Huppenkothen’s breakfast: Cognac and coffee. To his sister Erna’s dismay, Artur routinely ignores the heavy meal she prepares each morning and comes instead to the Café Vittorio, where white-coated waiters serve patrons in dove-gray uniforms or smartly cut suits. Artur never used to drink, and he himself blames Messner for encouraging the vice, but Ugo can do no wrong in Erna’s eyes. Her reproaches are for her brother alone.

“What could be better, Artur?” Messner asks, brushing bread crumbs from his fingers. “French brandy, Ethiopian coffee, Italian sun, and German power!”

“What’s left of it,” Artur mutters sourly.

Messner’s voice drops. “Is it true then? Rome has fallen? Kesselring’s retreating toward Florence?”

All last month, the war in Europe went quiet. Italy was especially calm, until a witch’s cauldron of nations suddenly attacked the Gustav Line. Americans, British, Canadians. Australians, New Zealanders, South Africans. Bolsheviks from France, Poland, Russia, Yugoslavia. Indians, Senegalese, Moroccans—Negroes, given guns by Aryans! Now Rome is lost, and the Führer has allowed a retreat from the USSR as well. Rubbing a hand over his forehead, Artur says, “Greater Germany is shrinking by the hour.”

“More reason to take advantage of present circumstances,” Messner advises quietly, brandy in hand. He pauses to appreciate a young woman strolling by in a tight tan skirt. Fabric cups her buttocks, and she is wearing high heels. Her flesh rises and rests, rises and rests as she walks. “No place to hide a bomb in that ensemble,” he remarks, “but I imagine sentries enjoy making sure.”

The slut brushes past a pair of patrolling soldiers. Both heads turn. A brief conversation, and they change direction. She stops when they call, smiling at the taller soldier, casually reaching into her blouse to adjust the strap of her brassiere. A canvas-draped army truck rumbles through the piazza. Artur loses sight of the three just as a bicyclist approaches from the opposite direction, bearing down on the café.

In an instant, Artur is on his feet, his pistol at arm’s length.

The bicyclist brakes frantically, going down in a tangle of limbs and spokes. “Don’t shoot!” he begs, both hands in the air. “Per favore! Bitte! Please, don’t shoot!”

The child’s eyes are huge with terror. He is nine, perhaps. Or ten.

From a distance, Artur hears Messner say, “Relax! It’s just a boy!” Artur fires anyway, to kill his own emotions. The gunshot makes everyone jump, but the bullet goes wide and the weeping boy runs away, abandoning his bicycle in the street.

“That’ll teach the little bastard to look suspicious!” Gently, Messner extracts the gun from Artur’s fingers, placing it next to a china plate flecked with the shards of a crusty roll. “Lugers—the latest thing in wartime flatware!” he announces, smiling amiably at the military men around them.

One by one, the patrons of the café return their attention to their own tables. Messner catches the eye of the rabbity white-faced waiter, points to his empty Cognac glass, raises two fingers. “Too much espresso, Artur!” he chides. “It can make a man jittery.”

“So can living in a city filled with assassins! I could clear this region of Reds in a week if von Thadden would get out of my way. He’s stalled for half a year, when anybody could see they’ve been operating out of the north end of Valdottavo. I arranged for a Luftwaffe raid myself when he wouldn’t take action. He went whining to Kesselring.” Artur lifts his upper lip in distaste. “No clear lines of responsibility! No coordination,” he says, mimicking von Thadden’s cultured tones. “Now everyone reports to Kesselring. Gestapo, army intelligence, Waffen-SS, the security police, Kripo. We’re the generalfeldmarschall’s Anti-Partisan Warfare Staff, and precisely nothing gets done!”

“Surely a handful of partisans can’t make enough mischief to be a military threat!”

“They’re better armed every day. Every gun they carry is taken from the hand of a dead German soldier.”

“My dear Artur, the weapons are stolen. Italians are thieves, not warriors! They sing Puccini and eat pasta. They make love, Artur. They don’t fight.”

“They disrupt supply lines and communications. They’re holding down troops that could have been on the Gustav Line.” When the waiter sets their brandies on the table, Artur downs his own in a single gulp. “They’ve attacked German and Italian military headquarters,” he whispers, “and blown up Gestapo offices.”

