Pino had never been beyond the lake, so he walked to the woods with some apprehension. But he remembered Father Re’s description of where he’d find the path, and he soon located it.
The dense grove of fir and spruce was almost like a maze. The air was cooler, and the ground softer. They’d been climbing for close to six and a half hours, but no one looked tired.
Pino’s heart beat a little faster at the thought that he’d led these people to Switzerland. He’d helped them escape the—
A big bearded man stepped out from behind a tree three meters ahead. He pointed a double-barreled shotgun at Pino’s face.
Chapter Nine
Petrified, Pino threw up his hands. So did his three charges.
“Please—,” Pino began.
Over the barrel of the gun, the man snarled, “Who sent you?”
“Father,” Pino stuttered. “Father Re.”
A long moment passed as the man’s eyes flitted from Pino to the others. Then he lowered the gun. “We must be careful these days, yes?”
Pino dropped his hands, feeling sick and weak on his feet. Icy sweat dripped down his spine. He’d never had a gun pointed at him before.
Luigi said, “You will help us now, signore . . . ?”
“My name is Bergstrom,” the man said. “I’ll take you from here.”
“Where?” Maria asked fretfully.
“Down through the Emet Pass to the Swiss village of Innerferrera,” Bergstrom said. “You’ll be safe, and we can figure out your next journey from there.” Bergstrom nodded to Pino. “Give my best to Father Re.”
“I will,” Pino promised, and then turned to his three companions. “Good luck.”
Maria hugged him. Ricardo shook his hand. From his pocket, Luigi pulled a small metal tube with a screw cap. He handed it to Pino. “It’s Cuban,” he said.
“I can’t take it.”
Luigi looked insulted. “You don’t think I know how you got me up that last bit? A fine cigar like this is hard to come by, and I don’t give it away lightly.”
“Thank you, signore,” Pino said, smiling and taking the cigar.
Bergstrom said to Pino, “Your safety depends on staying unseen. Be careful before you leave the forest. Study the hillsides and the valley before you move on.”
“I will.”
“We go, then,” Bergstrom said, turning away.
Luigi patted Pino on the back and followed. Ricardo smiled at him. Maria said, “Have a good life, Pino.”
“And you.”
“I hope we have no climbing to do,” he heard Luigi say to Bergstrom as they disappeared into the trees.
“A climb down is not a climb up,” Bergstrom replied.
After that, all Pino could make out was the snap of a branch, a rock tumbling, and then nothing but the wind through the firs. Though happy, he felt oddly and acutely alone when he turned around and walked back into Italy.
Pino did as Bergstrom had instructed. He stopped and stood inside the tree line to study the valley and the heights above it. When he was sure as he could be that no one was watching, he set out once again. By his watch it was nearly noon. He’d been on the move for nearly nine hours, and he was tired.
Father Re had foreseen his fatigue and told him not to try to make the trip back that day. Instead, his orders were to climb southwest to an old shepherd’s hut, one of several on the mountain, and spend the night. Pino would return to Casa Alpina via Madesimo in the morning.
As Pino hiked south through Val di Lei, he felt good and satisfied. They’d done it. Father Re and everyone else who’d helped get the refugees to Casa Alpina. As a team, they’d all saved three people from death. They’d fought back against the Nazis in secret, and they’d won!
To his surprise, the emotions that flooded through him made him feel stronger, refreshed. He decided not to spend the night in the hut but to push on to Madesimo, to sleep at the inn and see Alberto Ascari. When he was almost to the ridge, Pino stopped to rest his legs and eat again.
When he was finished, he looked back at Val di Lei and noticed four tiny figures moving south along the stone outcropping above the lake. Pino shaded his eyes, trying to see them better. He couldn’t tell anything about them at first, but then made out that they were all carrying rifles.
Pino got a sickening feeling in his stomach. Had they seen him go into the forest with three people and come out alone? Were they Germans? Why were they out in the middle of nowhere?
Pino had no answers to the questions, which continued to trouble him after the four men disappeared from view. He made his way down the goat trails and through the alpine meadows to Madesimo. It was nearly four in the afternoon when he walked into the village. A group of boys, including his little friend Nicco, the innkeeper’s son, was at play not far from the inn. Pino was about to enter and inquire about a room, when he noticed Alberto Ascari hurrying toward him, clearly upset.
“A band of partisans was here last night,” Ascari said. “They said they were fighting the Nazis, but they were asking about Jews.”
“Jews?” Pino said, and looked away, seeing Nicco squat in the high grass and pick up what at a distance of nearly forty meters looked like a large egg. “What did you say to them?”
“We told them there were no Jews here. Why do you think that they—”
Nicco held the egg out to show his friends. The egg became a flash of fire and light a split second before the force of the explosion hit Pino like a mule’s kick.
He almost fell but regained his balance drunkenly, disoriented and unsure what had happened. Even with his ears ringing, he could hear the children’s screams. Pino lurched toward them. The boys who had been closest to Nicco were down. One had lost a hand. The other’s eyes were bloody sockets. Part of Nicco’s face was gone, and most of his right arm. Blood pooled and spattered all around the little boy.
Hysterical, Pino scooped Nicco up, seeing the little boy’s eyes roll back in his head, and raced him toward the inn and his mother and father, who’d burst out the front door. The boy started convulsing.
“No!” Nicco’s mother screamed. She took her son. He convulsed again, and then sagged dead in her arms. “No! Nicco! Nicco!”
In a daze of disbelief and horror, Pino watched Nicco’s sobbing mother go to her knees, lay her son’s body on the ground, and cover it with her own—as if she were leaning over his crib when he’d been a baby. For many moments Pino just stood there, numb, watching her grieve. Glancing down, he saw he was smeared in blood. He looked around and noticed villagers rushing to treat the other children, and the innkeeper staring forlornly at his wife and dead son.
“I’m sorry,” Pino whimpered. “I couldn’t save him.”