“No, he’s alone,” Tony said. “I’ll try tapping on the window.”
Tony stood up, looked all around, then tapped lightly against the window pane. Dick stood behind him, looking in over Tony’s shoulder.
The old man hardly seemed to hear anything at first. He lifted his head slowly as if he might be dreaming. Then suddenly he jumped, startled, and Dick saw fear leap into his eyes. He stared at the door, and went to open it. Then Tony tapped more insistently. Obviously the old man could not be sure where the sound was coming from.
Finally he turned and stared at the window. Tony pressed his face close against the glass so that his uncle might see him, might recognize him. He hated to see that look of fear in Tomaso’s face, and he wanted to reassure him quickly.
But the old man looked more terrified than ever. For a few seconds he just stared at the window, not moving, and then as if impelled against his will, he moved toward the window. He moved his arms forward and opened it. Then he spoke, in a small voice, in Italian.
“What—what do you want?”
“Uncle Tomaso!” Tony whispered urgently. “It’s me—Tony! Tony Avella! Your nephew from America!”
The old man’s eyes widened with unbelief, but he leaned forward, thrusting his face close to Tony’s.
“It can’t be!” he muttered. “No, I’m dreaming! It can’t be! The Americans have not come yet!”
“But I’ve come, Uncle Tomaso,” Tony insisted. “I’ve come with my friends ahead of the rest of the Americans. Yes, I’m really Tony. Look! Look closely.”