“They’re a rabble,” Messner insists. “Incompetents. Degenerates! The explosions must have been Allied bombs on a time delay—”

“Quiet!” Artur orders sharply. His eyes are unfocused, but it’s not the liquor. “Quiet!” he shouts.

Waiters freeze, trays tucked under their arms, coffee cups poised. Patrons scowl, but they follow the Gestapo chief’s eyes upward.

They hear what sounds at first like a column of trucks, but there is no grinding shift of gears. Just a low, steady groan, high and far away. Wehrmacht officers and SS men come slowly to their feet, linen serviettes falling unnoticed from their laps to the cobblestone pavement. Waiters stare, amazed, as the cloudless Ligurian sky begins to fill with tiny silver sparks, winking like stars in blue daylight. Ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred: squadron after squadron of American aircraft. Two hundred, three hundred. Bicyclists slow, put down their feet, gaze upward. Five hundred. Six! Heavy bombers, fighter escorts. Pedestrians stagger slightly and lean against stone walls, heads thrown back, mouths gaping. “Madonna,” a waiter says, voice loud in the dense silence that envelops the piazza. Seven hundred! Eight hundred, nine hundred . . . All on their way to Germany.

“I make it just under a thousand planes—for a single raid,” Messner breathes, awestruck. “More than the entire Italian air force had at the beginning of the war. God help whoever’s under that . . .”

Around the corner, just out of sight, an Italian baritone begins an ironic rendition of “Deutschland über Alles.” There is an angry Teutonic shout, a defiant retort in Italian. A gunshot. A high-pitched scream, cut short by a second bullet. A Sturmbannführer nearby raps his knuckles on a café tabletop by way of applause. “Well done!” he growls as a new-made widow’s wailing joins the drone of Allied engines. “That ought to shut those opera singers up.”

Always the first to recover from such shocks, Messner snaps his fingers at the rabbity waiter, who still hasn’t moved a muscle. “You there! A round of brandy for everyone!”

Cognacs are quickly distributed. Messner stands, glass raised. “Our faith in the Führer remains unchanged!” he declares with stout volksdeutscher sincerity. Officers and officials greet the toast with a murmured, “Sieg heil.” Glasses are drained.

Loyalty demonstrated, Messner moves his chair to sit at Artur’s side. “Have you come to a decision regarding the arrangement I spoke of last month?” he asks quietly. “The corduroy is first-rate, Artur. Fine wale, with a hand like velvet. Bolts of it locked in a warehouse. Getting that Jew fabric to Germany would be a service to the Vaterland, Artur. Another winter is coming.”

Messner’s voice is low and smooth in Artur’s ear. “Think of Erna!” he urges. “She never complains when others prosper, but I know she loves beautiful things. She is a good woman—I’d ask for her hand, but she deserves better! Where’s the harm?” Messner presses softly. “Corduroy to keep German children snug this winter. A postwar nest egg for Erna, and for the man who might have been my brother-in-law, were I more worthy.”

Artur watches the planes disappearing into the distance. Why are the pilots willing to bomb fellow Aryans? he wonders, at a loss. They should be standing with us against Bolshevism! Stalin and his Jews’ll turn on them—wait and see. They’ll regret what they’ve done to us when Ivan kicks in their doors!

“The war will end eventually, Artur. You must think of your future, and Erna’s.”

Beneath the shimmering white tablecloth, Messner’s thigh is warm. The touch is casual, probably inadvertent. Artur shivers slightly. “Trucks are hard to come by,” he says, his lips hardly moving. “The best I can do is a ’38 Opel Blitz.”

With the barest motion of his hand, Messner taps Huppenkothen’s glass with his own. “Fifty-fifty?”

Artur’s glance flicks toward the other patrons. “Sixty-forty.” He presses a heavy linen serviette against skin misted with sweat, then stands. “Drop by my home at noon. Erna will have an envelope for you.”

SANT’ANDREA MUNICIPAL JAIL
11:45 A.M.

