He staggered back, and Selva lunged at him, her teeth bared, her fury unleashed. Before Nina could reach her, Zwerger pulled his pistol from its holster, aimed it lazily in the dog’s general direction, and shot her.
Selva fell, stricken. The children rushed to her, screaming. Rosa dropped her basket of vegetables and knelt at the dog’s side, her hands painted red with blood as she moved them over Selva’s golden fur.
Nina managed, just, to stay on her feet. “What sort of man are you, to kill a dog in front of the children who love her?”
Zwerger had been staring at the dog, at the children, at Rosa and the blood that covered her arms and dress. Now he turned to face Nina again. There was nothing on his face—no expression of remorse, of horror, of disgust, even.
“Leave here,” Nina commanded, and to her surprise he did just that. Simply swung around and got in his car and was driven away.
“Nina,” Rosa called out. “She’s still breathing!”
“She’s alive? From the way she fell, I thought—”
“Can you help her?”
“I don’t know. Help me get her into the kitchen.”
Selva was heavy, at least twenty-five kilos, but with the two of them sharing her weight, they managed to haul her onto the kitchen table. The electricity, once again, was not working, but Agnese was quick to light two of the lamps, and she and Angela held them over the table while Nina examined the dog. It was difficult to get close to her, though, for Carlo was hugging the animal, his thin arms clutching her tight, his sobs unrelenting.
“Carlo, darling, let me look at her,” Nina pleaded. “You need to stand back.”
“He killed her. He took out his gun and he killed her, and she only barked at him! She never bites anyone! She’s dead and he killed her!”
“She isn’t dead, my darling, she’s asleep. Only asleep, and I need to make her better. Let me see her, please.”
Rosa pulled him aside, gently, and before Nina even had to ask, the other woman handed her a bowl of hot water and a clean cloth.
Nina set to washing the wound, putting pressure on one area that was still bleeding heavily. “I need the scissors,” she told Rosa. “Can you cover them in iodine first? I need to cut away some of her fur—see here? The bullet hit her shoulder, but it was only the muscle. I don’t think it hit the bone.”
Nina snipped at the fur, wiping away blood as she worked, and before long she could see all of the wound. “The bullet didn’t go in—thank goodness for that. It skimmed along the top. If I can clean the wound and stitch it she should recover.”
“Why won’t she wake up?” Angela asked softly.
“When a bullet hits you, it feels like someone has punched you very hard. It’s a good thing she’s asleep, because that means she’ll stay still while I’m helping her.”
Nina had never tended a bullet wound before, but she knew the rules of antisepsis, and she’d stitched cuts, and as long as her patient remained unconscious she was certain she could save the dog. She flooded the wound with iodine, and then, once she was sure the edges were clean and no debris remained, she stitched it shut, quickly but carefully, all the while praying that Selva wouldn’t wake up until she was done.
The dog began to stir as she finished, and Rosa had to help hold her down as Nina bandaged the injury, but even once Selva awoke fully she didn’t fuss. Did she know they meant to help her? It had to be terribly painful, but she didn’t snap or bite, or even try to lick at the wound; fortunately it was far enough back on her shoulder that she couldn’t get at the sutures.
Carlo made up a bed for Selva on the floor by the hearth, and he lovingly held a bowl to her mouth so she might drink some water, and then he fed her little scraps of chicken that Rosa fished out of the leftover soup from dinner.
Their chores forgotten, they waited for Aldo and the boys to return from the fields, and for Nico to come home, and all the while Nina’s anger grew and grew until she was choking on it. Anger, and hatred, and worst of all the paralyzing sourness of fear. Zwerger had made her afraid, as he’d hoped to do, and he had terrorized the children and Rosa, and for what? To prove something to Nico? Or to her?
IT WAS DARK by the time Nico returned, exhausted after a long day of haying in his zia Nora’s fields. The children had gone to bed, reluctantly, and only after Nina had promised to stay with Selva all night. She was kneeling next to the animal, feeding her a little broth from a bowl, when the door creaked and Nico slipped in.
