CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FOUR
Marco
16 October 1943
Marco and Elisabetta disembarked at Carpi and found themselves at a small deserted train station that was more like a shed, open on three sides. The only light came from a bare bulb in the ceiling, and the air carried the smell of horse manure and an oddly acidic odor, perhaps from balsamico. He took his flashlight and compass from his backpack.
Elisabetta looked around. “This is really the middle of nowhere.”
“There’s only vineyards, like Gemma said.” Marco felt a pang of grief, but suppressed the emotion. He was on a mission, and Gemma would have wanted him to succeed.
“So, which way do we go?”
“Hold on.” Marco consulted his compass, then started walking. “This way. The transit camp at Fossoli is due northeast, on the other side of Carpi.”
Elisabetta fell into step beside him, and Marco shone the flashlight ahead of them. They walked down a dirt road, and there was nothing on either side, no homes or vineyards. About two kilometers ahead, he could see Carpi, a small cluster of lights and shadowy tile rooftops.
Elisabetta looked over. “So what now?”
“I’d like to get as close to the transit camp as possible, to see how it works and get the lay of the land.”
“How long will it take to get there?”
“Probably an hour, maybe less.”
They walked along, and in time crossed an intersection and a directional sign, with arrows aiming different ways.
“A sign.” Elisabetta pointed.
“I see.”
“It says Fossoli is straight ahead.”
“That’s the way we’re going.” Marco kept walking, breathing in the country air, which reminded him of Abruzzo, where his parents were from. His family had gone there to visit his grandparents from time to time. His father always talked about how he and his mother had fallen in love there and moved to Rome together, as if life were a grand adventure.
“Marco, why didn’t you tell me you can’t read?”
His mouth went dry. His face warmed.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Marco didn’t know what to say. Of course it was something to be ashamed of. He walked straight ahead, so she couldn’t see his expression.
“Marco?”
“I can read.”
“I don’t think you can.” Elisabetta’s tone was sympathetic, not accusatory, which only made him feel worse.
“Well, I can.”
“Then what did that sign say?”
“I don’t need it. I rely on my compass. I have an excellent sense of direction.”
“Just tell me what it said.”
“It said we’re going the right way.”
“You know that’s not the point. It had the names of towns nearby and the distances.”
“Look, I admit, I don’t read as well as you or Sandro. You read books, and he’s a genius. I’m smart, just not as smart as you guys.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.” Marco wanted to believe she was right, but she wasn’t. That damn train schedule had given him away.
“Marco, come on, you’re very smart. I know you, I see what you do. Look at what you did today.”
“Today my father died.”
Elisabetta touched his arm. “Even so, you figured out a story for Nino the undertaker and a plan for Arnaldo. You spoke good enough German to fool that Nazi. You even got him to agree to give Sandro my note.”
“He did it because you’re beautiful. Even Nazis like beautiful girls.” Marco shook his head. “And I doubt he gave it to Sandro anyway.”
“My point is that you’re very intelligent.”
“Then what’s the matter?” Marco blurted out, since it was a question he had asked himself over and over. “Why is reading harder for me?”
“Tell me what happens when you read.”
Marco sighed, pained. “I don’t know.”
“What do you see, on the page?”
“Everything looks mixed up.”
“Do you think it’s your eyes? Do you need glasses?”
“No, I see fine.” Marco had already eliminated these possibilities.
“What happens when you write?”
“I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to make anything look like.”
“I bet I can help you.”
“I bet you can’t.” Marco walked faster. “Let me tell you the plan. That’s what matters now.”
Marco and Elisabetta reached Fossoli, found a vineyard, and lay on their stomachs between rows of grapevines, behind a thick underbrush. The transit camp was across from them, far enough to avoid their being seen. Its lights illuminated the night sky, unnaturally bright in the countryside. They had an unobstructed view, since the grapes in the vineyards in between had been harvested, the earth tilled in rows.
Marco scanned the transit camp through the binoculars, reconnoitering. The camp was a long rectangle, set lengthwise on Via dei Grilli, running east to west and surrounded by three layers of post-and-barbed wire fencing. There were no guard turrets or watchtowers. The prisoners’ barracks were long brick houses with small square windows, situated in rows on the east side of the camp and set perpendicular to the road. There were ten barracks in a row and eight rows of barracks, which flanked an aisle that ran down the middle of the camp, running parallel to Via dei Grilli.
He shifted his binoculars to focus on the west side of the transit camp, where there were smaller structures, evidently offices and barracks for Nazi guards. Behind the transit camp on the southwest side, situated along Via Remesina, was a construction site, apparently where the Nazis were building the extension. Ditches had been dug for foundations, framed with wood. Bricks, wood, and building materials sat piled next to the frames and shovels, picks, spades, and other tools.
Marco returned his attention to the transit camp proper. It was late and no prisoners were about, so they must have been inside the barracks. Nazis guarded the perimeter, stationed at every eighth post. Some looked around, others smoked. One left by the south gate, disappeared into the darkness, and reappeared after a few moments buckling his belt, so presumably he had gone to urinate.
“What do you see?” Elisabetta whispered.
“The layout and other details. It’s what I expected.”
“Can I look?”
“Yes.” Marco handed her the binoculars, and Elisabetta held it up to her eyes.
“It’s such a big camp.”
“Not very.”
“There’s a lot of guards.”
“Not too many.”
“Are you sure we can do this?” Elisabetta lowered the binoculars, revealing a grimace.
“Yes,” Marco answered, though he wasn’t. “Let me go it alone. It’s too dangerous, I told you.”
“No, I want to do it. You need me for the plan, now.”
“Still, I can think of another plan. Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Elisabetta raised the binoculars.
Later, they walked along by moonlight, crossing vineyards and horse pastures. They came upon a large acetaia with a small stone farmhouse, a barn, a chicken coop, and two outbuildings. They sneaked through rows of vines to the outbuildings, and Marco turned on his flashlight and shone it inside.
The first outbuilding contained balsamico barrels, reeking of fermenting vinegar, and the other held stacked burlap bags. They chose the latter and went inside. The air smelled musty, and cobwebs draped from the low rafters.
Marco cast the flashlight on the burlap bags. “We can sleep here. We’ll be gone by dawn.”
“Good.” Elisabetta eased into the earthen floor, leaning back against the bags. “I’m so tired, I could sleep sitting up.”
“I’ll wake you up when it’s time. I always know.” Marco sat beside her, turning off the flashlight and plunging them into darkness. His eyes adjusted to his surroundings. Moonlight streamed through the small window.
Elisabetta didn’t respond.
Marco looked over to find her already asleep. He exhaled, then let himself feel his own fear and anguish. Their mission was dangerous, with slim odds of success. He would lay down his life for Sandro and Massimo, but he would never forgive himself if anything happened to Elisabetta. He considered sneaking out while she slept and executing the plan alone, but he did need her. And she would have been furious with him.
He leaned back on the burlap bags, closed his eyes, and rehearsed his plan in his mind. Tomorrow was the first step, and the more he thought about tomorrow, the less he thought about his father’s death, and Gemma’s.