The Wolf That Fed Us

by Robert Lowry

  The café itself was strangely quiet this morning, as it had been for three days past. Only two old men and young Alfredo Giambrone, who’d left both his legs on a battlefield near Tunis, sat on the wooden bench beside the radio. But the café’s emptiness was a result not only of the work which the clear weather offered—the radio was equally responsible.

  For the radio had broken down three evenings ago at the height of a news broadcast from Naples. At first it had continued to hum, and when Antonio had pounded on its top the light behind the dial had flashed on and off several times. But then even the hum and the light were gone. It was broken. And there were no spare parts for it. As with a major disaster, the entire town had gone into unannounced mourning. People stayed in their houses when darkness came, so that the café was almost deserted. And no one dared question Antonib as to whether he’d go down from the mountain to find new parts for the radio; he was in too foul a mood. He considered the radio’s breakdown as some kind of insult to his own integrity, and cursed machines and all objects which came from large cities.

  Ten o’clock in the morning, and in all Tocini only one ablebodied man remained at home. Five doors up the street from the café, Antonio Grossi sat alone at the dining-room table (for his wife was dead) and mopped up four fried eggs with a big chunk of the still-warm Italian bread. He’d been up since dawn, however—had visited his wine factory, where his brother-in-law was overseeing the cleaning of the presses, and had then gone out to the grape arbors on the edge of town. Nothing had pleased him, though he wouldn’t admit the reason for his irritation. He wouldn’t admit that so small a thing as a fool noise-machine could disturb him. Maybe the ordinary people in the town, who after all didn’t have much else to think about, but not him. . . .

  When he first heard the excited voices he didn’t try to distinguish what they said. He merely called his servant Ignazio and asked for another bottle of wine. Maybe a goat had given birth in the middle of the street, as had happened last month; or maybe Old Radio Leg had done something else ridiculous, like lift her skirt to the children who were always teasing her. He couldn’t be concerned with petty matters like these. . . . He poured himself more wine, but the voices outside were growing louder and finally his curiosity was too much for him: he went to the window.

  A tight knot of people was gathered in front of his café—women and children mostly, thought he noticed some workers from his wine factory and from the carpenter shop across the street, as well as the priest, Padre Ricardo. In the center of the group was a man he didn’t know—a man in uniform neither Italian nor German. What was happening? He rushed back to the table, tossed the remainder of the wine down his throat, and put on his worn black coat and his felt hat. Then he descended the stairs, waddling from side to side because he was very fat, hurried through the courtyard and entered the street.

  The moment he appeared voices from the crowd began to call to him. “Signor Grossi! Hurry! It’s important!” But before all these anxious faces he retained his dignity; he waddled slowly up and demanded of the crowd in general: “What’s going on here? Why are you all milling around like this?”

  “LaGuardia forever!” someone shouted, and then the whole crowd closed in about him and each dark eager Italian face was trying to make itself heard:

  “Fiorello—”

  “The Americani are—”

  “...been chosen...”

  “—all be rich!”

  But finally a complete sentence came through to him:

  “Fiorello LaGuardia is coming to Tocini!”

  Antonio felt his heart beating wildly within him, but he managed to set his face in a scowl and push against the crowd toward the soldier, who’d been almost ignored since Signor Grossi’s arrival. The circle of people refused to open and let him through; instead it stretched wider till it enclosed both himself and the soldier. Now all the large bright eyes were staring at these two, as if the whole future of their lives depended on what would happen.

  “Are you Signor Grossi?” the soldier demanded in Italian.

  But Signor Grossi was so shocked by the face he saw before him that he couldn’t answer right away. He’d been expecting the set, simple face of a soldier and instead here was the face of the Pope, with domed forehead, hawk nose and searching eyes. Its most amazing feature was the extraordinary beard: a thin sandy mustache under the nose, and under the lower lip a tuft of hair at which the soldier poked shrewdly with his finger.

  “Yes,” Signor Grossi said finally. He was annoyed to look down and find his hands trembling.

