Sandro shook his head. “Papa, I can’t leave you.”
“You must. Go. I love you.”
“Massimo, please.” Marco looked over, frantic.
“Marco, take Sandro.” Massimo’s eyes glistened. “Do it for me. I beg you.”
“No,” Sandro insisted, but Massimo wrenched his arm from his son’s grasp and darted back inside the barracks.
“Papa!” Sandro started to go after him.
“Sandro. Come with me, now.” Marco grabbed Sandro’s arm, giving him no choice. The Nazis were at the fire. They were still preoccupied, but it wouldn’t last long.
Marco yanked Sandro to the exit, tore open the gate, and swung it closed. He kept his grip on Sandro and ran him to the umbrella pine.
Elisabetta showed herself, taking Sandro’s hand. “Sandro!”
“Elisabetta?” Sandro asked, shocked.
But there was no time for conversation.
Marco, Sandro, and Elisabetta raced into the darkness.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-ONE
Sandro
18 October 1943
Sandro’s eyes filled with tears as they ran from the transit camp. Elisabetta held his one arm and Marco held the other, propelling him forward. He felt agonized at having abandoned his father. Guilt buckled his knees, weakening him. He knew he should go with Marco and Elisabetta, but he wanted to turn and run back.
“My father—” Sandro couldn’t finish the sentence.
“We had no choice.”
“We could have made him come.”
“No.”
“We could have tried.”
“No, Sandro. He never could have made this run. We have to run for the next hour, over pastures and vineyards. It’s too much for him.”
“They won’t retaliate against him, will they?”
“Did they check your names when they assigned you the barracks?”
“No, they only counted heads.”
“So they don’t know who you are. Your father is a brilliant man. He’ll take care of himself.”
Elisabetta squeezed his hand, and her grip gave Sandro the strength to keep running. Tears streamed down his cheeks. All around him was pitch black. His legs felt weak. His breath turned ragged. His heart pounded with exertion. He struggled to keep up.
“Sandro, listen,” Marco said, as they ran. “The Nazis will realize a guard is missing. They’ll find the dead guard with ease. They’re going to search the transit camp and the houses in Fossoli and Carpi. We can’t stay in the area.”
“Right,” Sandro said, his chest heaving.
“We can’t go to Carpi train station. That’s what they expect.”
“So where are we going?”
“South, to the train station at Modena. The last train to Rome is in an hour and fifteen minutes. We timed your escape to make the train. If we miss it, we’ll have to hide overnight.”
“Okay.” Sandro got the message. They had to make the train. It was life or death.
“I don’t think the Nazis from Fossoli will be sent to Modena. They can’t spare men.”
“There could be Nazis in Modena.”
“I know. I have false papers for you. Your new name is Giovanni Longhi.”
“After Professoressa Longhi.” Sandro remembered the math teacher, a lifetime ago.
“I have a change of clothes for you, too. When we get to the train station, we split up. Act like we don’t know each other. You and Elisabetta will go together. You’ll be a couple.”
Elisabetta looked over at Sandro. “We are a couple.”
Marco was barely panting. “I’ll keep an eye on you two, but you’re on your own.”
“Will the Nazis at Modena know there was an escape?”
“Yes, I assume so. My hope is they’ll expect us to hide around Fossoli rather than try to run to Modena. So we have surprise going for us, again. If we just keep traveling south across the fields, we’ll be fine.”
Elisabetta squeezed Sandro’s hand. “This is all Marco’s plan. How to get you out of the camp, everything.”
“Not true.” Marco looked over. “Elisabetta makes great pasta.”
“What?” Sandro asked breathlessly. “Marco, thank you. I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“Take care of her, that’s how.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-TWO
Elisabetta
18 October 1943
Elisabetta held Sandro’s hand, and they walked through the cobblestone streets of Modena toward the train station. Marco was a block ahead of them, and men and women passed them. She had shaken the dirt from her shoes, and Sandro had changed into Marco’s white shirt and dark pants, cinched by a belt. He looked fine except for the welt on his right cheek, from a Nazi blow.