Street Boys

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Connors rested the empty drum by his feet, peering down the dark street at the thin line of kerosene he had left behind. He handed his cigarette lighter to the oldest of the two boys. “Check the time on your watch,” he told him. “Wait ten minutes and then drop a light right where I’m standing.”

  The boy nodded, clutching the lighter in the palm of his right hand.

  “Then run to the rooftop and send out one of the pigeons with the message for the others,” Connors said.

  “We know,” the boy said impatiently. “Nunzia’s told us this a number of times.”

  Connors turned and glared at him. “And we’re going to keep telling you until you can give it to me backwards,” he said. “The idea’s not just to do it, but to do it and get out alive. Once the Nazis see the light from the flames, they’re going to start shooting. And it won’t be at me or at Nunzia. It’ll be at you.”

  Nunzia put an arm around the boys. “They’re as afraid as we are,” she said in softer tones. “They’re just trying not to show it.”

  Connors looked at her for several seconds and then turned to the boys. “Make sure your feet are clear of the gas line,” he said, his manner calmer. “Drop the lighter and when you run, make sure to keep your heads down. Run at normal speed, even when you hear the gunfire. You’ll conserve energy and get a lot farther if you do it that way. Panic always slows you down.”

  “What if there are Germans on the path?” the youngest boy asked. He was about twelve, his dark eyes thick as craters, his face freckled and innocent.

  “Then you plan as you go,” Connors said. “Look for a sewer and jump in. Find a tree and climb it. You have to be able to do something they can’t do. That’ll keep you safe.”

  “Maybe I should stay with them,” Nunzia said. “You know the streets well enough by now to get around on your own.”

  Connors looked at the boys and then back at Nunzia. “No,” he said. “We hold to the plan.”

  “The idea is to keep them alive,” Nunzia said.

  “The idea is to keep everybody alive,” Connors said.

  “Ho capito,” the oldest boy said, gazing up at Nunzia and giving her a big smile. He was fourteen, sleek of build, with short clipped hair and a long row of missing teeth. “The American worries for you,” he said.

  “All we have to do is drop the lighter and run,” the younger boy said, clasping his right hand inside her warm grasp. “Even I can do something that easy. And I have Valerio with me. There’s no need to worry.”

  “If the road is blocked off, make for the hillside,” Nunzia said. “It’s too dark for them to follow you up there.”

  “Don’t be afraid to use your guns if you have to,” Connors told them. “But only if you have to.”

  Nunzia gave them each a hug and then turned to follow Connors, both fading into the shadows. “Everybody falls in love in Naples,” Valerio said, shaking his head. “Even Americans.”

  Vincenzo, still wet and chilled from his swim and a run up a side road, stood alongside Maldini, watching as Connors and Nunzia approached from a side street on their left. As he ran, Connors looked at his watch and silently ticked down the seconds.

  “Now,” he whispered.

  The tank explosion lit up the harbor below them, a rich bubble of flames hurtling toward a starless sky. A ship alarm sounded and lights were turned on up and down the pier, all working off the single generator the Nazis had activated. “We should have cut off their electrical,” Connors said, shaking his head. “Then they wouldn’t know which way to look. My mistake.”

  “A mistake that won’t matter, American,” Vincenzo said, “soon as the bomb on the tanker goes off.”

  “It should have gone off already,” Connors said. “It was timed to go with the tank. That was two minutes ago.”

  “Be patient,” Maldini said.

  A dozen soldiers with machine guns lined the perimeter of the pier, crouched down and waiting to shoot at the slightest movement. Two tanks came rumbling down Via Acton and three others were speeding across Via C. Colombo, all primed to protect the port and the oil tanker. “That bomb doesn’t go, we’ll never get another shot at that fuel,” Connors said.

  “The bomb will work,” Vincenzo said.

  “I’ll have an easier time believing that, General, after I hear a loud explosion,” Connors said, his voice a mixture of anger and frustration. “But right now, all I see is one tank down and lots of ticked off Nazis.”

  Maldini sat on a large rock and stared at all the activity on the pier. Off in the distance, they heard the blasts from Nazi tanks and the rumble of buildings that fell and crumbled. The streets of Naples were now a series of bonfires as the enemy assault continued into the late-night hours. “No matter what we do to them, they have won,” he said. “They have defeated Naples. If they leave on their own or are chased out, they have won.”

  “You can’t defeat a city, Papa, until you defeat its people,” Nunzia said. “The Nazis have destroyed Naples, but they have not destroyed us.”

  “There is no great victory to achieve,” Maldini said. “No matter what, those that remain will stand on piles of rubble as we watch the Nazis leave.”

  Connors stood on a bluff and looked down at the burning streets, his binoculars resting on a knot of grass by his side. “It makes no military sense, what they’re doing,” he said. “It’s not about holding a position or strengthening a defense. None of that comes into play here. It’s only anger and hate that fuel their actions. The Nazis don’t fight to win. They fight to destroy.”

  “Get some rest,” Nunzia said, “all of you. Futile or not, we have more battles to fight tomorrow.”

