Pino followed the Gestapo chief through the trees, but at a distance. The oxen broke from the grove with the boys to either side, and the Nazis all followed, including Rauff, who didn’t give a backward glance. Only then did Pino pause to look up another of the bigger firs. Twelve meters up, and through the branches, he caught the vague outline of someone clinging to the tree trunk.

He strolled slowly out of the woods, seeing the oxen were already back in their fenced-off area, eating from the hay bales.

“Ahh,” Colonel Rauff said, breathing hard and beaming at Father Re when Pino walked up. “That was fun. I used to do this so many times as a boy.”

“It looked like you enjoyed it,” the priest said.

The Gestapo chief coughed, laughed, and nodded. Then he looked at the lieutenant and barked something in German. The lieutenant started yelling and blowing a whistle. The soldiers who’d been searching the outbuildings and the handful of homes in Motta came running back to the lorries.

“I remain suspicious, Father,” Colonel Rauff said, holding out his hand.

Pino held his breath.

The priest took his hand and shook it. “You’re welcome anytime, Colonel.”

Rauff got back into the Kübelwagen. Father Re, Brother Bormio, Pino, Mimo, and the other boys stood there, silently watching the German lorries turn around. They waited until Rauff and his soldiers were five hundred meters off, gone down the muddy two-track to Madesimo, before they all broke into wild cheers.

“I thought for sure he knew we had you all hidden in the trees,” Pino said several hours later. He and Father Re were eating at the table with the relieved refugees.

The father of the two boys said, “I could see that colonel coming the entire way. He walked right under our tree. Twice!”

They all started to laugh as only people who have just avoided death can laugh, with disbelief, gratitude, and infectious joy.

“An inspired plan,” Father Re said, clapping Pino on the shoulder and raising his glass of wine. “To Pino Lella.”

The refugees all raised their glasses and did the same. Pino felt embarrassed to be the object of so much attention. He smiled. “Mimo was the one who made it work.”

But he felt good about it, elated actually. Fooling the Nazis like that made him feel empowered. In his own way, he was fighting back. They were all fighting back, part of the growing resistance. Italy was not German. Italy could never be German.

Alberto Ascari came into Casa Alpina without ringing the bell. He appeared in the dining room doorway, hat in hand, and said, “Excuse me, Father Re, but I have an urgent message for Pino. His father called my uncle’s house, and asked me to find Pino and deliver it.”

Pino felt hollow inside. What had happened? Who was dead?

“What is it?” he asked.

“Your papa wants you to come home as soon as possible,” Ascari said. “To Milan. He said it’s a matter of life and death.”

“Whose life and death?” Pino said, getting up.

“It sounded like yours, Pino.”

PART THREE

THE CATHEDRALS OF MAN

Chapter Thirteen

Twelve hours later, Pino sat in the passenger seat of Ascari’s souped-up Fiat, barely noticing the long drops off the side of the serpentine road from Madesimo down to Campodolcino. He didn’t look at the lime-green leaves of spring or smell the blooms in the air. His mind was still at Casa Alpina and on how reluctant he’d been to leave.

“I want to stay and help,” he’d told Father Re the night before.

“And I could use your help,” the priest said, “but it sounds serious, Pino. You need to obey your father and go home.”

Pino gestured at the refugees. “Who will take them to Val di Lei?”

“Mimo,” Father Re said. “You’ve trained him well, and the other boys.”

Pino had been so upset, he’d slept fitfully and was dejected when Ascari came to pick him up to take him to the train station at Chiavenna. He’d been at Casa Alpina almost seven months, but it seemed like years.

“You’ll come to see me when you can?” Father Re asked.

“Of course, Father,” Pino said, and they hugged.

“Have faith in God’s plan for you,” the priest said. “And stay safe.”

Brother Bormio had given him food for his journey and hugged him, too.

Pino barely said ten words until they reached the valley floor.

“One good thing,” Ascari said. “You have taught me to ski.”

Pino allowed a mild smile. “You catch on fast. I wish I could have finished my driving lessons.”

“You are already very, very good, Pino,” Ascari said. “You have the touch, the feel for the car that is rare.”

Pino basked in the praise. Ascari was an amazing driver. Alberto continued to astound him with the things he could do behind the wheel, and, as if to prove it, he took them on a white-knuckle ride down the valley toward Chiavenna that left Pino breathless.

“Scary to think what you’d do in a real race car, Alberto,” Pino said when they pulled into the station.

Ascari grinned. “Give it time, my uncle always says. Come back this summer? Finish your training?”

“I’d like that,” Pino said, shaking his hand. “Be good, my friend. And stay out of the ditch.”

“Every day,” Ascari said, and drove off.

Pino had come down so much in altitude, it was nearly thirty degrees warmer than it had been up at Motta. Chiavenna was painted in flowers. Their scent and pollen hung thick in the air. Spring in the southern Alps wasn’t always this fabulous, and it made Pino even more reluctant to buy his ticket, show his documents to a German army soldier, and then board the train heading south to Como and Milan.

The first car he entered was filled with a company of Fascist soldiers. He turned around and went forward, finding a car with only a handful of people. Drowsy from lack of rest, he stowed his bag, used his knapsack for a pillow, and fell asleep.

Three hours later, the train pulled into Milan’s central station, which had taken several direct hits but stood much as Pino remembered it. Except Italian soldiers no longer guarded the transit hub. The Nazis were in total control now. As he walked down the platform and passed through the station, keeping his distance from the Fascist soldiers from the train, he saw the German troops glancing with contempt at Mussolini’s men.

“Pino!”

His father and Uncle Albert hurried to greet him. Both men looked dramatically older than they had at Christmas, grayer about the temples, and their cheeks more sunken and sallow than he’d remembered.

Michele cried, “Do you see the size of him, Albert?”

His uncle gaped at Pino. “Seven months and you go from a boy to a big, strapping man! What was Father Re feeding you?”

“Brother Bormio is a great cook,” Pino said, grinning stupidly and pleased by their scrutiny. He was so happy to see them both that he almost forgot to be angry.

“Why did I have to come home, Papa?” he asked as they left the station. “We were doing good things at Casa Alpina, important things.”