“Ahhhh!!!!” Mrs. Napolitano screamed.
Pino landed awkwardly, skis askew, and for a second he thought the boards were going to get away from him and that he and the pregnant violinist were going to twist and fall hard into the frozen debris.
But then he saw they were going to collide with a stump. He did an instinctual hop move to his left, avoiding the stump, and then another. The two moves restored his equilibrium, and the skis accelerated. Pino and Mrs. Napolitano shot out of the debris field into fluffy powder snow.
With the violin case thrust out in front of him, Pino grinned and began to churn his legs in unison, driving them deep into the snow, and then relaxing them so his feet rose up under his hips as Father Re had taught him. The movement unweighted him momentarily at the top of each turn, which allowed him to shift his weight and turn the skis almost effortlessly. The skis arced left and then right in long, linked curves, building speed and blowing through snowdrifts that exploded and showered their faces.
Mrs. Napolitano hadn’t said a word in many seconds. He figured she’d stopped looking and was simply hanging on for dear life.
“Wheeeeeeeeee!” she cried in his ear. “It’s like we’re birds, Pino! We’re flying!”
Mrs. Napolitano giggled and made “whoop!” noises every time they dropped off a knoll. He felt her chin press down on his right shoulder, and understood she could see where they were going as he powered his skis in long, floating, lazy S-turns downslope toward the frozen lake and the woods and freedom beyond.
Pino realized he would lose vertical drop soon. The way would flatten ahead. Even though his thighs were on fire, he pointed the skis straight down the last steep pitch, straight at that forested triangle of Italy that stuck into Switzerland.
Pino wasn’t turning now, no slalom here. He was doing straight-line downhill, violin out front for balance, crouched in a semituck. The skis hissed and rode up on top of the snow. They hurtled down that last pitch, thirty, forty, maybe fifty kilometers an hour, one twitch of a knee away from disaster. He saw the transition where the hill met the flat and brought his legs up under him again to absorb it.
They shot past the lake. Pino stayed low, cutting the wind, and they almost made the tree line. When they came to a halt, they were less than a snowball’s throw away.
They were both quiet for a second.
Then Mrs. Napolitano began to laugh. She unwrapped her legs from Pino’s waist and let go of her grip on his shoulders. She got down, and, holding her belly, knelt in the soft snow and began chortling like she’d never enjoyed anything so much in her life. Pino was caught up in her snorts and giggles. It was contagious. He fell beside her and laughed until he was crying.
What a crazy thing we’ve done. Who would have—?
“Pino!” a man’s voice called sharply.
Pino startled and looked up to see Mr. Bergstrom standing just inside the tree line. He was carrying his shotgun and looked concerned.
“We made it, Mr. Bergstrom!” Pino cried.
“You’re a day late,” Bergstrom said. “And get out of the open. Bring her into the woods where she can’t be seen.”
Pino sobered and took his skis off. He handed Mrs. Napolitano her violin. She sat up and hugged it, saying, “I think everything’s going to be all right now, Pino. I can feel it.”
“Can you walk?” Pino asked.
“I can try,” she said, and he helped her to her feet.
He held her hand and elbow and supported her through the snow to the path.
“What’s wrong with her?” Bergstrom asked when they’d slogged into the trees.
Mrs. Napolitano explained about the baby and the spotting with a radiant glow on her face. “But now, I think I can walk however far you need me to.”
“Not that far, several hundred meters,” Bergstrom said. “Once you’re in Switzerland, I can build you a fire. I’ll go down and come back for you with a sled.”
“A few hundred meters I think I can do,” she said. “And a fire sounds like heaven above. Have you ever skied, Mr. Bergstrom?”
The Swiss man looked at her as if she were slightly addled, but he nodded.
“Isn’t it grand?” the violinist said. “Isn’t it the greatest thing you’ve ever done?”
Pino saw Mr. Bergstrom smile for the first time.
