Zommunist Invasion by Picott, Camille (ebook reader ink TXT) 📗

on her hands stood as a testament to a long life of hard work. The laugh lines around her eyes and mouth were as familiar as a happy memory.

Even though Aunt Greta looked familiar, there was an emptiness to her body. Like a vase without flowers, or a shoe without a foot.

There was a tangible absence to Aunt Greta’s body. It was something Valentina detected as soon as she walked into the chapel.

As she stared down at her brother’s body, she sensed that same absence.

The river without water, the clothesline without clothes.

Blood trickled out of the side of his wool sweater. It wicked across the light gray fabric, creating a large inkblot on his back and side. The partisan patch with its alpine star and edelweiss flowers stood out in stark contrast on the shoulder of his sweater.

It had only been a few hours since he’d strutted into the kitchen wearing the partisan patch. Their mother and grandmother had been terrified by the sight of it, but they’d cooed and told him how handsome he looked. They lied and told him how proud they were that he was going to fight for Italy. Luca had puffed up under their compliments, oblivious to the fear in their eyes.

In her mind, Valentina kept hearing him say, Maybe fighting Il Duce and his Nazi bastards will make a man out of me.

“Valé? Luca is dead. I need your help.”

A tiny, powerful earthquake quivered from the top of Valentina’s head to the heels of her feet. Luca was dead. He was an empty body. A memory of his big laugh and infectious smile floated just out of reach.

“Valé?”

Her chin jerked up. Marcello stood beside her brother’s body. Snow covered his wide-brimmed hat. Flakes stuck to his cheeks and gathered on the buttons of his wool coat. His cheeks were flushed, as though he’d run hard and fast to get here.

“One of Il Duce’s fascists got him.” Marcello’s eyes were wide and dilated in the darkness. A smear of blood marred his chin. More blood covered his knuckles. “I tried to help, but I wasn’t fast enough.”

“A fascist?” Valentina hunched into her coat, eyes darting through the severe winter night. Blood smeared the side of Luca’s head, like he’d been punched.

“There was only one of them. He must have seen the partisan patch.” Marcello stared down at the brightly colored patch on Luca’s shoulder. “The fascist ran away when he saw me. I didn’t get a look at his face.”

Her eyes drifted to the bloody footprints in the snow. Luca’s footprints.

Marcello’s bloody knuckles hung in her periphery like a nightmare.

Grief, hard and sharp, knocked the breath out of her. She fell to her knees, sobs wracking her. Hot tears dripped out of her eyes and fell steaming into the snow. They were swallowed up by the bloody puddle beneath her. She couldn’t tell where her grief ended and Luca’s life-blood began.

How could Luca be gone?

“What—what happened?” she gasped between sobs.

“I told you. A fascist killed him. He was an idiot to wear that patch out in the open where everyone could see him.”

How? The question shivered in the air around her. How had one of Il Duce’s fascists. found and killed Luca?

“The bastard must have pushed him onto the rake.” Marcello toed an upright rake that lay on the ground beside Luca. The tines steamed in the cold, each sharp end gleaming wet with her brother’s blood. It was her father’s rake. He left it out here sometimes, forgetting to put it into the shed.

She crawled through the snow, not caring that her skirt and coat dragged in the puddle of his blood. Resting her forehead on his back, she cried.

“It’s supper time, Luca,” she wailed into his scratchy gray sweater. “Luca, Mama sent me to fetch you for supper.”

“Valé.” Marcello’s voice penetrated her grief. A hand came down on her back. Marcello rubbed her between the shoulder blades. “Valé, we have to get his body inside. We can’t leave him out here. Come, help me.”

Sniffling, Valentina pried herself off of Luca’s body. The blood soaking through the knees of her stockings was still warm. She pushed his shoulder and rolled his body over.

The face that was revealed belonged to a memory she had done her best to forget. The neat black mustache Luca had grown a few months ago sat above lips painted bright red. The eyes pinched with the pain of death were rimmed with coal. Cheeks marred with indentations from the snow were dusted with light pink rouge.

When Nonna awoke after a long night of fitful sleep, she immediately knew Dal, Lena, and Amanda had not returned during the night. There was an absence in the air that spoke volumes.

She lay in bed, squeezing her eyes shut against the fear and grief that threatened to overtake her. She reminded herself than Nonna Cecchino was made of the toughest fibers. Tears were reserved for those rare moments when they really counted, not for moments of fear and potential loss.

Resolved, she swung her feet to the cold floor and slid them into her slippers.

“Stephenson,” she barked. “Get up. It’s time to go practice.”

Nonna might not be able to do anything for her grandchildren, but there was still one teenage boy she could help.

She would do her damndest to get him ready for this war.

34

A Brother Like You

Dal, Lena, and Amanda didn’t come home that night. Their absence was like yawning abyss. Stephenson didn’t let himself look into the darkness. He couldn’t. He couldn’t imagine a world without Amanda in it. Amanda or Cassie. They were his best friends.

What could have happened to them? They always took the truck to remote places in the middle of nowhere. They should have been safe.

He wished Cassie was here. She would make him feel better. She had a practical side that always made Stephenson feel grounded.

At least she was with Leo. He could tell from the way the other boy looked at her that