  “Are you the mayor of Tocini?”

  Signor Grossi hesitated at this. Actually there was no mayor of the town, as far as the actual title was concerned. His father-in-law had been appointed chief of police, yet his position had been completely ignored the one time it might have been useful when the army had arrived to hunt out Alfredo Giambrone, who’d gone AWOL his first week in training outside Naples. Everything considered, however, Antonio felt within his rights when he answered, “Yes.”

  “I’m a representative of the American Army,” the soldier said in Italian. “I come here with important news for your town.”

  “It’s true, then?” Antonio demanded. “Fiorello LaGuardia is coming?”

  From the inside pocket of his field jacket the soldier brought forth a large brown envelope which he handed to Signor Grossi. Signor Grossi could only stare down blankly at the strange words UNITED STATES ARMY—OFFICIAL BUSINESS printed across it.

  “Open it,” the soldier said.

  Signor Grossi shoved his blunt forefinger along under the flap and drew out a bright orange piece of paper, which he unfolded. He felt relieved when he saw that the black print there was in Italian, for the townspeople were shoving in tighter around him, expecting action. As he took in the dramatic letters at the top of the sheet, FIORELLO LAGUARDIA, his hand went involuntarily to his black mustache—a habit of his when he was forced to read something. He started in now on a paragraph that was headed boldly:

  SPECIAL VISIT TO TOCINI

  The Mayor of New York City, the Honorable Fiorello H. LaGuardia, will make an Official Tour of Inspection of the Town of Tocini on August 23, 1944, at 3 o’clock in the afternoon.

  A Representative of the American Army will arrive in Tocini on August 21 to take charge of arrangements for a proper reception of this great Italian-American. The American Army orders that wholehearted co-operation be given to this Representative in whatever he may ask.

  By Order of the General Staff.

  HEADQUARTERS

  THE UNITED STATES ARMY

  ROME

  “You’ve come all the way from Rome?” Signor Grossi asked.

  “That’s right,” the soldier replied. “My jeep broke down outside of Naples, I had to take a ride up the mountain in a cart.... I don’t have much time. We’ll go to your office, exchange credentials and get everything settled.”

  “My home will be better,” Signor Grossi hurried to say, since he had no office. “We can have some wine there. . . . Make way!”

  A little path appeared in the crowd and Antonio Grossi strutted boldly through, followed by the sauntering hawk-nosed soldier. The crowd closed in behind them and followed them till they disappeared through the door of Signor Grossi’s villa. There the crowd waited, for a moment in stunned silence and then in excited discussion about exactly what all this could mean. More people came running up, people who’d not even talked to the soldier in the first place, and added their ideas. Signor Abruzzi swore he’d heard the soldier declare that LaGuardia was arriving tomorrow, while others said LaGuardia wasn’t coming till next week. Old Radio Leg suggested that perhaps the delegation was on its way up the mountain this minute, but everyone laughed at that. By the time Maria, Filippa and Costantina arrived from their small stone house on the edge of town, the wildest theorizing was going on: LaGuardia might construct a railroad up the mountainside. LaGuardia might stay for a whole week. LaGuardia might make Tocini his h
eadquarters, from which to survey the lowlands and arrive at his decisions.

  Half an hour later Signor Grossi, Signor Grossi’s father-in-law and the American soldier came out of the house and pushed through the crowd again. Signor Grossi was beaming, he seemed even fatter with the great piece of news he’d just swallowed. When the three had finally managed to work their way out of the jam of people, Antonio whirled and shouted: “Where is Giulio Fortunato?”

  Giulio, who’d driven up in his cart from the fields only ten minutes ago, was shoved forward and ejected from the crowd. A swarthy, coarse-featured young man, he had the dirt of the fields caked in the heavy lines of his face. He stood before Signor Grossi now like a powerful but domesticated animal waiting for his master’s next shout.

  “You are to take this American soldier as far as the highway at the foot of the mountain,” Antonio ordered.

