TWENTY-NINE
Lucia
When Lucia reached for the door handle, she thought she’d faint. She knew it wasn’t Signor Bianchi. He’d never once climbed the stairs and pounded on her door. Not when she was a new mother with a baby who cried through the night, not when Matteo threw tantrums as a toddler, not even recently, with all the coming and going. Whoever it was had already been waiting suspiciously long—she couldn’t hesitate further. She turned the handle, shaking, and peeked through the wedge in the jamb.
Nonna Colombo stood on the threshold, her hair wet with rain. Lucia exhaled, waving her in without a word.
“Mamma,” she breathed, latching the door and glancing back to the hallway. “I couldn’t imagine who it might be after dark like this. What are you doing here?”
Her mother held her gaze in the foyer for a long moment, her eyes dull. Then she strode down the hall to the parlor, wordless, still wearing her soaking coat. Lucia glanced at the bedroom door as they passed, willing everyone to stay quiet.
Nonna Colombo sank into a sofa, and Lucia sat across from her, hands on her knees, face as blank as she could manage.
“They ransacked my house,” her mother said, emotionless. “Just after you left.”
Lucia’s eyes widened on their own, stinging in the chill indoor air. “Ransacked? Who?” But she already knew. In the pit of her soul, she knew.
“What have you been up to, Lucia?” Nonna Colombo lifted her gaze, and now her eyes were piercing, the blue of deep snow.
“I . . . Nothing, Mamma. The Germans searched your house? Why would they do such a thing, with Father—”
“Why, indeed?” The words were stone-cold. Nonna Colombo cleared her throat. “That man, years ago, must have rubbed off on you. I wondered when I saw you whispering with Fabrizio. He’s been arrested—did you know?”
Lucia shook her head. She couldn’t breathe. Fabrizio, with his elegance and wit, had been taken? She covered her mouth with her palm, suppressing the feelings whirling within.
Nonna Colombo leaned forward, hinging over her knees, and her veneer cracked. Her eyes welled. “Lucia, I’m your mother. You must be honest with me, because there might not be much time. Are you part of the resistance?”
They held each other’s stares for several intakes of breath, and Lucia’s mind darted like a bird in a cage. Why wasn’t there much time? What did her mother intend to do?
“I am,” she whispered.
Nonna Colombo sat still for one rigid moment, and then her shoulders collapsed. She shook her head and stood. “All right. You need to pack, right now. Come with me.” She strode toward the bedroom.
Lucia leaped to her feet, scrambling to get ahead of her mother. “Pack?” she managed, inserting herself before the bedroom door. “What do you know?”
“If they came to my house, of all places, they’ll come to yours. They could be on their way now.” Nonna Colombo reached for her hands, squeezing, and her face filled with worry. “I’m no fool. I can see that you’re hiding something in that room. I can see that you’ve been hiding from me all along. But I’m your mother.” Her voice cracked. “I would never do anything but protect you, Liebling. I’ve lost one child. I’ll not lose you.”
She stepped around Lucia and pushed open the door. For one stricken moment she stood in the jamb, her gaze darting from Francesca to Carlo and back to Lucia.
“Nonna,” Matteo said, rising from the floor. His eyes stretched with fear. “What’s happening?”
The older woman took a breath and collected herself in one clean sweep. She marched into the room and flung the wardrobe open, speaking with authority. “Matteo, you’re going on a trip to the countryside.” She moved as if mechanized, dumping clothes into the suitcase she’d found at the bottom of the wardrobe. She glanced at Carlo, still speaking to Matteo. “How long have you known him, darling?”
“Awhile,” Matteo said, drifting over. “Nonna? Giancarlo’s nice.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice catching. “I’m sure Giancarlo loves you, child. Listen. Can you go and fetch some clothes and your little toy bunny? You’ll want it on your trip.”
Matteo obeyed.
Carlo rose. “Tell me what you know,” he said, looking between the women. Francesca sat on the bed, eyes wide as if she was stunned dumb. But Lucia understood her well enough to know that she was thinking, and that she was probably already ten steps ahead of the rest of them.
