He returned to his post. He glanced at the construction site. The brightness was growing. None of the Nazis was looking in that direction.
War is waiting, he thought of his father saying.
Marco’s first impulse was to suppress thoughts of his father, but instead he used the memory to strengthen him. Surely his father was with him now, watching over him. Everything that he had learned about right and wrong, and justice and injustice, came from his father.
Tonight, Marco prayed he would do justice.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY
Marco
18 October 1943
Fire!” yelled a Nazi. Panic rippled through the guards. All of the helmeted heads turned to the construction site. The Nazis ran to the fire, which had ignited the solvent and rags. Orange flames raged into the sky, licking the night air.
“Fire, fire!” Marco joined in, with flawless German. He pointed at the fire. The Nazis around him left their posts and ran where he pointed.
Marco ran to Sandro’s barracks and tore open the door. The men inside recoiled in terror, but he couldn’t reveal he wasn’t a real Nazi. He couldn’t risk how the men would react. Nothing could go wrong now.
“Get back!” Marco shouted in German. He looked wildly around for Sandro and his father. Men huddled together, cowering in fear. He spotted Sandro against the wall with Massimo, who was putting on his glasses.
“You, come with me!” Marco rushed to them, grabbing Sandro in one hand and Massimo in the other. He hustled them to the door and scanned the camp to see if it was safe to leave. All of the Nazi guards were at the construction site, trying to put out the fire. Some tried blankets, others water. There was no time to lose.
“Sandro, Massimo!” Marco whispered, leading them outside. “Come with me. Hurry.”
“Marco?” Sandro’s mouth dropped open. He took his father’s arm. “Papa, he’s getting us out of here.”
“But I can’t walk on my ankle.” Massimo limped. “It’s worse than before.”
“We have to go.” Marco glanced at the construction site. The fire raged higher, and the Nazis tried to put it out. The conflagration burned bright. No one was looking their way.
Massimo turned to Sandro, stricken. “Son, go without me. I’m too slow. I can’t keep up.”
Sandro shook his head. “Papa, I can’t leave you.”
“You must. Go. I love you.”
“Massimo, please.” Marco looked over, frantic.
“Marco, take Sandro.” Massimo’s eyes glistened. “Do it for me. I beg you.”
“No,” Sandro insisted, but Massimo wrenched his arm from his son’s grasp and darted back inside the barracks.
“Papa!” Sandro started to go after him.
“Sandro. Come with me, now.” Marco grabbed Sandro’s arm, giving him no choice. The Nazis were at the fire. They were still preoccupied, but it wouldn’t last long.
Marco yanked Sandro to the exit, tore open the gate, and swung it closed. He kept his grip on Sandro and ran him to the umbrella pine.
Marco, Sandro, and Elisabetta raced into the darkness.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-ONE
Sandro
18 October 1943
Sandro’s eyes filled with tears as they ran from the transit camp. Elisabetta held his one arm and Marco held the other, propelling him forward. He felt agonized at having abandoned his father. Guilt buckled his knees, weakening him. He knew he should go with Marco and Elisabetta, but he wanted to turn and run back.
“My father—” Sandro couldn’t finish the sentence.
“We had no choice.”
“We could have made him come.”
“No.”
“We could have tried.”
“No, Sandro. He never could have made this run. We have to run for the next hour, over pastures and vineyards. It’s too much for him.”
“They won’t retaliate against him, will they?”
“Did they check your names when they assigned you the barracks?”
“No, they only counted heads.”
“So they don’t know who you are. Your father is a brilliant man. He’ll take care of himself.”
Elisabetta squeezed his hand, and her grip gave Sandro the strength to keep running. Tears streamed down his cheeks. All around him was pitch black. His legs felt weak. His breath turned ragged. His heart pounded with exertion. He struggled to keep up.
“Sandro, listen,” Marco said, as they ran. “The Nazis will realize a guard is missing. They’ll find the dead guard with ease. They’re going to search the transit camp and the houses in Fossoli and Carpi. We can’t stay in the area.”
“Right,” Sandro said, his chest heaving.
“We can’t go to Carpi train station. That’s what they expect.”
“So where are we going?”
“South, to the train station at Modena. The last train