“Well, I can.”
“Then what did that sign say?”
“I don’t need it. I rely on my compass. I have an excellent sense of direction.”
“Just tell me what it said.”
“It said we’re going the right way.”
“You know that’s not the point. It had the names of towns nearby and the distances.”
“Look, I admit, I don’t read as well as you or Sandro. You read books, and he’s a genius. I’m smart, just not as smart as you guys.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.” Marco wanted to believe she was right, but she wasn’t. That damn train schedule had given him away.
“Marco, come on, you’re very smart. I know you, I see what you do. Look at what you did today.”
“Today my father died.”
Elisabetta touched his arm. “Even so, you figured out a story for Nino the undertaker and a plan for Arnaldo. You spoke good enough German to fool that Nazi. You even got him to agree to give Sandro my note.”
“He did it because you’re beautiful. Even Nazis like beautiful girls.” Marco shook his head. “And I doubt he gave it to Sandro anyway.”
“My point is that you’re very intelligent.”
“Then what’s the matter?” Marco blurted out, since it was a question he had asked himself over and over. “Why is reading harder for me?”
“Tell me what happens when you read.”
Marco sighed, pained. “I don’t know.”
“What do you see, on the page?”
“Everything looks mixed up.”
“Do you think it’s your eyes? Do you need glasses?”
“No, I see fine.” Marco had already eliminated these possibilities.
“What happens when you write?”
“I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to make anything look like.”
“I bet I can help you.”
“I bet you can’t.” Marco walked faster. “Let me tell you the plan. That’s what matters now.”
* * *
—
Marco and Elisabetta reached Fossoli, found a vineyard, and lay on their stomachs between rows of grapevines, behind a thick underbrush. The transit camp was across from them, far enough to avoid their being seen. Its lights illuminated the night sky, unnaturally bright in the countryside. They had an unobstructed view, since the grapes in the vineyards in between had been harvested, the earth tilled in rows.
Marco scanned the transit camp through the binoculars, reconnoitering. The camp was a long rectangle, set lengthwise on Via dei Grilli, running east to west and surrounded by three layers of post-and-barbed wire fencing. There were no guard turrets or watchtowers. The prisoners’ barracks were long brick houses with small square windows, situated in rows on the east side of the camp and set perpendicular to the road. There were ten barracks in a row and eight rows of barracks, which flanked an aisle that ran down the middle of the camp, running parallel to Via dei Grilli.
He shifted his binoculars to focus on the west side of the transit camp, where there were smaller structures, evidently offices and barracks for Nazi guards. Behind the transit camp on the southwest side, situated along Via Remesina, was a construction site, apparently where the Nazis were building the extension. Ditches had been dug for foundations, framed with wood. Bricks, wood, and building materials sat piled next to the frames and shovels, picks, spades, and other tools.
Marco returned his attention to the transit camp proper. It was late and no prisoners were about, so they must have been inside the barracks. Nazis guarded the perimeter, stationed at every eighth post. Some looked around, others smoked. One left by the south gate, disappeared into the darkness, and reappeared after a few moments buckling his belt, so presumably he had gone to urinate.
“What do you see?” Elisabetta whispered.
“The layout and other details. It’s what I expected.”
“Can I look?”
“Yes.” Marco handed her the binoculars, and Elisabetta held it up to her eyes.
“It’s such a big camp.”
“Not very.”
“There’s a lot of guards.”
“Not too many.”
“Are you sure we can do this?” Elisabetta lowered the binoculars, revealing a grimace.
“Yes,” Marco answered, though he wasn’t. “Let me go it alone. It’s too dangerous, I told you.”
“No, I want to do it. You need me for the plan, now.”