“I can play that one in my sleep, but I’ll play it for you, con smania,” she said, her eyes watering. “Go on now. No good-byes among old friends.”
Mrs. Napolitano played the opening strains of the aria so perfectly, Pino wanted to stay to hear the entire piece. But he and his brother had hours of effort ahead of them, and who knew what challenges they’d face?
The boys shouldered their packs and set off through the woods. They lost sight of Mrs. Napolitano and the others almost immediately, but they could hear her playing beautifully, with passion, each note carrying through the thin, crisp, alpine air. They reached the tree line and put on their skis as she took the tempo up again, casting forth the melody of the triumphant aria like some radio wave that hit Pino in his heart and vibrated in his soul.
He stopped at the head of the lake to listen to the distant crescendo and was deeply moved when the violin quieted.
That sounded like love, Pino thought. When I fall in love, I think it will feel just like that.
Incredibly happy, and using skins on his skis, Pino started uphill after Mimo, heading toward the north cirque of the Groppera in the brilliant winter sunshine.
Chapter Twelve
April 26, 1944
Pino woke to a clanking sound. Nearly two and a half months had passed since he’d led Mrs. Napolitano and the D’Angelo family into Switzerland. He sat up, grateful that Father Re had let him sleep in after yet another trip to Val di Lei. He stood, noticing he didn’t feel sore in the least. He never felt sore anymore. He felt good, strong—the strongest he’d ever been. And why not? He’d made at least a dozen more trips to Switzerland since Mrs. Napolitano had played for him and Mimo.
Hearing the clanking noise again, he looked out the window. Seven oxen with bells around their necks were pushing and shoving against one another, trying to get at bales of hay that had been put out for them.
When he’d had enough of watching them, Pino dressed. He was entering the empty dining hall when he heard male voices outside, shouting, yelling, and threatening. Alarmed, Brother Bormio came out of the kitchen. Together they went and opened the front door to Casa Alpina. Father Re was standing there, just off the little porch, looking calmly into the barrel of a rifle.
Wearing a newer red neckerchief around his neck, Tito looked over the rifle sight at the priest. The same three curs who’d been with Tito at the New Year’s Eve party were standing behind him.
“I told your boys all winter to stop using the Emet unless you’re going to pay tribute, help the cause of a free Italy,” Tito said. “I’m here to collect my money.”
“Extorting a priest,” Father Re said. “You’re coming up in the world, Tito.”
The man glared at him, flipped the safety on his rifle, and said, “It’s to help the resistance.”
“I support the partisans,” the priest said. “The Ninetieth Garibaldi Brigade, and I know you’re not with them, Tito. None of you are. I think you just wear the neckerchiefs because they suit your purposes.”
“Give me what I want, old man, or so help me, I’ll burn your school down and then kill you and all your brats.”
Father Re hesitated. “I’ll get you money. And food. Put the gun away.”
Tito studied the priest a second, his right eye twitching. His tongue flicked to the corner of his mouth. Then he smiled, lowered the gun, and said, “You do that and don’t be cheap about it, or I’ll just have myself a look around inside, see what you really got.”
Father Re said, “Wait here.”
The priest turned and saw Bormio, and behind him, Pino.
Father Re walked inside and said, “Get them three days’ rations.”
“Father?” the cook said.
“Do it, Brother, please,” Father Re said as he moved on.
Brother Bormio reluctantly turned and followed the priest, leaving Pino in the doorway. Tito caught sight of him, smiled slyly, and said, “Well, look who we got here. My old pal from the New Year’s Eve bash. Why don’t you come on out? Say hello to me and the boys?”
“I’d rather not,” Pino said, hearing the anger in his voice and not caring.
“Rather not?” Tito said, and aimed the gun at him. “You don’t have a choice, now do you?”
Pino hardened. He really hated the guy. He walked out and off the little porch. He stood there facing Tito and stared stonily at him and his gun. “I see you’re still wearing the boots you stole from me,” he said. “What do you want this time? My underwear?”
Tito licked at the corner of his lips, glanced down at the boots, and smiled. Then he stepped forward, swinging the butt of his rifle stock up hard. It caught Pino in the testicles, and he went down in agony.
“What do I want, kid?” Tito said. “How about a little respect for someone trying to rid Italy of the Nazi filth?”
Pino curled up in the slush, fighting not to puke.
“Say it,” Tito said, standing over him.
“Say what?” Pino managed.
“That you respect Tito. That Tito is the partisan leader who runs things around the Splügen. And that you, boy, you answer to Tito.”
As hurt as he was, Pino shook his head. Through gritted teeth he said, “Only one person runs things around here. Father Re. I answer to him and God alone.”
Tito raised his rifle, butt plate right above Pino’s head. Pino was sure he was going to try to bash his skull in. He let go his testicles to guard his head and cringed for a blow that never came.
“Stop!” Father Re roared. “Stop, or by God, I’ll call the Germans up here and tell them where to find you!”
Tito threw the rifle to his shoulder and aimed it at Father Re, who’d come off the porch.
“Give us up? That right?” Tito said.
Pino lashed out his boot, kicked Tito flush on the kneecap. Tito buckled. The rifle discharged. The bullet went past Father Re and smacked the side of Casa Alpina.
Pino leaped on Tito and hit him once, hard, right on the nose, hearing it crunch and seeing it gush blood. Then he snatched up the rifle, stood, and cycled the action before pointing the gun at Tito’s head.
“Stop this, damn it!” Father Re said, stepping around in front of Pino, blocking him from Tito’s men who were aiming at him. “I said I’d give you money for your cause, and three days’ food. Be smart. Take it, and go before something worse happens here.”
“Shoot him!” Tito screamed, wiping blood on his sleeve and glaring at Pino and the priest. “Shoot them both!”
For a breath, there was stillness and quiet and wondering. Then, one by one, Tito’s men lowered their rifles. Pino exhaled with relief, winced at the dull fire still roaring between his legs, and aimed the gun away from Tito’s face. He disengaged the clip and ran the bolt to eject the last bullet.
Pino waited while Tito’s men took the food and money. Two of them picked up Tito under his armpits, ignoring the curses and insults he hurled at them. Pino handed Tito’s empty rifle to the third man.
“Load it! I’ll kill them!” Tito raged as blood seeped over his lips and chin.