TWENTY-EIGHT

Francesca

January 28, 1944

Francesca pedaled home under a darkening sky. She shivered, and her stomach churned. Broth and wormy beans didn’t keep flesh on a person’s bones, and tattered clothing didn’t keep out the chill. Nonetheless, she pedaled hard. Because buried in her laundry basket was a German officer’s briefcase. Lucia and Matteo had fetched it from her parents’ apartment after avoiding the area for three days. They met Francesca in a nearby alley, stowed the briefcase in the laundry basket, and left separately for home.

Getting home safely had taken on new meaning since the invasion. Francesca turned a corner, worn tires skidding. Nobody could understand why the Allies had paused on the beachhead in Anzio, giving the Germans time to build their defenses. But they’d done exactly that. Every day and night since, German columns rumbled through Rome, and now they were so thick in the Alban Hills that the Allies had missed their chance to take the city. The war, and the occupation, would go on.

And to make matters worse? The Gestapo, armed with more information than ever about the partisans, were on the hunt. Francesca glanced at the linens shivering in her basket, grimacing. Stealing the briefcase had been stunningly brazen. Foolish, even. But, depending on what was inside, Lucia’s brazen act could save a lot of people.

When she stepped into the building, Lucia and Matteo were already on the staircase.

“You got here fast,” Francesca said, taking Matteo’s cold little hand while Lucia came down and hefted the bicycle.

“A trolley was running.” Lucia hoisted the bicycle with a quick smile. “A stroke of luck.” Trolleys rarely ran anymore. At the top of the stairs, Lucia set the bicycle down, slid her key into the door, and froze.

“It’s unlocked,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder with startled eyes.

Francesca’s heart quickened, but she nodded and tucked Matteo behind her in one swift movement. She stepped forward, leaning close to the door to listen. Footsteps sounded within, approaching. She lurched back and was reaching into her breast pocket for the Beretta that was no longer there, when the door swung open.

Carlo stood in the gap, face pale. He beckoned, wordless, and they went inside.

Lucia bent to Matteo, mustering a smile before anyone else could speak. “Piccolo, would you go to your room and do your big puzzle? Don’t come out until it’s finished, sì?”

Matteo nodded solemnly, trotting off down the hall, and sorrow nudged Francesca’s heart. The little boy understood fear and secrecy all too well. His door closed, and she turned to Carlo.

“What are you doing here? I was going to bring the briefcase to you tomorrow.”

Carlo nodded. His eyes darted from them to the front door and back again. “It can’t wait until tomorrow.” He reached for Lucia, reeling her in, his eyes bouncing again to the door. “Alberto and several of his men were arrested. The Gestapo raided their hideout this afternoon. They’re arresting people all over town. Grazie a Dio that you’re both safe.”

Francesca’s anger surged. “I knew it. Everyone was so foolish . . . leaving clues across Rome like bread crumbs for the damned Nazis to follow. Do you think they’re on to us?”

“Don’t know.” Carlo frowned. “Let’s see what’s in the briefcase, and then we’ll decide what to do.” He strode toward the bedroom, still talking. “I don’t think Lucia’s cover has been blown. Nobody knows her. It may be safest to stay here—I’ll stand guard.”

He sat on the bed, picking the lock on the clasp. It popped open, and he riffled through it, hands shaking. “Gesù Cristo,” he murmured, loosening a paper clip. “They’re planning another labor sweep.” He thumbed through the papers, eyes tracking back and forth. “There’s a map and everything.” He read intently for a second, then flipped to the next page.

Francesca plucked a file folder from the bottom of the briefcase, setting it on her lap.

Lucia paced the floor. “Should I take Matteo to my parents’ house?” she whispered.

“No.” Carlo spoke while reading, brow furrowed. “If you’re compromised, they’ll look there.” He glanced up, clearly caught in indecision. “I know a priest who could hide us. He’s been stowing people in a convent—”

“Mio Dio,” Francesca whispered involuntarily. Her stomach tightened as she flipped through the pages on her lap. Faces and names blurred in her vision. “This is what we needed—it’s everyone the Gestapo’s been hunting. As of three days ago.”

Carlo and Lucia leaned over, staring at her lap while she turned pages. There were over a dozen documents, some with pictures, listing activities, associations, and histories deemed suspicious by the Nazis.

Francesca’s mind raced. She saw the people in her shaking fingers like branches on a tree: each of them led to more branches. The Gestapo could take entire limbs of the resistance down if people talked under torture. “We have to warn them,” she said, meeting Carlo’s stare. “We can prevent their arrests if we get to them first. They’re all partisans—”

“I’ll go out and find them,” Carlo said.

Lucia shook her head. “No—Carlo, please.” Her voice caught. “It’s too dangerous, especially now with the Gestapo—”

Francesca turned another page, and Lucia stopped mid-sentence.

“L’Allodola.” Lucia read it aloud. “Given name: Francesca Gallo.”

It was printed across the picture on Francesca’s lap. The picture was of her, slumped in a chair with a bloodied, swollen face. She recalled the flash in Via Tasso, the way she’d squinted against the light at the very end, drooping with exhaustion.

“They photographed me. During the . . . torture.” She could barely speak.

For a long moment, nobody moved. When Francesca looked up, Lucia started to pace the room again. “Perhaps it was just a precaution,” she said, hand on her forehead. “This doesn’t mean they’re after you for sure. They took the picture so they’d have a record . . .”

“And then they put it in this briefcase. Because they realized they were mistaken in releasing me. They know my code name.” The words were dry in Francesca’s throat. Every cell in her body began to tremble. They knew who she was. She remembered the bright lights. The flash of pliers. She couldn’t return there. They all had to hide, somewhere the Nazis would never look—

A knock sounded on the front door. She stilled, panic suspended. The knocking continued, echoing down the hall. Lucia met her stare before slipping from the room, wordlessly, to fetch Matteo. Francesca looked to Carlo, whose eyes were wide. The knocking didn’t cease. Her heart echoed it, pounding against her breastbone. She lifted the papers, with a shaking hand, back into the briefcase. “Hide it,” she whispered, sliding it to Carlo.

Lucia appeared in the doorway with Matteo at her side. “Matteo, I want you to stay in here while I answer the door,” she whispered, looking from Carlo to Francesca. “It’s probably just Signor Bianchi coming up to complain. But don’t move a muscle.”

Lucia strode down the hall, and Francesca sat as still as she ever had in her life.