Nonna Colombo hefted the suitcase to the bed, taking a minute to refold the clothes in it. She spoke to Carlo while she worked, and Lucia marveled. Her mother’s self-possession was astonishing.
“Surely, you listened through the door. You’ve put my daughter in great danger, Carlo. The Germans will be here anytime, of that I’m certain. And they have so many of your other people already . . .” She straightened, meeting his gaze. “It’s only a matter of time before they talk. You’ll all be caught if you stay in Rome.”
Matteo ducked back into the room, clutching his faded bunny and a bundle of clothes. He gave them to his grandmother. “Will Francesca come, too?”
Nonna Colombo handed the suitcase to Carlo. She addressed Lucia while glancing at Francesca. “Is this slip of a girl involved as well? Mein Gott.” She bent before her grandchild, cupping his chin in her wrinkled hand. “She’ll go with you, Matteo. And, my darling, keep those lips sealed. Don’t say a word to anyone—especially if they’re wearing a uniform.”
Then she left the room. Not three minutes had passed. Carlo glanced at Lucia, and she shrugged despite her panic. She went after her mother, finding her in the foyer.
“I’m going home to talk to your father, and then I’ll be back. I’ll find a way to get you out of the city safely, Liebling.” She reached for the door handle but hesitated. She turned back to Lucia, and her eyes glistened in the dim light.
“Mamma.” Lucia swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Nonna Colombo reached out and brushed the hair from Lucia’s forehead, tucking the curls behind her ear as if she were a little girl. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m your mother.”
Minutes after Nonna Colombo had left, they gathered in the foyer. Carlo carried the briefcase. The packed suitcase sat at Lucia’s feet, and Matteo clung to her torso.
“Do you think we can trust her?” Carlo asked, meeting her gaze.
“We can trust her.” Lucia swallowed, squeezing Matteo to her chest, still stunned. Her mother loved her, despite everything. “She’ll probably come with a car. I don’t know what we’ll do about the checkpoints leaving the city—”
“Maybe we shouldn’t wait for her,” Carlo interrupted. “She won’t know how to get us out. We could get to a safe house, right now, and figure it out from there.”
Francesca’s voice was soft. “Are there any safe houses anymore? We need to give the briefcase to someone who isn’t compromised, and then we need to disappear.” She leveled her green eyes on Lucia. “Your mother might be our best chance. If we go on foot, so close to curfew, we could be questioned.”
Lucia kissed Matteo’s head. He curled tighter, frightened and confused. What had she done? Her child was in danger. And both of his parents were in danger. Oddio. What would happen to him if they were all caught? She was opening her mouth to agree that they should wait for her mother when a noise halted the words in her throat.
It was the rumble of a truck engine. Carlo met her gaze, and in a half second it all flashed between them: their time was up. The Germans were already coming.
“We have to go,” he barked, frantic.
Lucia’s voice was thin. “Go where? They’ll see us in the street. Madonna mia—”
Francesca limped to the window and peeked through the slit. “A German truck. It’s stuck behind some people down the way. The road may be too narrow for it.”
“The terrace,” Carlo said, striding to the door. “We’ll climb across the adjoining rooftop and escape through the next building. When we hit the street, we’ll already be blocks away.”
Lucia followed him through the door while he was still talking, hefting Matteo and letting Francesca pass before her so Carlo could hoist her up the stairs.
“If we’re separated, go to my friend, the priest,” Carlo continued, speaking quickly and quietly as he took the steps. “He’s hiding people all over Rome, on properties owned by the Vatican . . .” Matteo’s shoes bounced against Lucia’s hips as she scaled the flights, listening to Carlo repeat the priest’s name and address twice. They reached the rooftop door when the pounding started three floors below. She ducked outside, buffeted by wind, and the pounding continued in the stairwell as the terrace door closed. It wouldn’t be long until a neighbor opened it for the Nazis, or before they broke it down.
