Pino told him. His younger brother took it hard, gazed at the dark floorboards of the dining hall for several long moments before raising his head. “Where will we live?”
“Papa and Uncle Albert are going to find a new apartment and a new place for the store,” Pino said, sitting down beside him. “But until then, I guess, you and I live here.”
“Your supper tonight,” a man said in a booming voice. “Fresh bread, fresh-churned butter, and chicken stew à la Bormio.”
Pino looked toward the kitchen to see a familiar face. A beast of a man with a shock of wild black hair and absolutely massive hairy hands, Brother Bormio was utterly devoted to Father Re. Brother Bormio served as the priest’s assistant in all things. He was also the cook at Casa Alpina, and a fine one.
Brother Bormio oversaw the movement of steaming pots of the stew. When they were in place on the tables, Father Re stood and said, “Young men, we must give thanks for this day and for every day, no matter how flawed. Bow your heads, give your gratitude to God, and have faith in him, and in a better tomorrow.”
Pino had heard the priest say these words hundreds of times, and it still moved him, made him feel small and insignificant as he thanked God for getting him away from the bombardment, for meeting Alberto Ascari, and for being back at Casa Alpina.
Then Father Re gave his own thanks for the food on the table, and bid them eat.
After his long day of travel, Pino devoured almost a loaf of Bormio’s brown bread and wolfed down three bowls of his heavenly chicken stew.
“Leave some for the rest of us,” Mimo complained at one point.
“I’m bigger,” Pino said. “I have to eat more.”
“Go over to Father Re’s table. He hardly eats anything.”
“Good idea,” Pino said, ruffled his brother’s hair, and dodged the sideways punch his brother threw.
Pino wove through the tables and benches to the one where Father Re sat with Brother Bormio, who was taking a rest and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.
“You remember Pino, Brother Bormio?” Father Re asked.
Bormio grunted and nodded. The cook took two more spoonfuls of stew, another drag off the cigarette, and said, “I’ll get the dessert, Father.”
“Strudel?” asked Father Re.
“With fresh apples and pears,” Bormio said in a pleased tone.
“However did you get those?”
“A friend,” Bormio said. “A very good friend.”
“Bless your good friend, and bring us both two servings if there’s enough,” Father Re said before looking at Pino. “A man can only deprive himself of so much.”
“Father?”
“Desserts are my only vice, Pino.” The priest laughed and rubbed his belly. “I can’t even give them up for Lent.”
The pear-and-apple strudel was the equal of any pastry Pino had bought in his favorite bakery in San Babila, and he was grateful Father Re had ordered him two portions. Afterward he was so stuffed, he felt drowsy and content.
“Do you remember the way to Val di Lei, Pino?” Father Re asked.
“Easiest way is southeast to the trail to Passo Angeloga, and then straight north.”
“Above the village of Soste.” Father Re nodded. “An acquaintance of yours went that way over Passo Angeloga, the Angel’s Step, to Val di Lei just last week.”
“Who was that?”
“Barbareschi. The seminarian. He said he met you with Cardinal Schuster.”
That seemed ages ago. “I remember him. Is he here?”
“He left for Milan this morning. You must have passed each other somewhere in your travels today.”
Pino didn’t think much of the coincidence, and for a few moments he gazed at the blazing fire, feeling mesmerized and sleepy again.
“Is that the only way you’ve gone?” Father Re asked. “To Val di Lei?”
Pino thought, then said, “No, I’ve gone twice on the northern route from Madesimo, and once the hard way, from here up the spine and over the top of the Groppera.”
“Good,” the priest said. “I couldn’t remember.”
Then the priest stood, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled sharply. The room quieted.
Father Re said, “Dish duty: report to Brother Bormio. The rest of you: the tables are to be cleared and wiped down, and then you have to study.”
Mimo and the rest of the boys seemed to all know the routine, and they got to their chores with surprisingly few grumbles. Pino retrieved his rucksack and followed Father Re past the entrances to two big dorm rooms to a narrow cubicle with bunk beds built into the wall and a curtain across the front.
“It’s not much, especially for someone your size, but it’s the best we can do for the moment,” Father Re said.
“Who else is with me?”
“Mimo. He’s had it to himself until now.”
“He’s going to be so happy.”
“I’ll leave you two to figure things out,” the priest said. “You are older than the others, so I don’t expect you to follow their rules. So here are yours. You must climb every day on a route I prescribe. And you must study at least three hours every day, Monday through Friday. Saturdays and Sundays are your own. Does that work?”
It seemed like a lot of climbing, but Pino loved being in the mountains, so he said, “Yes, Father.”
“I’ll leave you to unpack, then,” Father Re said. “It’s good to have you here again, my young friend. I can see now that having you around might prove to be a big help.”
Pino smiled. “It’s good to be back, Father. I missed you and Motta.”
Father Re winked, rapped on the door frame twice with his cane, and left. Pino cleared two shelves and put his brother’s clothes on the top bunk. Then he emptied his rucksack and arranged his books, clothes, and the pieces of his beloved shortwave radio, which he’d hidden among his clothes despite the danger he’d have been in if the Nazis had searched his gear. Lying on the bottom bunk, Pino listened to a BBC dispatch on Allied advances, then dropped off into nothingness.
“Hey,” Mimo said an hour later. “That’s where I sleep!”
“Not anymore,” Pino said, rousing. “You’re top bunk now.”
“I was here first,” Mimo protested.
“Finders keepers.”
“My bunk wasn’t lost!” Mimo shouted before lunging at Pino and trying to drag him off the bed.
Pino was much stronger, but Mimo had a warrior’s heart and never knew when to admit defeat. Mimo bloodied Pino’s nose before Pino could pin him to the floor.
“You lose,” he said.
“No,” Mimo sputtered as he squirmed, trying to get free. “That’s my bed.”
“Tell you what. When I’m gone on weekends, you can use it. Four or five days a week it’s mine, and two to three it’s yours.”
That seemed to calm his brother. “Where are you going on weekends?”
“To Madesimo,” Pino said. “I have a friend there who will teach me to fix cars and to drive them like a champion.”
“You are so full of salami.”
“It’s true. He gave me a ride up from the train station. Alberto Ascari. The greatest driver I’ve ever seen. His father was European champion.”
“Why would he teach you?”