When Jakub Landau stopped at a routine roadblock on the way into Sant’Andrea, he still had an out-of-date work permit identifying him as Hans Obermüller. He’d nearly bluffed his way into the city when the Republican soldiers discovered anti-fascist pamphlets sewn into the lining of his jacket, and turned him over to the carabinieri. Tomorrow il polacco will be shot.

Iacopo Soncini is the only one who knows that the condemned man is a Jew. Landau himself considers the fact of no interest. “I am a Communist,” he replied when the imprisoned rabbi identified himself as a clergyman. “Religion is a drug.” Drawn by Landau’s eerie equanimity, Iacopo asked the source of his calm. “The individual does not matter,” he was told.

In the shadow of death, Landau has talked—to pass the time and, perhaps, to be remembered. His mother was German, his father a Pole working in Germany when they met. “When Mama died, Papa took me and my brother back to Kossow, but we spent our summers in Offenbach, visiting my mother’s parents.” Landau served two years in the Polish army and obtained an engineering degree from Warsaw Polytechnic, but his childhood German did not fade. Like his father before him, he found work in Berlin.

The Depression hit; foreigners were the first to lose their jobs. Landau went home, married a Warsaw girl, had a daughter. “Her birthday was the first of September,” Landau told Iacopo. “She turned three the day Germany invaded in ’39. The news spoiled her party.” Guests huddled around Landau’s shortwave as Radio Berlin announced that the Wehrmacht had crossed the border “in retaliation for an attack on Germany by Poland.” They laughed—actually laughed—at the absurdity!

Absurdity or not, Polish corpses soon rotted on the streets, and hospitals overflowed with wounded. Air attacks went on around the clock, and when the Wehrmacht was close enough to shell the city, the Soviet army invaded along Poland’s eastern border. Occupation was certain; by whom was unclear. Bodies bloated in the late-summer heat, and exploded hideously. There was no food, no electricity, no water, no sewer service. The bombardment ended, and the tanks rolled in.

“The Nazis made a big show of handing out bread. There were journalists, cameras,” Landau recalled. “I heard one reporter say that the German people were compelled to feed the hungry population of Poland due to the criminal neglect of the Polish government!” The cameras didn’t show that the bread was a centimeter deep in mold. Nor did the reporters mention that the food depots near synagogues were called rat traps. “Poles were given moldy bread, but Jews were given beatings.”

Everything of value was confiscated—a fancy word for stolen. Everyone had to register, so the population could be sorted into racial categories. “Poles of German ancestry were given Jewish farms and factories,” Landau said. “They could ride in trains, they ate well. Overnight, the Volksdeutsche were kings! Most couldn’t speak a word of German, but I could.” White-blond, with glacier-blue eyes, he told the authorities he was a civil engineer, a Pole of German ancestry whose identity papers had been destroyed in the shelling. A week later, he was working for the Reich, answering to the name Hans Obermüller. Nerves stretched tighter every day, he supervised the repair of bridges in Warsaw, in German-occupied Estonia and Finland, and finally in Berlin. At the end of 1942, he made a dash for southern France. When the Italian Fourth Army retreated across the Alps last September, Landau was with them, and arrived in Italy the day its own occupation began.

“And what of your family?” Iacopo asks now.

“I sent my wife and daughter to live with my father in Kossow. I could visit them because trains ran nearby. I thought they would be safe.”

The heat in the jail is oppressive, but Iacopo shivers at the echo of his own decisions. “Tell me their names,” he whispers. “If I live, I will look for your family and tell them of your fate.”

“They’re dead,” Landau says without emotion. “The Germans sent everyone in Kossow to a place called Treblinka.”

All the rabbi can summon is the most exalted of banalities. “Surely, they are with God.”

Around the room, conversations and card games stop. Two hundred prisoners packed into the jail stare while Landau laughs, loud and long. Amused and indulgent, the Pole shakes his head, wipes his eyes, and waves their interest off. Smiling tenderly, he pats Iacopo on the arm, like a father soothing a child. “Rebbe,” he says, “what I have seen would make an atheist of Abraham.”

TAVERNA IL DUCE
12:40 P.M.

