Memo woke an instant later. He looked around as if he didn’t know where he was.
Roberto shook Samuele awake.
The three of them stood at the window with the other three boys from their bench seat. The sign on the station read MÜNCHEN.
“Munich,” said one of the other boys. The boy said a few more things in a dialect Roberto didn’t recognize, but the gist of it was easy enough to understand—they had arrived at the Bavarian capital of Germany.
“Good,” whispered Samuele to Roberto. “I’ve got to pee, and I’ve always wanted to pee on German soil.”
Roberto could use a bathroom himself. The stench of urine made the air heavy. He looked down at Samuele’s pants, but they were dry. Now he smelled feces, too. And everywhere the sour smell of dried sweat assailed him. His stomach turned. He was suddenly glad it was empty.
The doors opened. The soldiers yapped orders at the boys, but without energy; they sounded like tired dogs. One of them put both hands behind his neck, elbows forward, and stretched. He yawned. Maybe the soldiers hadn’t slept at all.
The soldiers stood up and yapped louder. Now they swung their batons, whapping a shoulder, cracking across a back. The boys filed off the train and onto the platforms. Roberto thought of the boys who’d been shot at the border. His stomach turned again. He said nothing. He would do nothing to call attention to himself—that’s what Sergio had meant, he now realized. Everyone seemed to be following the same strategy. They huddled together, silent in the cool wet of predawn, their knees sticking out of their short pants like naked pine trunks on the Lido in Venice.
A soldier walked up and down in front of them. He wore the same high black boots, the same wide black belt, the same armband with a swastika, as the other soldiers. But he had a black patch on each collar tip with two white zigzag lines. And his helmet had the same two zigzag lines in black on a white background. The soldier spoke loudly. He held his crotch. Then he put one hand to his open mouth, as though he was putting something in it. He chewed big.
The boys nodded. Yes, they needed to use the bathroom. Yes, they were hungry.
The man pointed. The boys shuffled off the platform and relieved themselves in the dry grass by the wall of the station. Memo kept close on one side of Samuele; Roberto kept close on the other. Soldiers walked among the boys handing them hunks of dense, sweet-smelling dark bread and shouting, “Brot.” Other soldiers followed, each carrying a bucket of water and a tin cup: “Wasser.” The boys drank fast.
Roberto scanned the crowd of older boys on the other side of the station. Was that Sergio? He waved.
A soldier came up and said something.
“I was just trying to see my brother.”
The soldier hit him in the shoulder with the butt of his rifle.
Roberto let out a yelp. His Brot flew out of his hand. He staggered backward. He looked down. Keep your mouth shut. Do what everyone else does. Keep your mouth shut. Do what everyone else does.
The soldier shook his rifle threateningly at Roberto. Then he walked on.
Samuele picked up the Brot and handed it to Roberto without looking at him. But he touched him gently on the shoulder.
Roberto brushed the dirt off the Brot. He ate in big, greedy bites. His shoulder ached something awful. But the Brot was good. He could sink his teeth into it. He could chew and chew. He would think of nothing but the Brot filling the huge hole of his stomach. He blinked his burning eyes and ate. His nose ran. He wiped it with the back of his hand.
Soldiers shouted orders to the group of older boys now. They were being sorted by their city of origin—that much was easy to understand. Roberto saw Sergio take his place with the boys who had gotten on the train in Mestre. Then a soldier went by and picked one boy from each group and marched off with them, down the road. Another soldier did the same, always picking only one boy from each group.
“I’ll go with the boys from Bolzano,” said Memo. He looked at Samuele. “Enzo, you go with the boys from Trento. That way we can try to wind up in the same group, right?”
“Enzo?” said Roberto in confusion.
“What, did you forget my name?” Samuele looked at Roberto meaningfully; then he scratched his chest. “It’s a good Catholic nickname.”
Roberto blinked. He felt stupid, and that scared him worse. Of course he knew Samuele was a Jewish name. He just hadn’t thought fast enough. He had to think fast. Much faster. Like Memo. He rubbed his shoulder where the rifle butt had hit him. He checked: Sergio still hadn’t been chosen yet.
