TWENTY-FOUR

Francesca

January 1944

Francesca stood at the window, as instructed, staring at the unfamiliar street below. She ran her two bandaged, nailless fingers over her lips, a new unconscious habit. The rest of her was, more or less, healing. Her ribs ached; Carlo thought they were broken, and only time would mend them. Her gashes were turning to scars. The only part of her that was irreparable was her heart. It beat like an echo of its former self, scoured of hope that she’d see Giacomo again.

“How do you know he’s not alive?” Lucia had asked, over and over. “They might have been lying. You can’t be sure until the war ends.”

“They knew the date he was taken from Rome,” Francesca maintained, shaking her head every time Lucia insisted she rekindle hope. “And Giacomo would try to escape if he had even a sliver of a chance. They weren’t lying, Lucia.”

She merely had to close her eyes to see Giacomo in the orchard, his gentle presence disintegrating, his last words fading in the wind. Coraggio, amore mio. He was gone from the world, and nurturing false hope was too painful. She wouldn’t do it. She swallowed the ache in her throat, which expanded to an unbearable wedge, and stared at the street below. She would continue on, to avenge Giacomo. Fury alone drove her now.

The last man stepped into the apartment, and they bolted the door. Francesca glanced from the street to the spartan room. She didn’t know who lived here, just that Carlo had asked her to serve as lookout for a meeting. A quick glance around confirmed what she suspected: this meeting was important. She maintained a blank expression, re-pinning her gaze on a man standing at the street corner directly below. The man shifted his newspaper-wrapped submachine gun to look up and down the street. Then he glanced at the window, nodding once.

Va tutto bene.

She stole another look at the room behind her. Men settled into an assortment of chairs, faces serious, all of them leaders of the CLN. Carlo stared at his hands as if thinking hard, rolling a cigarette between thumb and forefinger. The ring of resistance leaders formed around a wiry American who had just arrived in Rome. He was an OSS agent—a real spy.

Satisfaction burned in her chest, and she looked back to the guard in the street. The Americans had sent an agent to form a partnership with the resistance. It could only mean one thing.

“There will be an invasion,” the American began when everyone quieted, speaking perfect Roman dialect. Francesca held her breath to listen.

“When?” another man asked.

“I can’t say when or where—you understand the need for secrecy. But I can tell you that Allied landings are imminent, and that we need the help of the underground.”

Francesca glanced back in time to see men nodding around the circle. One bent his head to light a cigarette, spurring a chain reaction in the group. The room filled with the acrid smell of smoke born of nervous men.

The American sat with his elbows on his knees, brow gathered, and continued.

“The most dangerous time post-invasion will be during the German retreat. Our primary objectives will be to disrupt their communications and routes of retreat, while protecting the city from destruction. The Nazis have mined all the bridges . . .” The American spoke on, describing the ruin he’d witnessed in Naples in the wake of the German retreat there. Francesca watched the road and pictured buildings and bridges exploding, catching fire, crumbling. Naples, he said, was left devastated.

A member of the CLN interrupted. “We’ve organized plans to safeguard public utilities—”

“And what about the radio station and its transmitters?”

The American nodded vigorously. “It’s critical to protect them. When we have news to spread to the population, we’ll need radios . . .”

Francesca’s attention moved from the discussion to the guard with his newspaper package down below, pausing to stare up the street. He walked the other way, craned his neck, and then nodded once toward the window.

“We have plenty of volunteers.” Carlo’s voice drew Francesca’s focus back to the group. “But we don’t have nearly enough detonators. And we have no anti-tank weapons to barricade roads, if it comes to that.”

The American spoke quickly. “I’m already planning to ask for an airdrop from the Allies. I’ll request detonators, fuse cord, and anti-tank weapons, but I can’t guarantee anything. For now, we need to focus on reporting German movements and locating the mines, especially on bridges. The trick will be to disable them at just the right moment, so the Germans don’t have time to re-mine before they retreat. I’ll send a courier as soon as I have more information.”

Francesca glanced back as the men nodded all around. Retreat. Anticipation swelled in her chest. Without Giacomo, she couldn’t feel joy, not even when the Germans finally left Rome. But the satisfaction would run deep.

She glanced back as the American stood, looking each man in the eye. “Freedom is imminent, my friends. But we’ll all have to walk a fine line to get there in one piece.”

The men stood, shaking hands through the haze of smoke. The guard on the street corner nodded up at the window again, and Francesca ran her damaged fingers over her lips.

“You ready?” Carlo asked, coming up behind her. “This is it. The start of the end.”

She subdued the urge to smile.

“If I’ve learned anything, maestro mio, it won’t be so easy.” She took his arm, walking toward the door. “We have a road to travel yet.”