9
PIAZZA TRIESTE E TRENTO
The room was on the second floor, the blinds drawn, a candle in the corner burned down to a low wick. Franco lay in the small bed, a thin sheet covering him to the waist, his eyes fluttered shut, a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his wounded shoulder. He heard the floorboards creak and opened his eyes. “Vincenzo,” he said. “
Sei tu?
”
The footsteps came closer and Franco could make out the image of a boy about his height and weight sulking toward his side of the bed. The boy sat on the edge of the spring mattress, the small of his back against Franco’s feet, resting a warm hand on top of the sheet.
“Who are you?” Franco asked, able to catch glimpses of the boy’s face in between tiny flickers of the candle flame.
“My name’s Carlo,” the boy said in a thick, harsh voice that Franco did not recognize. “And I can be a friend to you.”
“How did you find me?” Franco asked, wiping drops of fever sweat from his brow. “No one knows about this place.”
“It wasn’t hard,” Carlo said. “Nothing is if you know who to ask and where to look.”
Franco lifted himself higher in the bed, wincing at the sharp pain in his shoulder. The large, jagged wound had been slow to heal with medication being hard to come by and painkillers nonexistent. Connors had yanked the shank out and Nunzia had cleansed the cut, pulling out as many splinters as she could with a hot pair of tweezers. She then rubbed a boiled lemon and ground pepper paste on the edges of the wound and sealed it with a mixture of penicillin and hot wax before wrapping it with the boiled strands of a torn dress. Franco was running a high fever and his lower limbs were cold to the touch. He reached for the glass that was on the end table, next to the candle, and drank down the last drops of wine.
“You can start telling me what you want,” Franco said. “I’m not going anywhere for a few hours.”
“I want to help you and your friends fight the Nazis,” Carlo said. “Nothing more than that. I have a small group up in the hills that will come join me. We’re all very good and you’re going to need all the good people you can find.”
“Why are you waiting until now to help us?” Franco asked, still suspicious, trying to place both the face and the choppy sounds of the boy’s harsh dialect.
Carlo slid down the edge of the bed, closer to Franco, leaning across the sweaty sheets with a smile, exposing a mouthful of neglected teeth. “We followed what you all were doing, but from a distance. We wanted to make sure it was going to turn out to be more than just loud talk in empty piazzas. And we didn’t think you wanted any help from kids like us.”
“You’re from the children’s prison,” Franco said, a hint of recognition taking shape in his fever-fogged mind.
“That’s right,” Carlo admitted. “Me and everyone from my group. We’re the ones your parents always told you to stay away from. But that was before the war started. Now we’re the kind you really need.”
“Just because you were sent to jail doesn’t mean you can fight,” Franco said, his eyes on the older boy’s hands. “And it doesn’t mean we want you fighting with us.”
“We’ve been to prison and survived,” Carlo said, voice overrun with confidence. “The Nazis can do nothing to us worse than what’s already been done.”
“What were you in prison for?” Franco asked.
“That doesn’t matter,” Carlo said, shaking off the question. “We come in with you or we fight the Nazis out there on our own. I came here thinking that together would be better.”
“Why come to me?”
“The others are scattered and on the move,” Carlo said. “You’re going to be in this bed for a day or two. It just seemed easier.”
“You don’t need permission to fight the Nazis,” Franco said, his shoulder aching, his eyes heavy from the fever and the heat in the stuffy room. “Just go out and disrupt their attack. If you do that, then we’ll know you and your friends are with us. Until then, there’s very little for us to say to each other.”
Carlo nodded, stretched his legs and stood, gazing down at Franco with cold, distant eyes. “You need what we have,” he said. “It’s something that will take many Nazi lives and help save some of the boys from being killed. To turn your back on it will be foolish.”
Franco rested his head against a feather pillow and stared at Carlo. He was tired and in pain and he wished Vincenzo was in the room to help sort through Carlo’s words and determine if they were truthful or a trap. “What is it you have?” he asked, his throat parched and raw.
