knew he was having the same concern. In the next moment, Marco set his newspaper on the bench.
The line of travelers shifted forward, boarding the train. Elisabetta and Sandro moved up, but Sandro kept his face front. The Nazis joined the line behind them, laughing together, as if they had shared a joke. Elisabetta didn’t understand what they were saying, and Marco was too far away to hear.
Sandro kept staring straight ahead. Elisabetta caressed his arm, trying to reassure him. Marco shifted closer to the two of them, slipping off his backpack.
Elisabetta knew Marco had a gun inside.
The line moved forward.
Elisabetta stepped closer to the train, and so did Sandro. The Nazis followed, then one of them spoke to Sandro.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-THREE
Marco
18 October 1943
Marco slipped his hand inside his backpack. His fingers encircled the handle of his gun. He forced himself to wait. Two Nazis were standing behind Sandro and Elisabetta. One of the Nazis was saying something to Sandro, trying to get his attention.
Sandro stood oddly stiff.
Marco moved close enough to hear what they were saying.
The first Nazi chuckled. “Did your girlfriend hit you?” he asked Sandro, in broken Italian.
Sandro turned around, stiffly. He didn’t laugh. His mouth went tight. “No . . . uh . . . I got hurt when, uh, when—”
“He fell down the steps,” Elisabetta interjected, with a sly grin. “If I hit him, it would leave a bigger mark.”
The Nazis burst into laughter. Sandro managed a smile, but it was shaky. Marco placed his finger on the trigger.
The first Nazi winked at Elisabetta. “I don’t believe you. I think you did hit him.”
“Like this!” The second Nazi cocked his arm and pretended to punch Sandro, but Sandro flinched in reflexive fear.
The first Nazi’s smile faded. “What are you so worried about?”
The second Nazi eyed Sandro hard. “Show us your identity card.”
“Of course.” Sandro put his hand in his pocket, produced the false card, and held it out, but his hand trembled visibly.
Elisabetta stiffened.
Marco kept his finger on the trigger.
The Nazi made no move to take the card. Instead he watched Sandro’s hand shake, prolonging the excruciating moment.
The conductor appeared in the stairwell of the train. “All aboard, all aboard!”
The Nazi gave the conductor a stern look. “Hold the train. We’re not ready to leave yet.”
The conductor nodded nervously, then disappeared.
The Nazi lifted his gaze from the trembling card to Sandro. “You seem very nervous. What are you hiding? What have you done?”
Sandro swallowed hard. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Something tells me you have.” The Nazi snapped the card from Sandro’s hand, skimmed it, and started to return it. But as soon as Sandro reached for the card, the Nazi pulled it back, toying with him.
Sandro’s hand shook, suspended in the air.
Marco aimed his gun, still in the backpack.
The Nazi pulled his pistol on Sandro. “You’re coming with us.”
Marco withdrew his gun.
The Nazi whipped around, aimed at Marco, and fired.
“No!” Sandro threw himself in the path of the Nazi’s bullet, and it struck him in the chest.
Sandro’s shirt exploded in blood. He flew backward through the air, his arms flailing.
Elisabetta screamed in anguish.
Marco shot both Nazis, rapid-fire. They dropped to the platform, dead.
“No!” Elisabetta raced to Sandro, who lay bleeding on the platform. She threw herself on him, hugging him. She burst into tears, screaming and sobbing.
Marco raced to Sandro’s side in horror. Sandro’s blue eyes faced heavenward, fixed. His body was utterly motionless. Sandro was gone, his blood leaking from the mortal wound in his chest.
Marco felt his heart shatter. His best friend was dead, having given his life for him.
“No, no, no!” Elisabetta cried, her head against Sandro’s chest. His blood stained her face and smeared her cheeks.
Marco forced himself to think through his agony. The train left, undoubtedly to avoid trouble. Men and women fled the platform into the station. He had killed two Nazis. More would come soon.
Marco had to get Elisabetta out of here. He didn’t know where or how. He put his gun away, shouldered his backpack, and looked around, frantic.
The tracks began to rumble. A freight train appeared, southbound. Its locomotive was a dark shadow barreling towards the station. It was several tracks over, traveling too fast to be stopping in Modena. It was their only chance.
Marco grabbed Elisabetta by the shoulders. “Come with me!”
“No, no!” Elisabetta wouldn’t let go of Sandro. She sobbed, holding his body, even as his chest bled.
“We have to go!”
“I can’t leave him! I won’t!”
“We have to! Now!” Marco yanked Elisabetta from