The soldiers shouted orders at the younger boys now. The group from Mestre and Venice was forming. Roberto’s hand went to his Saint Christopher medal.
“Go on,” whispered Memo. “When they pick you, I’ll step to the front of my group and maybe they’ll pick me, too. It’s a good idea, right?”
Roberto watched Samuele nod. No, not Samuele—Enzo. Roberto had to think of him as Enzo from now on, so he wouldn’t accidentally give him away. Roberto quickly unclasped the chain around his neck. He kissed the medal and handed it to Enzo. Then he ran to the Mestre-Venice group.
Only a Catholic boy would wear a Saint Christopher’s medal. And Roberto would be okay without it. He’d be okay.
The groups from Padova, Verona, Trento, and Bolzano formed. Soldiers walked by, picking one boy from each group. Roberto tried to see what was happening with the bigger boys, but his view was blocked. He stepped to the front. A soldier gestured for him to come. Roberto walked behind him from group to group. He looked over at the bigger boys’ groups. Sergio was gone.
Enzo was waiting at the front of the Trento group. The soldier picked him. Enzo took his place behind the soldier. He didn’t look at Roberto. Roberto’s chain showed at Enzo’s neckline, with the medal hidden inside his shirt.
They walked on to the Bolzano group. Memo was standing at the front. The soldier picked the boy beside Memo.
Roberto swallowed the lump in his throat. He didn’t dare look back over his shoulder as they walked away.
The soldier walked ahead of the five boys in Roberto’s group through city block after city block. Morning had come, and the air was full of the sweet smells of baking. Motorcycles roared past them. Bicyclists crowded the streets. A group of children younger than Roberto—they were maybe ten or eleven—shouted at them and spat. They taunted with a single word, over and over: Juden, Juden, Juden.
The soldier called back. Something about Italiener—Italians.
The German children stopped their shouts. They ran on.
The group walked through the streets, and no one else, no one beyond the German children, said anything to them. No one acted as though there was anything odd about soldiers marching boys through the streets. In Venice everyone would have gawked. Soldiers shouldn’t be bothering with children—someone should protest. Mamma would have protested. All the women of Cannaregio would have protested. Someone should speak for the boys.
Roberto remembered the boy on the train guessing that they were going to become soldiers. Maybe they were heading off to a training camp. Infantry or cavalry. Still, they shouldn’t have just been taken like that. The more he breathed the fresh morning air, the more angry he became. Then the image of three boys lying in their own blood on the train platform blotted out the anger. The image seemed too grotesque to be real.
The soldier walked the group of five out of town and down a country road through woods. Roberto’s stomach wouldn’t stop growling. Memo would have laughed. Maybe. They came to an open area where trees had been cut down. Boys Roberto’s age worked with picks and shovels.
The soldier led them to a truck at the edge of the clearing. He shouted at them. Enzo grabbed a pick out of the back of the truck. The soldier nodded and said something. Roberto grabbed a pick. The other three boys took picks.
They followed the soldier down the clearing to a section that hadn’t been worked yet. The soldier pointed. The boys swung their picks.
The soldier watched for a whi
le, his arms folded on his chest. Then he walked off to talk with another soldier.
One of the boys said something in a dialect Roberto couldn’t understand.
Roberto spoke out of the side of his mouth, which seemed to be the way all of them were speaking now. “It was stupid of them to mix boys from different towns. Now we can’t speak to each other comfortably.”
Enzo hissed, “Stupid like a fox.”
“What do you mean?”
“If we can’t talk like buddies—if we have to use school Italian with each other—then we can understand enough to work together, but we won’t become buddies; we won’t help each other.” Enzo swung his pick hard. “We’re lost.”
Roberto gripped the handle of his pick tight. He wasn’t lost; he had Enzo. He swung the pick. “What’s the point of tilling a field out here? The soil’s nothing but rocks.”
“Be careful. They’re looking at us.”
