EIGHT
Francesca
Late September 1943
Francesca checked the address and rapped on the door. In her other hand, she held the handlebar of her bicycle, with its special left pedal that Giacomo had rigged with a strap to secure her weak foot. With quite a bit of difficulty, she’d hoisted the bicycle up the short flight of steps after riding across town. It left her breathless, but she wasn’t a strong walker—she couldn’t risk having it stolen. And with Giacomo gone, she had no choice but to carry it upstairs herself.
He’d been gone for more than a week. She’d spent entire days pacing the apartment, barely sleeping. Hunger twisted her stomach while she stared through the window’s shutter slats. She went over everything she could think of—all the questions, all the possibilities. Should she quit her job and return home to her mother? Did she even have a job anymore? The bookshop, like most shops, had been shuttered since the Germans rolled in. But if she left, would she ever find Giacomo? Was he in prison, or had they shipped him elsewhere? She remembered how the Nazi hesitated when Giacomo said, “Medico.” Perhaps they had need of his skills?
Every time Germans appeared in the street beyond her shutter slats, her heart started to pound, but it was anger that rose in her throat. Italy had learned on Monday that the Germans had rescued Mussolini. German-controlled newspapers declared Il Duce as leader of Italy again, but anyone could see he was only Hitler’s puppet now. It infuriated her. And it was this fury that made her remember Giacomo’s remark about Lino Moretti.
I ran into Lino Moretti today, he’d said that night. She closed her eyes to recall the conversation. Lino had wanted to reel Giacomo into some kind of group, something political. She pulled up an image of Lino as a young man. She could see his face, not because she’d known him well, but because of one particular Sunday back home, one she’d tried to forget.
She was fourteen that day, and she and Giacomo were coming out of Pienza’s cathedral after Mass. Sunlight spilled over the piazza outside, gilding the heads and shoulders of people pausing to chat before walking home. A pair of steps flanked the cathedral’s facade, and a huddle of teenage boys sat on them, whispering and laughing raucously as their eyes raked the crowd. Francesca stiffened at the sight of them, preparing to be noticed. The boys only threw words at her, but they bruised, nonetheless.
“C’mon,” Giacomo said, eyes troubled behind his glasses. He was gangly as a colt, with messy hair and a gentle smile. He reached to steady her as she took a step down the two stairs flanking the church, but it wasn’t enough. Her cane slipped off the step’s edge, her clunky shoe skidded, and her leg buckled. Francesca fell headlong, hitting the ground with a force that rattled her teeth. Laughter volleyed from the boys, along with taunts she couldn’t make out over her pounding heart and smarting eyes. Adults were already marching across the square; they’d only make it worse. Francesca snatched her cane, and Giacomo hoisted her up, glancing over his shoulder.
“Go to hell!” he shouted at the boys, his contemporaries, his voice cracking. The laughter expanded. And then it shut off, suddenly, like a spigot. Someone was striding past the boys, commanding silence, long legs reaching Francesca before the arrival of the dreaded adults.
“You all right?” He swung to a stop before them, and the concerned grown-ups slowed their approach, as if they knew Lino could handle the disturbance better than anyone. “Ignore those idioti,” he said, smiling affably, and Francesca forgot her humiliation for one dazzling second. The young man was the Moretti boy, who’d gone off to university the year before. He wore a pin-striped jacket and gleaming shoes, like a man who’d stepped in from another world.
“We always ignore them.” Giacomo glanced toward the steps, Francesca’s palm in his grip, ready to defend her. “Those bastardi”—he checked Lino’s reaction to his bold language, stifling a self-conscious smile—“they aren’t worth our time.”
“They’re not. Bullies are cowards, as a rule.” Lino looked between them, nodding decisively. “You’re good kids. I’ll have a word with those bastardi before I leave town.”
Francesca had swallowed at the memory, steeling herself. Lino would help her. She’d hurried to Giacomo’s books and papers, shuffling through them. If anyone had connections, it would be Lino. Picking up a scrap of paper, she’d squinted, tossing it. No. Didn’t Giacomo say Lino had written down his address? Pain gripped her throat as she flipped through page after page of Giacomo’s handwriting, the messy scrawl of notes on pathology and anatomy. And then there it was—a paper with an address on it, written by a different hand.
And now, an hour later, she stood in front of that address.
The door cracked open, and a middle-aged man stared through the gap.
“I’m here to see Lino,” Francesca said.
“Who?”
She held up the address, written in Lino’s own hand, and the door swung wider. The man gestured her inside, glanced around the stairwell, and closed it quietly after she wheeled her bicycle into the foyer.