They waited in the tree line, telling the Swiss man about the storm and the avalanche, and watching Mimo and the D’Angelos work their way slowly down the slope. Mrs. D’Angelo carried her daughter. Mr. D’Angelo had Pino’s pack and poles, and his son trailed behind. It took them almost an hour in the deep snow to reach the flat above the lake.
Pino skied out to meet them, took Judith up on his back, and brought her to the woods. They were soon all safely in the trees.
“Is this Switzerland?” Anthony asked.
“Not far,” Bergstrom said.
After a brief rest, they set out toward the border with Pino helping Mrs. Napolitano along the well-used path through the forest. When they reached the grove where Italy became Switzerland, they stopped.
“There,” Mr. Bergstrom said. “You’re safe from Nazis now.”
Tears dribbled down Mrs. D’Angelo’s cheeks.
Her husband hugged her and kissed away her tears. “We’re safe, my dear,” he said. “How lucky we are when so many others have . . .”
He stopped and choked. His wife stroked his cheek.
“How can we ever repay you?” Mrs. Napolitano said to Pino and Mimo.
“For what?” Pino said.
“For what! You led us through that nightmare storm and got us out of that hut. You skied me down the side of that mountain!”
“What else could we do? Lose our faith? Give up?”
“You? Never!” Mr. D’Angelo said, now pumping Pino’s hand. “You’re like a bull. You never give up.”
Then he hugged Mimo. Mrs. D’Angelo did, too, as did her children. Mrs. Napolitano hugged Pino the longest.
“A thousand blessings on your head for showing me how to fly, young man,” she said. “I’ll never forget that as long as I live.”
Pino grinned, and felt his eyes water. “Neither will I.”
“Isn’t there anything I can do for you?” she asked.
Pino was about to say no, but he noticed her violin case. “Play for us as we go back into Italy. Your music will lift our spirits for the long climb and ski out.”
That pleased her, and she looked at Bergstrom. “Is it okay?”
He said, “No one here will stop you.”
Standing there in the snowy woods, high in the Swiss Alps, Mrs. Napolitano opened her case and rosined her bow. “What would you like to hear?”
For some reason, Pino thought of that August night when he and his father and Tullio and the Beltraminis had taken the train out into the countryside to escape the bombardment of Milan.
“Nessun Dorma,” Pino said. “‘None Shall Sleep.’”
“I can play that one in my sleep, but I’ll play it for you, con smania,” she said, her eyes watering. “Go on now. No good-byes among old friends.”
Mrs. Napolitano played the opening strains of the aria so perfectly, Pino wanted to stay to hear the entire piece. But he and his brother had hours of effort ahead of them, and who knew what challenges they’d face?
The boys shouldered their packs and set off through the woods. They lost sight of Mrs. Napolitano and the others almost immediately, but they could hear her playing beautifully, with passion, each note carrying through the thin, crisp, alpine air. They reached the tree line and put on their skis as she took the tempo up again, casting forth the melody of the triumphant aria like some radio wave that hit Pino in his heart and vibrated in his soul.
He stopped at the head of the lake to listen to the distant crescendo and was deeply moved when the violin quieted.
That sounded like love, Pino thought. When I fall in love, I think it will feel just like that.
Incredibly happy, and using skins on
his skis, Pino started uphill after Mimo, heading toward the north cirque of the Groppera in the brilliant winter sunshine.
Chapter Twelve
April 26, 1944
Pino woke to a clanking sound. Nearly two and a half months had passed since he’d led Mrs. Napolitano and the D’Angelo family into Switzerland. He sat up, grateful that Father Re had let him sleep in after yet another trip to Val di Lei. He stood, noticing he didn’t feel sore in the least. He never felt sore anymore. He felt good, strong—the strongest he’d ever been. And why not? He’d made at least a dozen more trips to Switzerland since Mrs. Napolitano had played for him and Mimo.
Hearing the clanking noise again, he looked out the window. Seven oxen with bells around their necks were pushing and shoving against one another, trying to get at bales of hay that had been put out for them.
