“I believe you’re going to be a race car driver someday,” Pino said. “A famous one. I’ve never seen anyone drive like that.”

Ascari couldn’t have smiled more if he tried. “My father, he was better. The European grand prix champion before he died.” He raised his right hand off the wheel and pointed his index finger out the windshield and up toward the sky. “God willing, Papa, I will be European champion and more, world champion!”

“I believe it,” Pino said again, shaking his head in awe before looking up at a sheer-walled gray cliff that rose more than 450 meters above the east side of the town. He opened the window, stuck his head out, and scanned the top of the cliff.

“What are you looking for?” Ascari asked.

“Sometimes you can see the cross on top of the belfry.”

“That’s right up ahead here,” Ascari said. “There’s a notch in the cliff. That’s the only reason you can see it.” He pointed up through the windshield. “There.”

For an instant, Pino caught a glimpse of the white cross and the top of the stone belfry of the chapel at Motta, the highest mountain settlement in this section of the Alps. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to be relieved he was out of Milan.

Ascari took them up the treacherous Madesimo road, a steep, narrow, potholed, and switchback route that hugged the steep mountainside. There were no guardrails and no shoulder to speak of in many places, and several times during the climb Pino thought for sure Ascari was going to drive them right off the side of a cliff. But Ascari seemed to know every centimeter of the road, because he’d tweak the wheel or tease the brake and they’d glide through every turn so smoothly Pino swore they were on snow, not rock.

“Can you ski like this?” Pino asked.

“I don’t know how to ski,” Ascari said.

“What? You live in Madesimo and can’t ski?”

“My mother sent me here to be safe. I work in my uncle’s shop and drive.”

“Ski racing’s the same as driving,” Pino said. “Same tactics.”

“You ski well?”

“I’ve won some races. Slalom.”

The driver looked impressed. “We were meant to be friends, then. You will teach me to ski, and I will teach you to drive.”

Pino’s grin couldn’t have been tamed if he’d tried. “You have a deal.”

They reached the tiny village of Madesimo, which featured a stone and slate-roofed inn, a restaurant, and several dozen alpine homes.

“Are there any girls around here?” Pino asked.

“I know a few from below. They like to ride in fast cars.”

“We should go for a drive sometime with them.”

“A plan that I like!” Ascari said, pulling over. “You know the way from here?”

“I could do it blindfolded in a snowstorm,” Pino said. “Maybe I’ll come down on the weekends, stay at the inn.”

“Come look me up if you do. Our shop’s beyond the inn. You can’t miss it.”

He reached out his hand. Pino winced and said, “Don’t break my fingers this time.”

“Nah,” Ascari said, and pumped his hand firmly. “Nice meeting you, Pino.”

“You, too, Alberto,” Pino said. He grabbed his rucksack and climbed out.

Ascari squealed away, hand out the window waving.

Pino stood there a moment, feeling like he’d met someone important in his life. Then he put the rucksack up on his back and set out up a two-track path that headed into the woods. The way got consistently steeper until, an hour after he’d started the ascent, he emerged from the forest on a high alpine plateau below a rocky mountain face that climbed nearly twelve hundred vertical meters to a crag of stone called Pizzo Groppera.

The Motta plateau was several hundred meters wide and wrapped around the Groppera to the southeast. The western edge of the wide bench ended where it met a small forest of spruces that clung to the rim of the towering cliff that fell away toward Campodolcino. Late in the day, with the sun like hammered copper shining on the autumn Alps, Pino felt awed by the setting as he always did. Cardinal Schuster was right; being in Motta was like standing on a balcony in one of God’s grandest cathedrals.

Motta was scarcely more developed than Madesimo. There were several alpine-style huts at the eastern base of the escarpment, and to the southwest, set back toward those cliffs and spruces, the small Catholic chapel Pino had caught a glimpse of from below and a much larger stone-and-timber structure. Happier than he’d been in months, Pino smelled baked bread and something garlicky and savory the closer he got to the rustic building. His stomach growled.

He ducked under the roof over the entryway, stood before the heavy wooden door, and reached for a cord that hung from a heavy brass bell above a sign that said, “Casa Alpina. All Weary Travelers Welcome.” Pino pulled the cord twice.

The clanging of the bell echoed off the flanks of the mountain behind him. He heard the clamor of boys, followed by footsteps. The door swung open.

“Hello, Father Re,” Pino said to a burly priest in his fifties. The man, leaning on a cane, was wearing a black cassock, white collar, and leather hob-nailed climbing boots.

Father Re flung open his arms. “Pino Lella! I heard a rumor just this morning you were coming to stay with me again.”

“The bombing, Father,” Pino said, feeling emotional as he hugged the priest. “It’s bad.”

“I’ve heard that, too, my son,” Father Re said, sobering. “But come, come inside before we lose the heat.”

“How’s your hip?”

“It’s been better, and it’s been worse,” Father Re said, limping aside to let Pino in.

“How is Mimo taking it, Father?” Pino asked. “I mean, our house.”

“You should be the one to tell him that,” Father Re said. “Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Then your timing is perfect. Leave your things there for now. After dinner, I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”

Pino followed the priest as he caned awkwardly to the dining hall, where forty boys crowded the rough-hewn tables and benches. A fire blazed in the stone hearth at the far end of the room.

“Go eat dinner with your brother,” Father Re said. “Then come sit with me for dessert.”

Pino saw Mimo regaling his friends with some story of daring. He walked up behind his brother and said in a squeaky voice, “Hey, Mr. Short Stuff, move over.”

At fifteen, Mimo was one of the older boys in the room and obviously used to being the center of things. When he turned, his face was hardened, as if he were about to teach the squeaky-voiced kid a thing or two for not knowing his place in the world. But then Mimo recognized his older brother and broke into a puzzled smile.

“Pino?” he said. “What are you doing here? You said you’d never—” Fear robbed Mimo of his enthusiasm. “What’s happened?”