Fire in the Hills

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Meanwhile, on the northwest coast of Italy, the partigiani came down from the hills and took over Genoa. British planes had dropped arms to them, but much got destroyed in the drops, and what was left was little in comparison to what the Germans had. The partigiani mounted broken machine guns on roofs just for show. And still, by grit and determination, they prevailed. By the time the Allies arrived at the city on April 26, Genoa was already liberated—by the ragtag resistance.

  Lupo learned about these things from the occasional radio and, mostly, by word of mouth among partigiani. That was their lifeline—any bit of promising news. Everyone was at the breaking point, but news like this kept them whole.

  As Lupo turned sixteen, the north of Italy was almost entirely liberated. Some said April 25 should become the Festival of the Resistance, a day to be celebrated every year, as marking the victory of the partigiani and the end of occupation.

  But not every place was free yet. Not the place that meant the most to Lupo.

  The three of them—Turbine, Volpe Rossa, and Lupo—had come to Padua and were working with the partigiani right in the city. They got here partly walking, partly hitching rides in cars on back roads. For days they worked on fortifying strategic locations. By night they put up posters on walls of public buildings telling the Nazis and Fascists to surrender; the end was at hand.

  The Nazis got in trucks and made for the Alps. But the partigiani had seized the bridges over the Brenta River, cutting off that escape route.

  On April 27 the trapped Germans decided to ruin Padua. It was like a repeat of what Colonel Scholl’s troops did to Naples back in September 1943. They blasted the city with heavy artillery fire, even though they knew they’d have to give it up.

  But this time the people fought back immediately, and in overwhelming numbers, before the city could be reduced to rubble. They captured German soldiers and locked them in a huge barrack. The Germans wound up shelling that barrack and unwittingly killed hundreds of their own men. By the end of the battle, over 20,000 German prisoners were taken.

  Through all this Lupo shot tires. He crippled dozens of German trucks, cars, jeeps, scooters.

  The night of April 27 many partigiani headed north, chasing after the escaping enemy in the provinces of Treviso and Belluno. But Lupo, Volpe Rossa, and Turbine walked the main road toward Venice, wretched Venice, still occupied.

  They walked in the center of the road, because the retreating Germans had scattered mines through the grasses. It was the Nazi mantra Lupo was way too familiar with by now: do as much damage as you can, even in defeat, or, maybe, especially in defeat.

  Lupo recognized nothing on either side of the road, of course. Still, the terrain felt familiar. He didn’t know if it could possibly be true, but he thought he smelled the sea. The lagoon. The place he’d swum as a boy—what seemed ages ago.

  Mamma would be asleep now. She’d have the window open, because she liked a chill at night. It made her sleep better. Papà would be curled in a blanket beside her, because he hated to sleep cold. And his brother Sergio? Was Sergio still off somewhere in Germany?

  Lupo breathed hard. He was exhausted from the day. His eyes burned. His feet stung. His shoulders ached. But a new kind of energy surged through him. He was almost home. At last.

  “I’ve never been to Venice,” said Turbine.

  “Neither have I,” said Volpe Rossa. “Tell us the layout, Lupo.”

  “I don’t know where to begin. It’s nothing like any of the cities we’ve worked in together. There are canals everywhere.”

  Turbine laughed. “Well, everyone knows that.”

  “Halt!” A German soldier jumped out from the ditch on the side of the road. He pointed a submachine gun at them.

  Another ran from the ditch across the road, holding a pistol in front of him.

  “Don’t shoot,” shouted Turbine in German.

  “What? You’re German? I just heard you speaking Italian. All three of you.”

  “I’m a spy,” said Turbine. “And they’re Fascists.”

  A truck came up a side road. It stopped. “Get in,” called the driver in German. “Shoot them and get in.”

  “The man’s German. He says he’s a spy. He says the two boys are Fascists.”

  “Shoot them and get in.”

  “But he’s German.”

  “I’m Austrian, and even if he was Austrian, I’d shoot him.”

  “I won’t shoot a German spy.”

  “Do whatever you want. Just get in! We have to go fast.”

  The soldier with the pistol collected their rifles. The one with the machine gun made them climb into the back of the truck. Then the two German soldiers climbed into the back behind them.

  The truck crossed the main road and went up back roads, heading north.

