A Thread of Grace

by Mary Doria Russell

  She struggles to sit, startled to find herself surrounded by neighbors. Renzo stands alone in the corner. Iacopo is sitting on the bed, his voice back in his own body. “Everything is fine, cara. It was a simple misunderstanding.”

  “I saw the whole thing!” Rina Dolcino tells everyone again. “Dragged him out like a common criminal! When I tried to stop them, they threatened to shoot me!”

  “Oh, Rina!” Lidia says, taking her friend’s arm. “Don’t make an opera!”

  “Babbo,” Angelo reports, “Signor Leoni was kissing Mammina.”

  “And with your permission, Rabbino, I’ll do it again.” With a sweeping bow, Renzo kisses her hand. “You see, Signora? Your husband is back, safe and sound.”

  “But how?” Mirella asks, addressing the room rather generally. “Iacopo, what happened? Why were—”

  “Renzo was kind enough to alert Don Osvaldo,” Iacopo tells her. “The archbishop himself intervened. According to Article Seven of the June 24, 1929, statute, I am a religious leader approved by the Fascist state, required to remain in residence and to fulfill my obligations to the congregation.” Iacopo smiles, confident and calm. “The German commandant was satisfied, and I was free to go.”

  “The archbishop will protest. I’ll see to that!” Rina vows as Mirella gathers her things. “And my sister’s husband has a cousin in the carabinieri. He’ll put guards at the cemetery.”

  Iacopo thanks Lidia for her hospitality, Rina for her concern. Renzo, more coolly, for swift action. Other neighbors emerge from shadowed doorways as the Soncinis cross the street. Sì, certo, Iacopo assures them, everything is fine! He and his family will be perfectly safe in their own home.

  And indeed, the mess inside is no worse than normal. Anxiety dissipates in the ordinariness of household clutter and the prolonged process of putting a little boy to bed. On her way back from Angelo’s bedroom, Mirella notices the fat envelope that’s been tossed onto the table. “I completely forgot,” she says, bringing it to Iacopo. “Serafino Brizzolari gave us the ration cards.”

  “The new ones?” Iacopo opens the envelope and whistles, impressed by the number of cards stuffed into it. Then he reads the list. “Two hundred grams of bread a day, two thousand grams of pasta a month . . . This isn’t enough to fatten a finch.”

  She bustles around the room, putting things right. “Signor Brizzolari said we should sell the ration cards to Catholics and use the cash on the black market.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “Work too hard and sleep too little.” She sweeps crumbs off the table and into her hand, but comes to him for a quick embrace. The child within her kicks, and Iacopo feels it, too. “A boy, I’m sure of it!” she says. “He’s rearranging furniture—my liver inconveniences him, so he kicks it out of the way.”

  “Angelo will be pleased with a brother.”

  “And you, Iacopo? If it’s a girl?”

  “A daughter would be delightful. But a son, Mirella!” He laughs sheepishly. “Another son would be very fine.”

  The nights have begun to cool. Fog rises from the harbor. When the bronze bells of San Giobatta strike ten, the sound floats eerily on the mist, then fades, replaced in the Leoni apartment by the steady tick of knitting needles.

  “She chose Iacopo.” Lidia loosens a length of yarn with a decisive tug. “Mirella has always been a thoroughly conventional young woman.” This is not strictly true, but Lidia refuses to undermine her own argument. “It would have been a poor match. Where are you going?”

  Renzo shrugs on a gabardine jacket, checks his hair and tie in the mirror over the credenza.

  “You are an extremist,” Lidia says. “Flying at the sun, or crashing into the sea! You must learn to regulate yourself.” Silence. That’s how she knows he’s truly angry. “Renzo,” she says, refusing to be bullied. “The curfew?”

  “Buona notte, Mamma.”

  Rina Dolcino might have pursued such a son down the hall, clutching at his arm in the doorway. Lidia pitches her voice so that it will carry just far enough. “If I were to keep a bottle in the apartment,” she asks curiously, “would you drink at home?”

  He hesitates. She dares to hope. The door slams shut behind him.

  MARITIME ALPS

  PIEMONTE

  In Alpine resorts and border posts, hotel staff and soldiers move from room to room, and bunk to bunk, regretful but insistent. “The situation has changed,” they tell the Jews in low, quick voices. “Italy is occupied. The SS know you’re here.”

