As soon as she was awake, Constanza softly descended to the cellar, carrying Joe’s breakfast: a cup of hot milk and a dry roll (the family butter ration had run out days ago). It was horribly stuffy, so she left the door at the top of the stairs open to let in some air and a little light. She found him still drowsy but recovered enough to scramble up into a sitting position as soon as he saw her.

“Sleep all right?” she asked.

“Yeah — like the dead. Which is probably what I would be now if it hadn’t been for you and your mom and Paolo, and what you did for me yesterday.”

“Not you, Joe. You’re a — what’s the word? — a survivor.” She smiled and handed him the cup. They sat side by side on the mattress. He sipped in silence for a while, and then he said, “I’ve got to get out of here, right now. I can’t let you put yourselves on the line for me any longer. It’s too dangerous. Those Gestapo swine could come back again anytime.”

“But where will you go?”

“If I can, I’ll make it into the hills. I’ll be all right. It can’t be long before this city gets liberated. The fighting’s really close now.” As if to reinforce his words, they heard a sudden burst of gunfire not so far away. Constanza jumped.

Joe looked at her. “You’re too young to be mixed up in all this,” he said. “You ought to be — I don’t know — somewhere wonderful, having a good time. Not stuck here, having to be so brave.”

“Not brave,” said Constanza. Her voice wobbled. “Not brave at all.”

Joe put down his cup. He reached out his good arm and took her hand. She held on to him tightly. They sat like that for a while without speaking. Then Joe took her face in both his hands.

“Brave,” he said again, “and beautiful, too.” His face was sad and almost puzzled in the half-dark. He began to stroke her hair, very gently, pushing it away from her forehead. Somehow, rather awkwardly, their faces grew very close together. Constanza closed her eyes. . . .

“Paolo! Paolo, are you down there?” Maria’s raucous voice came from the top of the stairs. “Constanza?” she called again. “Is Paolo there? Constanza! Have you seen him?”

“He’s not down here,” Constanza answered wearily.

Rosemary was in the kitchen, already dressed but looking white-faced and strained.

“We need food,” she said when Constanza came in carrying Joe’s empty cup. “There’s hardly any left. Maria and I will see if we can get down to the farm the back way, through the garden. It’s too dangerous on the road. How’s Joe?”

Constanza was in no mood for conversation. “Better, I think,” she said briefly, then added, “He’s talking about trying to hide out somewhere in the hills.”

“It’s too soon yet. He needs another day’s rest before he’s fit to try it.”

Maria was fiddling irritatingly with the radio, attempting to get the BBC European service or Voice of America. When at last she managed it, they caught something about the Allied invasion of northern France and the liberation of Cherbourg by the Americans, but nothing about the progress of the war in Italy. They must have missed it.

“We should go,” said Rosemary, switching off the wireless. “Constanza, you and Paolo mustn’t go out on any account. Where is Paolo, anyway? He can’t have been so silly as to have gone wandering off somewhere — he must know how dangerous it is.”

“He’s probably lazing around in the garden,” said Constanza. “I’ll go and look.”

While she was gone, Rosemary went out into the yard. For the moment, the road outside was deserted, and there seemed to be a lull in the nerve-racking noise of shelling. She hurried around to the bicycle shed and looked inside.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed when she saw that Paolo’s bicycle was missing. “Oh, Paolo — please — no!”