It was gone in a moment, and she closed her eyes.

RJ scooted back on the bench, her back against the wall. “So why do you call him a hero?”

“It’s a long story.”

Right. And it was late. And Ziggy was hurt and tired—

“I was named after him.”

She glanced over at Ziggy. Her eyes were closed, but maybe her wound was keeping her awake. “Oh?”

“Sigfrida. It’s a family name, after Sigfrid, but he called himself Fred.”

“Fred.”

“Jones. Fred Jones. From Minnesota.”

“He was American?”

“Infantry. With the 92nd division. He was a scout. Fought in the siege of Lucca, “

“Wait. He was an American soldier?”

“Mmmhmm.” Ziggy repositioned her jacket. “I still remember my great-grandmother telling me the story. And he wasn’t the only warrior. She was only eighteen at the time of the German occupation, but even then, she was a partisan. It was just in her Italian blood. She was feisty, all the way to the end. Thick white hair, her leathery skin. She’d walk the vines every day, working with the grounds keeper to prune them, taking off leaves to help the sun find the right grapes. It’s her recipe that they still use on the farm to make the wines.”

“What happened to your great-grandfather?”

“Oh, he died long before I met him. But she could make him come alive. Golden-brown eyes—that’s why I got his name, I think. And a laugh that she said turned her from broken to living. She said the day she found him, asleep in the vines, bloody and near death was the day God saved her life.”

“Why was he near death?”

“He’d been scouting behind enemy lines, in preparation for the Allied invasion. It was about eight months since D-Day, and the Allies were routing Germany back into Europe, so they sent troops to the shores of Italy. Mostly to distract and weaken the Germans, but we were fighting our own war, here, and they came to help. A real civil war—most of the country didn’t want Mussolini and his fascists, and many of the youth had risen up as partigiano—resistance fighters. My Nonna was one of them. She used to ride her bike between hilltop cities, messages stuffed in her shoes, as a courier. Right past German or Italian guards. Told me it was terrifying, but after the death of her father, she couldn’t sit still and do nothing.”

“Your great-great grandfather.”