  At Colle Aurelio, children are shaken from deepest sleep. Fine, sweaty hair is brushed back from pale, round foreheads. Battered little shoes are tied. A whimpering flock is shepherded from latrine to mess hall, and when everyone is fed, border policemen bundle bewildered boys and girls into military-issue pullovers that hang to the children’s knees.

  “Vipere? Snakes?” a corporal scoffs, when Liesl Brössler asks and Albert Blum translates. “My brothers and I camped all over these mountains when we were kids. You’ll be fine!” Nearby, a beardless private fishes Steffi’s thin blond braids out of a gray-green collar. “I’ve got a sister your age,” he says. “Don’t worry, bella. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Shifting from foot to blistered foot, Frieda Brössler stares dumbly at a sunrise framed like an oil painting by the rough wooden casement. The corporal offers her a blanket. She smiles spasmodically and wraps it around her shoulders, but her eyes return to the mountains. Aquamarine under a sky streaked with pink and yellow, they break like spent waves from the Maritimes to the horizon. “Mein Gott,” Frieda whispers. “Mein Gott . . .”

  Babies cry. Children whine. Limp toddlers fall asleep again, this time in their mothers’ arms. Border guards strap on cartridge belts, sling carbines over shoulders, fasten grenades to D-clips. “It’s time!” someone calls. Frieda takes the girls’ hands. They follow the others outside, where trucks are being loaded with provisions, light weapons, ammunition.

  The young lieutenant is everywhere at once, supervising the abandonment of the post, answering questions in French, German, Italian. Yes, the soldiers will be on the run too. No, they don’t expect much trouble. This part of Piemonte is lightly populated, far from any military objective. Don’t stop in the nearest valley. Try to get to Valdottavo—it’s a big valley southeast of here, very isolated. The roads are gravel tracks, meant for mules and wooden carts, not tanks or armored cars. If you get lost, look for stone terraces. They’ll lead you to farmhouses. God—and luck—be with you!

  Hefting knapsacks filled with army rations, the strongest Jews start down the mountain alone or in small groups. Others mill about, conferring, almost ready or ready but unsure. Claudette hurries across the parade ground to where the Brösslers stand. “Santino says we can ride partway in the trucks. We’ll sit on the boxes in the back. If the driver stops, be ready to get out fast and run.”

  Overhearing this, a family from Mannheim scrambles into the nearest truck. Duno dashes after them, to reserve space. With a reassuring gap-toothed smile, an ugly young soldier helps Frieda with the girls, then boosts Claudette and her father into the crowded truck.

  Somewhere inside, a foot is trod on. Hearing grumbled Yiddish, Frieda reflexively takes command, as though accommodating unexpected guests at her dinner table. “You there, give your seat to Herr Blum. Liesl, sit on your father’s lap. Claudette, sit between me and Duno, and take Steffi on your lap.” Four more quick commands, and she nods to Claudette’s soldier.

  He lifts the tailgate into place and bangs on it twice to signal the driver. “Wait!” Claudette cries. “Santino, aren’t you coming with us?”

  The truck’s engine roars to life. Eyes on Claudette, Santino hops away from the exhaust pipe and crashes into Lieutenant Miroglio. “Sorry, sir! I didn’t see you!”

  “Love is blind,” Miroglio says. “Look after them, Cicala. And God be with us all.”

  Gears grind. The sun rises. Beneath the tented fabric, the air warms. With on
ly a few hours’ sleep after the trek over the mountain, smaller children and older adults soon fall asleep. Claudette can’t imagine how they manage it, with the truck swaying around switchbacks and jolting over ruts, but as the morning crawls on, her head sinks lower and lower.

  An elbow rams her ribs. “Wake up!” Duno whispers fiercely.

  She wipes a thin line of drool off her chin and mutters “Sorry” when she sees how wet his shoulder is.

  He shakes his head and mouths, “Shut up!”

  The truck is motionless. Sunlight flickers on the canvas. Leaves rustle all around. Frieda Brössler lifts Steffi from Claudette’s lap. The little girl doesn’t rouse, but her sister, Liesl, is stiff with fear. “Wake up, Liebling,” Frau Brössler says softly, shaking Steffi. “We have to walk again.”

  “I don’ wanna! Where’s Antoinette?”

  “Hush!” Her mother hands Steffi the china-faced doll. “Hold her tight!”