Roberto snuck a glance over his shoulder. A different soldier watched them. Roberto turned his head down and swung with all his might. When he dared to peek again, the soldier had left. Roberto spoke without looking at Enzo and without pausing his pick. “It’s stupid to till this rocky earth.”
“Maybe it’s not for planting.”
So what were they digging? War trenches? The newsreels were full of war trenches. But who was going to fight a battle out here in these woods?
What else could they be digging?
Graves? Graves for the returned bodies of dead German soldiers. No, please, please don’t let it be graves.
They picked and picked. The sun was hot. Roberto panted. His tongue went dry as a withered pinecone. He thought of the rocking of a gondola, the rocking of a train. He picked in rhythm with that rocking.
One of the boys fell. He got up quickly. He said something about water.
Roberto needed water, too. He stopped for a moment and looked around. The shade of the woods beckoned. The fingers of both his hands were curled into claws, stiff from holding the same position for so long. He leaned the pick against his leg and stretched his fingers.
“Flexing for an attack?” said Enzo. “Forget it.”
“What?”
“A pick against a gun,” said Enzo, swinging his pick. “He’d shoot you before you got close enough. It won’t work. Swing your pick, Roberto. Please. Swing it.”
Roberto hadn’t thought about matching his pick to a gun. It wasn’t that at all. He’d thought simply about resting. Now he considered his pick as he swung. It could split a man’s throat, if it was handled right. Nausea rose to Roberto’s mouth. He swallowed. His throat hurt. His shoulder throbbed.
The first soldier came back. Through shouts and gestures, the boys understood to put down their picks. They followed him to the truck and sat on the ground near another group of boys. The soldier barked. They got up and sat again, farther away this time.
Each boy was given a boiled potato and a hunk of bread—Brot. They ate in silence. The soldiers came around with the familiar tin cup and water bucket.
Roberto heard a motor. Another army truck came up the road and parked in the clearing. Soldiers jumped out of the rear. The soldiers in charge of the boys talked with the new soldiers. Someone unfolded a map. Their voices rose in excitement. They pointed to places on the map.
The boy beside Roberto dropped sideways on the ground. His eyes shut. His potato rolled out of his hand.
A soldier glanced over at him. He shouted.
The boy didn’t move.
The soldier walked toward them.
Roberto pinched the boy. “Sit up,” he whispered.
The soldier shouted at Roberto.
Roberto looked down. He curled his shoulders to protect them from the rifle butt.
The soldier kicked the boy in the side.
The boy didn’t flinch. And now Roberto was sure: The boy had fainted. Roberto pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. Keep your mouth shut. Do what everyone else does.
The soldier kicked the boy again. His boots were thick and heavy. They could crush the boy’s chest. The soldier stepped back for a harder kick.
Roberto couldn’t stand it any longer. “He fainted.”
The soldier shouted at Roberto. He grabbed him by the front of the shirt and pulled him to his feet. He pushed him toward the group of soldiers. He said something to them. Then he let go of Roberto and walked back to the boy who had fainted. He shot him.
Roberto clapped his hand over his mouth to hold in the scream. Someone pushed him against the back of the truck and shouted and slapped both his cheeks. Roberto was biting on his hand now, biting hard. The soldier shouted in his face and pulled his hand away from his mouth. It took Roberto a few seconds to focus, but he finally understood what the soldier wanted; he climbed into the back of the truck. He shut his eyes. Then he quickly opened them again. It was better to see everything and stay ready.
Another boy was pushed into the truck. He was big—his neck was thick and strong. A third climbed in. He was big, too. The boys glanced at one another, then looked away.
Two more boys climbed into the truck. The engine rumbled. Roberto was going somewhere else again. And this time he was going alone. Alone. The thought petrified him. His head swam.
Enzo climbed in. His eyes were ice. He didn’t look at anyone. Vomit covered his chin and a trickle of blood ran down his temple, but he didn’t seem to notice. He sat with his back straight in the middle of the truck bed. Roberto understood: Enzo had managed to get himself into the truck and that’s all that mattered. Enzo had paid the passage in flesh—to keep them together.
