“Not enough, Father, for what I—”
“Paolo,” the priest said sternly, “we are as imperfect as this world. In a time of war, the imperfections are magnified. I tell this to myself every day. My own imperfections are magnified, too. They seem larger, but only because of the situation, do you understand?”
“I think so, Father. But he was . . . a man. Not a soldier.”
“You have no idea what he was, Paolo. Or what he knew.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Then listen to me.” Paolo could see the priest leaning in closer, so he leaned in, too, resting his forehead against the screen, so close he could detect the scent of wine on the priest’s breath. Tobacco, wine. He found himself wondering what Father Costantino had eaten for lunch. “There’s another assignment now. It is also part of your penance. A compensation. For the taking of guilty life, you will save many others who are innocent. Can you hear me?”
“Yes, Father, if I turn to you my good ear.”
“Do you know the train line that runs through Chiusi?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know, just north of the city, the place where the line runs near the River Chiana?”
“Yes, as a boy sometimes, I would fish there. And later I would take Carlo and the others fishing there. I know it well.”
“Do you know the place where there’s a hillside close to the west side of the tracks, very steep? And a dirt road?”
“Yes. That’s the fishing place. We—”
“That train line runs from Rome, through Orvieto, to Firenze, Bolzano, and north across the border into Austria. The trains that use that route now, in the night, are taking Jews to the camps there. Did you know that?”
“No, Father.”
“Did you know the Jews are being taken?”
“I’ve heard people say that, Father. I thought it was a rumor.”
“Not a rumor. Do you know any Jews around here?”
For a second, Paolo had Eleonora’s name on his tongue. But he remembered his promise to her, pressed his teeth together, shook his head. “No, Father.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Then listen to me. The person you met behind the rock will have another parcel, like the one I gave you. Tomorrow night, he’ll come to the barn, late, and you and he will take it to that part of the train tracks, just before the steep hill. Make sure it’s exactly at that place and nowhere else. You will set it there in such a way that it will destroy the tracks. Detonated by a timer this time. You’ll be able to get away. Understand?”
“But, Father, how will I get there in the night? It’s far, I—”
“He’ll take you.”
“But how? I—”
“Sleep near the barn door. He’ll come for you and take you. Make sure you go to the right place, and nowhere else. Understand?”
“I think so, Father.”
“Go in peace then. Go with God. For your penance, do this task, and perhaps you will keep some of our Jewish friends and Christian brothers from going to those camps.”
“But if the train is blown up?”
“Not the train. The tracks. The train will come off the rails there, in a place where it should be going fairly slowly, so none of the passengers will be hurt. We’ll have men ready. The Germans will be shot, the Jews and the others will escape.”
“The Germans, Father, they’ll be shot? Then other Germans will kill many of us for revenge.”
“We have plans for that, too, Paolo. Just please do what I’ve asked you to do.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And a priest from the South called here on a terrible connection. I believe he said one of your workers had been there.”
“Which one, Father? Carlo?”
“I’m not sure, and I have no other information.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Go then.”
“Vittoria took the deserters to the nuns.”
“I know that.”
“How could you know?”
“I just know.”
“What will become of them? The three Germans?”
“They will be fed and then sent on in the night. From the nuns to another priest. From there, I hope, to safety. Now accept your absolution and say your penance.”
“Yes, Father.”
Paolo listened to the quiet run of Latin syllables, catching a word here and there that sounded like a word in his own language. Then he made the sign of the cross, ducked out into the nave, and spent a moment rubbing his kneecaps.