Rosemary, Constanza, and Paolo were sitting in the living room, attempting to appear relaxed, when they heard the sound of vehicles drawing up outside. There was an authoritative knock at the front door. Rosemary put aside her sewing and went to answer it. Three men in civilian dress — Gestapo — one of whom was Colonel Richter, stood on the doorstep. Parked on the drive behind his car was an army truck containing two German soldiers and an officer, who jumped out and saluted. The officer was Lieutenant Gräss.

“Buona sera, Signora Crivelli —” he began politely, but the colonel cut him off abruptly.

“Signora Crivelli? I am Colonel Richter, attached to the civilian police here in Florence.”

“I know. Captain Spinetti has spoken of you.”

“Possibly he has. As you know, the city and surrounding area are now under martial law. You may have heard that there was an incident with two prisoners of war last night. One of them was apprehended, but the other got away.”

“I hadn’t heard. We — my son and daughter and our one servant, Maria — have been confined to the house. We haven’t been out, not even to buy food.”

“You are British, I think?”

“Yes, by birth. But I have been an Italian citizen for many years now. My passport and all my papers are in order, if you would care to see them.”

He ignored this and went on: “We have orders to search your property.”

“Certainly. Won’t you come in?” Rosemary stood back to allow them to enter. Lieutenant Gräss signaled to the soldiers, who followed him inside. Colonel Richter gave orders for the house and gardens to be searched, and then followed Rosemary into the living room, where Paolo and Constanza were waiting. Rosemary invited the colonel to sit down, an offer that was curtly refused. Constanza, Rosemary, and Paolo then sat in strained silence, listening to the sounds of the search progressing overhead; heavy boots crossed the floor, closets were flung open, and furniture was pulled around.

Meanwhile, Richter stalked restlessly up and down. Soon they heard the sound of Maria scolding the soldiers shrilly at the top of her voice. She was abruptly and threateningly ordered back to the kitchen. She retreated, muttering, and slammed the door. At last, after a long agony of waiting, both search parties reassembled in the hall, along with Rosemary, Paolo, and Constanza. Lieutenant Gräss reported that nothing unusual had been found in the house or on the grounds.

“Do you have a cellar?” Richter asked Rosemary.

Only Paolo and Constanza noticed the slight tightening of her throat as she indicated the door.

“Down those stairs. We use it for storing junk. There’s no electric light down there, I’m afraid. Constanza, run and get an oil lamp, will you?”

Richter signaled to Gräss with an abrupt jerk of his head. The lieutenant led the way down into the cellar, and two soldiers clomped down after him, shining their flashlights. Constanza followed them and set the lamp down on an upturned packing case. She leaned against the wall at the foot of the stairs. The uniformed dummy threw up a looming shadow against the tottering pile of junk that masked Joe’s hiding place.

Please, please don’t look behind it, Constanza prayed silently, but outwardly, with a great effort of will, she maintained a slightly bored indifference.

The two soldiers, under Lieutenant Gräss’s direction, were very thorough. Working their way steadily across the room, they investigated boxes, piles of old clothing, and discarded household appliances, shifting them around to make sure that nobody was hiding behind or under them. Gräss, meanwhile, was shining a flashlight into corners and carefully examining the floor.

Thank heavens we swept away all the footprints, thought Constanza. Then she saw the lieutenant stop short and kneel down. He picked something up and held it under the lamp to examine it more closely. She was near enough to see that it was part of an old cigarette pack. The printing on it was clearly legible: LUCKY STRIKE. An American brand.

It must have fallen out of Joe’s pocket, thought Constanza with a lurch of fear in her stomach. Oh, how could we have missed it when we were cleaning up?

Gräss was looking at the floor again, very carefully indeed. He straightened up and examined the paper once more. Then his eyes met Constanza’s very briefly. She looked back at him with a direct, level gaze, praying that the flush she could feel rising from her neck to her face was not visible in the lamplight. He paused before crushing the scrap of paper into a tiny ball and dropping it behind one of the boxes. He never once glanced at her again, but she noticed that he was hurrying his men on. They had time only for a perfunctory search around the entrance to Joe’s hiding place before he ordered them to return upstairs. Constanza followed, carrying the lamp, her face now carefully arranged in an expression as noncommittal as Gräss’s own. Nobody could have guessed, as the party reassembled in the hall, how fast her heart was beating.

Colonel Richter tapped his gloves against the table in the hall with ill-concealed irritation as Gräss reported that nothing had been found. There were a few brusque exchanges between them, and then Richter summoned his two plainclothes Gestapo men, who had been waiting outside, bowed stiffly to Rosemary, and, ignoring Constanza and Paolo altogether, stalked out to his car.

As soon as he had driven off, followed closely by Gräss and his party in the army truck, Rosemary, Constanza, and Paolo bolted back down the cellar stairs. There was no time to spare — they had to clear away the junk and free Joe from his stifling hiding place.

“It’s all right, Joe — it’s only us!” called Constanza softly, but there was no reply. When at last they got the little door open, they found Joe half conscious and dripping with sweat. Paolo dragged a mattress back onto the floor, and Constanza and Rosemary half supported, half carried Joe out. The first thing he did was vomit. Constanza ran for a bowl, a sponge, and a glass of water. Joe came around after a few sips and drank greedily. Then he lay back while Rosemary cleaned him up and put a fresh dressing on his shoulder wound.

He tried to smile but was too exhausted to manage it. “Gee, I’m sorry about all this. I’m . . . It’s . . .” He failed to finish the sentence. He was already asleep, his good arm flung across his face like a kid afraid of the dark.

Upstairs, Rosemary made a pot of tea and put out what was left of the day’s meager bread ration. It was still only late afternoon, hot and sunny outside, but as the three of them sat there, gulping and chewing but otherwise in silence, it seemed as though they had come to the end of a very long day.