“Arrested?” Roberto couldn’t have heard right. “Prime Minister Mussolini’s in prison?” The famous duke in prison?
“You bet. People danced in the streets when Mussolini fell. Let that devil rot.”
“So we’re with the Allies now?” asked Roberto.
“If only! The king stayed with the Nazis. But Hitler hates us now—he always did, only now it’s in the open. And the Allies hate us, too. The whole thing’s a mess. The army has gone to hell. No one has ammunition or food.” The soldier shook Roberto’s arm passionately. “In these past few weeks the Germans have occupied us to keep Italy from being used for Allied bases. They’ve occupied us. Like they occupied France. They’re all over Italy, all the way down to Naples.”
Roberto’s stomach clenched. “Are the Germans in Venice?” Were his parents okay?
“Ihr da! Halt! Was macht ihr eigentlich?”
Roberto instantly pressed his back to the wall and turned his head to face the German soldier, who pointed a pistol at them. It was the officer with the grenade in his boot. He didn’t have to say it again—Roberto wasn’t about to move.
“Wir sprechen eben,” Roberto said, hoping that meant “We’re just talking”—his German was so poor, despite all the time he’d spent with Germans over the past year. He tried to keep a calm tone.
But the German officer’s eyes were hard on the Italian soldier. Roberto dared to look at the Italian beside him. He had raised his hands in surrender. How dumb of him! By raising his hands, he was admitting he was a deserter. Roberto knew too well what Nazis did to Italian deserters—what they’d done to Maurizio.
Roberto moved closer to the Italian soldier. “Verwunden und verlegen—He’s dazed and confused,” he said. He held out his hands toward the German officer in plea. But hands couldn’t help enough; German words were too hard to get out of his mouth. He gave up and spoke in Italian: “With his eye all messed up, he can hardly see you. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
The officer shot the Italian soldier in the head.
Roberto jumped backward in reflex. His head smacked against the wall. His mouth stuck open in silent horror.
“Komm mit!”
Roberto stared stupidly at the crumpled heap of soldier. Blood pooled under his head. Roberto couldn’t do anything for him now. No one could.
“Komm mit!” It was a shout now.
But Roberto didn’t want to leave the Italian soldier. He couldn’t just leave him there. Like garbage.
The German officer grabbed Roberto by the arm and pulled him, stumbling, down the alley.
They came out on the waterfront. German troops flowed onto the docks from every street and alley. They streamed into ferries that had suddenly appeared. And other kinds of boats, too—steamboats, and motor rafts.
Hundreds of German soldiers crossed the strait. Thousands. Crowded and crushed and crazy.
Roberto crossed with them, his hands tied behind his back, his vision blood red.
6
THE TRAIN PULLED INTO NAPLES in the middle of the morning. “Get ready,” Kurt, the German officer, said to Roberto in that clipped German of his. He took the cigar out from between his teeth and dropped it on the train floor. “The people in this city are stupid. They don’t know a word of German. You say something as simple as ‘Halt,’ and they keep on walking. So you’re my voice on everything here.”
Sure. Roberto could do that. In the four days since he’d been with these Nazis they’d taken him all the way to Naples, and the only thing he’d had to do in return was translate Kurt’s orders into Italian. That wasn’t being part of the war—not a big part, anyway—not an unforgivable part. He could bear this. After Kurt had shot the Roman deserter back in Messina, Roberto had seen no more murders. The worst part, really, was having to listen to German again. Night and day—Kurt’s continual barking.
So, really, this was okay—Roberto could do this. As long as they kept heading north with him, north toward Venice, and as long as the orders he had to translate were just telling people to get out of the way, he’d do what Kurt wanted—he’d be his translator. He was going home, and riding on a train or in a German truck was faster than walking. They hadn’t stayed anyplace more than a night so far. Hopefully, they’d be out of Naples within a day or two.
