Street Boys

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Connors jumped back to the ground and leaned against the seared tank, assessing the damage. He looked up toward the rooftops and spotted Nunzia, circled his hand above his head, the signal for all those above to make their quick retreat. He saw her return the sign and turned his attention back to the street action. A handful of German soldiers were down and two more of the tanks were disabled. A dozen of the soldiers, some wounded, walked slowly along the street, searching for targets that were no longer there. Connors caught a long glimpse of Angelo’s body, lowered his head and quietly backed out of the street, picking up as many weapons as he could hold, heading away from the tanks and the soldiers.

  His first battle of the morning was at an end.

  Maldini grabbed Vincenzo’s shoulder and dragged him away from the wall, the German soldiers fast on their heels. “We can’t stay here,” he told him. “We’ll head for one of the rooftops and then make our way to Lungomare. It’s the safest way out.”

  “I didn’t want him to die,” Vincenzo said, struggling to get to his feet.

  “No one wanted him to die,” Maldini said. “It’s not your fault and it wasn’t his. It’s a war and the people no one wants to see dead usually die. You, more than anyone, should know that.”

  They slipped into a darkened hallway as three soldiers ran past, each firing random shots at unseen targets. Maldini pointed to a stairwell on the right and they began the climb up its narrow steps, the older man leading the boy. “Grab one of those bottles,” Maldini said, pointing down at a kerosene cocktail resting by a door jam. “Take that candle, too, and use them both when you have to.”

  When they got to the second-floor landing, they heard the soldiers enter the foyer below. “You go ahead,” Vincenzo said. “I’ll meet you at Lungomare.”

  Maldini walked down the two steps that separated them and tightened his grip on Vincenzo’s arm. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I’m leaving behind one dead boy. I don’t want there to be two.”

  “I’m sure.” Vincenzo stared into Maldini’s eyes.

  Maldini took a deep breath and nodded. “Wait for them to come up the stairs. Light the fuse, hold it above your shoulder and let it go. And then run up these stairs as fast as you’ve ever run in your life.”

  Maldini loosened his grip on Vincenzo’s shoulder and disappeared around a bend of steps. Vincenzo watched him leave, hearing the heavy pounding of the German soldiers in the stairwell below. He pulled the cloth out of the wine bottle, draped its rolled up end over the lit edges of the heavy candle. He tossed aside the candle, shoved the cloth back in the neck of the bottle and moved away from the wall, standing a flight above the three armed soldiers. He stared at them for several seconds, watching as they halted their run and positioned their rifles. He held the bottle up, the flame getting closer to the lip, two bullets landing against the wall just above his head.

  “Viva Napoli!” he shouted.

  The explosion shattered parts of a wall and demolished the handrail. Two of the soldiers lay dead, the third, wounded, moaned in pain. Vincenzo ran down the creaky steps, avoiding the large, broken-off shards of wood. He took the rifles and the ammo belts from the dead soldiers and looked down at the third one. Bleeding from the stomach and neck, the soldier struggled to move a bloody hand toward his gun. Vincenzo bent down and ripped the gun out of its holster. He unclipped his ammo belt and reached for his rifle. The German put out a hand and gripped Vincenzo’s arm, holding it tight, bringing it down closer to his open wound.

  The soldier was trembling, drenched in sweat and blood. He was young, just a few years older than the street boy. Vincenzo tossed the ammo belts and rifles on the steps behind him, sat down and lifted the soldier’s head, resting it on his knee. He removed his helmet and threw it down the stairs. The two stared into each other’s eyes without speaking. Vincenzo’s hand was pressed on the large hole in his stomach, blood gushing through his fingers. The soldier placed his right hand on top of the boy’s, both of them holding down tight, looking to relieve some of the pain. The soldier lifted his head slightly and gently rubbed Vincenzo’s cheek with his free hand.

  “Grazia,” he whispered, seconds before he drew his last breath.

  2

  16TH PANZER DIVISION HEADQUARTERS

  IL PALAZZO REALE

  Von Klaus watched Kunnalt rush to his side, stop and salute, always aware and appreciative of the young officer’s eagerness to please. The troubled look on the man’s face was enough to tell him that the news to be delivered wasn’t good. “Problems already?” he asked, waiting as his aide took a deep breath.

  “We’ve encountered a minor disturbance on Via Toledo,” Kunnalt said. “And we took some casualties.”

  “I never consider casualties to be minor disturbances,” Von Klaus said with a note of irritation.

  “Sorry, sir. I meant it as a statement of fact. I didn’t mean to sound unconcerned.”

  “What have we lost?” Von Klaus said, brushing aside the apology.

  “Nine men are dead,” Kunnalt said. “Three are wounded, one critical. And three of the tanks are down.”

  Von Klaus stared at Kunnalt, his face red, his voice coated with anger. “Who did this?” he asked, each word spoken softly and in a deliberate tone.

  “Boys mostly,” Kunnalt told him. “They lined the rooftops, armed with rifles and makeshift bombs.”

  “Boys plan pranks, not battles,” Von Klaus said. “Someone is leading them. Who?”