  It was too noisy to talk in the open truck bed. And the sides were too high to see anything. The truck kept going and going. It was slow, this beat-up truck, but it was steady. With every minute it put more distance between Lupo and his home.

  And he’d been so close!

  This couldn’t happen. He couldn’t let it. Not now. He stood up.

  The German aimed the submachine gun at him.

  Turbine yanked him back down.

  Volpe Rossa closed her arms around his chest from behind. She held him tight.

  The truck rumbled along as dawn came. Now the road wound up into the foothills of the Alps. They were heading to Austria. No.

  The motor coughed. And died.

  It started again, coughed, died.

  “Damn!” The driver came around to the back of the truck, holding a semiautomatic rifle. “We’re out of gas.”

  “Then they’ll capture us,” said the soldier with the pistol.

  “I know this area. I know a place we can hide, past Asiago. If Italians come in little groups, we can kill them easily from there. We can kill plenty before we’re captured. Come on.”

  They tramped through the woods. The driver led the way. One soldier kept his pistol in Lupo’s back. The other kept his machine gun aimed at Turbine’s and Volpe Rossa’s backs. Flowers sweetened the air with all the zest of spring. Lupo swallowed his sour saliva.

  After about half an hour the driver said, “Here.” He stopped at a hole and pointed down with his rifle. “We killed plenty at this spot last winter. Then this spring the Italians killed plenty of us. They even threw in Italian whores who slept with our officers.” He turned his eyes on Volpe Rossa and Lupo. “So now it’s our turn again.”

  The other two soldiers edged over and peeked into the hole. They coughed and put their hands over their nose and mouth. “What a stench!” the one with the submachine gun said.

  Lupo knew this place. He’d never been here, but he’d heard about it. Venetians called it the Buso. But its name in Italian was Buco della Luna—“Moon Hole.” It was a natural rock formation, a type of cave, he guessed, with its opening at the very top.

  “How far does it go down?” the one with the submachine gun asked.

  “I’ll show you.” The driver looked at Turbine. “You really German?”

  “Yes,” said Turbine.

  “So you’re a spy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Prove it. Push the short guy in.” He pointed at Volpe Rossa, who was still dressed like a young boy.

  “No!” Lupo stepped forward.

  The soldier with the pistol jammed it in his face. “Stay put.”

  “They’re Fascists,” said Turbine. “Both of them.”

  “They’re Italian,” said the soldier with the submachine gun. He pointed it at Volpe Rossa.

  A spasm zipped through Lupo so hard, his nose brushed the pistol barrel in his face. He had to protect Volpe Rossa. No matter what.

  “Push the short guy in,” said the driver. “Then we can force the other guy to jump. They might be Fascists, but I’m sure they’re dirty Catholics. So if the short guy doesn’t die right off, the other guy will kill him when he falls on him.” He sm
iled with satisfaction. “He can commit murder and suicide at the same time. A double sin for a Catholic.”

  Turbine grabbed Volpe Rossa by the arm.

  Lupo opened his mouth to shout when—what?—Turbine kissed her. Turbine kissed Volpe Rossa. And she kissed him back. They loved each other. And Lupo hadn’t even known. Or maybe he had. That’s why he’d been so annoyed with Turbine all along; he’d sensed it. From the very first encounter, something had sparked between them. Oh, yes, he’d known. Volpe Rossa kissed Turbine. His Volpe Rossa.

  The soldiers were as astonished as Lupo. Even more so, because Volpe Rossa was dressed as a boy. They stood there, jaws dropped.

  Lupo sprang. He snatched the pistol in front of his face and shot the soldier holding the submachine gun. That soldier slumped forward over the gun.

  Someone jumped on Lupo’s back. It was the other German soldier, the one Lupo had grabbed the pistol from. They rolled in the dirt. A rifle went off somewhere. A machine gun hammered the air. Lupo didn’t know who was shooting, who was being shot. Nothing made sense. He was rolling with this soldier, rolling and kicking and fighting and—

  “Aaaaaah!” screamed the soldier as he slipped into the Buso.

  A tremendous jerk came on Lupo’s shoulder.

  The soldier dangled in the Buso, holding on to Lupo for dear life.

  Lupo felt himself being dragged into the hole by the great struggling weight on his arm.

