“We’re here, Father.”

“I’m in the parlor,” came the reply.

Father Bernardi stood as they entered the room, which was a larger version of the parlor at home, and had been decorated in much the same fashion. Never in her life had Nina seen so many miserable saints and smugly satisfied angels.

“Good evening, Father. How are you?” she asked as she sat on the severely upholstered settee.

Only then, looking from a still-silent Father Bernardi to Nico, did she notice how uncomfortable both men had become, their expressions strained and apprehensive. Although they were sitting at some distance from each other, both men wore the same invisible veil of dread and sorrow.

Without a single word, she knew. “Papà and Mamma.”

Tears glittered in the old priest’s eyes. “Yes. I had word late last night.”

“Dead?”

Nico took her near hand in his. “No. At least, we don’t believe they are.”

“What has happened?” she asked, her voice rising. “Won’t you tell me?”

“They were arrested, along with the other remaining residents of the casa, on the night of August seventeenth,” Father Bernardi explained. “From there, we think they were sent to Trieste. To the camp at San Sabba.”

“Are they there still?” Her voice was that of a stranger. Someone else was forming the words for her and pushing them past her teeth and out of her mouth to linger in the icy air of the parlor.

“No.” Father Bernardi’s voice was soft yet certain. “They were . . . they were put on a train and deported.”

“Where?”

“North,” Nico said. “Probably to a labor camp in Germany. We don’t know for sure.”

“A labor camp? My mother can’t even walk. It doesn’t make any sense. Why not leave them where they were?”

Neither man answered her; they had no answers to give.

“Were they alone?”

“No. There were others on the train,” Father Bernardi said. “One was Rabbi Ottolenghi.”

The rabbi was her father’s friend. He was a kind man, a good man. But not well. Not the sort of man who was capable of hard labor. “He’s almost blind,” she said. As if that would have made a difference.

“I am so sorry, Antonina. So terribly sorry to bring such news to you.”

“I won’t let it rest,” Nico promised. “I’ll find out what I can.”

“As will I. In the meantime, promise that you’ll try not to despair.”

“I promise, Father,” she lied, for it was too late. Too late for hope.

Somehow she was able to stay upright for the walk home, one step after another, huddled in the shelter of Nico’s embracing arms.

“I’ll take you upstairs. Tell the others you’re feeling tired. They won’t question me.”