“Can’t the pope stop it? Tell the world?”

Father Re looked down, kneading his knuckles white. “The Holy Father and the Vatican are surrounded by tanks and the SS, Pino. For the pope to speak out now would be suicide and mean the invasion and destruction of Vatican City. But he has spoken in secret to his cardinals. Through them he has given all Catholics in Italy a verbal order to open their doors to anyone in need of refuge from the Nazis. We are to hide the Jews, and if we can, we are to help them escape.”

Pino felt his heart quicken. “Escape to where?”

Father Re looked up. “Have you ever been to the far end of Val di Lei, on the other side of the Groppera, beyond the lake?”

“No.”

“There is a triangle of thick woods there,” the priest said. “For the first two hundred meters inside that triangle, the trees and ground are Italian. But then Italy narrows to a point, and the land all around becomes Switzerland, neutral ground, safety.”

Pino saw the trials of the past few weeks in a different light, and he felt excited and filled with new purpose. “You want me to guide them, Father?” Pino asked. “The three Jews?”

“Three of God’s children whom he loves,” Father Re said. “Will you help them?”

“Of course. Yes.”

The priest put his hand on Pino’s shoulder. “I want you to understand that you will be risking your life. Under the new German rules, helping a Jew is an act of treason, and punishable by death. If you are caught, they will likely execute you.”

Pino swallowed hard at that, felt shaken inside, but then looked at Father Re and said, “Aren’t you risking your life just having them here at Casa Alpina?”

“And the boys’ lives,” the priest said, his face sober. “But we must help all refugees fleeing the Germans. The pope thinks so. Cardinal Schuster thinks so. And so do I.”

“I do, too, Father,” Pino said, emotional in a way he never had been before, as if he were about to go out and right a great wrong.

“Good,” Father Re said, his eyes glistening. “I had faith you would want to help.”

“I do,” Pino said, and felt stronger for it. “I’d better go to sleep.”

“I’ll get you up at two fifteen. Brother Bormio will feed you all at two thirty. You’ll leave at three.”

Pino left the chapel believing that he’d entered it as a boy and now exited it having made the decision to become a man. He was frightened by the penalty for helping the Jews, but he was going to help them anyway.

He stood out in front of Casa Alpina before going in, staring to the northeast, across the flank of the Groppera, and understanding that three lives were now his responsibility. That young couple. The smoker. They depended on him for this last stage of their escape.

Pino looked up past the massive crag of the Groppera silhouetted in the moonlight to the stars and the black void beyond.

“Dear God,” he whispered. “Help me.”

Chapter Eight

Pino was up and dressed ten minutes before Father Re came to wake him. Brother Bormio made oatmeal with pine nuts and sugar, and laid out dried meats and cheeses. The smoker and the young couple were already eating when Father Re came over and put his hands on Pino’s shoulders.

“This is your guide, Pino,” the priest said. “He knows the way.”

“So young,” the smoker said. “Is there no one older?”

“Pino is very experienced and very strong in the mountains, especially this mountain,” Father Re said. “I have great faith he’ll get you where you want to go. Or you can find another guide. But fair warning: there are some out there who will take your money and then turn you over to the Nazis anyway. Here we wish only that you find safe haven.”

“We’re going with Pino,” the younger man said, and the woman nodded.

The older one, the smoker, remained unconvinced.

“What are your names?” Pino asked, shaking the younger man’s hand.

“Use the names you’ve been given,” Father Re said. “The ones on your papers.”

The woman said, “Maria.”

“Ricardo,” her husband said.

“Luigi,” the smoker said.

Pino sat down and ate with them. “Maria” was soft-spoken, but funny. “Ricardo” had been a teacher in Genoa. “Luigi” traded cigars in Rome. At one point, Pino glanced under the table and saw that though none wore boots, their shoes looked sturdy enough.

“Is the way dangerous?” Maria asked.

“Just do what I tell you to do, and you’ll be fine,” Pino said. “Five minutes?”

They nodded. He got up to clear plates. He took them over to Father Re and said in a soft voice, “Father, wouldn’t it be easier for them if I took them up over the Angel’s Step into Val di Lei?”

“It would be easier,” Father Re said. “But we used that way just a few weeks ago, and I don’t want to attract attention.”

“I don’t understand,” Pino said. “Who used it?”

“Giovanni Barbareschi, the seminarian,” Father Re said. “Just before you came up from Milan, there was another couple here with their daughter trying to escape. Barbareschi and I came up with a plan. He led the family and twenty boys, including Mimo, on an all-day hike over the Angel’s Step to Val di Lei. They had a picnic between the far end of the lake and the woods. Twenty-four people hiked in, twenty-one left.”

“No one would ever know the difference,” Pino said appreciatively. “Especially if they were seeing the group from a long way off.”

Father Re nodded. “Those were our thoughts exactly, but it’s not practical to send big groups like that, especially with winter coming.”

“Small is better,” Pino said, and then glanced over his shoulder. “Father, I can do my best to keep them hidden, but there are a lot of places where we’ll have no cover.”

“Including the entire length of Val di Lei, which is what makes this especially dangerous to you because you’ll be coming part of the way back in the wide open. But as long as the Germans keep patrolling the pass roads, and don’t use planes up high to survey the border, you should be fine.”

Father Re surprised Pino by giving him a hug. “Go with God on your side, my son, every step of the way.”

Brother Bormio helped hoist the rucksack up onto Pino’s back. Four liters of water. Four liters of sweet tea. Food. Rope. Topographical map. The anorak. A wool sweater and cap. Matches and lint to make a fire in a little steel canister. A small miner’s lamp loaded with dry carbide. A knife. A small hatchet.

Together the load was twenty, maybe twenty-five kilograms, but Pino had been climbing with weight on his back since the day after he arrived at Casa Alpina. It felt normal, and he supposed Father Re had wanted it that way. Of course he had wanted it that way; the priest had to have been planning this for weeks.

“Let’s go,” Pino said.