CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX

Marco

17 October 1943

It was almost midnight. Darkness concealed Marco and Elisabetta, who were lying in the ravine side by side, on their stomachs. Marco held the binoculars to his eyes, watching the transit camp. The prisoners were in their barracks. The construction site was quiet. The Nazis guarded their posts along the perimeter fence.

“What’s going on?” Elisabetta asked, looking over.

“Nothing.” Marco watched the Nazis, who examined their fingernails, brushed dirt from their coats, or smoked one cigarette after another. “They stand there, looking at the same vineyards night after night. That will help us, when the time comes. They’re bored to death.”

“That’s why they were so interested in me today.”

Marco lowered the binoculars. “That’s not why. You’re a beautiful girl, carrying wine. It’s what men dream of.”

“Men like wine that much?”

“No. Men like women who like wine that much.” Marco returned the binoculars to his eyes. “Still, you did well. You were brave.”

“Thank you.”

“The next step will be harder, and there’s always the possibility that Baron von Weizsäcker didn’t get Sandro and his father sent here. If the Baron failed us, we’re in trouble.”

“I think he did it.”

“Why?”

“I make the best pasta in Rome.”

Marco smiled, falling in love with Elisabetta all over again. His heart ached for her, and he worried these feelings would never leave him.

He stole a glance at her in the moonlight, but her eyes were on the camp.