3
Boots
Pietermaritzburg
28 July 1943 — morning
Pietro lay on his lumpy cot, which one of his tent mates, Antonio, had filled with hay. He felt a pang of guilt that he hadn’t appreciated any of the deeds done for him by either Antonio or Enzo since he’d met these men, months earlier. He wasn’t used to people doing anything for him or him being expected to do anything for anyone else. All this interaction wouldn’t last long. Nothing survived in hell. He knew.
But then his heart sped up as thoughts inevitably turned to the redhead who’d jolted his existence yesterday. Dio mio. His body and mind reacted in ways he’d long forgotten.
Mia Cara Rossa. In her he saw hope. He’d felt it yesterday when he saw her, windswept and intense. It was indeed more than hope. She’d given him back a desir