When he’d had enough of watching them, Pino dressed. He was entering the empty dining hall when he heard male voices outside, shouting, yelling, and threatening. Alarmed, Brother Bormio came out of the kitchen. Together they went and opened the front door to Casa Alpina. Father Re was standing there, just off the little porch, looking calmly into the barrel of a rifle.
Wearing a newer red neckerchief around his neck, Tito looked over the rifle sight at the priest. The same three curs who’d been with Tito at the New Year’s Eve party were standing behind him.
“I told your boys all winter to stop using the Emet unless you’re going to pay tribute, help the cause of a free Italy,” Tito said. “I’m here to collect my money.”
“Extorting a priest,” Father Re said. “You’re coming up in the world, Tito.”
The man glared at him, flipped the safety on his rifle, and said, “It’s to help the resistance.”
“I support the partisans,” the priest said. “The Ninetieth Garibaldi Brigade, and I know you’re not with them, Tito. None of you are. I think you just wear the neckerchiefs because they suit your purposes.”
“Give me what I want, old man, or so help me, I’ll burn your school down and then kill you and all your brats.”
Father Re hesitated. “I’ll get you money. And food. Put the gun away.”
Tito studied the priest a second, his right eye twitching. His tongue flicked to the corner of his mouth. Then he smiled, lowered the gun, and said, “You do that and don’t be cheap about it, or I’ll just have myself a look around inside, see what you really got.”
Father Re said, “Wait here.”
The priest turned and saw Bormio, and behind him, Pino.
Father Re walked inside and said, “Get them three days’ rations.”
“Father?” the cook said.
“Do it, Brother, please,” Father Re said as he moved on.
Brother Bormio reluctantly turned and followed the priest, leaving Pino in the doorway. Tito caught sight of him, smiled slyly, and said, “Well, look who we got here. My old pal from the New Year’s Eve bash. Why don’t you come on out? Say hello to me and the boys?”
“I’d rather not,” Pino said, hearing the anger in his voice and not caring.
“Rather not?” Tito said, and aimed the gun at him. “You don’t have a choice, now do you?”
Pino hardened. He really hated the guy. He walked out and off the little porch. He stood there facing Tito and stared stonily at him and his gun. “I see you’re still wearing the boots you stole from me,” he said. “What do you want this time? My underwear?”
Tito licked at the corner of his lips, glanced down at the boots, and smiled. Then he stepped forward, swinging the butt of his rifle stock up hard. It caught Pino in the testicles, and he went down in agony.
“What do I want, kid?” Tito said. “How about a little respect for someone trying to rid Italy of the Nazi filth?”
Pino curled up in the slush, fighting not to puke.
“Say it,” Tito said, standing over him.
“Say what?” Pino managed.
“That you respect Tito. That Tito is the partisan leader who runs things around the Splügen. And that you, boy, you answer to Tito.”
As hurt as he was, Pino shook his head. Through gritted teeth he said, “Only one person runs things around here. Father Re. I answer to him and God alone.”
Tito raised his rifle, butt plate right above Pino’s head. Pino was sure he was going to try to bash his skull in. He let go his testicles to guard his head and cringed for a blow that never came.
“Stop!” Father Re roared. “Stop, or by God, I’ll call the Germans up here and tell them where to find you!”
Tito threw the rifle to his shoulder and aimed it at Father Re, who’d come off the porch.
“Give us up? That right?” Tito said.
Pino lashed out his boot, kicked Tito flush on the kneecap. Tito buckled. The rifle discharged. The bullet went past Father Re and smacked the side of Casa Alpina.
Pino leaped on Tito and hit him once, hard, right on the nose, hearing it crunch and seeing it gush blood. Then he snatched up the rifle, stood, and cycled the action before pointing the gun at Tito’s head.
“Stop this, damn it!” Father Re said, stepping around in front of Pino, blocking him from Tito’s men who were aiming at him. “I said I’d give you money for your cause, and three days’ food. Be smart. Take it, and go before something worse happens here.”
“Shoot him!” Tito screamed, wiping blood on his sleeve and glaring at Pino and the priest. “Shoot them both!”