  “We’re not quite sure yet, sir,” Kunnalt said. “But the men reported an exchange of gunfire with an American soldier. He came at them from a rear flank and seemed to be in control of the operation.”

  “The Americans are firmly entrenched in Salerno,” Von Klaus said. “They won’t move until Montgomery moves and that’s at least a week away. They may have sent a small team down to gauge activity in the city, but no one is sent out alone. The men may have seen one soldier, but there may be others scattered throughout the city. We need to find them, and quickly. I don’t want any repeats of what happened this morning. This mission will be a success if I have to personally bring down every building myself.”

  “If we capture one of the boys, he might lead us to the Americans,” Kunnalt said. “They may have been forced into this fight and might be looking to find a way out.”

  “They weren’t forced to be good at it,” Von Klaus said. “Nine dead soldiers and three tanks in ruin. This is insane! I want this stopped before it builds. That means today, Kunnalt.”

  “Our troops were not expecting resistance,” Kunnalt said.

  “They’re soldiers,” Von Klaus snapped. “It’s time they began to act like it.”

  “I’ve alerted all sniper teams to report any movements back to headquarters,” Kunnalt said. “In addition to that, do you want me to request aerial assistance from high command?”

  Von Klaus shook his head as he looked down at a large map of Naples spread out on a table under a tree. “This is our battle. Unless you want me to inform high command that one of the most elite tank troops in the German army can’t face down a group of children led by one soldier.”

  “Then no changes to the standing orders, sir?”

  “The orders hold as given.” Von Klaus looked away from the map and toward Kunnalt. “No mercy in any quarters. Not to the buildings and not to anyone left on the streets. And that includes children.”

  3

  SAN LORENZO MAGGIORE

  Steve Connors sat on a thick stone in the shadows of a dark basement, his hands on the dials of a broken transmitter, the candle by his feet his only direct light. He moved the dials from right to left and tugged at the white button at the base, all to no avail. He slapped at the base of the machine in frustration and then kicked it to the ground. He sat with his back against the wall and looked out into the darkness. “Does that help make it work?” Vincenzo asked.

  He stood in a corner of the room, his voice a small echo in the stillness of the basement. He stepped closer
to Connors, until the candle flame helped illuminate his face.

  “I need to contact my headquarters,” Connors said, staring up at Vincenzo. “I have to get us some help.”

  “How much better would your soldiers have done today?” Vincenzo asked.

  “I saw you freeze up out there,” Connors said, his anger now at full throttle. “And I saw a kid with no business being in a fight get killed. That wouldn’t have happened with soldiers.”

  “I didn’t expect to see Angelo come down the street,” Vincenzo said, his head down and his voice low. “And I didn’t know how to stop him.”

  “We got lucky out there,” Connors said. “Only one of ours died. And that’s not because we were better than the Germans. It’s because they weren’t expecting us. That’s not going to happen anymore, and that means a lot more people are going to die.”

  “It was my first fight,” Vincenzo said almost sheepishly. “And I was afraid. More than I thought I would be.”

  “All those military books I hear you like to read are filled with stories about great battles and great soldiers,” Connors said, looking at Vincenzo. “They talk about strategy and planning, make war sound like a chess game. And they’re all wrong. Those books don’t tell you anything about war. They don’t tell you what it’s like to squeeze a trigger and then watch some guy your own age in another uniform fall down dead.”

  “At first it was like everything was moving in slow motion,” Vincenzo said, searching for the words. “And then when I tried to run, it felt like my feet were buried in water. But then a second later, it was all going so fast, I couldn’t figure out how to keep up.”

  “It seems to go that way in every fight,” Connors said, his anger dissipating, his manner softer now, more compassionate toward a boy coming to terms with his first taste of fire. “There are days when you can see every bullet fired coming right at you. Other times, all you see is a flash from a gun and the buzz run past your ear. It’s different every time out.”

  “Are you always afraid?” Vincenzo asked, sitting down across from Connors.

  “Never more than the first time,” Connors said. “There’s no training that can prepare you for that first fight. You don’t know how you’re supposed to feel or how you should act. It gets easier after you’ve been through a few, but you always get the fear. You just know how to deal with it better.”

  “I think I’ll always be afraid,” Vincenzo said. “I don’t know if that will help make me a good fighter.”

  “You’re already a good fighter,” Connors said. “Just because you’re afraid doesn’t mean you’re not brave. You’ve seen a lot of blood for a kid your age and that gives you more of an edge, but it doesn’t make you battle-ready.”

  “I might never be,” Vincenzo said. “But this morning was not just about me and Angelo. It was about those children on the rooftops who finally had a chance to fight back against tanks and soldiers.”

  Connors stood and walked toward the steps leading out of the church, stopping in front of a dust-shrouded statue of Saint Jude.

  “He’s the patron saint of lost causes,” Vincenzo said. “Italians pray to him when they have no one else to turn to for help.”

  “It do them any good?” Connors asked.

  “You’ve been here long enough to know the answer,” Vincenzo said. “But Italians never blame the saints. Only themselves. So they pray every day, and once in a while good things happen and they have a saint to thank for it.”

  “That hold for you, too?” Connors asked. “The prayer part, I mean.”