“What happened?” he asked. In an instant he was kneeling next to her, his head bent close to the dog’s head, letting her lick his face and snuffle at his ears.
“It was Zwerger. He shot her.”
“My God.”
“The bullet tore a gouge across her shoulder, and knocked her out cold, but I was able to stitch it before she woke up.”
“You were very brave, weren’t you?” he murmured to the dog, and she wagged her tail, feebly, as if she understood. “You were so brave. Yes, you were.”
“It was my fault.” Now he was home, home at last, and she had to tell him everything. He’d be upset, but she owed him the truth.
“How could it possibly have been your fault?”
“I was sitting under the olive tree, doing the mending, and I fell asleep. I only woke up when he drove into the courtyard.”
“Why didn’t you tell him I was in San Zenone? He might have driven down to look for me there.”
“He wanted to talk to me. I was alone. Rosa and the children had gone to weed the vegetable garden. I didn’t know what else to do. If only I hadn’t fallen asleep.”
Nico nodded, his gaze still fixed on Selva. “What sort of questions did he ask?”
“They were about before. The orphanage I grew up in. The reason I went to school in Venice rather than Padua.” And then, lowering her voice to the merest whisper, “He frightened me. He stood so close. And he said things . . .”
“What did he say?” Nico’s voice was hard. Unfamiliar. And still he did not look up at her.
“He wanted to know why you picked me. He said I wasn’t pretty enough, and I didn’t come from a decent family, and I didn’t have any money. So it must have been for . . . other reasons.”
Nico nodded, and then he got to his feet and pulled her up, his hands ever so gentle. “Once again I must ask you to forgive me.”
“But I’m the one who fell asleep. If I’d been awake there’d have been time for me to hide.”
“I won’t go far again, not without making sure my father is here with you. I promise I won’t.”
She smoothed her hands over his back, as much to calm herself as him. “Why do you think he came today? It’s been months and months. I’d hoped he would never return.”
“As did I. He must be feeling rattled—they all are. Florence was liberated on Friday.”
“So the tide is turning at last?”
“It is, and Zwerger’s attempts to frighten you are a sure sign that he’s panicking.” Nico pulled out a chair, sat down, and lifted her onto his lap.
She cuddled close to him, loving the certainty of his embrace. “Do you think the war will be over soon?”
“Not soon, no. Another year, maybe more.”
“As long as that?”
“Yes. And it makes me wonder if now might be the time for me to take you to Switzerland.”
She sat up, pushing away so she might see his face properly. “No. Absolutely not.”
“You wanted your father to take you.”
“That was before. Before I had you, and our baby, and our family. If you take me to Switzerland I’ll be alone.”
“You’ll be safer there.”
“I couldn’t bear it. If Zwerger comes back I promise I’ll hide. No more naps in the courtyard. At the first sign of a car on the road, I’ll run upstairs. I promise I will.”
“It would be better if I stayed here from now on.”
“Better for who? Not for the people who need you. I hate it when y
ou’re away—I’m selfish enough to admit it—but I won’t ask you to stop. Not ever. Not knowing that people might die without your help.”
“Very well. Then let’s agree to both be careful. With that, and some luck, we’ll both live to see the end of this war.”
Chapter 20
12 September 1944
The kitchen door was still closed as they ate their breakfast, for it had been a cool and rainy night, and the morning mist still lingered close to the ground. Nina hadn’t slept well, for the baby had been wakeful, its heels finding her bladder with unerring accuracy, so when Selva’s bark heralded a visitor outside she didn’t look up. There had been no crunch of tires on gravel, after all; likely it was a cousin or neighbor come in search of a tool to borrow or an extra pair of hands for the day.
Nico was the closest to the door. Opening it to the youngest of Signora Vendramin’s sons, he listened to the boy’s hesitant message, thanked him with a smile, and told the child he’d be along in a minute.