Roberto vowed he would do the same. Whatever the cost, he’d stay with Enzo. They were a team. As long as they stayed together, they would be all right. They had to stay together.
Three soldiers got on. The truck rolled out of the clearing. They bumped their way down the country road.
WASSER
Roberto shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun and looked down the tarmac. He had worked here every day for a month, maybe longer, with Italian boys from all over the north of Italy. They had built this runway entirely by themselves, working side by side, mostly without talking. And when they did talk, it was usually to themselves. Everyone’s home dialect was so different—especially the dialects of Bolzano and Venice—that communication was an effort, and no one seemed to want to try their common tongue: school Italian. It was as though they didn’t believe they’d be there long enough to matter to each other. Or maybe each of them was looking out for himself—wary of sharing information.
They’d done a good job on the tarmac, in any case. They didn’t know when the first plane would land, but Roberto was sure it would be soon because they’d been worked extra hard for the past two days. The soldiers’ shouts had carried an element of frenzy. Now, finally, they were getting a rest.
Roberto walked over to the farmhouse and sat on the ground beside Enzo with his back against the wall. He had only a vague idea of where he was. Germany somewhere. Pretty far north and east and pretty far from anywhere, it seemed. He rubbed his hands together. They were calloused from holding the handle of a pick so tightly. The callouses weren’t all that different from the callouses on his father’s hands from holding the oar of the gondola all day. When Roberto was little, he used to trace his father’s callouses with his index finger. And his father would tell him stories about feats with his gondola: how he had rowed as fast as he could from the banks known as the Zattere to the island of Giudecca for a groom who was late to his own wedding and how he’d rowed extra hard when a group of vagabond Australians working their way around the world had talked him into allowing all eight of them into the gondola at once for a ride the full length of the Canal Grande. Roberto put his hands to his cheeks and pretended for just a moment that his father’s hands were cupping his face. His father was probably grasping the oar right now.
Roberto dropped his hands on the ground between his raised knees. The dir
t was hard and dry. Everything was dry here. He missed the water of Venice. He missed the bright flowers that burst over the walls of hidden gardens. He missed the smell of the sea, the sting of salty wind in his face. He missed the food. Especially the food. Especially olives.
“Quack! Quack, quack, quack, quack.” The duckling that had appeared on the farm just a few days ago chased the dog around the barn. Somehow it had taken to the mangy yellow dog, quacking in delight whenever the dog came by and racing after him. The dog obviously hated the bird. Every now and then he’d stop and snap at it. But the duckling just quacked and stretched tall, flapping its useless, tiny wings. And the dog would take off again, with the duck close behind.
Roberto smiled at them now.
Enzo reached in his pocket and pulled out a sausage—a wurst. He handed it to Roberto. Roberto gave him a boiled egg in return. The Germans gave them wurst every night and cheese or eggs every morning. Since Enzo didn’t eat pork, he and Roberto exchanged. On the egg days, Roberto didn’t mind. He’d never liked boiled eggs in the first place. But on the cheese days, it was hard. The cheese smelled good, and once he’d broken off a small piece and tasted it. It wasn’t anything like the cheeses he knew at home, but it was pungent and rich.
Roberto wolfed down the wurst now. He was always hungry, despite the Brot and potato that came at every meal. The only thing that seemed to ease his hunger pang was sleep. But he wasn’t sleepy now.
The rest of the boys were scattered in groups around the outbuildings of the farm. The soldiers used to watch them closely. But one of them got away somehow anyway. The next day a man and a woman returned him, his hands tied together with rope. They walked up to the farm with him and turned him over. The man and the woman had ordinary faces—they didn’t look cruel. Good citizens doing their duty. That’s when all the boys realized there was no point in running away.
The soldiers lined up the Italian boys side by side. The boys watched the soldiers pick up sticks and beat the boy who had run away. His black and blue marks had turned yellowish green by now, but Roberto knew they still hurt. The boy winced when anything brushed his back or legs.
Stones in Water Page 3