For a breath, there was stillness and quiet and wondering. Then, one by one, Tito’s men lowered their rifles. Pino exhaled with relief, winced at the dull fire still roaring between his legs, and aimed the gun away from Tito’s face. He disengaged the clip and ran the bolt to eject the last bullet.
Pino waited while Tito’s men took the food and money. Two of them picked up Tito under his armpits, ignoring the curses and insults he hurled at them. Pino handed Tito’s empty rifle to the third man.
“Load it! I’ll kill them!” Tito raged as blood seeped over his lips and chin.
“Let it go, Tito,” one said. “He’s a priest, for Christ’s sake.”
The two men had Tito’s arms across their shoulders and were doing their best to get him away from Casa Alpina. But the gang leader was straining to look back.
“This isn’t over,” Tito bellowed. “Especially for you, boy. This isn’t done!”
Pino stood next to Father Re, shaken.
“Are you all right?” the priest asked.
Pino was quiet for a long time before saying, “Father, is it a sin if I’m asking myself if I did the right thing in not killing that man?”
The priest said, “No, it is not a sin, and you did the right thing not killing him.”
Pino bobbed his head, but his lower lip was trembling, and it was taking everything in his power to swallow the emotion surging in his throat. Everything had happened so fast, so—
Father Re patted Pino on the back. “Have faith. You did the right thing.”
He nodded again, but couldn’t meet the priest’s gaze for fear of crying.
“Where did you learn how to handle a gun like that?” Father Re asked.
Pino wiped at his eyes, cleared his throat, and said in a hoarse voice, “My uncle Albert. He has a hunting rifle, a Mauser, kind of like that one. He taught me.”
“I can’t decide if you were brave or foolhardy.”
“I wasn’t going to let Tito kill you, Father.”
The priest smiled and said, “Bless you for that. I wasn’t ready to die today.”
Pino laughed, winced, and said, “Me, neither.”
They went back inside the school. Father Re got ice for Pino, and Brother Bormio made him breakfast, which he devoured.
“You keep growing and we won’t be able to keep up,” Bormio grumbled.
“Where’s everyone else?” Pino asked.
“Skiing with Mimo,” Father Re said. “They’ll be back for lunch.”
As he was eating his second helping of eggs, sausage,
and black bread, two women and four children came timidly into the room, followed by a man in his thirties and two very young boys. Pino could tell in an instant they were new refugees. He’d come to recognize the expressions of hunted people.
“Will you be ready to go again in the morning?” Father Re asked.
Pino shifted, felt a dull ache in his loins, but said, “Yes.”
“Good. And can you do me a favor?”
“Anything, Father,” Pino said.
“Go to the chapel tower, and watch for the signal from Campodolcino,” he said. “You can take your books with you, get some studying done.”
Twenty minutes later, Pino gingerly climbed a ladder into the chapel tower. He had a book bag on his back, and his balls still ached. With the sun beating on the tower, it was surprisingly warm, too warm for the amount of clothing he was wearing.
He stood on the narrow catwalk that went around the interior of the chapel spire, glancing at the void where the bell should have been. Father Re had yet to install one. Pino opened a narrow shutter to look down through a slot in the cliff, which allowed him to see the upper two windows of the rectory in Campodolcino over a kilometer below.
Pino took off the book bag and dug out the binoculars Father Re had given him. He peered through them, surprised again at just how close they made the rectory seem. He studied the two windows. Shades drawn. That meant a German patrol of some kind was in the Splügen drainage. They seemed to make the drive up and down the road to the pass near midday, give or take an hour.
Pino checked his watch. It was a quarter to eleven.
He stood there enjoying the warm spring air and watching birds flit among the spruce trees. He yawned, shook his head to clear the incredible desire to go back to sleep, and stared through the binoculars again.
Thirty minutes later, to his relief, the shades came up. The patrol had passed through, heading down the valley toward Chiavenna. Pino yawned and wondered how many more refugees would come to Motta tonight. If there were too many, they’d have to split up. He’d take one group, and Mimo, the other.
Beneath a Scarlet Sky: A Novel Page 13