The Fascist tavern near the seawall is crowded and noisy, filled with men who pay cash for what they want. At a corner table, Santino Cicala waits with a bersagliere in civilian clothing. His name is Giuseppe Farini. Santino pretends he doesn’t know that. It makes Farini feel better. The black marketeer is so nervous, he’s smoking his own stock. Every pack of Milites can buy a thick stack of occupation lire, but this will be the biggest risk he’s taken so far. He glares at the door. “Where the hell is that drunk?”

“He’ll be here. He’s got a lot of things to arrange—”

Everyone smiles when the couple comes into view. A handsome Italian whose suit coat is tossed over his shoulders and sways with every jaunty step. A homely Fräulein, weak with laughter, made vivacious by his interest. Gallantly, the man who calls himself Ugo Messner pulls out a chair for Erna Huppenkothen, greets a couple of fascisti, mimes friendly recognition to other patrons. When his companion is settled, he leans over to whisper in her ear. Something he says provokes a scandalized shriek, and he weaves through the tight-packed tables, disappearing into the gabinetto at the back of the bar.

Santino follows, but waits outside. The Jew always locks the door while he takes a piss. When the latch slides back, Santino slips inside. “Va bene?”

The whispered response is ebullient. “Benissimo! Ottimo! Perfetto!” Messner hands Santino a packet of transport papers. “There’s an Opel Blitz waiting at the Gestapo motor pool. They’re expecting you. When you’ve finished loading the cargo, bring it to the alley just this side of the Cuneo bridge. We’ll meet you there— What’s wrong?”

Santino stares at the key in his palm. “I can’t drive.”

“What?”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to drive the truck! I thought you just wanted me to load it!”

Messner’s liquorish urbanity explodes into half-vocalized profanity so appalling, Santino bumps into the wall, trying to move away in the tight space.

“I’m sorry, signore! I didn’t—”

The eyes close, and a hand goes up. “Forget it,” Messner says tightly. “It’s my fault. I should have— It doesn’t matter.” He cracks the door open. “Where’s Farini?”

“In the far corner, near the kitchen. Out of uniform, and shitting-his-pants scared.”

“Good. Heroism requires fear, Cicala, which is why I am incapable of it. Stay here for a few minutes, so we don’t look like we’re together. I’ll work on Farini.”

When Santino emerges from the W.C., Messner is back in the middle of the fascisti, the Fräulein hanging on his arm, enchanted. “But do you know why so many people hate the Jews?” Messner asks the others. “Because Jews think they matter! What they say, what they do, what they believe. Even when they don’t believe in God, Jews think their disbelief is significant. It’s positively comic, and intensely annoying to the rest of us.”

At the table by the kitchen, Giuseppe Farini is standing like a figure on a pedestal: shoulders back, head high. Glancing at Santino, he throws a few bills down on the table and lifts his chin toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Santino asks.

“To the Gestapo motor pool, and then to the mountains,” Farini says in a low firm voice, gazing at Messner with a look just like the Fräulein’s. “I’m through eating German shit,” he swears. “And if the Allies come? By God, I’ll fight them, too.”

Santino catches Messner’s eye. Grinning, Messner lifts a glass toward Farini. “Who will join me in a toast to heroes?” he shouts. “Bartender! A round for everyone!”

Songs and jokes and funny stories follow. He entertains the clientele, well aware of the impression he and Erna make. An aging girl with good connections. A shameless gigolo. Loose, happy, careless. No one seems to notice his sweating palms.

Ugo Messner may drink as much as any sot can swallow, while Padre Righetti wears a mask of fearless honesty and must never stagger or slur his words. Suspended between them, Renzo measures the capacity of each. Half sober, he can just keep up with the swift cunning and momentary ingenuities his restless mind provides. Half drunk, his nerves are steady, and all the chances seem worth taking.

He doesn’t always get the balance right. He awakens, now and then, fully dressed in a hooker’s bed, with no memory of what he said or did the night before. Head splitting, mouth foul, he fingers his clothing, deciding who and what he should be. Smooth serge? Don Gino Righetti will be ashamed, the troia tolerant and amused. If the rougher fabric of Ugo Messner’s linen suit comes to hand, she’ll be polite. Either way, she’ll be happy, paid handsomely, for a quiet night’s sleep. Thus far, neither of his alter egos has exposed the mohel’s work to the professional scrutiny of an unknown whore. Unmanned by liquor, he is also unbetrayed.