“A tank,” Carlo said with genuine glee. “A Panzer tank. And enough shells to deal with an army of problems.”
Franco’s eyes widened at the news. “How did you get a tank?” he asked, intrigued by the possibilities such a weapon offered the street boys.
“The same way we get everything,” Carlo said. “We stole it. Two nights before the Nazis came into Naples.”
“You have to be trained to drive it,” Franco said.
“If you can drive a car, you can drive a tank. It comes down to the same thing, only without windows.”
Franco pulled aside the sheet and jumped from the bed, his movements startling Carlo, who took two slow steps back. He grabbed Carlo by the center of his white woolen shirt and dragged him to his side, leaving him close enough to smell the raw wound and see the blood draining through the bandage. “If you’re lying to me, thief,” Franco said, the strength back in his voice, his words fueled by the heat of anger, “if one word of what you just said is not true, I’ll find you and I will kill you.”
“You heal quick,” Carlo said, staring deep into Franco’s eyes. “That’s a good talent to have during a war.”
Franco released his grip and pushed Carlo away, the wounded boy walking the room in a tight circle, his fists clenched, his eyes never wavering from the convicted felon in his presence. “Where’s this tank now?” he asked.
“It’s wherever you want it to be,” Carlo said, slowly regaining his bravado. “You name the place and time and I’ll make sure it’s there.”
Franco bowed his head for a few brief moments, quickly glancing out the window at the bare street below. “Can you get it to Via Vicaria Vecchia without being spotted?”
“The Nazis will think it’s one of their own,” Carlo said. “We’re free to move anywhere we want.”
“Have it there at noon tomorrow,” Franco said. “Park it along one of the alleys in Forcella.”
Carlo nodded and headed toward the door. “Noon it is. Who else will be with you?”
“I was going to ask you the same question,” Franco said.
“Then we should wait until tomorrow,” Carlo said. “This way, we’ll both be surprised.”
Franco stood in the center of the room, watching as Carlo closed the door behind him, leaving him shrouded in darkness. He ran his fingers along the sides of his bandage, his legs fatigued from the fever and the shock to his body. He grabbed for his pants, curled at the foot of the bed, and put them on. He found a torn shirt in the top drawer of a small bureau and pulled it over his head, wincing as it drew past the cut. Outside, heavy shells pounded at the buildings in a nearby square, the explosions causing puffs of sand to snake up through the floorboards.
Franco took a final look around the room and walked out, once again ready to do battle.
10
VIA SAN CARLO
The two tanks surrounded the three-story building, soldiers working the stone edges, pouring gasoline on its pink stucco facade. Inside, a dozen street boys huddled in corners, away from any open windows, all with guns and rifles in their hands. Two soldiers wielding heavy stone mallets bashed down the front door and stepped aside as the tank took dead aim at the ornate fireplace in the foyer. Flames rushed through the center hall, blasted out the three front windows and rocked the wooden floor above. Two of the boys began to cry while another stood and tried to leave the room. The oldest among them, Emilio Carbone, the fourteen-year-old son of a stone mason, stood in front of the door and blocked his path. Emilio put an arm around the smaller boy’s shoulders and walked him back toward the center of the room. “This isn’t a time for us to run,” he said in low, comforting tones. “We have to let the Nazis see our true face.”
“We’ll die in here!” a boy in a far corner shouted out at Emilio, the walls around him trembling from another heavy hit. Below them, the voices of Nazi soldiers screaming out orders ricocheted off the barren stairwell.
“I know,” Emilio said. “All of us did, the minute we came running in here. But in the time we have left, let the Nazis feel some of our pain.”
The aftershock of a tank shell blew out a back window, thick smoke clogging the room. The crack and sparkle of flames could be heard licking at the walls in the other rooms, the paint around them melting from the heat and sliding down the thin wood panels.
“They’ll come storming through any second now,” Emilio said, pointing to the thick oak door at his back. “Let’s be ready.”
They were lined up in a row of twelve, the open windows and glare of the tanks at their backs. Each held either a rifle or handgun, cocked at the front door, brown smoke from the fire below them filtering through the cracked tiles and coating their bare feet. “Use every bullet you have,” Emilio instructed them. “There’s no reason to save anything for later.”
