She forced herself not to struggle. The Nazi thrust his tongue into her mouth. Tears came to her eyes. The Nazi leaned her back, then pressed her to the ground.
Elisabetta scrambled backward, stalling. The Nazi thought she was teasing. He scrambled after her, chuckling. He gripped her arm, pulled her under him, and climbed on her with his full weight.
Suddenly the Nazi’s head was jerked backward. His body was lifted off of her. Marco materialized above the Nazi, grabbing his head.
The Nazi’s eyes widened with fear. Marco twisted the Nazi’s head deftly, breaking his neck with a crunch of vertebrae.
Elisabetta rolled away, swallowing her horror.
The Nazi collapsed, dead.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-NINE
Marco
18 October 1943
Marco walked toward the back exit of the transit camp. He kept his face down under the dead Nazi’s helmet. The Nazi’s uniform fit him well, and he buckled his belt as he approached the transit camp, as if he had urinated. The Nazi guard opened the gate for him, and Marco grunted his thanks. He entered the transit camp, crossed to the dead Nazi’s post, and stood on guard.
He glanced toward the construction site, praying that the fire grew soon. He had set it near some electrical wire behind a pile of bricks, then mixed in flammable solvent and oily rags. The fire wouldn’t show until it was blazing, and the Nazis would assume it was negligence, rather than intentional. He didn’t want it to look like sabotage, or they would lock down the transit camp.
Marco stood behind Sandro’s barracks, which were quiet. The plan was working, so far. He had gotten to Elisabetta in time. She had looked terrified, but she had done the job. He checked the umbrella pine, knowing she would be hiding behind it, recovering.
He shifted his gaze to the construction site. He noticed a faint orange brightness behind the pile of bricks. The rags must have caught fire. They were beginning to burn.
Marco turned, patrolled Sandro’s barracks, and peered in the windows, as he had seen the Nazis do. He glanced in the first window, then the second. The only thing he could discern in the gloom were sleeping forms, in rough wooden rows of beds. He had been hoping to spot Sandro inside, but it was too dark.
Marco passed the third window and heard snoring, a distinctly human sound that wrenched his heart. He wished he could save every one of them.
He returned to his post. He glanced at the construction site. The brightness was growing. None of the Nazis was looking in that direction.
War is waiting, he thought of his father saying.
Marco’s first impulse was to suppress thoughts of his father, but instead he used the memory to strengthen him. Surely his father was with him now, watching over him. Everything that he had learned about right and wrong, and justice and injustice, came from his father.
Tonight, Marco prayed he would do justice.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY
Marco
18 October 1943
Fire!” yelled a Nazi. Panic rippled through the guards. All of the helmeted heads turned to the construction site. The Nazis ran to the fire, which had ignited the solvent and rags. Orange flames raged into the sky, licking the night air.
“Fire, fire!” Marco joined in, with flawless German. He pointed at the fire. The Nazis around him left their posts and ran where he pointed.
Marco ran to Sandro’s barracks and tore open the door. The men inside recoiled in terror, but he couldn’t reveal he wasn’t a real Nazi. He couldn’t risk how the men would react. Nothing could go wrong now.
“Get back!” Marco shouted in German. He looked wildly around for Sandro and his father. Men huddled together, cowering in fear. He spotted Sandro against the wall with Massimo, who was putting on his glasses.
“You, come with me!” Marco rushed to them, grabbing Sandro in one hand and Massimo in the other. He hustled them to the door and scanned the camp to see if it was safe to leave. All of the Nazi guards were at the construction site, trying to put out the fire. Some tried blankets, others water. There was no time to lose.
“Sandro, Massimo!” Marco whispered, leading them outside. “Come with me. Hurry.”
“Marco?” Sandro’s mouth dropped open. He took his father’s arm. “Papa, he’s getting us out of here.”
“But I can’t walk on my ankle.” Massimo limped. “It’s worse than before.”
“We have to go.” Marco glanced at the construction site. The fire raged higher, and the Nazis tried to put it out. The conflagration burned bright. No one was looking their way.
Massimo turned to Sandro, stricken. “Son, go without me. I’m too slow. I can’t keep up.”