Pino felt a glimmer of doubt, but then shook it off, shuffled his feet, and aimed the skis downhill toward the outer edge of the avalanche field, some thirty meters away. They began to slide. There were bumps and ragged chunks of ice sticking up out of the newer snow. He tried to avoid them as they picked up speed. But then one loomed unavoidably in their way. They went right up over the top of it and launched, sailing through the air.

“Ahhhh!!!!” Mrs. Napolitano screamed.

Pino landed awkwardly, skis askew, and for a second he thought the boards were going to get away from him and that he and the pregnant violinist were going to twist and fall hard into the frozen debris.

But then he saw they were going to collide with a stump. He did an instinctual hop move to his left, avoiding the stump, and then another. The two moves restored his equilibrium, and the skis accelerated. Pino and Mrs. Napolitano shot out of the debris field into fluffy powder snow.

With the violin case thrust out in front of him, Pino grinned and began to churn his legs in unison, driving them deep into the snow, and then relaxing them so his feet rose up under his hips as Father Re had taught him. The movement unweighted him momentarily at the top of each turn, which allowed him to shift his weight and turn the skis almost effortlessly. The skis arced left and then right in long, linked curves, building speed and blowing through snowdrifts that exploded and showered their faces.

Mrs. Napolitano hadn’t said a word in many seconds. He figured she’d stopped looking and was simply hanging on for dear life.

“Wheeeeeeeeee!” she cried in his ear. “It’s like we’re birds, Pino! We’re flying!”

Mrs. Napolitano giggled and made “whoop!” noises every time they dropped off a knoll. He felt her chin press down on his right shoulder, and understood she could see where they were going as he powered his skis in long, floating, lazy S-turns downslope toward the frozen lake and the woods and freedom beyond.

Pino realized he would lose vertical drop soon. The way would flatten ahead. Even though his thighs were on fire, he pointed the skis straight down the last steep pitch, straight at that forested triangle of Italy that stuck into Switzerland.

Pino wasn’t turning now, no slalom here. He was doing straight-line downhill, violin out front for balance, crouched in a semituck. The skis hissed and rode up on top of the snow. They hurtled down that last pitch, thirty, forty, maybe fifty kilometers an hour, one twitch of a knee away from disaster. He saw the transition where the hill met the flat and brought his legs up under him again to absorb it.

They shot past the lake. Pino stayed low, cutting the wind, and they almost made the tree line. When they came to a halt, they were less than a snowball’s throw away.

They were both quiet for a second.

Then Mrs. Napolitano began to laugh. She unwrapped her legs from Pino’s waist and let go of her grip on his shoulders. She got down, and, holding her belly, knelt in the soft snow and began chortling like she’d never enjoyed anything so much in her life. Pino was caught up in her snorts and giggles. It was contagious. He fell beside her and laughed until he was crying.

What a crazy thing we’ve done. Who would have—?

“Pino!” a man’s voice called sharply.

Pino startled and looked up to see Mr. Bergstrom standing just inside the tree line. He was carrying his shotgun and looked concerned.

“We made it, Mr. Bergstrom!” Pino cried.

“You’re a day late,” Bergstrom said. “And get out of the open. Bring her into the woods where she can’t be seen.”

Pino sobered and took his skis off. He handed Mrs. Napolitano her violin. She sat up and hugged it, saying, “I think everything’s going to be all right now, Pino. I can feel it.”

“Can you walk?” Pino asked.

“I can try,” she said, and he helped her to her feet.

He held her hand and elbow and supported her through the snow to the path.

“What’s wrong with her?” Bergstrom asked when they’d slogged into the trees.

Mrs. Napolitano explained about the baby and the spotting with a radiant glow on her face. “But now, I think I can walk however far you need me to.”

“Not that far, several hundred meters,” Bergstrom said. “Once you’re in Switzerland, I can build you a fire. I’ll go down and come back for you with a sled.”

“A few hundred meters I think I can do,” she said. “And a fire sounds like heaven above. Have you ever skied, Mr. Bergstrom?”

The Swiss man looked at her as if she were slightly addled, but he nodded.

“Isn’t it grand?” the violinist said. “Isn’t it the greatest thing you’ve ever done?”

Pino saw Mr. Bergstrom smile for the first time.

They waited in the tree line, telling the Swiss man about the storm and the avalanche, and watching Mimo and the D’Angelos work their way slowly down the slope. Mrs. D’Angelo carried her daughter. Mr. D’Angelo had Pino’s pack and poles, and his son trailed behind. It took them almost an hour in the deep snow to reach the flat above the lake.

Pino skied out to meet them, took Judith up on his back, and brought her to the woods. They were soon all safely in the trees.

“Is this Switzerland?” Anthony asked.

“Not far,” Bergstrom said.

After a brief rest, they set out toward the border with Pino helping Mrs. Napolitano along the well-used path through the forest. When they reached the grove where Italy became Switzerland, they stopped.

“There,” Mr. Bergstrom said. “You’re safe from Nazis now.”

Tears dribbled down Mrs. D’Angelo’s cheeks.

Her husband hugged her and kissed away her tears. “We’re safe, my dear,” he said. “How lucky we are when so many others have . . .”

He stopped and choked. His wife stroked his cheek.

“How can we ever repay you?” Mrs. Napolitano said to Pino and Mimo.

“For what?” Pino said.

“For what! You led us through that nightmare storm and got us out of that hut. You skied me down the side of that mountain!”

“What else could we do? Lose our faith? Give up?”

“You? Never!” Mr. D’Angelo said, now pumping Pino’s hand. “You’re like a bull. You never give up.”

Then he hugged Mimo. Mrs. D’Angelo did, too, as did her children. Mrs. Napolitano hugged Pino the longest.

“A thousand blessings on your head for showing me how to fly, young man,” she said. “I’ll never forget that as long as I live.”

Pino grinned, and felt his eyes water. “Neither will I.”

“Isn’t there anything I can do for you?” she asked.

Pino was about to say no, but he noticed her violin case. “Play for us as we go back into Italy. Your music will lift our spirits for the long climb and ski out.”

That pleased her, and she looked at Bergstrom. “Is it okay?”

He said, “No one here will stop you.”

Standing there in the snowy woods, high in the Swiss Alps, Mrs. Napolitano opened her case and rosined her bow. “What would you like to hear?”

For some reason, Pino thought of that August night when he and his father and Tullio and the Beltraminis had taken the train out into the countryside to escape the bombardment of Milan.

“Nessun Dorma,” Pino said. “‘None Shall Sleep.’”