  Canvas flaps jerk open. Everybody jumps. “The first convoy’s gone on, but there’re more coming up the road.” Santino motions for Claudette to jump down while Albert translates. “We’re leaving the truck here.”

  The driver has nosed the vehicle into a thicket. Duno helps him heap branches against the truck for camouflage while the others assess the terrain. The nearest mountain rises steeply from a stony riverbed. Three days ago, this would have seemed an impossible climb.

  Draping rolled-up army blankets over their shoulders and slinging mess kits around their necks, the Mannheimers jump from the truck calling “Mazel!” to the Blums and Brösslers. “Claudette,” Frau Brössler asks, “may we come with you and your soldier?” Duno starts to protest. Claudette narrows her eyes at him. Frau Brössler stops them both with a look. “Go ask your father, Claudette.”

  Another quick conference, from German to Italian and back again. The soldier grimaces—a barely perceptible change. It’s probably more responsibility than he wants, Frieda thinks. Nevertheless, he takes it with good grace, and lifts Steffi onto his shoulders.

  For a long time, the only sound is the crash of vegetation and the huff of their own labored breathing as they climb. “Mutti! You’re going too fast!” Liesl complains, bringing up the rear. “I can’t—”

  The flat crack of a single gunshot in the distance silences her. “Un cacciatore,” Santino says casually. “A hunter,” Albert translates with matching, if breathless, composure.

  Everyone above the age of nine stares, first at Albert Blum, then at Santino. A rattling burst of machine pistol fire confirms their silent skepticism, and all discussion ceases. They grip roots, haul on branches, making for higher ground. Knapsacks full of ration cans thump against their backs. Wild berry canes snap at legs and faces. Thorns rip clothes and scratch tender skin. For the next two hours, not even Liesl complains.

  “Mangeremo qui,” Santino says, unslinging his ’91 and leaning the rifle barrel against a fallen log beside a miniature waterfall.

  “We’ll eat here,” Albert translates, dropping onto the log near the carbine.

  Clutching Antoinette’s china face, Steffi whimpers when the soldier lets her slide off his back to the ground. “What are you crying about?” Liesl snarls. “You got to ride!”

  Duno looks around. “We’re lost.” No one answers. “We’re lost!” he says louder.

  “Maybe that’s good,” Albert says. “The Germans will be lost, too!”

  “You’re always so cheerful,” Claudette grouses, flopping onto the ground.

  “The truck driver said there was a village over there,” Duno claims, pointing. “Una villa!” Santino levers open ration tins, playing deaf. “We should have crossed the ridge where that pine tree comes out of those rocks. We’re going in circles.”

  “And you have such a lot of experience in these matters, Mr. Fenimore Cooper?” his father asks. “You know the woods better than a man born here?”

  “He wasn’t born here,” Claudette feels compelled to point out.

  “Don’t mix in, Claudette!” her father warns, taking a tin from Santino.

  “Papa, he’s from Calabria!”

  Hearing the word, Santino looks up, can opener in hand. He doesn’t understand what the Hebrews are saying, but he hears Duno’s scorn and accepts it as his due. He’s tried to keep them going upward, but when the ground slopes down, is it another ravine or are they going back toward the San Leandro again? I should have gotten a compass from Miroglio, he thinks glumly, but he catches Signor Blum’s eye and jerks his head toward the Brösslers. “Tell them not to waste their strength. And quiet down. There could be Germans in the next ravine.”

  Albert translates. Mouths snap shut. Duno stalks off angrily. The others eat in a silence broken only by Steffi’s quiet chatter. “There’ll be a handsome nice prince,” she tells Antoinette. “He’ll have a big pretty castle and soft big beds . . .”

  Sharing the fallen tree trunk, Santino and Albert chew companionably, eyes on a valley barely visible through a stand of elms. A low rumble rolls over them. Thunder, not artillery. A moment later, the first drops of rain smack against leaves. Santino pulls out a square of oilcloth and wraps his rifle in it.

  Albert asks, “Are you a good shot, Santino?”

  “My nonno could pit an olive at fifty meters! I’m not that good.”

  “But not so bad either, eh?” Albert guesses, nudging him with an elbow.

  Santino smiles modestly. “We should try to get up to those rocks before dark. Maybe we’ll see something.”

