A Thread of Grace

“Et verbum caro factum est,” Leto chants. The congregation genuflects as a body, except for one man at the back of the church. Sixtyish, nearly bald, shoulders heavy with ax-muscle, his face the color of roasted chestnuts, the leathery skin gullied by sun. Battista Goletta is not here to worship.

Leto finishes the service by rote and returns to the sacristy to devest. He is in no hurry to deal with Battista, but when the time comes, Leto musters warmth and welcome. “Battista! How wonderful to see you at Mass. I have prayed for this day, figlio mio.”

“Don’t give me that crap, Girotti.” Battista thrusts a printed notice into Leto’s face. “This is your doing, priest!”

By the time he’s finished reading, Leto’s voice is steady. “These are lies. Those soldiers were violating a girl. A good man caught them in the act— I won’t say who, but it’s someone you know yourself, Battista.”

“Whoever he was, it’s him or the whole valley.” A short, thick finger jabs hard into Leto’s chest. “Give the Germans what they want,” Battista says softly, “or I’ll tell what I know about you and that Commie cousin of mine.”

“I don’t believe you,” Leto says as firmly as he can. “Attilio Goletta is your own flesh. His son Tullio is your godchild! You wouldn’t betray them!”

Battista’s eyes bore into Leto’s. “When il Duce made me a Knight of Labor, I took an oath to support him. I don’t go back on my word just because the Allies are wi

Six months ago, Leto knew every partisan by name. No longer. Volunteers have poured into Valdottavo. Some are from other valleys, or Milan, or Turin. Some are deserters from Mussolini’s Black Brigades. Others wear squares of red cloth tied around their necks. Few know the priest by sight, and a cassock guarantees nothing. Ragged and underfed, each eats time with suspicion, but Leto dares not hurry them. Fail to convince a sentry of your honesty, and from where he sits, he can detonate an explosive around the next bend.

The cutoff to the crumbling little castle is hidden by trees and vines, netting and brush. By the time Leto reaches it, his leg and a half ache enough to distract him from both worry and prayer. Another sentry challenges him, and with patience born of exhaustion Leto explains his business once more, and then again, to a boy guarding the heavily camouflaged gate. This time, at least, it’s a local kid— one of the younger Brondellos. “Sì, certo, Padre,” he says. “See that doorway? He works in the hospital.”

Inside half-ruined walls, Castello Rita

He enters a cool and shadowy stone chamber where men rest on pallets, recovering or dying. A frightened boy begins to cry, believing a priest’s been called to administer the last rites. From the back of the room comes a low, familiar voice. “Relax, kid, he’s not here for you.”

Sitting on a milking stool, Renzo is feeding soup to a man whose hands are bandaged. Spoon poised, he waits for the priest’s eyes to adjust. “Don Leto,” he says with soft mockery, “you’ve been avoiding me.”

Swallowing, Leto asks, “May I speak to you in private?”

Renzo hands the spoon to one of the walking wounded and slowly pulls himself to standing. Together, they limp across the courtyard, Renzo asking clipped questions, Leto providing brief answers. The Soncinis? The rabbi and his family are reasonably safe; Leto won’t say where. Tomitz? Leto hasn’t heard from him recently, but Osvaldo surfaces only when he has to. The refugees? More German pressure— three sweeps last month, but no one caught. Italian bus drivers have refused to transport Jews from a concentration camp north of Florence; with attacks on the Gothic Line, the Germans have let that situation go for now. Money? Still coming across the Swiss border.

The tension between them does not ease until they each use the same maneuvers to sit on a crude log bench without putting pressure on a bad leg. Renzo shakes his head and waves a hand at the tumble-down castle. “An appropriate setting for a couple of wrecks like us.”

Leto tugs a sheet of tightly folded paper from beneath his cincture. Printed in German and Italian, the ultimatum is blunt. “Five German soldiers were murdered by assassins near the village of Santa Chiara, district of Borgo San Mauro, on 16 September 1944. The killers must be handed over to German authorities, along with the bodies of the fallen German soldiers, by noon 19 September 1944. Failing that, the harshest of reprisals will fall upon Valdottavo. Order issued and signed, Standartenführer Helmut Reinecke.”

“Reinecke! He used to be von Thadden’s adjutant. Porca bagascia! I don’t suppose I have to say it.”

“You warned me this would happen. No one is more aware of that than I! Renzo, it was Santino Cicala. Claudia discovered six Germans raping a local girl. Santino killed five. One man got away.”

“Belandi.” Renzo sighs. “I’d have done the same, but I’d have missed more than one. Cicala must be a hell of a shot.”

“What should I do now?”

“Where’s Santino?”

“I don’t know. These notices are posted everywhere— he’s bound to see one.”

“You’re assuming he can read well enough to understand them.” Renzo uses both hands to shift his leg. “Go back to the rectory. Telephone Antonia Usodimare. Santino may have gone back to her boardinghouse in Sant’Andrea. The partisans will get the word out, too.”

Leto’s heart sinks. “Then you believe he must turn himself in.”

“Belandi, no! That’s exactly what I don’t want.” Renzo gets to his feet. “I know Reinecke, and his C.O. Let me see if I can work something out.” Renzo whistles sharply and waves to a young man loitering nearby. “Find Tullio Goletta for me!” He turns to Leto. “If Santino shows up, send him to the hunchback’s house, understand? He’s to stay there until I tell him different.”

“If Renzo says he can work something out, he probably can,” Osvaldo Tomitz told Leto last year. “Give that man a handful of snarled fishing line, he’ll knit you a trawler, and there’ll be fish for supper.”

Leto has begun to agree. Who but Leoni would have imagined getting a truckload of arms and escaped prisoners out of Sant’Andrea? And with the Gestapo’s help, no less! The death of his mother was a terrible thing, of course, but it seems to have sobered him, and Leto feels sure Lidia would have chosen such a death over a useless one, or slow decline.

A slow decline is just what Leto would like— geologically, if not physically. Downhill is harder on a wooden leg. He makes poor time on gravel tracks, falling when his peg gets wedged between rocks. The sun has set when he finally steps onto the paved road that winds past Tino Marrapodi’s store and downward toward San Mauro.

There’s only one way back to the rectory from here, and he needs an excuse for being out after dark. He could tell the Germans he was summoned to give Extreme Unction to a dying parishioner, but they might ask the name, check his story. Someone else will be put at risk.

He’s half-decided to ask Tino for a night’s shelter when an unseen man whispers harshly, “Stop! Don’t move!”

Leto holds his breath, raises his hands, turns slowly in the direction of the voice. Two figures rush toward him in the lavender dusk: one slender as a willow wand, the other as broad and strong as his own stone walls.

Lowering his hands, Leto Girotti holds out his arms. The three of them embrace. No one needs to say it: they’ve seen the notices. They all know what’s at stake.