  Vincenzo walked farther down the hill, crouched on his knees and stared at the oil tanker, tears flowing along the sides of his face. In his right hand, he held a small statute of San Gennaro. The saint’s arms were spread out and a peaceful smile crossed his face.

  The massive force of the blast knocked Maldini off the rock and sent him rolling down a short hill. Nunzia was tossed next to a pile of rocks. Connors jumped to his feet, rifle at the ready. Vincenzo sat on the edge of the hill, his fingers digging into the dirt, the statue of San Gennaro at his side, his face lit from the glow of the blast below.

  The oil tanker split and rose halfway out of the water, thick plumes of bright orange flames lighting the harbor clear through to the islands that dotted the shoreline. The round mushroom cloud that rose from the center of the tanker bellowed high into the nighttime sky, casting its glow along the main drag of Lungomare. The explosion sent the tanks alongside the ship hurtling down empty streets, bouncing along the cobblestones like a child’s toys.

  Vincenzo picked up the statue of San Gennaro and brought it to his lips, giving the patron saint a soft kiss. He stood and raised his arms and then turned to Connors, smiling broadly. “I told you,” Vincenzo shouted. “I told you the bomb would work!”

  “What the hell took so long?” Connors asked, returning the boy’s gleeful smile.

  “The watch was set on Naples time,” a still sleepy Maldini said. “It went off when it felt like it.”

  They stood on the edge of the hill, staring down at the destruction they had leveled against the Nazi invaders. Around the city the tanks were now still and silent, the attention of Nazi commanders and soldiers riveted on the flaming lights of the port. But from the tunnels, sewers and empty gardens that dotted the Neapolitan landscape, the sound of happy children echoed along the empty streets.

  “We will have our victory,” Vincenzo said, looking down with bright eyes at the port he had helped destroy.

  THE SECOND DAY

  13

  THE ROYAL PALACE

  Von Klaus stared out an open window, gazing down at the empty streets toward the port where the tanker still smoldered and burned. Behind him Kunnalt paced the marble floor, hands at his back, head bowed. “Do we have enough fuel to do what must be done and still make it to Rome?” Von Klaus asked without moving.

&
nbsp; “Only if we reduce the number of tanks we send into the city,” Kunnalt said.

  Von Klaus turned away from the window and stared at the officer. “We must complete our mission,” he said. “These homes, these churches. They must be destroyed.”

  “There is a way, sir,” Kunnalt said. “It will allow us to do that and still conserve our fuel.”

  Von Klaus stepped away from the window and walked over toward the map stretched out across the polished oak dining table. “Show me,” he ordered.

  Kunnalt hovered over the map and repositioned three of the stick figures. “They live and hide in the sewers, most of them in the central part of the city,” he said. “This allows them to move from street to street undetected. If we strip them of that, we strip them of their only advantage.”

  “And how would you do that?” Von Klaus asked, his eyes firmly on the map.

  “We need to firebomb the sewers and tunnels,” Kunnalt said in matter-of-fact tones. “Burn the city from below instead of from above. That’s where they are hiding and that’s where they’ll die.”

  Von Klaus looked away from the map and stared at Kunnalt for several seconds. He then lowered his head and walked back to the window. “These children are as much an enemy to us as any we’ve faced, sir,” Kunnalt said. “They must be dealt with.”

  “In all our years together, Kunnalt, we’ve yet to have a tainted victory,” Von Klaus said, gazing once again at the ruined tanker. “Let’s not make this our first.”

  14

  SAN PAOLO MAGGIORE

  It was just before dawn, the streets a mixture of dark smoke and light mist. Connors, a machine gun hanging over his right shoulder, walked past downed buildings and smoldering homes, assessing the damage one day’s fighting had wrought and anticipating the severity of the Nazi response. Nunzia walked beside him, arms at her sides, her pace relaxed. He looked over at her, the black hair dangling across the front of her face, her eyes bright and alert, her body shapely and athletic, and wondered if he would ever again be so close to someone as beautiful.

  She stopped in front of an ornate double flight of steps leading to a two-tier church with large stone columns. She gripped a stone railing and stared across the divide at a statue of a saint, his arms open, head tilted toward the sky.

  “It does makes you wonder,” Connors said. “All these bombs falling and tanks blasting away. Most of the buildings fall in a heap. But these churches take the hit, catch a couple of dents here and there, but still stand.”

  “This was our church,” Nunzia said, gazing up at the chiseled entryway. “Where my family came to hear mass. And where I came to pray when I needed an extra favor from Mama or Papa.”

  “It pay off?” Connors asked.

  “Only with Papa,” Nunzia said. “He was the softer of the two. It took a lot more than a prayer to make Mama do something she didn’t want to do.”

  “It was just the opposite with me,” Connors said. “My mom was like butter in the sun. A smile and a hug and she’d pretty much give you anything. It would take a lot more than that to make my dad budge.”

  “In Naples, the men talk loud enough to be heard,” Nunzia said with a shrug. “But it is the women who make the rules.”

  Connors stepped closer to Nunzia. “That would be all right by me,” he said.