  “Santino, the peasants—the contadini—will they help strangers?”

  “Sì, certo, signore.”

  “Even Jews?”

  “We’re all human beings, signore. Even Turks and Africans.” In point of fact, until his unit was deployed in southern France, Santino Cicala didn’t know there were still Hebrews alive in the world. If anyone had asked, he’d have said ebrei were only in the Bible. Like Egyptians, or those other E-people . . . Ephesians! “Italians don’t hate strangers, signore. We hate the uncle who screwed us out of an inheritance. Like Mamma used to say, ‘Trust only family, only family can betray you.’ She tried to get along with everyone, but . . .” He shakes his head. “Zia Rosa won’t talk to her brother, and he won’t talk to his wife’s nephews, and nobody talks to my cousin Salvatore. My nonna—just before she died, she told us, ‘Here’s who I want you to hate when I’m gone.’ Twenty-three names!”

  Another crack of thunder shortens Albert’s chuckle.

  “Must rain a lot here,” Santino says. “At home, it’s not green like this. Same kind of country, though—mountains, ravines, all cut up. Hard work, sunup, sundown. Every day the same, except for festas—saint’s days.” He scratches at four days’ growth of beard. “Strangers mean news, something interesting to talk about. Another thing,” he says, warming to the topic. “Farmers always hate the government! All government means to farmers is taxes. Tell people you’re running from the government, and you’ll always get help.”

  Albert pulls up his collar and settles his dampening homburg more firmly. “Were you a farmer before the war?”

  Santino holds out callused palms scored by short, pale scars. His fingers are nearly twice the thickness of Albert’s own. “Dry-stone waller, signore! Harder than farming, but a good wall will last two hundred years, without repairs.” His lip curls. “Mussolini built everything with concrete! Concrete is a sin.”

  “I feel the same way about typewriters,” Albert declares, one professional to another. “And calculating machines are an abomination in the sight of the Lord.”

  The rain’s intensity suddenly triples, as though God has drawn a knife through a big cloud’s belly. The noise almost drowns out the sound of someone yelling. On his feet, Santino says, “Stay here, and stay quiet.”

  Crouching slightly, rifle in hand, Santino sprints halfway up the hill, but he stops, furious with relief, when he realizes who’s hollering, “Una via!” Hair plastered to his skull, the Austrian kid comes sliding down th
rough the brush. “I am correct—I telled you,” he crows in bad Italian. “Una via, right there! With a latteria truck!”

  Santino grabs him by the upper arm and squeezes, hard. Duno squawks, and Santino increases the pressure until his own knuckles are white and the boy’s eyes widen in pain and confusion. Voice low, Santino says, “If you want to be a man, learn to shut the fuck up.”

  Wiping tears and rain from his eyes, Duno nods. They return to the others in silence. “He found a road on the other side of this hill,” Santino tells Albert. “He saw a milk collector driving by—a man who goes from farmer to farmer and brings the milk back to the central dairy in a city.”

  Albert translates. Everyone looks at Duno, who is uncharacteristically quiet about this triumph. “There’s a reason for a road,” Albert points out. “We must be near a dairy farm!”

  The girls moan. Herrmann sighs, but Frieda staggers to her feet. “Herr Blum is right,” she says, shamed by Alfred’s blue-lipped optimism. “The milk van was going somewhere, and the quicker we get there, the better.”

  Wet day darkens into sodden twilight. The road turns into a gravel track, and then the gravel runs out. The rain becomes a steady downpour that hits the mud so hard, drops leap up like tiny frogs. “Stay on the edges,” Santino reminds everyone periodically, gesturing as they splash through the mire. “Walk on the weeds, so you don’t sink.”

  They understand the principle, though they often forget it, tramping down unnamed ravines and over identical ridges. The parents are cheerless, wool blankets draped over their heads. Claudette and Duno pass the time sniping at each other. Santino carries Steffi. When Liesl falls behind, he lets them all rest, balancing exhaustion with exposure.

  Night and the temperature fall. Liesl begins to cry, and the others aren’t far from it. Even Albert Blum is muttering as he stumbles along behind her. “I tol’ you we should’ve brought th’ umbrellas!” he shouts suddenly. “You never lis’en to me, Paula!”

  His daughter turns. “We don’t have umbrellas, Papa,” she says uncertainly. “And Mama isn’t here—”