Lucia was hurrying across the terrace toward the adjoining peak, following Carlo, when she saw the lemon tree. She deposited Matteo and bent, scratching frantically at the soil. It took only a second to find the oilcloth, and she snatched it, pulling it through the lemon tree’s roots. She stood, and the next task loomed. She hollowed inside.
“Carlo, how will we ever get across it?” She stared at the adjoining roofline, hearing the terror in her own voice. The peak fused to their terrace’s wall at waist height, stretching across the darkness before hitting another terrace wall. The roofline slanted sharply on either side, shedding onto the pavement several floors below. Moonlight shone on its tiles.
“This is impossible,” she whispered. Her heart pounded her breastbone as hard as the Nazis pounding the door downstairs. Would they be better off with the Gestapo, or the roof?
Carlo whispered while he took Matteo into his arms. “Listen, Matteo. You remember climbing trees with me, sì? Never look down, right? Only look where you’re going. This is like climbing across a thick limb. Hold tight to the tiles. Your mamma will be right behind you.”
“Carlo.” Lucia wanted to be sick. Every cell in her body protested while she watched her boy, with his wide dark eyes, nod at his babbo in the moonlight.
“Like a tree,” Matteo echoed, though his bottom lip trembled. He coughed a little, glancing at the peak stretching before him. “Mamma? I have good balance.”
“No, Carlo. We can’t—”
“There’s no time,” he whispered. “Climb up behind him. Now. I’ll stand guard until you’re all across, and then I’ll come, too.”
Lucia looked to Francesca, who hadn’t yet said a word. The girl stared at the roofline. She leaned in, whispering quietly so Matteo wouldn’t hear. “It’s safer than being caught. Take him across, right now. They won’t spare him.”
They won’t spare him. Lucia lost her breath. What would they do to a child? Shoot him? Send him off in one of their trains? Or would he watch his parents be arrested, killed? She imagined him in a flash, screaming over their bodies. She pressed a hand to her forehead. They were right. The roof was less of a risk than the Nazis. She helped Carlo shift Matteo up, where he straddled the roofline on his hands and knees, and Carlo boosted her up right behind him, speaking in her ear.
“In bocca al lupo, Lucia. I love you.”
She swallowed her bounding fear, murmuring words to Matteo as they began to crawl, one hand over the other. “That’s it, love. Go slowly. I’m right behind you.” Please God, she thought, the words repeating in time with her breath. Keep Matteo safe. Piero, help him.
Matteo crawled forward, his movements small, and Lucia mirrored them. She pinned her eyes on his little ankles, right under her nose. If he slipped, she’d grab him. A bomb exploded somewhere in the distance, rattling the horizon. They moved mechanically, hand over hand. Lucia forced herself to think of nothing but Matteo’s feet. She watched them, sliding forward one at a time. She pictured them hitting the surface of the adjoining terrace, safe.
The moon rose overhead, casting light on tiles still wet from earlier rain. They inched forward. Artillery rumbled from the distant beachhead, and Lucia listened under it for Francesca, breathing hard behind her. Matteo crawled like a baby, one palm at a time gripping the tiles, and then he was there, at the end of the span.
“Bravo,” Lucia whispered, her heart in her throat. “Now lower yourself down. I’m right here with you.”
His eyes caught the moonlight as he turned, gripping tight with his little fingers until his feet dangled over the terrace floor. He let go, thumping safely down.
Lucia exhaled, and in one breath thanked God, the Madonna, and Piero. Then she followed her boy’s movements, turning and lowering herself down.
As her feet touched the terrace floor, a shuffle came from behind her. Francesca gasped, and Lucia heard a tile come loose, clattering across the roof and falling to the street below. Francesca was still on the pitch, gripping the peak while her body slumped unevenly across it. She’d slipped on her weak side.
Without thought, Lucia hoisted herself back up, legs dangling, and reached for the terrified girl. “Give me your hand,” she whispered. Carlo’s silhouette turned across the span. He put the briefcase handle in his teeth and climbed up onto the peak.
