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the other soldier each got hold of a pig and slid their knives under the animals’ throats. I tried to close my eyes but I couldn’t. I wanted to see the Germans kill the pigs that my father and I had raised. I wanted to see these men spill blood on the ground not more than twenty yards from my house.
    The two soldiers moved as one, cutting upward quickly and smoothly, then stepping back as each pig took several tentative steps, swaying as the blood spurted from their severed jugular veins. The pigs sank to their knees and then dropped in the dirt, blood pooling around them. As I raised my eyes from the pigs, I found myself looking directly into Schlemmer’s grinning face. His teeth were yellow and his face was flushed.
    “We will eat these now, Benedetta,” said Becher. “Please prepare them immediately.”
    I nodded numbly and went inside the house.

C HAPTER TEN

    O n the sixth day of my father’s absence a rumor made its way through the village that Bishop Frugazzi was on his way. In the larger province of Frosinone, Bishop Frugazzi was the highest-ranking clergy. To have a priest of his stature come to our village was an honor, and a cause for celebration.
    He was coming, ostensibly, to meet the Germans, as well as to bless the village and pray for our safety as the war raged on all around us.
    By lunchtime, the rumor had grown to fact: The bishop would indeed be arriving in Casalvieri at noon. The rumor was confirmed by Colonel Wolff, who called me to discuss the matter.
    “You’ve heard of the man?” he asked.
    “Oh, yes,” I said. “This is an honor for all of us in Casalvieri.”
    He smiled. “Your faith is admirable, Benedetta.”
    For some reason, I didn’t think he admired my strong Catholic faith at all. There seemed to be a touch of mockery in his smile.
    “Here is a bottle of wine,” he said, handing it to me. “Please serve it to us at lunch.”
    “To who?” I asked.
    “Don Frugazzi will be coming here for lunch.”
    “Here?”
    “Here. Is there a problem?”
    “No, no,” I said. The fear I had been feeling since the Germans’ arrival was now replaced with a nervous excitement. Without saying another word to Wolff, I rushed to the kitchen and retrieved the best jar of tomatoes I could find, the one with the biggest chunks, and immediately set out to make Bishop Frugazzi the best spaghetti lunch he had ever had.
    The freshest garlic, onion, and olive oil, with chunks of pork, all went into the rich sauce. The thickest pasta I could find was boiled. I had never worked so quickly or so efficiently in the kitchen in my life. My hands flew with a speed and precision I didn’t know I possessed.
    The best tablecloth, last used for the wake after my mother’s funeral, went on the table. From a felt-lined wooden box came the few pieces of mismatched fine silverware that we reserved for special occasions.
    While everything cooked, I hurried to Zizi Checcone’s, holding my dress up so I could run as fast as my feet would fly. Iole and Emidio were playing together in her yard. They saw me coming and raced to meet me.
    “Benny, what’s wrong?” Iole asked, her big brown eyes wide with anticipated fright.
    I laughed. “Nothing! Just the opposite!”
    Emidio was clinging to my dress.
    “Father Frugazzi—the bishop—is coming to our house for lunch!” I told them.
    They looked at me, clearly not grasping the seriousness of the occasion.
    “Come with me—you can meet him and help serve lunch,” I said. “Papa will be so happy to know how well we took care of the bishop. This is an important occasion for the Carlesimo family!”
    “This is an important occasion for all of Casalvieri!” Zizi Checcone said, emerging from the front door of the house. She began to brush Iole’s hair with her fingers and straighten Emidio’s shirt and collar, then turned to frantically trying to smooth out the wrinkles in my dress.
    We raced back to the house and I sent Iole and Emidio upstairs to change.