Heavy snowfall held off until mid-December of 1943. But then it turned cold, and the skies began to dump, hard and often. Feathery powder snow built up in the chutes and bowls of the upper Groppera, making them avalanche-prone, which soon shut down the preferred northern route to Val di Lei and the Emet Pass into Switzerland.

Because many of the refugees had never faced cold, snowy conditions before, nor had the faintest idea about mountain climbing, Father Re risked sending Pino, Mimo, and the other guides along the easy southern route over the Angel’s Step. They started carrying skis with climbing skins to speed the return trip.

The brothers left Casa Alpina the third week of December and joined their family in Rapallo to celebrate Christmas and to wonder whether the war would ever be over. The Lellas had all hoped the Allies would have freed Italy by now. But the Germans’ so-called Gustav Line of pillboxes, tank traps, and other fortifications was holding from the town of Monte Cassino east to the Adriatic Sea.

Allied progress had ground to a halt.

On Pino and Mimo’s way back to the Alps, the train passed through Milan. Parts of the city they barely recognized. When Pino reached Casa Alpina this time, he was more than happy to be spending his winter in the Alps.

He and Mimo loved to ski, and they were experts at it by then. They used skins to climb the slopes above the school and schussed in the fresh deep powder that had fallen during their brief time away. Both boys adored the speed and thrill of skiing, but it meant more to Pino than adventure. Swooping down the mountain was the closest he’d ever come to flying. He was a bird on skis. It warmed his soul. It set him free in a way nothing else did. Pino would fall asleep tired, achy, and happy, and wanting to do it all again tomorrow.

Alberto Ascari and his friend, Titiana, decided to host a New Year’s Eve party at the Contes’ inn in Madesimo. There had been a lull in the number of refugees during the holiday week, and Father Re granted Pino’s request to attend the bash.

Excited, Pino oiled his climbing boots, put on his best clothes, and walked down to Madesimo in lightly falling snow that made everything look magical and new. Ascari and Titiana were putting the finishing touches on the decorations when Pino arrived. He spent time with the Contes, who, though still grieving for their son, were glad for the business and distraction the party afforded.

And what a party it was. There were twice as many young ladies present as men, and Pino had a full dance card for much of the evening. The food was wonderful: speck ham, and gnocchi, and polenta with fresh Montasio cheese, and roe deer venison with dried tomatoes and pumpkin seeds. The wine and beer flowed.

Later in the evening, Pino was slow-dancing with Frederica and realized he hadn’t once thought of Anna. He was wondering if the night would end perfectly, with a kiss from Frederica, when the door to the inn flew open. Four men with old rifles and shotguns walked in. They were shabbily dressed with filthy red scarves around their necks. Their gaunt cheeks were red from the cold, and their sunken eyes put Pino in mind of feral dogs he’d seen after the bombardments began, scavenging for any scraps they could find.

“We are partisans fighting to free Italy from the Germans,” one of them announced, and then licked the left inside corner of his lips. “We need donations to continue the fight.” Taller than the others, he wore a knit wool cap that he pulled off and waved at the partygoers.

No one moved.

“You bastards!” Mr. Conte roared. “You killed my son!”

He charged at the leader, who clubbed the innkeeper with the butt of his rifle and knocked him to the floor.

“We did no such thing,” he said.

“You did, Tito,” Conte said lying on the ground, bleeding from his head. “You or one of your men left a grenade. My son picked it up, thought it was a toy. He’s dead. Another boy has been blinded. Another lost his hand.”

“Like I said,” Tito said, “we don’t know a thing about it. Donations, per favore.”

He raised his rifle and fired a bullet through the ceiling, which provoked the men at the party to turn out their pockets and the young ladies to open their purses.

Pino fingered a ten-lira note from his pocket and held it out.

Tito snatched it and then stopped to look him up and down. “Nice clothes,” he said. “Turn out your pockets.”

Pino didn’t move a muscle.

Tito said, “Do it or we’ll strip you naked.”

Pino wanted to punch him, but he pulled out a leather-and-magnet money clip his uncle Albert designed and removed a wad of lira, which he held out to Tito.

Tito whistled and snatched the money. Then he stepped closer and studied Pino, exuding a threat that was as strong as his foul body odor and breath. “I know you,” he said.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” Tito said again, his face close to Pino’s. “I’ve seen you in my binoculars. I’ve seen you climbing over Passo Angeloga and across the Emet with many strangers.”

Pino said nothing.

Tito smiled, and then licked the corner of his lips. “What the Nazis would give to know about you.”

“I thought you were fighting the Germans,” Pino said. “Or was that just an excuse to rob a party?”

Tito hit Pino in the gut with the butt of his rifle, knocking him to the ground.

“Stay off those passes, kid,” Tito said. “You tell the priest the same thing. Angel’s Step? The Emet. They’re ours. You understand?”

Pino lay there gasping for air and refusing to reply.

Tito kicked him. “Understand?”

Pino nodded, which pleased Tito, who studied him.

“Nice boots,” he said at last. “What size?”

Pino grunted an answer.

“Couple pairs of warm socks, they’ll work just fine. Take them off.”

“They’re the only boots I have.”

“You can take them off alive, or I can take them off you dead. Your choice.”

Humiliated and hating the man, but not wanting to die, Pino unlaced the boots and pulled them off. When he glanced at Frederica, she reddened and looked away, making Pino feel like he was doing something cowardly when he handed Tito the boots.

“That money clip, too,” Tito said, snapping his fingers twice.

“My uncle made that for me,” Pino complained.

“Tell him to make you another. Tell him it’s for a good cause.”

Sullen, Pino dug in his pocket and got out the money clip. He flipped it at Tito.

Tito snagged it out of the air. “Smart boy.”

He nodded to his men. They grabbed food from the buffet, stuffing it into their pockets and packs before leaving.

“Stay off the Emet,” Tito said again, and they were gone.

When the door shut behind them, Pino wanted to put his fist through a wall. Mrs. Conte had rushed to her husband’s side and was pressing a cloth to his wound.

“Are you all right?” Pino asked.

“I’ll live,” the innkeeper said. “I should have gotten my gun. Shot them all.”

“Who was he, the partisan? You said, ‘Tito’?”

“Yes, Tito, from over Soste way. But he’s no partisan. He’s just a crook and smuggler from a long line of crooks and smugglers. And now a murderer.”