Francesca hesitated. She closed her eyes, inhaled, and shot one arm toward Lucia. Lucia caught it just as the girl began to slide. She held on with everything she had, yanking Francesca toward her, scraping her over the tiles until they both tumbled onto the terrace.
They untangled themselves on the terrace floor, pain bloomed through Lucia’s hip, and across the rooftops a door banged open. Lucia stood as if she’d been electrified. Carlo was still at the start of the span, his dark shape straddling it, the briefcase in his teeth. In one fluid movement, he lifted a hand from the roof tiles, gripped the briefcase, and flung it, hard, toward Lucia. It landed with a thud next to Francesca on the terrace floor. Then Matteo started to cough.
Across the span, Carlo jerked his head down, urging Lucia to disappear, and he began coughing loudly himself, obscuring Matteo’s noise. Before Lucia could duck, he started backing up. She pulled Matteo into her lap, pressed a hand gently over his mouth, and rocked his heaving body. Why was Carlo going backward? Panic thrashed in her chest while she rocked Matteo. Why was he giving himself up? Carlo’s booming voice rose over the expanse separating them, and it was met with German shouts. She pinned her eyes shut and kissed Matteo’s temple as the last coughs spasmed from his chest.
Carlo was sacrificing himself. It washed over her like a heavy wave. If he’d kept coming across the roof, the Germans would have found them all. If he didn’t make a noisy retreat, they would have heard his child’s cough. She felt as if she were sinking, fast. She couldn’t lose Carlo.
“Mamma,” Matteo whispered, his voice snagging on mucus. “What’s happening?”
“Hush,” she whispered right in his ear. “Not a sound, piccolo.”
She tightened her arms around Matteo’s chest, wishing she could press his coughs away for good. And she wished she could stand up, shouting at Carlo to escape, to stay with them, to be her husband and her child’s father. Matteo curled against her, and his eyes, so like his father’s, glittered like stars in the darkness. German shouts rebounded across the span, and she listened hard, trying to make out what they were saying. Where would they take him? Via Tasso?
A shot rang out, shattering the night. Francesca reached for Lucia’s arm, squeezing it tight, and a sob escaped from Lucia before she could smother it. What had just happened? She listened to the sudden quiet, panicking. Matteo started to tremble, his arms circling her neck, and it was only his frail weight that kept her from standing, from crawling back home. Francesca shook her head in the darkness. The questions multiplied in Lucia’s mind, like a skipping record. Had they shot Carlo? They couldn’t have—he couldn’t be gone. Not again. She rocked her boy while new noises floated over the expanse: a shuffle, voices ricocheting back and forth, a door banging open. The sound of boot steps faded, and the terrace door thumped shut.
Lucia gasped, closing her eyes, but Francesca again squeezed her arm. “We have to go,” she whispered. “They saw where he was headed. They might know we’re here. Andiamo.”
Fury and grief and panic roared in Lucia’s skull like a hurricane, but she lifted Matteo, and Francesca tucked the briefcase under her arm, heading for the terrace door. Just before stepping through, Lucia glanced back to her own terrace. She saw nothing but the shape of the stunted lemon tree, traced in moonlight. Her heart faltered, and she hugged Matteo tight, ducking after Francesca through the door. A stairwell dropped before them, and they descended, moving as if mechanized.
Matteo sniffed on Lucia’s shoulder, and she kissed the hair above his ear as images appeared in her mind: Carlo standing guard while they crossed, listening to the thud of boots ascending the stairwell. Carlo crouched on the dark roof, urging her to go on without him. Without meaning to, she imagined Carlo slumped against the lemon tree in the moonlight, a bullet in his chest.
No. She blinked hard, sickening. It was only her imagination, conjuring the worst possibility. She’d seen no body in her hurried look at the terrace. He couldn’t be gone. Not again. She stepped from the building into the fresh, cold air, clutching her boy. Francesca beckoned, and she followed, stunned silent.
They would vanish now. But even as Lucia ran away, a part of her yearned to return to the rooftop. To Carlo, and the lemon tree, and the life they’d once imagined together.