father looked over in fear.
The Nazi at the lectern whipped his head around. “Simone? You filthy Jew, you said your name was Rotoli!” He yanked Sandro out of line, then cocked his arm to punch him.
Sandro raised his hand to protect himself.
But the first blow was already landing.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FOUR
Marco
16 October 1943
Marco and Elisabetta disembarked at Carpi and found themselves at a small deserted train station that was more like a shed, open on three sides. The only light came from a bare bulb in the ceiling, and the air carried the smell of horse manure and an oddly acidic odor, perhaps from balsamico. He took his flashlight and compass from his backpack.
Elisabetta looked around. “This is really the middle of nowhere.”
“There’s only vineyards, like Gemma said.” Marco felt a pang of grief, but suppressed the emotion. He was on a mission, and Gemma would have wanted him to succeed.
“So, which way do we go?”
“Hold on.” Marco consulted his compass, then started walking. “This way. The transit camp at Fossoli is due northeast, on the other side of Carpi.”
Elisabetta fell into step beside him, and Marco shone the flashlight ahead of them. They walked down a dirt road, and there was nothing on either side, no homes or vineyards. About two kilometers ahead, he could see Carpi, a small cluster of lights and shadowy tile rooftops.
Elisabetta looked over. “So what now?”
“I’d like to get as close to the transit camp as possible, to see how it works and get the lay of the land.”
“How long will it take to get there?”
“Probably an hour, maybe less.”
They walked along, and in time crossed an intersection and a directional sign, with arrows aiming different ways.
“A sign.” Elisabetta pointed.
“I see.”
“It says Fossoli is straight ahead.”
“That’s the way we’re going.” Marco kept walking, breathing in the country air, which reminded him of Abruzzo, where his parents were from. His family had gone there to visit his grandparents from time to time. His father always talked about how he and his mother had fallen in love there and moved to Rome together, as if life were a grand adventure.
“Marco, why didn’t you tell me you can’t read?”
His mouth went dry. His face warmed.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Marco didn’t know what to say. Of course it was something to be ashamed of. He walked straight ahead, so she couldn’t see his expression.
“Marco?”
“I can read.”
“I don’t think you can.” Elisabetta’s tone was sympathetic, not accusatory, which only made him feel worse.
“Well, I can.”
“Then what did that sign say?”
“I don’t need it. I rely on my compass. I have an excellent sense of direction.”
“Just tell me what it said.”
“It said we’re going the right way.”
“You know that’s not the point. It had the names of towns nearby and the distances.”
“Look, I admit, I don’t read as well as you or Sandro. You read books, and he’s a genius. I’m smart, just not as smart as you guys.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.” Marco wanted to believe she was right, but she wasn’t. That damn train schedule had given him away.
“Marco, come on, you’re very smart. I know you, I see what you do. Look at what you did today.”
“Today my father died.”
Elisabetta touched his arm. “Even so, you figured out a story for Nino the undertaker and a plan for Arnaldo. You spoke good enough German to fool that Nazi. You even got him to agree to give Sandro my note.”
“He did it because you’re beautiful. Even Nazis like beautiful girls.” Marco shook his head. “And I doubt he gave it to Sandro anyway.”
“My point is that you’re very intelligent.”
“Then what’s the matter?” Marco blurted out, since it was a question he had asked himself over and over. “Why is reading harder for me?”
“Tell me what happens when you read.”
Marco sighed, pained. “I don’t know.”
“What do you see, on the page?”
“Everything looks mixed up.”
“Do you think it’s your eyes? Do you need glasses?”
“No, I see fine.” Marco had already eliminated these possibilities.
“What happens when you write?”
“I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to make anything look like.”
“I bet I can help you.”
“I bet you can’t.” Marco walked faster. “Let me tell you the plan. That’s what matters now.”
* * *
—
Marco and Elisabetta reached Fossoli, found a vineyard, and lay on their stomachs between rows of grapevines, behind a thick underbrush. The transit camp was across from them, far enough to avoid their being seen. Its lights illuminated the night sky, unnaturally bright in the