“Luca. My brother’s best friend, and Rosa’s sweetheart. They were killed on the same day at the start of 1941. At the siege of Tobruk. I wasn’t here when we got the news. Papà hadn’t even told me that Marco had enlisted, I think because he knew I would have come home. And then, when the news came that they’d been killed, everyone reacted as you’d imagine. Everyone except for Rosa. She didn’t cry. Just kept on with her chores as if nothing had happened. And she hasn’t said Luca’s name since. It’s as if he never existed.”

How could such a thing be possible? To love someone, to mourn them, to wake up each morning with the fresh realization of their absence, and yet never again speak their name? How could his sister simply erase the man she’d loved from her life?

“Nico! Nina! Nico-Nina! Nico-nico-nina!! Time for supper!”

Carlo came roaring up, his arms outstretched like an airplane’s wings, and squealed when Nico swept him into the air.

“Do you hear that, Nina? Supper is ready, and what will happen if we don’t hurry? Carlo?”

“Matteo and Paolo will be greedy and eat up all the food!”

“They will indeed. Let’s fly back, just like you’re one of the Pippo bombers, and see if Nina can catch us. Ready—now go!”

Not wishing to be left behind, Nina ran as fast as she could, faster than she’d run for years, but it wasn’t quite enough; and Nico, noticing, reached back to catch her hand in his, and so pulled them both along; and when she stumbled, as she’d feared she would, he simply gathered her in his arms and ran on until they were at the kitchen door and the race was done.

Chapter 8

25 September 1943

She woke at dawn, roused by the empty space at her back.

“Nico?”

“I’m here.” He sat on the end of the bed and set about lacing up his boots. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did.”