  Giulio obediently walked over and got into his cart, and the American soldier climbed up beside him. It seemed that Signor Grossi would never have enough of saluting, bowing and smiling. But Signor Grossi’s father-in-law stood in the front ranks of the crowd that encircled the cart, looking very grave.

  As the cart started down the main street, a cheer went up from all Tocini. The American, however, didn’t look around; he neither waved nor smiled. It was obvious to all that he wasn’t here to take bows for his chief but had come merely as part of his duty, which now was completed.

  Signor Grossi and his father-in-law walked back into their villa, leaving the crowd mingling without. Its patience was rewarded when ten minutes later Signor Grossi appeared on the tiny second-floor balcony. He had appeared there only once before, the day after Italy declared war on France. Then he had spoken rather confusedly of blood, of patriotism, of the Pope, the King and of himself. Everyone had considered it an extremely satisfactory speech.

  Now, after the first shout, a hush came over the crowd. Antonio Grossi spoke very quietly, his short arms folded over his fat chest, for his news was so eagerly awaited that he didn’t have to care whether everyone could hear well.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “will be a holiday from work in the fields, the wine factory, and all businesses in Tocini. Each citizen will see to the cleaning up of his own house. Parts of houses visible from the street will be washed or otherwise cleaned. All windows will be washed.

  “I will soon appoint a special crew to be responsible for the streets of this town, especially the main street. No filth or rubbish must remain.

  “I wish to make a special announcement about animals. After tomorrow morning, and until further notice, all chickens, goats, and especially pigs, will either be tied in back yards or shut up inside the houses. No chicken, goat or pig will be allowed to run loose on the streets after tomorrow morning from—uh—nine o’clock on.

  “Any person who has in his house cloth or ribbon which can be used for banners and decorations should bring such articles to me.

  “The day after tomorrow our town is to welcome the greatest visitor in its entire history. At three o’clock in the afternoon the Mayor of the City of New York, Fiorello LaGuardia, will arrive in Tocini. He will come here with many distinguished visitors, both civilian and military, both Italian and American. He——”

  But Signor Grossi had to pause for a moment, the cheers had grown deafening.

  “Tomorrow morning ten American soldiers will come to put banners over the street and to build a reviewing stand. In order to help pay for a small part of the United States Army’s expenses, and in order that we may have twice as many banners as would otherwise be possible, I have contributed, in the name of the town of Tocini, the sum of fifty thousand lire. This afternoon a collection will be taken from all the citizens of Tocini to make up this amount which I have already given from my own pocket to the American representative, Sergeant James Stewart. Sergeant Stewart will come again tomorrow to speak to you and tell you what you are to do when His Excellency, the Mayor of New York, arrives on Wednesday.”

  By the time the truck let Deveaux off at the edge of Cormo, the thick sweetish obscurity of the August night had already embraced the town. His mouth felt dry, his face was stiff with dust; when he patted his trousers a small cloud rose. But he walked as swiftly as ever toward his billet, the elation a big killing always gave him burning within him. Christ, it was easy, he thought, Christ, it was the easiest stunt I ever pulled.

  As he went up the stone steps to his room, he thought the guys were making more noise than usual. There was shouting and laughter; everybody had stayed home tonight. Something must have happened today—maybe new ratings had been posted. But no, he hadn’t heard any rumors of that in the orderly room.

  When he shoved open the door a shout went up.

  “Here’s another one of the lucky bastards!”

  “How many bottles of beer will you take to let me go in your place, Deveaux?”

  “By the time we get back, they’ll forget there even was a war.”

  He walked along the aisle smiling knowingly and sat down on his bunk. What the hell was going on?

  “You look like you been all the way up to the front today,” Howdy said.

  “I’ve been out looking over my crops,” Deveaux said. “What’s the story here?”

  “For God’s sake, Deacon, didn’t you look at the bulletin board on your way up?”

  “No.”

  “Why, your name’s been posted. You’re going home.”

