TEN
Francesca
Late September 1943
Francesca slowed her bicycle in front of a long building, peering through barred windows. She was due at Carlo’s in an hour. But first, she had to search for Giacomo.
The building, once infantry barracks, was now said to house forced laborers. The Germans were collecting men off the streets. Earlier that week they’d cordoned off whole neighborhoods outside of Rome, seeking able-bodied men to, presumably, build fortifications along German lines. Francesca tamped down a bloom of anger. The Nazis took whatever they wanted—food, men, cities, countries—without a thought. Carlo had learned that the laborers were held in the barracks before shipping off. Could Giacomo be in there, too?
She rolled to a stop on the unguarded back side of the building, finding a window cracked open. “Hello!” she called, studying the gap in the bars. “Is anyone in there?”
A face appeared in the window. “Sì, many of us.” A man craned his head to see her, thin and in need of a shave. “We’ve been locked up since Tuesday. I did nothing wrong—they snatched me on my way to work. Will you help me?”
“Certo. What do you need?”
“Please send word to my wife that I’m all right. We think we’re going to the Eastern Front, to German lines, but don’t know for sure. They could also send us south. Will you tell her?”
Francesca nodded, and the man called out a name and an address. She committed it to memory, but before his face disappeared, she called, “Wait! Will you check among the men in there for my husband? His name is Giacomo Lombardi.”
“Sì, aspetta,” the man called back, and his face vanished from the windowpane.
Francesca waited for several minutes, hope and fear dueling in her chest. Was everyone in the barracks from the neighborhood sweep, or could Giacomo be there, too? Her knuckles whitened on her handlebars. An image came to her, and she swallowed a surge of grief: Giacomo, propped on an elbow in bed, sunbrowned arms against white sheets. His lopsided grin and gentle eyes, his hand, rough and warm, gliding down the curve of her back—
“I’m sorry, miss,” the man called through the window, interrupting her memories. “There’s nobody here by that name. Perhaps he’s already been sent off?”
She nodded, but her heart dropped as if through a slit in the pavement. Her yearning—to wrap her arms around Giacomo and sink into his chest—was overpowering.
Francesca cleared her throat, gathering strength. “Grazie, signore. I’ll send word to your wife.”
She pedaled away, shaping her sorrow into a plan. She would come to this window every week, just in case Giacomo somehow ended up behind it. She would ask Carlo if there were other barracks or prisons holding conscripted men. And she would keep searching, no matter how long it took.
“The Germans are using these roads to transport supplies,” Carlo said to a circle of gathered men and Francesca, the only woman. He pointed to a map, ticking off several roads stretching from the city into the outskirts and, eventually, southern Italy. “They’re moving convoys at night, to avoid Allied bombers,” he continued, glancing up to catch everyone’s eyes. “That’s where we come in. We’re going to make it impossible to move supplies through Rome, or anywhere near it. We’ll push the convoys into the countryside, where the Allies can bomb them. A poorly supplied army fights poorly—we can make a big impact on the front.”
“How will we do it, exactly?” Tommaso asked, leaning forward to study the map, elbows on knees. Francesca had been mildly surprised to find Tommaso when she walked into Carlo’s apartment; the last time she’d seen him at been at the Fatebenefratelli Hospital with Giacomo, which seemed like a lifetime ago. But of course he was here. He was a natural rebel.
Carlo held up a small tangle of iron, grinning. He passed it around, and it traveled through a half-dozen hands before landing with Francesca. It was a pair of long, thick nails, bent in the center and welded together so all the points stuck out. She handed it back to Carlo, and he tossed it across the floor. It landed, points up.
“No matter how they’re thrown, they land perfectly to puncture a tire.” He tipped his head to Francesca. “L’Allodola will pick up a basketful and transport them to our target. The Germans have been moving supplies outside of Trastevere, as if the roads were theirs. She’s our best chance at getting the nails across the city—the Germans have lost a few convoys south of us, so they’re searching people for nails. Fortunately, L’Allodola looks innocuous.”