“Gesù Cristo! Is he writing his address down and passing it out?” The man shook his head, his eyebrows screwed low. “Give that to me, signorina. I’m going to burn it.”
The man shuffled off, paper pinched in his fingers, and Francesca looked beyond him. The foyer split in two, opening into a tiny kitchen on one side and a dining area on the other. In the kitchen, a tall man, with brown eyes and tufted hair, looked up.
“Welcome,” he said cautiously, staring at her for an awkward moment, a steaming mug cupped in one hand. He glanced toward the front door, as if listening for spies, speaking quietly. “Did I hear you say you’re looking for Lino? You’ll have to excuse my manners, but are we acquainted?”
She cleared her throat. Of course he didn’t remember her. “I grew up in Pienza. My”—she cleared her throat again—“my husband is Giacomo Lombardi. You told him to come here.”
He nodded, visibly relaxing. “Ah. I remember.” He laughed a little, setting down his cup. “Nobody outside of Pienza calls me Lino, and we’re all a little tense at the moment. Forgive me for my confusion.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—”
He waved a hand agreeably. “It’s quite all right. My family called me Carlino when I was little, which became Lino to the rest of Pienza. But when I came to Rome, I reclaimed my given name. Call me Carlo, if you would.”
She nodded, replacing his nickname with his grown-up name. Carlo. Carlo Moretti.
“Come and sit down, please.” He gestured toward the table. “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
She shook her head stiffly, and he hesitated, considering her.
“And where is Giacomo?”
She had to inhale, filling her lungs for strength. “The Germans took him last week. We were at Porta San Paolo when they broke through.”
“Dio mio.” Carlo set his cup down and strode over. He picked Francesca’s hands up in both of his, squeezing. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
She nodded, struggling to respond around the pain in her throat. “Giacomo suspected you to be in the underground. I thought you might have connections. Can you find him?”
Carlo shook his head. “It’s unlikely that anyone could find him.”
She pulled her hands from his and crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could hold back the anger and fear burning within. “I won’t accept that. As long as he’s alive, there must be something I can do. Surely, I can find out where they’re keeping prisoners.”
Carlo frowned. “The trouble isn’t figuring out where they’re stashing prisoners; it’s finding a specific prisoner. The Nazis have our people all over—in prisons and barracks and work gangs. And they’re sending Italians to their front lines. But I’ll ask around, all right?” He gestured to the kitchen table. “Why don’t you sit down? We can talk this through a bit.”
She followed him to the table and folded into a chair facing him. It felt good to sit. When she met Carlo’s gaze, he was studying her, as if fully seeing her for the first time. Then his eyes widened, and he dropped his palms to the table.
“Wait—I know you. You’re Giuseppe Gallo’s daughter.”
They held each other’s stares, mutually surprised.
“You knew my father?”
Carlo slapped the table. “Of course! I do remember you. I remember when you got sick. The whole town talked about it. The rest of our parents lived in terror of us catching it. I was locked inside for a week.”
She deflated. It was just the polio he remembered. Did he remember her tumble in the piazza? She pressed her thumbs to the corners of her eyes. They leaked constantly now, as if her interior had sprung holes.
“It’s what I was known for. Contagion, leg braces. Pity.” Some of the old women in town used to cross themselves, warding off misfortune, when Francesca came hobbling down the street in her braces. It was who she’d been most of her life: the polio survivor.
But Carlo was shaking his head. He leaned forward.
“That’s not all I remember. When your father was arrested by the Blackshirts? My family left town after that. We went to my uncle’s, by Lake Como, for the entire summer. They used the excuse of mountain air, but it was actually because my father was in the same group as yours.”
Francesca dropped her hands from her temples. “He was an anti-Fascist?”
Carlo nodded.
“Did he come to our house for meetings, with those men from Siena?”
“Sì.” Carlo’s eyes widened as if they were kids, discovering their parents’ secrets. “They created underground newspapers together. For years.”
“Years?” She shook her head, in awe. “I’ve tried to piece all of that together since he was taken, but my mamma wouldn’t tell me anything. My nonna moved into the house after he left, and they were both convinced that the less I knew, the better.”
“Your father was a brave man, Francesca Gallo.” He nodded, enthused. “My father still talks about him after a few swigs of grappa. After your babbo was exiled, mine dropped out of the group. He was afraid he might be caught, too. He often mentioned your mamma. And I remember how everyone dropped things by your place after we heard that your babbo died in confino. To help.”