The front door was smashed open by the butt end of two machine guns, the wilting wood easily caving in to the blow. Three soldiers stood across the smashed entryway, their guns at waist level. The dozen street boys braced themselves against the hot walls and fired their weapons. A steady stream of bullets rained on the soldiers, killing three instantly and wounding two others, the ammo escaping through holes in the side panels. The boys then moved forward, six sliding to the burning ground, the other half dozen straddling above them, all firing at will at the attacking soldiers. “When your gun is empty, reach for a Nazi’s that’s full,” Emilio shouted above the buzz of the fire. “Move forward and never let up.”
Three boys slid across the now scalding floor and grabbed machine guns and ammo belts from the dead soldiers by the door. One held up a pack of grenades and tossed it over his shoulder to Emilio. “Slide any extra weapons you find behind you,” he told them as he rested the grenade pack on his shoulder and continued shooting across the now wide doorway. The small children’s brigade kept moving, their hands scorched from the firing, their faces masked with soot and black powder, hair tinged with dust. The heavy flames from the outside of the building had spread inside, the smoke winding its way down the halls and into the rooms like a silent snake. Some of the boys were groggy, their watery eyes tinged with red, their breath coming in hard, difficult gulps. “We need to get to air soon, Emilio,” one of the boys said. He was now in the hall and firing his weapon into the stairwell. “We can fight the Nazis but not the smoke.”
Emilio broke from the pack and raced through the halls of the eighteenth-century building, flames shooting at him from all sides, bullets zinging past, the floor below him creaking with every step. He turned a corner and went into a room that was near collapse, the ceiling cracked and hanging halfway down to the ground, a large chandelier shattered below it. He dodged the shards of glass and ducked past thick chunks of plaster, reaching an open window in the rear. He looked down on the remains of a once well-tended garden, its flowers wilted and mauled, its grass blackened by tire treads and the weight of tanks and trampling feet. Emilio looked from the garden to the heavens above and smiled.
He ran back into the hall, the heat around him like that of an oven, the smoke making it all but impossible to see to the next step. He found two of the boys, crouched in a corner, firing the last of their machine-gun bullets into the fog that held them prisoner. He lowered a hand down to them and pulled them to their feet. “Run to the back,” he ordered. “In the rear of the house, the room with the broken chandelier. Jump through the open window and run to safety. Do you hear me?”
“
Si
, Emilio,” the boys said, disappearing as if ghosts into the blanket of hell.
Emilio ran for the others, gathering as many of them as he could find, giving them all the same instructions, watching as they each scrambled through clouds of smoke for the room at the end of the hall. He leaned against a creaky banister, his eyes heavy, his breath coming in painful spurts, his right foot resting against the body of a Nazi soldier. Outside, in the misty afternoon sunshine, eleven street boys were jumping from the fire and scrambling their way to freedom. Emilio smiled, closed his eyes and fell over in a dusty heap, his body coiled against the top of the landing. His head rested limp over the side.
Seconds later, the once majestic building surrendered its battle to the smoke and the flames and collapsed, melting into the ground like a washed-over sand castle.
11
VIA NUOVO TEMPIO
The wrath of the 16th Panzer Division tanks and its soldiers was now fully unleashed on Naples. The tanks rumbled through the steamy streets, unloading one barrage after another. Soldiers fired at the first hint of any movement and the flame throwers were working at full throttle, their potent line of fire raining down on barns, homes and storefronts. Grenades were tossed on rooftops and rapid-stream machine-gun shells echoed off the empty side streets.
In the midst of the smoke and ruin, a young soldier, face soiled by grease and caked dirt, stepped up to the main tank and saluted the officer standing in the open hole.
“There’s a small church on the next corner, sir,” the young man said, speaking in a rushed manner. “It’s sustained quite a bit of damage and there are fires smoldering on the inside, but sections of it still stand. Shall we leave it and move on?”