  Nunzia looked up into his handsome face, her eyes searching beyond the shell of the hardened soldier, looking for the small-town boy many miles from home who missed the warmth of a family as much as she did. She rested a hand on his cheek and he held it there, his fingers rubbing against the tops of hers. He lowered his head, she raised hers and they kissed, the sun behind them rising over the smoldering city. They held the kiss, letting silence and passion rule the moment, drowning the visions of battles and of friends and family members long since gone. For those sweet brief seconds, they were alone and far removed from any war.

  “What happens to you after this?” she asked, still only inches from his face. “Do you get to go home?”

  Connors shook his head. “Not for a while,” he said.

  “Do you have a fidanzata that waits?” she asked.

  Connors smiled. “That mean a girlfriend?” he asked. “If it does, the answer’s no.”

  “It will happen,” she said.

  “Why are you so sure of that?” he asked.

  “You’re a good man,” Nunzia said with a warm smile. “It’s always easy for a good man to find someone to love.”

  The rush of machine-gun bullets ended their moment of peace.

  The bullets pinged against the thick stone wall just beneath the landing where Connors and Nunzia stood. They both tumbled to a higher step, Connors sheltering Nunzia’s body with the back of his as he whirled his machine gun from behind his shoulder and into his hands. “Shots are coming from that corner on the left,” he said, peering beyond the stairs. “Too soon to make out how many there are.”

  Nunzia pulled a gun from behind her waistband and cocked it. “Their shots will warn the others,” she said. “We need to get them off the streets.”

  Connors looked up at the curved stone stairwell that led to the church entrance. “You run as fast and as low as you can into that church,” he told her. “I’ll give you more than enough cover. Just keep moving.” He reached for her hand and held it tight. “No matter what, Nunzia. Just keep moving.”

  “You better do the same,” she said to him.

  Connors looked over the break in the landing and spotted the end of a machine-gun barrel poised against the side of a wall across from the church. He braced his gun against his arm and turned to Nunzia. “I’ll meet you by the altar,” he said.

  Nunzia ran up the dozen steps, her body crouched down low, gun in hand. Connors was right behind her, firing into the walls of the building across the way. The return fire was heavy, leaving little doubt that there was more than one soldier aiming down at them. They reached the top of the landing, ten feet of open space between them and the front door. Connors stood behind a thick marble column, Nunzia on the ground next to him. He jammed in a fresh ammo clip and pulled a grenade from the back of his belt. “How many can you see?” she asked, wiping soot from her eyes and peering inside the empty church.

  “There’s at least two,” Connors said. “Probably not more than three. It’s hard to clip any of them from here. They’re just shooting blind, hoping to hit one of us with a stray. I’ll have a clearer line on them once we’re in the church.”

  “Let me have the grenade,” Nunzia said. “I won’t be able to throw it as far, but you can give better cover to me than I can to you.”

  Connors handed her the grenade and then crouched down, resting the barrel of his gun against the ancient stone of the column. “I’m going to step out into the open,” Connors said. “Give them a target to shoot at. When I do, you pull the pin, count to three and let it go.”

  “This now makes two things I’ve never done before this morning,” Nunzia said, gazing up at Connors and moving to her knees, the fingers of her left hand curled gently around the grenade pin in her right.

  “What was the first?” Connors asked, stepping away from the column and looking down at her.

  “I had never kissed a man,” she said, looking back for a brief second and giving him a warm smile. She then pulled the pin, held the grenade and tossed it toward the row of buildings on the corner. Connors jumped from the shadow of the column and ripped a series of bullets against the hidden Nazis, clipping off shards of stone and sending pockets of dust into the air.

  The grenade blast shattered storefront glass and sent cobblestones sprawling toward the sky, a thick white puff of smoke hiding the Nazis in its midst. Connors and Nunzia turned and ran for the cover of the darkened church, bullets hitting the cement and walls around them. They stepped inside, holding hands and moving as one down the center aisle, the sounds of their rushed footsteps echoing off the walls of a building that was first erected in the eighth century.

  They dov
e behind the main altar, checking the ammo supply in their weapons and resting their backs against the thick marble for support. Three German soldiers riddled the front entryway with bullets as they ran into the church, the heavy pounding of their footsteps coming at them from separate directions. Connors peered around the edges of the altar, through the smoke and haze, the shadows from the lit candles tipping him to the enemy position. The Germans, hiding behind wooden chairs and marble columns, fired heavy barrages up into the altar, their bullets zinging off ancient stone and statues, dust and debris raining down on Connors and Nunzia. “There a back way out?” he asked, covering her as best he could.

  “To the right,” she said. “There’s a flight of stairs next to the confessional. It leads to an alley.”

  Connors checked the distance from the altar to the steps and then looked out at the Nazis. One was on his far left, crouched down behind a statue of the Blessed Mother. The second was flat down on his stomach, his gun poised between two hard-back chairs. The third was closest to the confessional and was the one he most needed to take out. “We’re going to make a run at those stairs,” Connors said to Nunzia. “I’ll lead. You follow. And if I go down, don’t stop running.”

  “I won’t leave you here,” she said.

  “Don’t think of it that way,” Connors said, shoving an extra ammo clip into his jacket pocket. “You get out, you can get help and bail me out of this jam.”