“The way you are going is exposed in several places. Someone from far down on the valley floor might see your dark clothes. But with these, you’ll blend into the snow.”

Accompanying Mrs. Napolitano was the D’Angelo family—Peter and Liza, the parents, and seven-year-old Anthony and his nine-year-old sister, Judith. From Abruzzi, they were physically fit from a lifetime of farming and climbing in the mountains south of Rome.

Mrs. Napolitano, however, had spent much of her life indoors and sitting down playing the violin. She said she walked everywhere in Milan, rarely taking the trolley, but Pino could tell from her breathing at Casa Alpina that the climb was going to be an ordeal for her and for him.

Rather than dwell on what could go wrong, Pino tried to think of everything he might need. He got an extra nine meters of rope from Brother Bormio and had Mimo carry it bandolier-style in addition to his pack, ice ax, poles, and skis. Pino added several carabiners to his already heavy pack, another ice ax, crampons, skis, climbing skins, poles, and a handful of pitons.

They set out at 2:00 a.m. The moon was half-full, reflecting just enough light off the snow that they did not need the lantern. The early going could have been hellish, with all of them having to post-hole up the first rise to get to the spine, but the afternoon before, Father Re had sent out every boy at Casa Alpina to make the 122-meter vertical climb and descent, in effect boot-packing the hill. Despite the chronic pain in his hip, the priest had broken trail most of the way.

The result was a beaten-down path that climbed straight up the west flank of the Groppera. It probably saved Mrs. Napolitano’s life. Though she carried only her beloved violin in its case, she labored long and hard up that initial slope, stopping often, fighting for air, and shaking her head before hugging the violin with both hands and going on.

During the climb, which took her the better part of an hour, Pino said little other than to encourage her with phrases like, “That’s it. You’re doing fine. Just a little higher and we can rest for a bit.”

He sensed that more than that would do no good. This wasn’t like the psychological barriers he’d managed to break with the cigar store owner by deflecting his attention. Mrs. Napolitano was simply not in the physical shape necessary to make a climb this demanding. As he followed her up the mountain, he prayed she had enough spirit and will to compensate.

Deepening snow and crevasses had made the boulder field in the bowl all the more treacherous, but with Pino’s help, the violinist crossed it without incident. When they reached the tail of the razorback spine, however, Mrs. Napolitano began to shake.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said. “I should go back down with your brother. I’m holding the others up.”

“You can’t stay at Casa Alpina,” Pino said. “It’s too dangerous for anyone to stay there for long.”

The violinist said nothing, but then turned, held tight to her stomach, and vomited.

“Mrs. Napolitano?” Pino said.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It passes.”

“Are you expecting?” Mrs. D’Angelo said in the darkness.

“A woman can always tell,” Mrs. Napolitano gasped.

She’s pregnant? A leaden weight came down on Pino’s shoulders. Oh my God! A baby? What if . . . ?

“You should climb for your baby,” Mrs. D’Angelo said to Mrs. Napolitano. “You don’t want to go back down. You know what that might mean.”

“Pino?” his brother whispered after a long silence that followed. “I can take her back, let her get more used to the altitude.”

Pino was about to agree, but then Mrs. Napolitano said, “I’ll climb.”

But what happens if the altitude gets to her, and her baby . . . ?

Pino forced himself to stop. He could not let fear take control of his brain. Fear had no business here. He had to think, and he had to think clearly.

Telling himself that over and over, Pino took the second rope from Mimo and made a loop under Mrs. Napolitano’s armpits. Then he clambered up onto the tail of the ridge. With Mimo behind her, Pino pulled, dragging the violinist up onto the spine. It was a tough chore made tougher by the fact that she held her violin case and would not yield it to Mimo.

“You’re going to have to leave the violin,” Pino said as he threw the loop back down.

“Never,” she said. “My violin stays with me always.”

“Let me carry it, then. I’ll make room for it in my pack and return it to you when we reach Switzerland.”

In the moonlight he could see Mrs. Napolitano struggling with the idea.

“I’m going to need you to have free hands and feet where we’re going,” he said. “If you keep the violin, you’ll put your baby’s life in danger.”

After a pause, she handed it to him, saying, “It’s a Stradivarius. It’s all I have now.”

“I’ll take care of it like my father would,” he said, strapping the violin case under the flap of his pack.

In short order, Pino pulled up the D’Angelo children—who were treating the whole thing as a grand adventure—and then their parents, who were encouraging the idea. As he had with almost every group of refugees, Pino linked them together with rope, with Mrs. Napolitano right behind him followed by Mrs. D’Angelo, the children, Mr. D’Angelo, and Mimo bringing up the rear.

Before they could start up the ridge, the young boy made a whining noise and began bickering at his sister.

“Stop,” Pino whispered harshly.

“No one can hear us up here,” Anthony said.

“The mountain can hear us,” Pino said firmly. “And if you’re too loud, it will wake up and shift under its blanket and send avalanches that will bury us all.”

“Is the mountain a monster?” Anthony asked.

“Like a dragon,” Pino said. “So we have to be careful and quiet, because we’re climbing up his scaly back.”

“Where’s his head?” Judith asked.

“Above us,” Mimo said. “In the clouds.”

That seemed to satisfy the children, and the group set out once more. What had taken him less than an hour the last time he’d climbed the hard route took them almost two. It was four thirty in the morning when they reached the chimney. Pino could make out the gouge in the nearly vertical mountain face, but he needed more light than the moon’s if they were to climb it.

He poured water into the carbide lamp and screwed the lid tight to seal the vapors that were rapidly filling the reservoir. After waiting a minute, he loosened the gas valve and hit the striker. On the second try, a thin blue flame burned against a reflecting pan, throwing enough light up the chimney that they could all see the challenge ahead.

“Oh my God,” Mrs. Napolitano groaned. “Oh my God.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“It’s worse than it looks.”