“What’s that all about?” Rosa asked.
“A message from Father Bernardi. Sent along his housekeeper’s boy to ask me to stop by the rectory.”
“Did he say why?”
“No, but I can guess. Either he’s jammed the keys on his typewriter, or the sink in the rectory kitchen is clogged. I’ll deal with it now.”
When Nico returned, nearly an hour later, he went straight to the fields. Nina was still in the garden, hanging out linens to dry, so she missed him.
“He didn’t say what Father wanted him for?” she asked Rosa.
“No. Just poked his head through the door and said he was off to join Papà and the boys.”
There wasn’t time to talk with him at midday either, for rain was threatening and they all had to hurry about their meal; and before she could say a single word to him he rose from the table, thanked her and Rosa, and went back to his work.
At supper they were all tired, everyone intent on their soup and bread, the men talking of little more than their plans for the next day. Nina was still drying her hands on her apron, thinking ahead to the comfort of bed and Nico’s warm embrace, when he took her hand and led her to the door.
“Nina and I are going into the village. Father Bernardi was complaining that he never sees her. Only a quick hello at the door after church, he said.”
“But it’s getting late,” Nina protested.
“He won’t mind. Do you want your shawl?”
When they arrived at the rectory, Nico didn’t bother to knock but instead opened the door and ushered her inside.
“We’re here, Father.”
“I’m in the parlor,” came the reply.
Father Bernardi stood as they entered the room, which was a larger version of the parlor at home, and had been decorated in much the same fashion. Never in her life had Nina seen so many miserable saints and smugly satisfied angels.
“Good evening, Father. How are you?” she asked as she sat on the severely upholstered settee.
Only then, looking from a still-silent Father Bernardi to Nico, did she notice how uncomfortable both men had become, their expressions strained and apprehensive. Although they were sitting at some distance from each other, both men wore the same invisible veil of dread and sorrow.
Without a single word, she knew. “Papà and Mamma.”
Tears glittered in the old priest’s eyes. “Yes. I had word late last night.”
“Dead?”
Nico took her near hand in his. “No. At least, we don’t believe they are.”
“What has happened?” she asked, her voice rising. “Won’t you tell me?”
“They were arrested, along with the other remaining residents of the casa, on the night of August seventeenth,” Father Bernardi explained. “From there, we think they were sent to Trieste. To the camp at San Sabba.”
“Are they there still?” Her voice was that of a stranger. Someone else was forming the words for her and pushing them past her teeth and out of her mouth to linger in the icy air of the parlor.
“No.” Father Bernardi’s voice was soft yet certain. “They were . . . they were put on a train and deported.”
“Where?”
“North,” Nico said. “Probably to a labor camp in Germany. We don’t know for sure.”
“A labor camp? My mother can’t even walk. It doesn’t make any sense. Why not leave them where they were?”
Neither man answered her; they had no answers to give.
“Were they alone?”
“No. There were others on the train,” Father Bernardi said. “One was Rabbi Ottolenghi.”
The rabbi was her father’s friend. He was a kind man, a good man. But not well. Not the sort of man who was capable of hard labor. “He’s almost blind,” she said. As if that would have made a difference.
“I am so sorry, Antonina. So terribly sorry to bring such news to you.”
“I won’t let it rest,” Nico promised. “I’ll find out what I can.”
“As will I. In the meantime, promise that you’ll try not to despair.”
“I promise, Father,” she lied, for it was too late. Too late for hope.
Somehow she was able to stay upright for the walk home, one step after another, huddled in the shelter of Nico’s embracing arms.
“I’ll take you upstairs. Tell the others you’re feeling tired. They won’t question me.”
She sat on their bed and let Nico unlace her shoes and unwind her shawl and take off her dress. He helped her into her nightgown, leading her arms into the sleeves as if he were dressing a child, and he turned back the covers and eased her onto her back. She lay unblinking, unseeing, her heart a cold, dead weight in her chest.
