“Of course.” Sandro put his hand in his pocket, produced the false card, and held it out, but his hand trembled visibly.
Elisabetta stiffened.
Marco kept his finger on the trigger.
The Nazi made no move to take the card. Instead he watched Sandro’s hand shake, prolonging the excruciating moment.
The conductor appeared in the stairwell of the train. “All aboard, all aboard!”
The Nazi gave the conductor a stern look. “Hold the train. We’re not ready to leave yet.”
The conductor nodded nervously, then disappeared.
The Nazi lifted his gaze from the trembling card to Sandro. “You seem very nervous. What are you hiding? What have you done?”
Sandro swallowed hard. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Something tells me you have.” The Nazi snapped the card from Sandro’s hand, skimmed it, and started to return it. But as soon as Sandro reached for the card, the Nazi pulled it back, toying with him.
Sandro’s hand shook, suspended in the air.
Marco aimed his gun, still in the backpack.
The Nazi pulled his pistol on Sandro. “You’re coming with us.”
Marco withdrew his gun.
The Nazi whipped around, aimed at Marco, and fired.
“No!” Sandro threw himself in the path of the Nazi’s bullet, and it struck him in the chest.
Sandro’s shirt exploded in blood. He flew backward through the air, his arms flailing.
Elisabetta screamed in anguish.
Marco shot both Nazis, rapid-fire. They dropped to the platform, dead.
“No!” Elisabetta raced to Sandro, who lay bleeding on the platform. She threw herself on him, hugging him. She burst into tears, screaming and sobbing.
Marco raced to Sandro’s side in horror. Sandro’s blue eyes faced heavenward, fixed. His body was utterly motionless. Sandro was gone, his blood leaking from the mortal wound in his chest.
Marco felt his heart shatter. His best friend was dead, having given his life for him.
“No, no, no!” Elisabetta cried, her head against Sandro’s chest. His blood stained her face and smeared her cheeks.
Marco forced himself to think through his agony. The train left, undoubtedly to avoid trouble. Men and women fled the platform into the station. He had killed two Nazis. More would come soon.
Marco had to get Elisabetta out of here. He didn’t know where or how. He put his gun away, shouldered his backpack, and looked around, frantic.
The tracks began to rumble. A freight train appeared, southbound. Its locomotive was a dark shadow barreling towards the station. It was several tracks over, traveling too fast to be stopping in Modena. It was their only chance.
Marco grabbed Elisabetta by the shoulders. “Come with me!”
“No, no!” Elisabetta wouldn’t let go of Sandro. She sobbed, holding his body, even as his chest bled.
“We have to go!”
“I can’t leave him! I won’t!”
“We have to! Now!” Marco yanked Elisabetta from Sandro and threw her over his shoulder, crying and screaming. He jumped off the platform with her and hurried across the tracks.
The freight train roared toward them. Its horn blared, warning him off the tracks.
Marco scanned the cars on the train. The first few were wood, with closed doors. Then he spotted a coal car with an open top and a ladder on the side.
The freight engine reached them and churned past at speed. Its locomotive thundered, but it slowed slightly as it approached the station. He tightened his grip on Elisabetta. Wind, dirt, and smoke blasted his face.
Marco readied himself. Elisabetta screamed. The train roared. The coal car zoomed closer.
He launched himself at the ladder, holding Elisabetta.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR
Marco
18 October 1943
The train hurtled south, barreling through the night, and Marco and Elisabetta lay atop the hard coal. He held her as she wept, her body racked with sobs. The roar of the train deafened him, and it sped through town after town.
Wind flew over them, sending coal particulate everywhere, stinging their eyes and filling their nostrils. Coal smudged their clothes and covered their arms, turning them both black, as if they had become the hue of mourning.
Marco looked up at the sky, agonized over losing Sandro. The clouds concealed the moon and the stars. All he could see above was darkness, impenetrable. He wondered where the blackness ended, or if it ever did, like grief itself, having no bottom, top, or sides, but was limitless, borderless, surrounding him.
Elisabetta wept, and Marco felt her anguish, for he had gone to Fossoli to get Sandro for her. She loved Sandro, and Sandro loved her, and they belonged together. Marco had planned to sacrifice himself for Sandro, but his plan had failed. Instead, Sandro had sacrificed himself for Marco. The wrong man had died, and Marco knew it.