Her mouth fell open. She’d always wondered why a farmer might stop by with a side of meat, or a box of apples, or why new clothes appeared as she grew. Was it because she was a cripple? Fatherless? Or was it because her father was something of an underground hero?
The new information puzzled into the gaps in her story, those holes her mother would never fill. She shook her head, speechless, but a spark of pride flared in her chest.
“Your Giacomo,” Carlo said, and everything in Francesca caved inward again.
He rubbed his jaw, giving her a moment before continuing. “I’m sorry to hear it. I really am. You were married?”
She hesitated and then shook her head, lowering her gaze to the table. “Just engaged, actually.”
Carlo waved her confession away, clearly intent on something else. “Listen. I probably don’t need to ask how you feel about the Nazis. It’s safe to assume—”
“I hate them.” She met his stare. The words burned on her tongue.
“I imagine so. Francesca, we’re working in the spirit of your father. We’re going to fight back until they’re gone. Until Rome and all of Italy is free. And we need more people.” He leaned forward. “Will you join us?”
She took a deep breath, and her thoughts spun. She saw her father’s green eyes shining with fear as he was taken away. She saw Giacomo ducking into an armored car, a rifle at his back. And she saw herself, immobile under a quilt, sobbing over her lost freedom while stars glittered outside of her window.
But really, her freedom was the one thing she hadn’t lost—not yet. The fear and grief surrounding her heart broke like an eggshell.
She cleared her throat. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
Carlo half smiled. “You’re your father’s child.” His brown eyes gained intensity, like a cat focusing on movement. “What’s your schedule like? Do you have a job?”
“I work in a bookshop. But it’s been closed since the Germans came—I’m not sure if I have a job anymore, honestly.”
“That’s happening all over Rome. Will you be all right if you lose your income?”
“For a bit.” Wasn’t that everyone’s situation now? Italians could no longer peer far into the future. Instead, they had to live their lives in uncertainty, bit by bit.
“Tell me this: How are you on that bicycle? Are you able to get around pretty well?”
She shrugged. What was he getting at?
“You’d make a perfect staffetta, if . . .” He hesitated.
A staffetta? She pictured it, herself as a courier, and the idea immediately hardened. “If I can ride far—is that what you’d like to ask? My difficulty is in my left leg, but I can compensate with my right. I use a cane when I have to walk much. But with a bicycle? I can go anywhere.” She held his stare, withholding what he didn’t need to know. She could go anywhere, but not without pain and exhaustion.
“Brava. You’ll be perfect, Francesca. The Nazis will never suspect someone like you.”
She straightened, stung, but then she understood. He was right: All her life, she’d moved like a shadow in the company of men. She was small and quiet, with a visible disability, easily dismissed by imperceptive men. What seemed like vulnerability could actually be her strength.
But who was she going to be working with, exactly? It was her turn to study Carlo.
“Does your organization have a name?”
His eyes flashed as he glanced around the room, though there was nobody to overhear. Francesca recognized his wariness. She’d watched her father hush conversations all her life, until the Fascists quieted him for good.
“We’re the CLN.” He lowered his voice. “The National Liberation Committee. It’s a new conglomerate of all the anti-Fascist groups. Our aim is to work together until the Germans are expelled, and to resist Fascism thereafter.”
“So, the CLN includes the socialists, the communists—”
He interrupted. “Sì. And the Christian Democrats, the Action Party, the Labour Democratic Party, the Italian Liberal Party—we’re all united.”
“And in terms of the Allies?”
“Our aim is to work with them. To help them win this war.”
She nodded, piecing this new world together in her mind. “When can I start?”
Carlo grinned. “Tomorrow.” He stood, turning toward the kitchen and calling over his shoulder, “If you’ll stay for a cup of coffee—terrible coffee, I admit—I’ll explain everything you need to know. Va bene?”
A flame grew in her soul, rising amid the fear and grief that had rained through her all week. Carlo returned with a full cup, sliding it into her waiting palms.
“From now on, you’ll call me Gianluca Falco. And you’ll need to choose a nom de guerre for yourself. The Nazis are already hunting us, capisci?” He paused, holding her gaze with his intent stare. “You understand the danger, don’t you? From the moment you start, you’ll be risking your life.”
Her thoughts curved inward. She saw the Blackshirts when they came for her father, the fever in their faces. They’d been hungry to take him. They were following orders from someone higher in the Fascist hierarchy; they didn’t have reason to hate her father. But they yearned to hurt him, nonetheless.