  Deveaux looked with narrowed eyes from Howdy to Landshof. “What’s the gag?”

  “No gag. All you have to do is go look at the temporary-duty list and start packin. You’re leavin here Wednesday morning for thirty hard days in the States.”

  Deveaux went back out the door to the bulletin board on the landing. There it was, the carbon-sheet order. Eight names on the list and his name third—all signed up by L. P. Gregory, Commanding. To the left of it was a second list from the supply sergeant ordering the same eight men to turn in certain items: carbines, mess trays, mosquito netting, et cetera. And under it was an order from the medics to report for a physical on Tuesday morning at 1000 hours.

  Howdy, Landshof and two other guys had come up behind him. “How do you feel now, Deacon?” Landshof asked.

  He looked around at them, smiling. “I feel fine.”

  But the truth was he felt a little desperate. I got plenty to do, he thought. Hide all these goddamn money-orders. And this five hundred bucks to change at the PO. . . .

  He hurried back to the sleeping room with the four guys close on his heels like a pack of bloodhounds. No use trying to do anything now, that was for sure. So he might as well sit down on his bunk, light a cigarette and take things easy. One thing he knew, he shouldn’t get caught in a surprise inspection; he’d have to fix things up in the latrine tonight after all these goons were asleep. As for today’s five hundred and some other loose lire, he wasn’t going to worry about it, he’d won it in a crap game over in Foggia.

  “Come on, Deacon,” Howdy said, sitting down opposite Deveaux and gazing with round curious eyes into his face. “Ain’t you even gonna tell us now where you was today?”

  “He’s been burrowin around somewheres like a prairie-dog,” Landshof said.

  Deveaux studied Howdy and Landshof. Those two unimaginative goofs. What if he did tell them about the stunt he’d pulled today? They wouldn’t believe it anyhow. These two guys hardly realized they were in Italy—might as well be in an army camp in Texas for all they knew about what was going on in this country.

  “Maybe the Deacon’s got a chain of whorehouses, one in every town,” Landshof suggested, trying to make like a comic. “He’s the general manager so he was out on an inspection tour today.”

  Deveaux lit a cigarette, watched the smoke unfold upward.

  “The way you look, you must have gone clean to Naples today,” Howdy said.

  “Now look, boys. All I did was go out and find some nice views of the Italian countryside,” Deveaux said. “I ended up in a
little town on top of a mountain, drinking a couple of glasses of vino.”

  “What town was that?” Landshof asked, leaning forward, getting confidential. “That one you can see over towards Naples on a clear day?”

  “We got you now, Deacon,” Howdy said. “That’s the only one close enough around here to go to and get back the same day.”

  “What’d you do up there?” Landshof asked. “Have they got some goodlookers up there?”

  “The Deacon didn’t go up there for nothin, did you, Deacon?”

  “I never go anywhere for nothing,” Deveaux said, and turned his back on them.

  He awoke and looked at his watch. Three A.M. The room was dark, only wheezing and snoring came from the bunks around him. He lifted his netting and climbed out, slipped into his pants and shirt, then picked up his canvas toilet-kit and crept up the aisle, into the tile bathroom. He shut the door and sat down on the can.

  From the toilet-kit he took an unopened package of pipe tobacco and with a razor-blade removed the paper tape which sealed it. Then he dumped out three-fourths of the tobacco onto a piece of paper on the floor and brought from his shirt pocket a wad of money-orders as big as his fist. Peeling off ninety-five, he folded them and put them into the tobacco can. Carefully he worked the tobacco on top, closed the lid and with a tube of paste resealed the paper tape. Good as new.

  He had more trouble with the talcum-powder can: when he pried off the lid with his knife half the contents spilled out on the floor. He kicked it around with his feet, so that a lot of noisy comments wouldn’t be made if somebody came in, and stuffed all but three of the remaining money-orders into the container. The talcum he had left over filled it to the top, so it worked out okay. And the lid went back on easily.