The hotel wasn’t on fire. Not a shot had disturbed the silence outdoors. Roberto rubbed his wrists. Kurt had untied him long enough to let him use a toilet, then eat a roll and a small chunk of cheese. It was hard to chew without breaking the scab at the corner of his mouth. He picked the dried blood off his shoulder and neck. But he left his ear and the side of his mouth encrusted for fear he’d set them bleeding again. Kurt came over. “Done eating then?” He retied Roberto’s hands behind him. Roberto retreated to his corner. And that’s how it went. All day long. They stayed inside the hotel, waiting. Someone speculated on what to do. Scholl squelched the discussion immediately. He said he wanted a quick getaway, of course, of course, but they had to wait for orders from Hitler. That was it. No more of that kind of talk. The second day a man insisted he had to go out. And he needed a couple of volunteers to go with him. His truck was full of rifles, and if they didn’t go unload them, the Italians would get them.