Back in Abyssinia, after the Dolo hospital raid, he could drink for hours, and still have a woman or two. On leave in Addis, he favored the girls pimped by a displaced Russian prince who kept women in a row of doorless mud-brick cabins. He drank before. He drank after. He hardly ever ate. He couldn’t stomach sooty Ethiopian flatbread rolled around raw beef and red pepper, but he learned to love the tedj. Cheered on by other pilots, he drank that stuff without swallowing, his throat open as a drainpipe. Tanked to the top, he’d take on another of the Russian’s harem. Then, sufficiently disgusted, he’d locate a bar frequented by the lower ranks and pick a fight with an infantryman of promising bulk and evident ferocity, hoping to end the evening dead.

Pilots fly now by the hundreds, kill by the thousands. It would be easy to lose his grip on guilt, but he clings to this one truth: greater crimes do not excuse his own. When the murder of forty-three people no longer matters, civilization is extinct. His shame is the last vestige of honor in a vicious, barbaric world. He drank in Addis to kill his conscience. He drinks now sacrificially: to keep remorse alive.

And because his legs hurt. And because getting drunk is the only pleasure left to him. And because his hands shake less.

He’ll quit soon.

But not today. Today he’ll once more seek that golden land where reckless genius lives! Timing’s critical. The schedule’s tight. He’s made one mistake already, and can’t allow another. He checks his watch, makes his farewells. May I walk you home, Fräulein Huppenkothen? Of course—the dressmaker. Compliment her for me. You always look wonderful. Take care, my dear. I’ll be away on business a few days. Ja, klar, mein Schätzchen! As soon as I get back.

A splash of cold water in the gabinetto. An espresso on the way out. A surreptitious change of clothes in Giacomo Tura’s cleaning closet. And Padre Righetti emerges from the basilica ready for responsibility. One blackbird in the city’s flock, he walks across San Giobatta’s piazza. Lifts his shark-finned hat to a pair of nuns who incline their heads as one. Raises his hand in bogus blessing over a pair of Jewish children selling holy cards to trusted Catholics on the steps of the convent. Hiding in plain sight, as Padre Righetti suggested.

He passes unremarked through checkpoints and roadblocks, progress unimpeded until he approaches the municipal jail. There the carabinieri take pains to examine papers with ceremonial attention. The queue files forward a few steps each minute, stalling completely when an old woman insists on explaining her business to them.

“My son outgrew these!” she says with a vague, worried look, clutching a bundle of rags. “I have to find a mother with an older boy and a younger one,” she confides. “She can have my son’s clothes for her little boy—I’ll trade them for her older son’s things.”

“Signora,” the policeman protests kindly, “your son must be a man by now. It’s been a long time since he outgrew anything!”

Bent and bony, the old lady hugs the bundle to her sunken chest. “My son outgrew these!” she says, quavering voice more insistent. “I have to find a mother with an older boy and a younger one! She can have my son’s clothes for her little boy, and my son can wear her older boy’s clothes!”

People begin to mutter. Smiling benignly, Gino Righetti steps out of the queue and comes to the carabiniere’s side. “Let her pass,” he says, sotto voce. “She’s just a crazy old lady, figliomio. Completamente pazza.”

“I heard that!” the old woman snaps. The carabiniere nods them through, and Renzo takes her by the arm. “A priest should know better! You’re very badly brought up!” she scolds. “Let go of me! I have to find a lady with an older boy and a younger one!”

“Don’t upset yourself, signora.” He steers her toward a crude wooden bench placed beneath a high, barred window of the jail, where he tips his biretta to wives and mothers and sisters waiting their turn to stand on the bench and speak to their menfolk inside. “I’m sure these ladies will let you sit here and rest, signora,” he suggests soothingly. “When I’ve finished my work among these poor prisoners, I’ll come back for you, all right?”

Suddenly cooperative, she allows him to take her bundle. He jams it between the heavy wooden bench support and the wall before addressing the other women. “If this lady wanders away, go with her, my daughters.”