  “Not really,” Vincenzo said, looking up at Saint Jude, his marbled hands entwined in long rows of cobwebs. “Even if the saints could hear my words, why would they stop just to listen to me?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever prayed,” Connors said. “I would go to services back home, but that’s just more because I had to than wanted to. And while I was there, I went through all the motions of prayer. But I’ve never said one where I really meant it.”

  Vincenzo patted his fingers gently across the statue’s bare feet and looked at Connors. “Maybe that will change,” he said in a whisper. “For both of us.”

  They turned and walked up the narrow steps leading out of the church, leaving behind the peaceful silence.

  4

  PIAZZA DANTE

  Three German tanks rumbled around the center of the square, their engines running hot, officers standing in the open pits, gazing out at the abandoned structures. The large, ornate gate in the middle of the massive building was shuttered. It had been built in 1625 and was positioned directly across from Dante’s statue. A dozen German soldiers were scattered around the tanks, their eyes searching the rooftops for signs of trouble. The tanks spread out, the officers directing the drivers to designated spots, each facing a front of the hemicycle that had stood since 1588. They were poised and eager to begin their destructive mission.

  The center tank fired first.

  Its opening salvo sent the gates flying, splitting the lock and bending the iron grate. The officer ignored the smoke that mushroomed around him, tapped on the sides and looked into the square as the tank moved forward. Three of the soldiers walked in behind the tank, crouched and apprehensive. The actions that had been taken earlier in Via Toledo had been radioed to all the units and they were placed on a full alert. The tank moved under the large monument, crushing some of the bars of the fallen gate as it rumbled past, and came to a halt on the other side, the officer’s head still shrouded in the shadows of the arch. He turned and saw the other two tanks holding the same position.

  “Looks clear to me,” he said, speaking into a hand mike. “We’ll send the men in first to draw any of them out. Once that’s done, we bring it all down.”

  The soldiers slid into place alongside the tanks. Outside the towers, Dante’s sculpture looked up toward the tolling clock.

  It was ten A.M.

  The three wooden carts were wheeled in and hidden behind Dante’s statue. Each cart was loaded with mines and soaked with kerosene. Vincenzo eased past one of the carts, rifle in hand, and crouched down along the stone basin. Franco and Angela stepped in alongside. “The tanks are right where we need them to be,” Franco said.

  “The American needs a few more minutes to get in position,” Vincenzo said. “Then we can make our move.”

  “What if more Nazis come from behind us?” Angela asked. “What do we do?”

  “We turn the carts on them,” Vincenzo said. “Which leaves our people in the square out on their own.”

  “This is a dangerous plan,” Franco said.

  “I’m open to any plans that aren’t dangerous,” Vincenzo said. He waited but Franco stayed silent. Vincenzo turned away, his eyes searching out the tanks in front of him, watching the Nazi soldiers move inside grounds that had been designed for leisurely walks, not great battles.

  The center tank shifted gears and ground to a halt, the soldiers positioned around it holding their places and their weapons. The tanks on either side also came to a quick stop, the square filled with rising dust and crouched soldiers aiming weapons at the man and boy standing at ease in the center of the piazza. Maldini stood facing three tanks and a dozen Nazis, his arms held out, a smile on his face. Next to him, little Fabrizio bounced a soccer ball against the side of his foot.

  The officer in the center tank motioned toward Maldini, signaling him to move closer. “What are you doing here?” he asked in Italian. “You’re not allowed within city limits.”

  Maldini walked forward, his steps slow and calculated, sliding casually across the rough terrain. “I know, sir,” he said apologetically. “I was set to leave when the Germans first arrived. But then my son ran away. He was afraid of the guns. Ever since, I have spent all my time looking for him. This morning, with the grace of God, I finally found him. He was hiding in one of the large rooms above us.”

  Fabrizio looked up at the German officer, moving the soccer ball from one foot to the other. He
then lifted his eyes and saw his target, on a stone wall, fifteen meters to the right of the tank. A mine rested in the center of a brick column, directly above four soldiers with cocked machine guns.

  “I could have you shot just for being here,” the officer snarled.

  “I know, sir,” Maldini said. “I beg you, please show us your mercy. We’re ready now, my son and I, to go anywhere you want us to go.”

  “Were there any others hiding in those buildings?” the officer asked. “Besides your son.”

  “None that I saw, sir,” Maldini said. “The buildings I searched looked empty, a poor place to hide for adult or child.”

  “Your son managed to survive,” the officer said. “Despite the many bombing raids.”

  “The Good Lord must have been watching over him, sir,” Maldini said. “It’s the only answer.”

  The officer snorted a laugh and looked down at one of his soldiers. “These Italians love to believe that God takes a hand in everything that happens to them. It helps rescue them from any responsibility.”

  Maldini kept his eyes on the young officer in the tank and ignored the snide laughter that came from the soldiers grouped around its sides. Next to him, Fabrizio lifted the soccer ball from his foot to his knee, bouncing it in a quiet rhythm, as he stood balanced on one leg. Maldini turned to the little boy and gently rubbed his head. “It’s time to play ball,” he said to him.