Back into the baskets everything went, then down the hill again, Bello refusing to be rushed, and while Rosa made supper she and the girls pegged out everything on the lines that ran from the house to the first of the grapevines, all the while hoping the sun would hold for a little while longer.

She was almost too tired to eat her supper—they all were—but she dutifully helped to bring in and fold the still-damp laundry so it might be hung out again in the morning. Then Aldo switched on the radio, Rosa brought out her homemade salve of beeswax and olive oil for their aching hands, and the girls sang along to their favorite songs.

When the news came on at nine o’clock, Nina wasn’t listening, not properly. She’d been turning the heel on a sock she was knitting, always the trickiest part, and just keeping track of the stitches occupied all her attention. At first it hadn’t even seemed like something important. There was a congress in Verona, a meeting of the new fascist party, and they’d adopted a manifesto.

“The following constitutes a summary of the principal points that were agreed upon today. In regard to constitutional and internal—”

“The same rubbish as always,” Aldo grumbled, and the newsreader droned on, and Nina knitted stitch after careful stitch, her thoughts pleasantly vague.

“Point number six. The religion of the republic is the Roman Catholic Apostolic faith. Any other religion that does not conflict with the law is respected. Point number seven. The members of the Jewish race are foreigners. During this war they belong to an enemy nationality. In regard to foreign policy . . .”

Foreigner. Enemy.

She pushed back from the table, the chair legs skittering across the terra-cotta tiles. She stood, not caring when her knitting dropped to the floor and a row of stitches popped free.

“Excuse me. I’m not . . . I’m tired. Good night.”

“Is it your tooth again?” Agnese asked.

“I think she misses Nico,” Carlo chimed in.

It was true, for Nico would know how to make her feel better. He would know, better than anyone, what to say to take away her fear. But she couldn’t admit any of that to the children.

“No, dears. Only that I’m tired. That’s all.”

She hurried upstairs to bed, to the cocooning shelter of the covers, to the blessed anonymity of dark and silence and solitude. She couldn’t stop shivering.

She missed Nico so much. He’d left . . . she couldn’t remember how long it had been. Five days ago? Six? He’d warned her he was going away, as he’d done the time before, and he’d said he expected to be gone for at least ten days.

Another five days to wait—that was all. He’d return soon, and he would have answers for her then. Not long at all.