They glance at one another, at the bundle, at the old lady, whose eyes are clear now, and focused.

The earliest part of the jail was solidly built of sturdy sandstone blocks. This new wing was slapped up in a hurry to deal with a glut of wartime prisoners. The women are separated from their men by a poorly mortared wall, post-and-beam construction filled with brick and stone rubble, lightly frosted with stucco.

“Sì, Padre!” the women murmur. “Sì, certo! Whatever you say.”

SANT’ANDREA MUNICIPAL JAIL
4:05 P.M.

Once a week, a priest comes to hear confessions and say Mass. Iacopo Soncini pays little attention when a new one enters the large, open room and moves through the crowd from prisoner to prisoner, speaking quietly. Whenever a priest approaches, the tattered charcoal man is humble. “Nothing to confess,” he always says. “No chance to sin in here, Padre.”

“Now, there’s a shocking failure of imagination!” this one replies. “I found any number of illicit activities to pursue in jail! Bribery, lying, theft, gambling . . .”

“Renzo!”

“Shut up and listen carefully: the outer wall is going down in about five minutes. There’s a truck waiting at the Cuneo bridge. Mirella and the children are at Mother of Mercy. If we get separated, go there and ask for Suora Corniglia—”

“We have to take him with us,” Iacopo says, pointing. “He’ll be executed tomorrow morning. He’s a Polish Jew, but he speaks German.”

“That’s a Hebe?” Renzo stares. “Belandi! I never would have guessed! All right, he can come, too. Get behind that partition.” He jerks his head at the sandstone, once the exterior of the old prison. “Stay there, and don’t look back!”

Quietly directing prisoners toward safety, Renzo works through the crowd. When he reaches the Pole, the man barely glances at him before saying, “Non sono cattolico. Sono ebreo.”

“How nice! So am I,” Renzo answers in quiet German. “Even with the rabbi over there, we’re seven short of a minyan, but as God told Moses, Don’t just stand there praying, cross the sea! The wall you’re leaning against has three minutes to live.”

A slow, hard smile forms on the Pole’s lips. “I knew the CNL would send someone.”

“There’s an Opel Blitz waiting at the Cuneo bridge— Wait! The Committee for National Liberation? Verdammte Scheisse! Porca Madonna—” There’s no time to think, let alone sort out which language to swear in. “I’m freelance, understand? Not CNL! I just came for the rabbi. We’ll get you out of Sant’Andrea, but then you’re on your own.”

Beginning to wish Padre Righetti had bought some sacramental wine, Renzo leads the last few men behind the wall. There he pulls out the small black book Don Osvaldo provided, lifts the missal in his left hand, crosses himself with his right.

Inside, a hush falls. Outside, a furor rises.

“I have to find a lady with an older boy and a younger one!” a familiar voice insists. “Don’t push her, you cafone!” a younger woman shouts. “She’s an old lady!” another yells. “How dare you treat women like this?” a third demands.

Renzo begins the chant. “Introibo ad altare Dei.”

“Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meum,” comes the responsum.

“You should be ashamed!” a woman yells. “Would you treat your mother like that?” someone asks. “She can have my son’s clothes for her little boy!”

“Do me justice, O God, and fight my fight against a faithless people. From the deceitful and impious men, rescue me!”

Serafino Brizzolari’s rumbling bass voice joins the soprano chorus, as planned. “Ladies! Ladies, please! I’m sure we can resolve this difficulty—”

“Signor Brizzolari! Tell these men they can’t treat us so rudely!”

“Ladies, please! I must insist that you all follow me—”

“...lucem tuam et veritatem tuam: Your light and Your fidelity shall lead me on and bring me to your holy mountain.” How apt, Renzo has time to think.

The high, barred window is replaced by brilliance. The bottom of the wall erupts. The sensation of motion ends almost before he can register it. Slammed backward, blinded by the flash, he lies immobile, his lungs stunned and airless.

Someone lifts him to his feet. Blinking stone powder and stucco, he puts out a hand to feel his way forward, trips over something soft, stops to wipe blood and dust from his face, and winces at a metallic stinging sensation, like needles thrust into his skin. His left eye clears long enough to see a thin man on the floor, screaming from within a skull, its face flayed by the blast. All the sounds seem far away, as though heard underwater. His right eardrum is probably broken.