Roberto jumped off the train with the German troops, and all of them filed up an empty road. They turned a corner, and he tripped over a block of stone and fell. He couldn’t catch himself because his hands were still tied at his back. Debris covered the road. It seemed every other building was crumbling. This part of town had been bombed out completely. No wonder the roads were empty. This one was barely passable.
Another officer led them off the road and through winding alleys—each one as silent and empty as the last one—to the next fairly large street, where a small procession passed. Italian men walked in pairs, one behind the other. Their thin, bare chests glistened with sweat, though the day was hardly hot. Between them they carried armchairs mounted on two long poles. A wounded German soldier sat in each chair. The German troops from the train stopped and saluted as the procession went by.
Kurt walked alongside one of the chairs, pulling Roberto with him. “What’s happening?” he asked the German soldier in the chair.
“We’re going to Pompei to play tourists for the day.”
“You deserve the royal treatment,” said Kurt. He slipped a cigar into the shirt pocket of the soldier.
The soldier took his arm out of the big sling. “Royalty without a hand.” He waved his stump. “One hundred and twenty air raids those damned Allies made on this city. One hundred and twenty.”
Kurt shook his head in disgust.
Roberto looked around at the ruins with new eyes. It wasn’t just this part of town that had been bombed. One hundred and twenty air raids—the whole city must be in shambles. How many bombs did the Allies have, anyway?
How many people had the Allies killed?
They went up the road and passed a wall with the same poster over and over: Mussolini standing tall, heels together in high black boots, his right arm raised in salute above his helmet. The prime minister might be off in prison somewhere, but the Nazis who occupied this city had kept his pictures up.
They came to a piazza filled with German tanks, striped like tigers, immobile, colossal iron monsters. The troops crossed the piazza and, without a glance, filed past boys who were wearing nothing but shorts—like Roberto—playing harmonicas. Empty cans sat on the ground in front of the boys—for coins. They were scrawny little things with gleaming eyes, like clever stray cats. Roberto looked at them, and they stared back.
The troops marched into a big hotel.
“Headquarters,” said Kurt to Roberto as they followed. “Comfortable ones.”
“Welcome!” An officer came running to Kurt, a huge smile of recognition on his face. They hugged.
“So how is it here?” asked Kurt.
“Not so bad.”
“The Sicilians were sneaky,” said Kurt. “The men hid to avoid fighting. Sometimes they even turned on us and gave the Allies information. So I know how it can be. Tell me about the Neapolitans. Tell me the truth.”
“The truth?” The officer’s mouth went up in a smirk. “These people have no spunk. No fight at all. Someone does something against orders, you shoot him. Someone looks at you funny, you shoot him. Someone stands there and you just don’t like the size of his nose, you shoot him. And the rest do nothing but scurry back into their rat holes. These people—they’ve got no spine.” He leaned close. “And they’re desperate. At mealtime stick a loaf of bread in your jacket, and you can use it tonight if you don’t want to sleep alone. The women sell themselves for less than that. You can have two at once if you want.” He smacked his lips. “Wait till you see what a fourteen-year-old Neapolitan girl looks like. Starvation can be a beautiful thing.” He laughed.
Kurt laughed, too. “Which way to the commander?”
The office
r pointed. “See you at lunch?” He winked.
Kurt had to push Roberto along, he was too stunned to move on his own. A fourteen-year-old Neapolitan girl. Selling herself for a piece of bread. A girl his age. The center of his chest burned. He doubled over coughing.
“Colonel Scholl.” Kurt saluted.
“Good to see you. We’ll talk later. Right now I’ve got to find someone with a translator to get over to the jail.” Scholl was already striding past.
“I have a translator. This boy here.”
Scholl spun on his heel. “Really?” He looked at Roberto, then back at Kurt. “Here’s the situation. A rogue group of university students—all riffraff—staged a protest against the German occupation last week. We had them arrested, and today the whole lot is to be interrogated.”
Kurt stood at attention. “Where’s the jail, sir?”
Scholl gave a close-lipped smile. “Out the door, turn right, and keep going. I don’t know how many streets. Maybe ten. Twelve. It’s one of the few undamaged buildings. You won’t miss it.”