Tommaso glanced up, his hickory-colored hair falling over his forehead. “And when the convoy’s stopped, we’ll attack it. Sì?”
“We’ll jump out of hiding and toss grenades and spezzone bombs into as many trucks as we can. Our goal is to take out supplies: ammunition, weapons, fuel . . .”
“But won’t they shoot at us?” a young partisan asked, glancing around with owlish eyes.
Carlo nodded. “A group working on the north end of the city lost two partisans last week during a similar ambush. Don’t participate in sabotage unless you’re prepared for the worst, understood? This is battle. You could lose your life.”
“Or you could be captured.” Tommaso was grave. “Capture means torture, and if you crack during torture, every one of us is endangered.” He turned to the boy. “Make sure you’re not a weak link. We can always assign you a different role.”
Francesca cleared her voice, glancing around the group of pensive men. “You’ll need someone to cover you during the ambush. I could do that. If there’s a way to watch the road from above . . .”
“There’s an embankment,” Carlo said. “A place where the road narrows downhill—”
“We’re not going to rely on a girl! Really?” An unshaven, wide-shouldered man stared at Francesca, faltering. “To cover us? We need a trained man. A sharpshooter.”
“I’m a sharpshooter,” Francesca said. “I can shoot twice as well as any of you. I’m not your weak link.”
“Oh, really? And how will you run away if they see you shooting at them? Tell me, little lark.” The gruff man barked a laugh.
“Basta, Alberto.” Carlo spoke in the quiet voice of someone used to being heard. “I have faith in her, and you should, too. Beyond the embankment, there’s a strip of woods edged in footpaths. She can take the paths to the hideout. The rest of us will run—”
“I’m with Alberto,” another man interrupted. “This young lady is going to be our sharpshooter? We might be a ragtag group, but that’s ridiculous.”
Even Tommaso glanced at Francesca, shaking his head. She caught his stare and held it, clenching her jaw. But Carlo stood, gathering his map, unconcerned. “Enough. No more questions. We’ll meet in three days to finalize the plan.”
Francesca watched him clap the shoulders of the men as they left. When the last one walked out, she headed for the door, took down her coat, and pulled two letters from its pocket. One was addressed to her mother, the other to Giacomo’s parents. She held them against her chest and turned to Carlo.
“I have a favor to ask. Both my mother and Giacomo’s family must be worried sick.”
Carlo nodded. “With the phones and post a mess—sì, I understand.”
“I thought perhaps you could find a way to deliver these. With all of your contacts . . .”
He nodded again, thinking. “I have some friends who travel north for the underground. I can’t promise that they’ll arrive quickly, but I can probably get them there.”
She handed the letters over, and he strode away, stowing them somewhere. She hugged her chest, feeling hollow as her scrawled words started their journey. Giacomo has been taken by the Nazis. She’d written it twice, hand shaking. I plan to wait for him here, in case he finds his way back to Rome. For her mother, she’d added another page. I’m sorry for so much, she wrote. That I fought with you before I moved away, and also that I left you alone. I’ve been angry and lost for years, since Babbo died. Now, as I grieve for Mino, I see that I never thought enough about your sadness. You didn’t deserve my anger, Mamma. I hope you know that I love you. I always have.
“Care for a cup of something?” Carlo returned, interrupting her thoughts.
“I really should be going.”
“Come on,” he persisted. “I could stand to chat with a girl from home. Been spending too much time among hotheaded young men.”
She smiled. “How do you know I’m not just as hotheaded?”
“Nope, you’re not.” He moved the few steps to the kitchen, lighting the stove to boil water. “You’re coolheaded, bella. That’s what these men don’t understand—yet.”
Noise filtered up from the floors below as they sat at the table, their hands around warm cups. “Have you found anything more about Giacomo?” Carlo asked.
She shook her head, her grief smarting. “Nothing. Nobody knew him in the barracks.” Another dead end.
