His brow furrowed, I recognize that Cec needs to concentrate on the task at hand. Instead, Bes answers.
“He knows the museum well. Even which tiles are cracked or chipped. Places he’s been to before and often are easier to navigate.”
I’m about to respond, when I stumble and nearly fall over a tomb from staring at Bes’s mouth while he talks. I catch myself on the smooth stone, inches from slamming my face into the ground. Heat splashes on my cheeks in embarrassment.
Climbing back to my feet, I concentrate on my footing over the packed sand and loose rocks while he continues.
“Foreign places—places he’s never been to before, or only visited a handful of times—are far more arduous,” Bes explains, “given he has no idea what is or isn’t—”
“Wait,” Cec whispers. “I hear something.”
The three of us stop mid-stride at his command, listening intently for what he heard.
At first, no other sound besides our combined breathing pricks at my ears, and I wonder if he’s pulling a fast one on us. Waiting a little longer, though, I hear it: footsteps. A lot of them.
“Hide,” Bes murmurs.
The two of them seek refuge behind a particularly large tomb, and I rush to crouch down beside them. My knee brushes against Bes’s. He glances at me but I can’t meet his eye. Not when I’m moments away from betraying him.
Whoever they are, I doubt they’re trying to draw attention to themselves—although, they’re failing. The open graveyard allows us to hear them easier, without any buildings to muffle the sound.
Trapped in the heart of this cemetery until the heavy footfalls move on, I’m reminded of the first time I went to visit my mother’s grave when I was eight. The silence is always so much harsher among the dead. Like it might swallow you whole and spit you out as bones.
The footsteps grow louder and more synchronized. They’re too uniform—they must be soldiers.
I mouth, “Nazis?” Bes shakes his head. Then, “God Men?”
Bes shakes his head for a second time right as they march into view, shaped into grisly shadows cast by the lamplight.
“Their uniforms aren’t right,” he whispers. “They likely hail from Italy.”
Italy?“Why would Italy send soldiers to Cairo?”
“It’s Mussolini,” Cec explains. “He’s forcing farmers to become soldiers and shipping them off to Libya, one of their closest colonies.”
I stare at him. I had no idea Mussolini was turning his citizens into soldiers.Truly, what have I gotten myself into?
“But why? For what purpose?”
Bes’s eyes glint with ire. “Conquering for the sake of it. Mussolini plans to take over the old Roman Empire territories, and he’s sending in untrained civies to do it.”
Cec regards Bes. “I wonder if there are any OVRA soldiers in their ranks.”
Bes scratches at his jaw. “Perhaps a high-ranking officer to oversee the mission, but no more than that.”
“OVRA soldiers?” I huff. I can’t keep up with all the people who’d be more than happy to kill us.
Bes explains, “The OVRA are Mussolini’s secret police. The name stands for Organizzazione per la Vigilanza e la Repressione dell’Antifascismo.”
I raise a brow. “I can see why he shortened it.”
I recognize a few of the words and deduce their meaning without having to ask for clarification. It shouldn’t surprise me that such a division exists. Fascists revel in the power they have, but always hunger for more while at once refusing to give any of it up. And God forbid you get in their way. Like the labor camps I’ve heard rumors about in Germany, built from the desire to suppress any and all Nazi foes from within. It’s only a matter of time before they lookwithout, like they have with the God Men.
It appears Mussolini has already achieved it.
When neither of them expound on the subject, I’m again faced with the quandary of where they learned all this. I suppose they could read a lot of newspapers like I try to. But they don’t strike me as the type—Cec especially, and not just because he’s mostly blind and would need someone to read the small print to him.
You don’t care, Mel. Youcan’tcare.
