In the end, it took them two more days to finish their journey, for the train they boarded the next morning went no farther than Trento. From there they took to the roads, hitching one ride after another, traveling east around the looming massif of Cima Dodici and then south along the banks of the Brenta.

In Primolano, Nico found them space in the back of an empty van heading past Bassano del Grappa. The driver was apologetic, but couldn’t spare the time or the petrol to take them directly to Mezzo Ciel.

“The old bridge was bombed in February. Still standing but you can only cross it on foot. Should be easy enough to find someone on the east bank who’ll drive you the rest of the way.”

The walk across the once-beautiful bridge in Bassano, its Palladian arches a tangled mess of blackened beams, was disconcerting, and once or twice Nina was convinced they would fall into the rushing waters of the Brenta far below. The streets of the old town were almost impassable, too, filled with rubble as they were, and it took ages to reach the northern outskirts and the familiar view of the rising hills beyond.

“I can see home from here,” Nico said, but Nina was looking back at the viale above them, the one by the ancient walls. The one with the line of trees, each garlanded with ribbons and medals and wreaths of long-dead flowers.

“That’s where they hanged them,” she said. “Do you remember? Poor Paolo. The poor child. To see such a thing.”

“I remember,” Nico said, “but it’s a beautiful day, and we’re almost home. Will you come with me now?”

So they set off together, the autumn sun at their backs, and hardly more than an hour had passed before Nina spied the shining white tower of the campanile in the piazza, at first a dot in the distance, then growing ever larger, until they were climbing the last hill before home, and though it was even steeper than she remembered, every step she took was welcome and precious to her.

The graveled road gave way to cobbles, the close-set houses along via Mezzo Ciel were replaced by the broad expanse of the piazza, and ahead, unchanged, were Fratelli Favaro, the cobbler, the bakery, and the osteria, its benches still occupied by dozing, white-haired men.

She tried not to think of the last time she had stood in the piazza, cowering at the back of the crowd, watching Zwerger lead the attack on Nico.

“Should we visit Father Bernardi?” she asked.

“Later. Tonight. Come along, the two of you—we’re almost there.”