A Thread of Grace

“I saw Angelo a few days ago,” Renzo says, tapping ash. “He has a little girlfriend. Austrian, probably Jewish. About four. I asked Angelo if he had a message for his mammina. He wants his parents to adopt Stefania. He said he was ‘practicing up on being a big brother.’ ”

“Eight-year-olds can be rather sweet little people. Does he miss his parents?”

“Yes, and—” Renzo shakes his head at his own foolishness. “I may have a way to get his father out of jail, if you—”

“Very.” Lidia sends smoke upward.

“I’m sorry?”

“Just before Rosina and I took our first flight,” she reminds him drily, “you asked how bored I am. Very,” she repeats. “I am very bored, and I want to go home!” They are both surprised that her voice is shaking. “Well, look around!” she cries, waving at the bomb crater. “How much more dangerous could a city be? I can help you, Renzo. Old women are practically invisible, and that gives us a kind of power.”

Who else is there? He is a member of no group, working alone, making things up as he goes. He pulls out a flask. “To the death of chivalry!” he says before offering it to his mother.

She sips delicately, returns the flask. Steadier, she asks, “So what do you have in mind?”

He watches the sky turn from gold to pink, and waits for the liquor to do its work. When benign indifference has claimed him, Renzo gestures carelessly at the twilight. “What color would you call that? Would you say that’s ultramarine or—”

“Renzo, darling,” Lidia says wearily, “don’t be an ass.”

“Mamma,” he says grandly, “we have two tasks before us, and you may have your choice of them. One of us will go to jail, while the other blows up a building.”

Lidia Segre Leoni was the first woman in Sant’Andrea to ride a bicycle in public. She started smoking in 1916 and kept it secret for a decade, even from her son. She has faced down German officers and led their soldiers into ambush. She reaches for Renzo’s flask and tips the last of its contents into her own mouth. Eyes watering, she hands it back. “Going to jail, as I recall, is your speciality.”

5 June 1944

PORTO SANT’ANDREA

10:15 A.M.

Relaxed, ta

A rabbit-toothed waiter delivers Artur Huppenkothen’s breakfast: Cognac and coffee. To his sister Erna’s dismay, Artur routinely ignores the heavy meal she prepares each morning and comes instead to the Café Vittorio, where white-coated waiters serve patrons in dove-gray uniforms or smartly cut suits. Artur never used to drink, and he himself blames Messner for encouraging the vice, but Ugo can do no wrong in Erna’s eyes. Her reproaches are for her brother alone.

“What could be better, Artur?” Messner asks, brushing bread crumbs from his fingers. “French brandy, Ethiopian coffee, Italian sun, and German power!”

“What’s left of it,” Artur mutters sourly.

Messner’s voice drops. “Is it true then? Rome has fallen? Kesselring’s retreating toward Florence?”

All last month, the war in Europe went quiet. Italy was especially calm, until a witch’s cauldron of nations suddenly attacked the Gustav Line. Americans, British, Canadians. Australians, New Zealanders, South Africans. Bolsheviks from France, Poland, Russia, Yugoslavia. Indians, Senegalese, Moroccans— Negroes, given guns by Aryans! Now Rome is lost, and the Führer has allowed a retreat from the USSR as well. Rubbing a hand over his forehead, Artur says, “Greater Germany is shrinking by the hour.”

“More reason to take advantage of present circumstances,” Messner advises quietly, brandy in hand. He pauses to appreciate a young woman strolling by in a tight tan skirt. Fabric cups her buttocks, and she is wearing high heels. Her flesh rises and rests, rises and rests as she walks. “No place to hide a bomb in that ensemble,” he remarks, “but I imagine sentries enjoy making sure.”

The slut brushes past a pair of patrolling soldiers. Both heads turn. A brief conversation, and they change direction. She stops when they call, smiling at the taller soldier, casually reaching into her blouse to adjust the strap of her brassiere. A canvas-draped army truck rumbles through the piazza. Artur loses sight of the three just as a bicyclist approaches from the opposite direction, bearing down on the café.

In an instant, Artur is on his feet, his pistol at arm’s length.

The bicyclist brakes frantically, going down in a tangle of limbs and spokes. “Don’t shoot!” he begs, both hands in the air. “Per favore! Bitte! Please, don’t shoot!”

The child’s eyes are huge with terror. He is nine, perhaps. Or ten.

From a distance, Artur hears Messner say, “Relax! It’s just a boy!” Artur fires anyway, to kill his own emotions. The gunshot makes everyone jump, but the bullet goes wide and the weeping boy runs away, abandoning his bicycle in the street.

“That’ll teach the little bastard to look suspicious!” Gently, Messner extracts the gun from Artur’s fingers, placing it next to a china plate flecked with the shards of a crusty roll. “Lugers— the latest thing in wartime flatware!” he a

One by one, the patrons of the café return their attention to their own tables. Messner catches the eye of the rabbity white-faced waiter, points to his empty Cognac glass, raises two fingers. “Too much espresso, Artur!” he chides. “It can make a man jittery.”

“So can living in a city filled with assassins! I could clear this region of Reds in a week if von Thadden would get out of my way. He’s stalled for half a year, when anybody could see they’ve been operating out of the north end of Valdottavo. I arranged for a Luftwaffe raid myself when he wouldn’t take action. He went whining to Kesselring.” Artur lifts his upper lip in distaste. “No clear lines of responsibility! No coordination,” he says, mimicking von Thadden’s cultured tones. “Now everyone reports to Kesselring. Gestapo, army intelligence, Waffen-SS, the security police, Kripo. We’re the generalfeldmarschall’s Anti-Partisan Warfare Staff, and precisely nothing gets done!”

“Surely a handful of partisans can’t make enough mischief to be a military threat!”

“They’re better armed every day. Every gun they carry is taken from the hand of a dead German soldier.”

“My dear Artur, the weapons are stolen. Italians are thieves, not warriors! They sing Puccini and eat pasta. They make love, Artur. They don’t fight.”

“They disrupt supply lines and communications. They’re holding down troops that could have been on the Gustav Line.” When the waiter sets their brandies on the table, Artur downs his own in a single gulp. “They’ve attacked German and Italian military headquarters,” he whispers, “and blown up Gestapo offices.”

“They’re a rabble,” Messner insists. “Incompetents. Degenerates! The explosions must have been Allied bombs on a time delay—”

“Quiet!” Artur orders sharply. His eyes are unfocused, but it’s not the liquor. “Quiet!” he shouts.

Waiters freeze, trays tucked under their arms, coffee cups poised. Patrons scowl, but they follow the Gestapo chief’s eyes upward.

They hear what sounds at first like a column of trucks, but there is no grinding shift of gears. Just a low, steady groan, high and far away. Wehrmacht officers and SS men come slowly to their feet, linen serviettes falling u