countryside. They had an unobstructed view, since the grapes in the vineyards in between had been harvested, the earth tilled in rows.
Marco scanned the transit camp through the binoculars, reconnoitering. The camp was a long rectangle, set lengthwise on Via dei Grilli, running east to west and surrounded by three layers of post-and-barbed wire fencing. There were no guard turrets or watchtowers. The prisoners’ barracks were long brick houses with small square windows, situated in rows on the east side of the camp and set perpendicular to the road. There were ten barracks in a row and eight rows of barracks, which flanked an aisle that ran down the middle of the camp, running parallel to Via dei Grilli.
He shifted his binoculars to focus on the west side of the transit camp, where there were smaller structures, evidently offices and barracks for Nazi guards. Behind the transit camp on the southwest side, situated along Via Remesina, was a construction site, apparently where the Nazis were building the extension. Ditches had been dug for foundations, framed with wood. Bricks, wood, and building materials sat piled next to the frames and shovels, picks, spades, and other tools.
Marco returned his attention to the transit camp proper. It was late and no prisoners were about, so they must have been inside the barracks. Nazis guarded the perimeter, stationed at every eighth post. Some looked around, others smoked. One left by the south gate, disappeared into the darkness, and reappeared after a few moments buckling his belt, so presumably he had gone to urinate.
“What do you see?” Elisabetta whispered.
“The layout and other details. It’s what I expected.”
“Can I look?”
“Yes.” Marco handed her the binoculars, and Elisabetta held it up to her eyes.
“It’s such a big camp.”
“Not very.”
“There’s a lot of guards.”
“Not too many.”
“Are you sure we can do this?” Elisabetta lowered the binoculars, revealing a grimace.
“Yes,” Marco answered, though he wasn’t. “Let me go it alone. It’s too dangerous, I told you.”
“No, I want to do it. You need me for the plan, now.”
“Still, I can think of another plan. Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Elisabetta raised the binoculars.
* * *
—
Later, they walked along by moonlight, crossing vineyards and horse pastures. They came upon a large acetaia with a small stone farmhouse, a barn, a chicken coop, and two outbuildings. They sneaked through rows of vines to the outbuildings, and Marco turned on his flashlight and shone it inside.
The first outbuilding contained balsamico barrels, reeking of fermenting vinegar, and the other held stacked burlap bags. They chose the latter and went inside. The air smelled musty, and cobwebs draped from the low rafters.
Marco cast the flashlight on the burlap bags. “We can sleep here. We’ll be gone by dawn.”
“Good.” Elisabetta eased into the earthen floor, leaning back against the bags. “I’m so tired, I could sleep sitting up.”
“I’ll wake you up when it’s time. I always know.” Marco sat beside her, turning off the flashlight and plunging them into darkness. His eyes adjusted to his surroundings. Moonlight streamed through the small window.
Elisabetta didn’t respond.
Marco looked over to find her already asleep. He exhaled, then let himself feel his own fear and anguish. Their mission was dangerous, with slim odds of success. He would lay down his life for Sandro and Massimo, but he would never forgive himself if anything happened to Elisabetta. He considered sneaking out while she slept and executing the plan alone, but he did need her. And she would have been furious with him.
He leaned back on the burlap bags, closed his eyes, and rehearsed his plan in his mind. Tomorrow was the first step, and the more he thought about tomorrow, the less he thought about his father’s death, and Gemma’s.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE
Elisabetta
17 October 1943
Elisabetta walked along Via Remesina, swinging a bottle of wine. Bees buzzed in the vineyards, and the air smelled of fermenting balsamico and freshly cultivated earth. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, perfect for a young girl to visit her grandparents, which was her false story. This was the next step of their plan, and its success depended solely on her. She had freshened her dress and combed her hair into place, as she needed to look her best. Marco was watching her through his binoculars, from the ravine.
She tensed at the sight of armed Nazis with dogs, ahead at the transit camp. A group of them were guarding the prisoners laboring on the construction site, at the back of the camp. Dump trucks with muddy tires