So Roberto found himself back out on the empty streets again, in tow behind Kurt, who walked quickly, puffing on a new cigar.
They were several blocks from headquarters when a whoop came from a window. It tore through the silent air like lightning. A second whoop came from another window. And now cheers came from everywhere. A woman leaned out a small balcony and threw garbage on Kurt’s head. Kurt shouted obscenities up at her, but his voice was drowned out. People poured from doorways, and the streets filled in a matter of minutes. Everyone shouted with joy.
Kurt threw his cigar in the street, grabbed Roberto by the arm, and raced back toward the hotel headquarters. “What are they saying? What’s happening?”
“Italy surrendered,” said Roberto, half-dazed. Could it be true? Everyone was shouting that Italy had surrendered to the Allies. The war was over. The Americans were coming, and the Germans would have to leave and life could go on. No more bombs. September 8 was a great great day. Could it really be true?
Kurt dragged Roberto along faster, his eyes darting every which way. They came to the wall they’d passed earlier. A group of half-naked boys, like the ones in the piazza earlier, ripped down the posters of Mussolini. A radio blared the news of the armistice from an open window above them. A boy stopped his ripping to spit at Kurt.
Kurt pulled out his gun automatically, then quick stuck it in Roberto’s back and ran in panic, pushing Roberto ahead of him.
Nazi headquarters was in an uproar. Colonel Scholl gave orders and people rushed to burn documents and pack up. They worked all the rest of the day and into the night.
Roberto watched them from the corner where he tried to shrink away. His mind raced. Outside the cheering that had gone up with the announcement of the armistice had died. Roberto sidled over toward a window, working to hear. There was noise inside the room, so it was hard to be sure, but he thought the street outside was quiet. Were the people gathering to attack? Would they set the hotel on fire?
If only his hands were free, he could open a shutter. But, oh, he could reach the latch with his mouth. He leaned and closed his mouth over the metal ball on the latch.
Slap!
Roberto went flying sideways and the latch ripped the corner of his mouth. The side of his head cracked on the sharp edge of the window frame. He felt wet drip from his ear to his shoulder.
“Imbecile!” hissed the German soldier. “If you open the shutters, they’ll be able to aim. We’re targets, you revolting imbecile.”
Roberto stumbled back to the corner. His ear throbbed. His mouth burned at the side where it bled. He looked from face to face. They were all terrified.
They’d die in this hotel.
Roberto would die in this hotel.
He sank to the floor and shut his eyes.
7
MORNING CAME. The hotel wasn’t on fire. Not a shot had disturbed the silence outdoors.
Roberto rubbed his wrists. Kurt had untied him long enough to let him use a toilet, then eat a roll and a small chunk of cheese. It was hard to chew without breaking the scab at the corner of his mouth.
He picked the dried blood off his shoulder and neck. But he left his ear and the side of his mouth encrusted for fear he’d set them bleeding again.
Kurt came over. “Done eating then?” He retied Roberto’s hands behind him.
Roberto retreated to his corner.
And that’s how it went.
All day long.
They stayed inside the hotel, waiting. Someone speculated on what to do. Scholl squelched the discussion immediately. He said he wanted a quick getaway, of course, of course, but they had to wait for orders from Hitler. That was it. No more of that kind of talk.
The second day a man insisted he had to go out. And he needed a couple of volunteers to go with him. His truck was full of rifles, and if they didn’t go unload them, the Italians would get them.
Scholl made the men who went outside put on white armbands as a precaution.
And everyone mumbled anxiously, worrying whether they’d make it back alive.
They did. And they were unharmed. Nothing even remotely threatening had happened to them.
So the next day Scholl sent out men wearing white armbands to get fresh water and food.
They made it back, too. With news this time. A German truck driver said he’d caught a band of orphans—the result of all those air raids—stealing food from his truck. But that was all. Hardly anything. No shots were fired.
When Roberto woke on the fourth morning, the atmosphere in the hotel headquarters had clearly changed. People spoke with bravura again. Several men ventured out.