“—ome on!” It’s Iacopo, hair singed and pale with dust. Lost again in a red haze, Renzo lets the rabbi guide him toward the breach. His lips and nostrils and eyes burn. Lime in the mortar, he supposes. His left eye clears long enough to see women converging on the mob of men who tumble out of the jail. Everyone is shouting and running, creating as much confusion as possible.

“Belandi!” Renzo shouts, hilarious with relief that he’s not blind and probably won’t be completely deaf. “We did it!” And everyone seems to have lived through it—apart from that poor faceless bastard who looked back at the wrong moment. There but for the grace of God, and an extra five meters’ distance from the blast—

A brick hits his shoulder. The upper portion of the wall is beginning to collapse.

Iacopo yells something and grips Renzo’s arm. The ground levels beneath them. The stink of explosives and burned hair recedes.

Renzo pulls the cassock skirt up and dabs tentatively at the mess above the Roman collar. He isn’t frightened by the amount of blood soaking into the black serge. No worse than the Libyan crash, he supposes. Head cuts bleed like hosepipes.

Another swipe at his eyes, and he catches a glimpse of his mother standing at the edge of the crowd, waving. He raises a hand to let her know he’s seen her. “My mother’s over there!” he yells, but the rabbi doesn’t seem—

Two more explosions penetrate his muffled ears. Gunfire crackles. Women scream and scatter. Someone clubs his leg out from under him. Dumbfounded, he tries to get up. Hands seize him, the fingers like iron grapples in his armpits, dragging him over the cobbles. Booted feet pound past. He lifts his head, sees his mother coming: a force of nature, determined to reach him.

“Mamma! No!” he screams. “Get down!” Above and behind him, he hears Santino shout something at Iacopo. Iacopo grabs his legs. “Wait!” Renzo screams, bucking and kicking. “Mamma, get down!”

All around them, bullets sing and smack into masonry. Santino scuttles backward, stumbling when the body in his hands goes suddenly slack. The face above the dog collar is white. “Madonna! Did he just die?”

“I don’t think so,” the rabbi gasps, trying to keep a grip on a leg slick with blood. Landau catches up with them. “What happened?” Iacopo yells. “Why did—?”

“We had attacks planned all over the city. They must have thought the jailbreak was a signal.” A young man in laborer’s clothing tosses a pistol to Landau, who begins firing to give them cover. “Go, Rebbe!” he shouts. “Get to the truck!”

Around the corner, Giuseppe Farini waits with the Opel ready and running. He jumps out to release the tailgate when he spots Santino with a bleeding priest. “Gesù! What the fuck happened?”

Santino pushes the body up into the truck, heedless of the cargo its blood will spoil, and gives the rabbi a boost as well. “Drive!” he yells.

Farini starts for the cab.

“Wait!” Iacopo shouts, pointing.

Jakub Landau sprints down the alley and dives headfirst into the truck. Slamming the tailgate into position, Santino dashes for the cab.

The Opel lurches forward, and they’re on their way: a fake priest, a genuine rabbi, and the regional political officer of the Italian Committee for National Liberation, along with cargo officially bound for Germany, all transportation papers stamped “Highest Priority” and signed by Artur Huppenkothen.

Improbably jabbed and prodded by the bolts of cloth beneath him, Jakub Landau feels through the layers and pulls out a 9mm Beretta. Unfurling a roll of fabric, he finds seven more pistols. Concealed in the center: two carbines nestled like lovers, stock to barrel. Counting quickly, he makes an estimate. Fifty bolts of cloth. Four hundred Berettas, a hundred rifles. He snakes an arm downward. Crates of ammunition, beneath it all. A bonanza.

The rebbe is on his knees putting pressure on the gunshot wound in the bogus priest’s thigh. “We have a good medic in the mountains,” Landau yells.

Up in the cab, the driver downshifts to handle a steeper grade as they drive out of town. The engine noise adds to the ringing in his ears, but Landau can read the wounded man’s lips.

Italians, he thinks, smiling to himself. It’s always Mamma with them.