EIGHTEEN

Francesca

November 1, 1943

Francesca flipped off the late radio broadcast, frustrated. She’d caught the ten o’ clock news from London, and it was bleak. The American Fifth Army had yet to capture Isernia. At this rate, they’d never reach Rome. The Germans had the advantage of well-prepared defenses in Italy’s rocky southern mountains. Francesca thought of her hometown, perched on a Tuscan hill, built to withstand ancient invasions. From its walls, hills and valleys dropped into the distance, every approach visible. Southern Italy was the same, only the mountains were higher, the passes narrower.

She stood, tottering on aching legs, and made her way across the apartment to her armoire. As she passed the bed, her heart ached, as it did every night. She blinked and pictured Giacomo warming the sheets, the mess of his hair, his goofy smile, the way he tapped out a rhythm on a book as he read. She swallowed the pain in her throat, shaking out her nightdress.

A knock sounded on the front door. She stilled, the nightdress gripped in her whitening knuckles. Who could be knocking now? It was well after ten o’ clock.

“Francesca,” a voice called through the door, urgent. She exhaled, dropping the nightdress. Signora Russo. She hurried across the apartment, relieved but no less confused. Her neighbor wasn’t seen after dinner, ever. With a houseful of kids to put to sleep, she vanished into her noisy apartment as if on cue. Why was she here? Was she all right?

Francesca opened the door, and Signora Russo stood there in her robe, pale faced and frantic. She grabbed Francesca’s hand, tugging her into the hall.

“The Germans,” she whispered, her voice harsh. “They’re pulling up outside. Roberto saw them. Madonna mia, Francesca. We have to get you out before they surround the building.”

“Surround the building?”

The older woman towed her, like a tugboat, and Francesca’s mind spun as they started down the stairs. “Why do you think it’s me they’re after?” she managed as Signora Russo threaded her arm into Francesca’s, bearing her weight down the final flight.

“Cara mia, I know you’ve been up to something.”

Francesca was about to protest, but Signora Russo held up a hand to stop her.

“You don’t have to pretend. I admire you for it. You’re a brave girl, Francesca. Andiamo—we’ll check the back exit of the building. I’ll make sure it’s clear.”

They hurried, wordless, down a dark hallway while shouts erupted at the building’s front door. Something started to bang the locks, hard. Metal clanged on metal while they wove deeper into the belly of the building, toward an obscure back door. Signora Russo stopped in the complete darkness, and Francesca sensed her hand rising again. Wait. Signora Russo sidled forward, and Francesca could make out her shape, feeling for a door that led to a narrow alley. She found it, and the handle turned without a key, grazie a Dio. A wedge of moonlight fell into the hallway as Signora Russo poked her head outside, looking up and down. She beckoned Francesca forward, eyes wide in the faint light.

Before Francesca slipped outside, Signora Russo leaned in, kissing each of her cheeks in the dark.

“Thank you,” Francesca whispered over the ache in her throat.

“Di niente. Now get somewhere safe. In three days, I’ll send Roberto to school with your bicycle and some clothes. Meet him there to fetch it. And to let us know you’re all right.”

Francesca squeezed the older woman’s hands, nodded once, and detached, ducking through the opening.

The alley was dark, and she scurried down it, away from the building while its door swung closed, sealing off the shouts erupting from within. Would her neighbors withstand the search unharmed? Had she put them all in danger?

She wove through moonlit streets all the way to the Tiber, swallowing the throb of uncertainty. She’d find a place to hide by the river, in trees or an alcove, until morning. And then she would figure out what was next.