At noon most came back. But one German soldier reported that a group of young men had taken his companions as prisoners, and he’d escaped only by pure luck.
That set Scholl to pacing. Then another soldier burst into headquarters with the news that the Italian general in charge of Naples had disbanded his soldiers. The general had told them all to go home, the war was over. And he had disappeared somewhere himself.
“Idiot!” Scholl smiled. “That excuse for a general probably is hiding in a convent somewhere. Up in the hills, I bet. Idiot coward!”
Everyone laughed.
And then Hitler’s orders came over the telegraph wire. His fury at the Italians for signing the armistice with the Allies was like a volcano. He ordered Colonel Scholl to get his troops out of Naples, but first he was to reduce the city to mud and ashes. The Italians would learn what their treachery cost: mud and ashes.
Roberto sat in the corner and watched everything change in seconds. German soldiers threw away their white armbands and picked up submachine guns. They marched out into the streets, and Roberto was marched out with them, pulled along by Kurt.
Tanks rolled, loudspeakers declared a state of siege, first in German, then, through Roberto’s mouth, in Italian. Colonel Scholl announced that no attacks on German soldiers would be tolerated. For each dead German, the people of Naples would pay one hundred times over.
The Neapolitans were given twenty-four hours to turn over their weapons. Kurt led Nazi soldiers from house to house looking for weapons, with Roberto translating all the way. But hardly anyone turned over anything except a few old historic swords, lying around as family heirlooms. In their anger, the Germans took watches and jewelry and, worst of all, what little food there was. They burned homes and businesses helter-skelter. Like Kurt said, that way no one felt safe, no matter what they did.
Then the Germans called the people out into a huge piazza. With one hand, a Nazi soldier dragged a young Italian man to the front of the crowd. No, he wasn’t even a man, he was a boy, maybe a couple of years older than Roberto, a boy in sailor’s clothes. In the Nazi’s other hand was a suitcase. The boy screamed he was innocent. He screamed and screamed.
Boom! A cannon volley sounded, and a large building on the piazza caught fire. At the noise Roberto pressed his arms tight against his
body to control the shakes. He heard someone at his side mutter in Italian, “Our university. Our wonderful university.”
A Nazi officer ordered everyone to kneel. No one knew what he’d said, so Roberto had to pass the word—“Get on your knees, get on your knees, please.”
A man in the crowd asked, “Do they make you kneel when they’re going to shoot you?”
Roberto’s breath caught. He didn’t know. But there were many more Neapolitans there than Germans. If the Germans opened fire and if the people fought back, the Germans would lose. The Germans could do terrible things, but they wouldn’t be that stupid. Would they?
The Nazi officer was screaming now, jumping in place, saying they all better get on their knees fast.
Then another Nazi shouted in mangled Italian. And everyone got to their knees. He said that boy had thrown grenades at German soldiers. He said the suitcase was full of grenades. He said the boy’s punishment was that he had to go into the burning building—he’d get burned up.
The boy cried that he was innocent. He swore it on the name of the Holy Virgin. On the name of his mother. When the Nazi let go of his arm, he threw himself on the ground and howled.
“Do you need others to go with you? Is that what you want?” asked the Nazi.
The boy stood up. Mucus dangled from his chin. He shook all over. But he went. He went straight for the flaming doorway.
Roberto watched, horrified. He took a step after the boy, moving instinctively. But he stopped. The intense heat of the fire was like a wall, even here where he stood. The boy must already be in pain. And it would get hideous fast. “Please, Kurt,” said Roberto. “Please.”
Kurt looked at him a moment. Then he licked his bottom lip. “For you,” he said. He shot the boy in the back. “You owe me now.”
8
ROBERTO WALKED IN FRONT OF KURT, the tip of the German’s pistol pressed against his back. Kurt barked orders in German to his soldiers and simply pushed aside Italians who got in the way. But he wanted Roberto there as translator just in case; now and then an Italian might be useful, after all.
Fire in the Hills Page 3