She was still awake when the sun rose again.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away,” Nico whispered. “I wanted to, but I couldn’t think of how I would explain it to Rosa and my father. Your sadness, I mean. At least this way . . .”
“I had a few hours.”
“All we know is that they were sent away. That’s all.”
“It’s enough.”
“If I could take this from you I would. If I could bear it all for you I would.”
She licked at her dry lips, swallowed, and found, at last, her voice. “It makes no sense. Why send them to a labor camp if they’re too frail to work? I can see why they’d imprison young people—I don’t think it’s right, but I can understand the why of it. But my parents are no threat to anyone.”
“I know. I know,” Nico soothed.
“My father has spent his life caring for others. He’s good, every bit of him is good and decent and kind, and my mother is, too. I . . . I don’t understand why they hate us so. I never will.”
He rose soon after, though he encouraged her to stay in bed awhile longer. “Rest while you can, and I’ll fetch you when I come in for breakfast.”
But how could she sleep? It had happened. Her fears had come true. Her parents were gone, sent to some far-off place, and not only did she have to live with that knowledge, she also had to carry on as if nothing had changed. In a few minutes she would go downstairs and eat her breakfast and do her chores and no one, apart from Nico and Father Bernardi, could ever know that her heart had been broken.
A WEEK LATER, in the middle of the night, the German siege of Monte Grappa began. It shook the house and made plaster dust fall like snow from the ceiling, and outside the cows were lowing and Selva was howling, but Nico’s arms held her close. He was warm against her back, one of his hands covering the curve of her belly, the other curled around her head. He would keep her safe, she knew he would, but the guns were so close, and with every new boom and rumble she grew more and more afraid.
“It sounds far closer than it is,” he murmured against her ear.
“When will it stop?”
“Not until the partisans surrender. And to what end? Paris was liberated nearly a month ago. They’re in retreat and they know it, but still they fight on. All tha
t’s fueling them now is their hatred. Their fear, too.”
“Do you know men on the mountain?”
“Too many to count.”
“How will they survive?”
“I’m not sure they can. Try to get some sleep. It will be dawn before long.”
HE WAS GONE in the morning. He’d stayed long enough to help Aldo with the milking, and to tell his father he’d be back by evening, but of his destination he’d said nothing. So Nina was left to suffer the agonies of waiting, knowing the mountain at her back was crawling with enemy soldiers, all of them savage with fear, all of them poised to assume any man they encountered was a bandit.
He came home in time for supper, just, and he seemed fine to her. A little distracted, and more than a little tired, but that was all. He waited until the children and boys had gone up to bed, until it was only him and Nina, his father and Rosa, at the table, a glass of Aldo’s wine before him.
“The partisans on Monte Grappa have surrendered, but the German cordon around the mountain was easy to evade. Many men were taken, or shot on the spot, but many more escaped.”
“Thank the Lord for that,” Aldo said fervently.
“It’s not that simple. The Germans are offering amnesty to any partisan who lays down his arms and surrenders. And men are doing it. They’re coming forward and they’re being arrested.”
Aldo poured his son more wine, and Nico sipped at it, but then, his expression resolute, he set down his glass.
“I know, or at least I suspect, where some of them are hiding. I have to warn them.”
“But it’s—”
“Rosa. There is no way, no way on God’s earth, that the Germans plan to pardon them. At the very least they’ll end up in prison, or as slave labor somewhere between here and Russia. Far more likely that they’ll be killed.”
“What can you do on your own?” Aldo asked.
“If I can save even one of them from coming forward it’s worth it. Some of them are boys no older than Matteo. How could I live with myself if I stood by and let them die?”
“You’re certain the Germans won’t pardon them?” Nina now asked.
He fixed her with an incredulous look. “Zwerger was seen being driven around yesterday. And this morning he stood on the steps of the church in Possagno and swore up and down that any boys or men who surrender will be pardoned. Do you truly believe a man like him intends to keep such a promise?”
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