“I understand.” She warmed her fingers on her steaming cup, finding her voice. “You can call me L’Allodola.”
The next morning, Francesca wheeled her bicycle through the courtyard of Carlo’s building, past the mailboxes, her heart pounding with each step. As she approached the door to the street, it swung open. A man and a teenage boy strode inside. Seeing Francesca, limping along with her bicycle and the oversize laundry basket fastened to the front of its handlebars, they stepped aside and held the door. The boy, dark haired and pimple faced, looked her over. She passed, and the father’s gaze fell on the basket, with its neatly folded linens. He had heavy eyebrows and wary eyes. A rivulet of sweat tickled her lower back. The door swung shut behind her, and she exhaled, lifting her weak leg over the bicycle’s seat. She gave it a push with her strong leg, and she was off.
The air cooled her lungs, and she pumped faster until the rattle of cobblestones smoothed beneath her tires, taking on a settling rhythm. As long as she was moving, she’d be all right. Apartment blocks slid by as she whirred down a hill, threading between a sidewalk and a bus.
She thought through Carlo’s instructions, delivered an hour ago.
“The contents of this basket are needed in Trastevere. Memorize this address.” He’d handed her a slip of paper, tearing it up after she’d read it. “This load’ll be heavy on your handlebars, but you can manage, sì?”
They were in his bedroom, and he’d bent over, pulling an array of guns and grenades from under the bed and loading them into the deep laundry basket. She’d watched, stunned. Carlo whistled softly while he nestled weapons against the wicker, tucking linens around them as one would settle a baby. Then he layered a thick pile of sheets over the stash. The crowning bedsheet was clean, but stained with something that looked like blood.
“For security. Nazis are terrified of contagion.” He stood to his full height and smiled. “Bring back the linens, if you would. We’ll use them again. In fact, from now on when you visit here, it’ll be under the guise of a laundress.”
Francesca nodded, but she couldn’t locate her voice. She stared at the basket on the floor, pressing a hand over her mouth as if working on a difficult equation. Did this all add up? Could she transport such a basket? What would she do if someone investigated her cargo?
An idea dropped into her mind, immediately calcifying. “I’d like a gun of my own.”
Carlo’s face fell to seriousness. He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, shaking his head. “We’re not giving weapons to women.”
She crossed her arms. “That’s unreasonable. Are you arming your men?” She tipped her head toward the laundry basket, which was clearly intended to arm a whole group of them. He hesitated, glancing toward the kitchen, which, today, was full of men.
“If I’m going to be a partisan, just like all those boys at your table, I want a gun of my own. I won’t fire it unless I have to.”
“I’m not worried about your restraint.” He lowered his voice. “Do you even know how to use one?”
A memory rose: her father from years before. They were outside in a wild field, and a beam of sunshine broke behind his head. His eyes shone as he regarded her, not yet a teenager, kneeling in the grass. She held a rifle. Somewhere in the field, six quail lay dead, brought down for their supper. Her father had laughed out loud.
She cleared her throat and matched Carlo’s gaze. “My father taught me to hunt when I was little. I’m a reliable shot.”
He nodded, glancing again at the door, and motioned for her to open her coat. From his own waistband, he withdrew a Beretta. He held it as if testing its weight, then placed it in her hand.
“Grazie,” she murmured, tucking it inside an interior pocket.
Moments later, Carlo had wheeled the bicycle through the apartment, murmuring instructions. “If anyone stops you, play your role. The gun is only a last resort, sì? If they catch you, they’ll shoot you or hang you or torture you for information. So, don’t get caught.”
He carried the bicycle downstairs, glancing around to make sure the courtyard was clear. Then he’d placed his hands on her slim shoulders and met her unwavering stare.
“In bocca al lupo, my friend. Remember: you’re stronger than they’d ever guess.”
Now she pumped up a hill, breathing the smell of cypress warming in the September sun. The Trastevere neighborhood was fifteen minutes away, and she had to cross through the center of Rome to reach it. The streets were quieter than usual, but every passing vehicle carried Germans. They’d begun stealing cars and bicycles whenever one struck their fancy, so now Romans went on foot, tram, or bus.
She tightened her grip on her handlebars, and the laundry basket rattled along over the bicycle tire. She imagined the grenades in there, bumping amid the linens. Could one of them get rattled a bit too hard and blow up? Did that ever happen? She lifted her eyes back to the street and puffed air through her tight lips. No, of course not. Wasn’t there a pin that had to be pulled? She glanced over her shoulder, slowing for a bus before veering across the street. It would be best to keep her mind off the basket and focus on riding. This was no time to crash.
