“I love you, Mamma,” she whispered, kissing her mother’s face, her hands, her soft and shining hair. “I love you so much.”

Then she stepped away. One step, another, another, and with her father’s help she turned and walked along the quiet corridor, down the echoing stairs, and into the fading warmth of the setting sun.

She walked home calmly, arm in arm with her father, as if it were an ordinary evening and not the end of the life she’d always known. And since silence was painful and honesty even worse, she filled the journey with forced chatter that likely felt as awkward to his ears as it did to hers.

“When you arrived I was about to read to Mamma. I left the book on the table next to her bed—I Promessi Sposi. We’re about halfway through. There’s a page marker, one of those little ribbons that are glued to the spine, so you won’t have any trouble finding where we left off. I think it was at the bottom of the left-hand page. You will read to her when you visit, won’t you?”

“Of course, Antonina. Of course I’ll read to her. Every day.”

“And you mustn’t rush her when she’s eating. Sometimes she won’t open her mouth, but it isn’t always because she’s done, or because she isn’t hungry. I think she simply needs a few minutes, just the way anyone else would if they were having a meal and wanted a sip of wine or a moment to let the food sit. So don’t give up right away, otherwise she’ll never eat anything, and you know she can’t afford to lose any more weight.”

“I promise I will take my time,” her father said. “I promise.”

On and on she went, her father dutifully nodding and acknowledging her requests, and it dawned upon her that in no time at all she would have to say goodbye to him, too, and her mouth went dry with the knowledge and weight of it.

All too soon they were standing at the green door, so shabby and so dear, and her father’s steps were even slower than usual as they climbed the stairs. He was clutching at the banister, his knuckles white against his skin, as if it were his only lifeline in stormy seas.

The house was cold and silent. “Marta?” she asked fearfully.

“I sent her home. Her husband is a Gentile. She doesn’t have to worry. At least, not yet.”

“But I wanted to say goodbye.”