The officer glared down at the young soldier, his face draped in a cold, hard shell. “No, moving on is not an option,” he said in a stern voice. “Moving through is your only choice.”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier said. “I only thought that since it’s a church, we could leave it as it is.”
“You thought wrong,” the officer said. “Once we’ve gone, these streets will fall into enemy hands. Our goal is to ensure that they can’t find a scrap of a building, church or otherwise, when they come marching in. Not even a spot that offers shade from the sun.”
The young soldier quietly nodded and turned away, to return to a cruel task he never envisioned performing back in Hamburg, when he first proudly wore his uniform and posed for photos with his younger brothers and sisters. He walked in the middle of the street, flames, explosion and debris on both sides of the avenue, the sounds of gunfire fading into the background as the tanks moved forward. He stopped when he reached the church, its facade smoking and broken in half, portions of the side walls blown off. He stepped over rubble and cracked stone and walked into the remains of a building that had been erected centuries earlier by skilled laborers who worked as much out of pride of craft as for want of money. He rested his rifle on the back of a broken chair and walked down the center aisle, eyes fixed on the large crucifix that hung down from a main beam in the ceiling. The ceramic floor of the church, once ornate and glimmering, was now blanketed with brown dust. Statues of saints rested in heaps under darkened archways and the two side altars had been blown apart, each one sent smashing through stone walls and into the fiery alleys at their back. The soldier stopped on the lower step of the central altar and bowed his head, his knees resting on the cold, chipped marble. He blessed himself and mumbled a soft prayer, his eyes closed, his hands folded at his waist.
He stiffened when he heard the baby cry.
The quiet wail came from his left, inside one of the confessional booths, shrouded by heavy purple curtains. The soldier stood and walked toward the sound, one hand held on his holstered pistol. He stopped in front of the booth and hesitated, listening closely. He stepped off to the side and parted the curtains, peering into the darkness of the tiny wooden cubicle. He saw the infant first, cuddled in the arms of a young woman, the child’s chest bare, soiled pants covering the small curled legs. The woman looked back at the soldier, her body still, her eyes wide and overrun with fear. Her clothes were torn and frayed, exposing the sides of her legs and shoulders and her hair, dark and long, shaded the top of her head and the back of her neck. The woman had one hand clasped tightly across the baby’s mouth, muffling his loud and eager cries for food.
The woman stood and stepped out of the booth on trembling legs. She walked up to the soldier, the baby now close enough for him to touch. He stared down at the smeared face and moved his hand away from the gun. He looked at the mother, neither one making any attempt to speak. The soldier turned his head and gazed over at a staircase behind the confessional, leading down to a darkened basement. He slowly looked back at the woman and rested a hand on her arm, sensing her flinch from the touch. He pointed toward the steps, nudging his head in their direction, the restless hunger of the baby calmed by the sight of a stranger. The woman held her place, her eyes focused on the soldier, her hands clutching the baby tighter in her grip.
The explosion rattled them both, the front wall of the church blasted aside, smoke and debris racing toward them like a fast-moving train. The startled baby began to fill the air with his cries. The soldier tightened his grip on the woman’s arm and pulled her toward the stairs, giving a quick check to the front door. He looked at the woman, nodded and pointed down, urging her with an assortment of hand gestures to move at a faster pace. The woman stopped on the third step, the baby in her arms shrieking for food, attention and an escape to a quieter, safer place. She moved closer to the soldier, placing her lips near his left ear, partially covered by the edges of his pith helmet. “
Ti ringrazzio,
” the woman whispered. She then softly kissed his cheek and ran her thin fingers across the side of his face. “
Ti ringrazzio tanto.
”
She turned and quickly disappeared down the dark stairwell to the hoped-for safety of the church basement, looking to keep her child alive for one more day. The soldier stood silent as he watched her leave, face still warmed by her tender touch. He turned when he saw the two soldiers behind him, rifles drawn, backs to the small confessional.
“Anybody down there?” one asked.
“No,” the young soldier said. “Not a soul.”
He moved up the steps, past the booth and headed out of the church.