“Even if he’s not in Rome anymore, they won’t kill him. Trust me, Francesca—they wouldn’t squander his skills.” Carlo waited for her gaze to meet his. “They need medics. They’ll have drafted him to the front lines.”
“Am I supposed to feel encouraged by this? The idea of Giacomo on the front lines—”
“It’s the best possible outcome. He has a strong chance at survival as a medic.”
She imagined Giacomo in a field hospital, dark hair in his eyes, glasses flashing over a patient. She fingered her cup, the image searing her soul with hope.
For a moment, neither of them said anything more. The sound of a ball hitting the courtyard wall, over and over, punctuated their sips. Then a woman hollered something from an apartment balcony, and Carlo chuckled.
“Does it remind you of small-town life? I swear, the old ladies pass more gossip between these balconies than they did in the piazza back home.”
“Do you ever worry about that?” She took a sip, letting the ersatz coffee burn her throat. “What if they gossip about you, and all the people coming and going from your place?”
“It’s a risk.” He nodded. “There’s a family downstairs I keep an eye on. They’re true believers. Fascism as religion. I think the wife’s harmless, but the son and father worry me.”
Francesca set down her mug. “Dark-haired man? Teenage boy?” She pictured them, with their heavy eyebrows and wary expressions.
“Sì. What do you know?”
“Nothing. I’ve seen them here and there, and there’s just something about them. I’m not surprised that they’re still trying to follow Il Duce.”
“They’ll follow him to their own graves.” Carlo’s brow knitted. “It’s a shame. What will happen to them when the city’s liberated? People hate them already. When the Allies come, the people siding with the Germans will be persecuted . . .” He trailed off.
“Why should you care, Carlo? They’re Fascists.”
“Most people were, not long ago. You have every right to hate the people who stole your father, Francesca. But the normal folks, who went with the tide—should we hate them?”
She shrugged, exasperated. What was he getting at?
“Those people downstairs? I don’t care about them, not really.” He rubbed his jaw. “But a long time ago, I did care for someone. Her whole family was deeply Fascist. True believers. She wasn’t, not in her heart, but the rest of Rome would never guess that. And now with Blackshirt thugs resurfacing in the streets, gathering recruits, collaborating with the Nazis? People will skewer anyone with Fascist ties when the Allies come. And I fear what will happen to her if she doesn’t distance herself from her upbringing.”
Francesca nodded. It was true that an especially vile brand of Fascists had begun roaming the streets, many of them young and violent, all too eager to support the Germans and Mussolini’s puppet government. She studied him. “If it concerns you, why don’t you talk to her about it?”
He smiled, but his eyes were sad. “No, I could never face her. I saw her once, from a distance, and she was with a man and a little boy, maybe three years old.” He shrugged. “They looked happy. Clearly, she’s moved on with her life, and I—” He hesitated, clearing his throat as if words had risen and stuck there. “I have no right to talk to her about anything. I just wish I knew that she’d be safe, when this all shakes out.”
The ball thumped the wall downstairs, and Francesca thought while Carlo swirled what was left in his cup. Carlo had been good to her. He’d taken her seriously, given her a job, taken her letters, given her someone to talk to about Giacomo. Maybe she could return a favor.
“Would she listen to me?”
His eyes bobbed up.
“Do you know her address? I could pay her a visit, just to see where she stands. I’d say an old friend wanted to warn her to stay neutral, to distance herself from the Fascists—”
He interrupted. “And to separate her identity from her parents’. You couldn’t tell her who sent you, under any circumstances.”
“Of course not. I’d say a childhood friend asked me to stop by.”
“You would really do this?” His brows lifted. “It would be such a relief to know she might be all right. If you could just find out her positions, and warn her against even the appearance of collaboration—sì, it would mean a lot to me. More than I can explain.” He stood, suddenly energized. “Let me make you another cup of this shitty coffee, and I’ll tell you what you need to know.”
He loped to the kitchen, and she watched him fill the kettle. Whoever this woman was, she still had Carlo’s heart.