Elisabetta felt terrible about leaving Massimo behind, and Sandro was somber. Ahead, Marco joined the people heading into the station, a long, square building with a series of arches at its entrance. She realized that he would have a hard time finding their platform, since he couldn’t read train schedules. She hoped he would figure it out or ask someone.
Elisabetta and Sandro crossed the street and entered the train station. The ceiling was vaulted, and it was a large space, with doors on the far side that led to the platforms and tracks. There were only a handful of travelers, carrying valises and newspapers. Luckily, there were no Nazis in sight.
“Giovanni, let’s check the track number,” Elisabetta said, using Sandro’s false name, in case anyone overheard. He pursed his lips, and she could tell he was nervous, so she squeezed his hand.
Sandro eyed the schedule. “Our train will be here any minute, on track seven. We’re right on time.”
“Good.” Elisabetta glanced over to see Marco passing through the door to the platforms. “Let’s wait outside, shall we? It’s a nice night, and I’m sure we can pay on the train.”
“Good idea.” Sandro forced a smile, and they headed outside. They crossed to the platform for track seven. Their train approached, its round light rumbling toward them. The travelers perked up and formed a rough line.
Elisabetta’s heart filled with happiness. All she and Sandro had to do was board and act like a couple in love, which they were. They were almost home.
Suddenly two Nazis emerged from the train station, smoking cigarettes. She spotted them out of the corner of her eye, but kept her smile in place. Sandro must have seen them, too. He stiffened, turning away.
Elisabetta worried about him. On impulse, she kissed him. He kissed her back, surprised at first, then she felt him catch fire. She pressed herself against him, feeling all the love she had for him.
“I love you,” Sandro murmured, when he released her.
“I love you, too,” she told him.
The train pulled into the station, its engine grinding and wheels slowing rhythmically. The other travelers to Rome lined up to board, flowing around them. She kept Marco in her sight, and he lingered to the side and behind them, pretending to read a newspaper. She knew he had seen the two Nazis and wouldn’t board until after she and Sandro did, making sure they were safe.
The Nazis walked toward the platform, apparently to board the train. They chatted and smoked in a relaxed manner, but Sandro stared straight ahead, his back ramrod straight. Elisabetta felt alarm at Sandro’s reaction and glanced at Marco. Their eyes connected, and she knew he was having the same concern. In the next moment, Marco set his newspaper on the bench.
The line of travelers shifted forward, boarding the train. Elisabetta and Sandro moved up, but Sandro kept his face front. The Nazis joined the line behind them, laughing together, as if they had shared a joke. Elisabetta didn’t understand what they were saying, and Marco was too far away to hear.
Sandro kept staring straight ahead. Elisabetta caressed his arm, trying to reassure him. Marco shifted closer to the two of them, slipping off his backpack.
Elisabetta knew Marco had a gun inside.
The line moved forward.
Elisabetta stepped closer to the train, and so did Sandro. The Nazis followed, then one of them spoke to Sandro.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-THREE
Marco
18 October 1943
Marco slipped his hand inside his backpack. His fingers encircled the handle of his gun. He forced himself to wait. Two Nazis were standing behind Sandro and Elisabetta. One of the Nazis was saying something to Sandro, trying to get his attention.
Sandro stood oddly stiff.
Marco moved close enough to hear what they were saying.
The first Nazi chuckled. “Did your girlfriend hit you?” he asked Sandro, in broken Italian.
Sandro turned around, stiffly. He didn’t laugh. His mouth went tight. “No . . . uh . . . I got hurt when, uh, when—”
“He fell down the steps,” Elisabetta interjected, with a sly grin. “If I hit him, it would leave a bigger mark.”
The Nazis burst into laughter. Sandro managed a smile, but it was shaky. Marco placed his finger on the trigger.
The first Nazi winked at Elisabetta. “I don’t believe you. I think you did hit him.”
“Like this!” The second Nazi cocked his arm and pretended to punch Sandro, but Sandro flinched in reflexive fear.
The first Nazi’s smile faded. “What are you so worried about?”
The second Nazi eyed Sandro hard. “Show us your identity card.”