The woman reached for the topmost of a stack of folded uniforms at her hip. She shook it out, nodded in satisfaction, and flung it at Nina. A moment later the guard grasped her arm, his fingers bruisingly tight, and led her back out to the courtyard.

“Where are you taking me?” she pleaded, and when the guard didn’t slow his pace, let alone respond, she tried again in German, fumbling for the half-forgotten words.

“Wo bringst—” Where are you taking—

“Halt die Fresse!” Shut up.

“Bitte, mein Herr, möchte ich . . .” Please, sir. I want—

He stopped short, pushed roughly at her shoulder until she faced him, and then he punched her in the face, his closed fist landing like a hammer just below her left eye. The pain was stunning, an explosion of agony that sent her to her knees, but before she could catch her breath he’d hauled her up and they were off again.

“Blöde Kuh! Halt deine blöde Fresse!” Stupid cow! Shut the fuck up!

They reached another building, its door open wide despite the chill of the late afternoon. He shoved her through, but her toes caught on the raised sill at its threshold and she fell once more. He marched off, his heavy boots crunching over the muddy gravel, and a little of her fear bled away.

It was a few minutes before she was able to stand, and even then it was an effort to stay upright, for she was so dizzy she might have been balancing on the deck of a gale-bound ship. Instead she stood at the door of what was obviously a cellblock, its gloomy interior taken up by two long rows of three-tiered bunks.

“You’re new.”

A girl was sitting on one of the top bunks. She was young, no more than fourteen or fifteen, with fair hair bound in two stringy plaits and a sweetly heart-shaped face.

“Yes,” Nina said. “I’m not sure what to do.”

“Take the bottom bunk over there. By the broken window.”

Nina inched along the central aisle until she spied the broken window. At least it would let in some fresh air.

“Are there others here?” she asked.

“They’re lining up for the latrines. I went before, when we were out in the fields. Stupid to wait. And no one saw, besides.”

“Oh,” Nina said, taken aback by the girl’s candor. “Where am I?” she asked.

“They bring you in by truck?”

“Yes.”

“The locals call it via Resia. The Germans call it the Durchgangslager. Either way it’s awful, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“So we’re still in Italy?”

“Just. Bolzano.”