Francesca swooped onto a narrow street, barely more than an alley, slowing so her tires bumped over the cobbles and rattled her teeth. She wound down the alley and turned onto another, threading her way through the tight streets that made up the Jewish ghetto. An old woman, taking down her laundry, waved as Francesca passed. She wove the bicycle through a piazza, passing mothers encircled by children, old men chatting in the autumn sunshine, and gaggles of boys kicking balls and whooping. Another turn, and the tree-lined avenue flanking the Tiber spread before her.
She looked at the river. The Fatebenefratelli Hospital straddled its island in the water, a stone’s throw from the Jewish ghetto. An image of Giacomo rose in her mind: his head bent over a row of patients in the sun, strong hands binding a leg, sweat speckling his glasses, only hours before he vanished. She pedaled faster, passing the synagogue, veering through the canopy of riverside trees, leaving the Fatebenefratelli Hospital behind. What would Giacomo say if he could see her now?
The Ponte Sisto was a narrow pedestrian bridge crossing to the Trastevere neighborhood. Francesca slowed as she approached it, studying the sprinkle of people moving along the cobbled span. None were German. She exhaled and swung her leg over the saddle of the bicycle, gripped the handlebars, and started walking across the ancient stone arcing over the green water.
“Ciao,” a voice called from behind her, the accent heavy. Francesca glanced over her shoulder as a young German in a Wehrmacht uniform trotted onto the bridge, leaving a trio of other soldiers who’d materialized across the street. She stiffened as one of them lit a cigarette, staring at her with interest. Her pulse accelerated, like a flood in her chest, and the young German fell into step beside her.
“Ciao, signorina,” he said again. “Let me take the bicycle across for you, ja?” He grinned under his fringe of dark hair. His eyes were the color of stone.
Did he suspect her? She forced herself not to glance at the basket of weapons, which suddenly seemed so obvious under the linens. She smiled up at him, trying to harness her spinning thoughts. What did he want? Would he inspect her incriminating cargo? He motioned for the handlebars, and she shook her head with force, swallowing a surge of panic.
“You wash linens for work?” he ventured, filling her silence with choppy Italian. He eyed the basket, boots clicking with each step. She subdued the flood of fear. She was nothing but a laundress. She had nothing to hide. She glanced at the water shifting in the sunshine as it flowed and folded under the bridge, and she marshaled her composure.
“Let me take it for you,” he persisted. “I’m pleased to give you a hand.”
“You’re too kind,” she managed. She exaggerated her limp and tightened her grip on the handlebars to keep her fingers from shaking. She sensed the weight of the gun against her ribs. If it were to escalate, could she pull the trigger? If she did, she’d be shot by his friends in the same breath. But at least she’d take one of them with her.
“My friends will laugh at me if you refuse,” the German said, trying another tactic.
What did he want? She cleared her tight throat. “I need the bicycle for support, you see.”
She dragged her weak foot even more, and he glanced down as if noticing for the first time. Maybe he’d fall back now. Weren’t the Nazis intolerant of infirmity?
But he didn’t. If anything, his expression brightened. “Polio? My aunt had polio as a child. Much the same, but she died a while back. Do you have pain?”
She nodded, bewildered. But they were more than halfway across the bridge. Perhaps it was safest to chat with him, putting him at ease. “You speak Italian,” she managed.
He grinned. “Not well. But I love Italy. I’m so happy to be stationed in Rome.”
She could think of no response to that. The bicycle bumped over the final stretch of bridge, and she yearned to climb onto it, to disappear.
“Care to visit longer?” His eyebrows shot up. “Perhaps you enjoy the cinema?”
They stepped from the bridge to the street, and she faced him. “I’m very sorry, but I’m already late. My client expected me some time ago.”
The German nodded, glancing once more at the basket on the handlebars, and he hesitated, noticing the stain. “That one doesn’t look very clean. Your client won’t be angry with you?” He bent close to examine the sheet, touching it with his pale fingers. “Looks like blood.”
Francesca’s heart beat so hard she was sure he could hear it. But she forced a shake of the head, and he stepped back, resigned.
“Very well. Thank you for visiting with me.” He grinned. “You see, we are not all monsters.”
“I can see that.” She met his gaze and nodded, then hoisted her leg over the bicycle. As she began to pedal, bumping away from him and into the maze of Trastevere, she smiled in response to his final words.
Not a monster, perhaps. But he’d shoot her in a second if he knew what was in her basket.