  Bang!

  The soldier went limp, let go, fell.

  29

  TURBINE AND LUPO CARRIED Volpe Rossa’s body back to the road. The ground was too rocky here to dig a grave without the right tools. Their tears had stopped. But they still didn’t speak.

  The bodies of the three Nazis were at the bottom of the Buso. When Lupo had looked down it in the morning sun, he had seen other bodies there. Lots of them. Italian bodies and German bodies, stinking as they rotted.

  The two of them walked in tandem along the road. Lupo was in front, holding Volpe Rossa by the knees. Turbine held her by the armpits.

  Her body was stiff with rigor mortis. It didn’t carry like a body, but more like a strangely cut piece of wood. Lupo felt a sense of unreality as they walked. How could this thing, this object, be Volpe Rossa, the one he loved?

  They went south. The pistol in Lupo’s pocket lumped and thumped. That’s what guns did. He hated it. But it still held one bullet. He had used the other one. And that sense of unreality came again. How could Lupo be the person who had killed a man?

  The other German guns were back at the Buso. Turbine had emptied the submachine gun into the driver, the one who had shot Volpe Rossa. Then he’d picked up the driver’s rifle and shot the Nazi Lupo was struggling with. It turned out to be the last rifle bullet.

  A single bullet could change so much.

  Why should Lupo be surprised? That’s how it always was—how life always went. Single things changed everything. A single person, a single kiss.

  They stopped at the first country house. The woman inside fed them soup and bread. She gave them two shovels and led them out back, showing them where to bury Volpe Rossa. Beside two other fresh graves.

  They dug without pause, deeper and deeper. It wasn’t like they’d talked about putting her so deep no wild animal from the nearby forest would ever be able to dig her up. It wasn’t anything rational or planned. They just kept digging.

  Turbine finally put down his shovel and jumped into the hole. Lupo lowered Volpe Rossa into his arms. Turbine lay her down and smoothed her clothes, her hair. He worked to straighten her legs, to fold her arms on her chest. But her body was so stiff and hard, it was impossible. Turbine didn’t stop, though. He pushed and pulled and pushed and pulled, till Lupo jumped down into the hole and wrapped his arms around Turbine from behind so he couldn’t move—like Volpe Rossa had wrapped her arms around Lupo in the back of the German truck. And they cried. They just cried. They just cried.

  And everything was real again.

  Oh, Lord.

  When they left, they walked side by side.

  Night came. They slept in the grasses. In the morning they came to a town. They learned that just the day before, Mussolini had been shot in a piazza in Milan. They learned that on that same day the people of Venice had rebelled. They’d captured ten thousand prisoners and lost only three hundred of their own men. Venice was free.

  They hitched a ride south, down through little towns that were cleaning up, washing away blood, burying the dead.

  When they reached the main highway, Turbine went west. Volpe Rossa’s sister lived that way—in Bergamo. She had told him. She had told Turbine about her family, when she’d never told Lupo things like that.

  Turbine would go there now and let Volpe Rossa’s sister know what had happened. Maybe he’d stay there. Maybe he’d make it his home.

  Lupo hugged him good-bye. No, not Lupo. He was Roberto again. The war was over. The beast of the resistance would disperse. He could try to find himself again, if any of him remained. Roberto.

  Roberto hitched a ride on a truck full of Americans. They took his pistol away. That was fine with him. He never wanted to hold a gun again, ever.

  They told him the Eighth Army had been assigned to liberate Venice that day, but since Venice was already free, they were going in to help restore order.

  Order. What could the word mean? Roberto’s life had been without order for so long.

  The truck rode along the highway that crossed the lagoon. Ibises picked their way with dainty feet. The names of all the seabirds came back to Roberto. The names he’d learned from Randy, the American soldier back in North Africa. Birds came and went, year after year, migrating with hope of better weather, better life. They believed in order. They kept going.

  That’s what life was—keeping going.

  Roberto had been in other trucks like this. So many trucks, boats, trains, wagons in the past three years. He’d bicycled and walked and run such a long distance.

  He stood up in the back of the truck. No one yanked him down this time. He looked ahead. That was his city over there. People he loved were waiting for him. He gripped the side of the truck as it rumbled along.

  POSTSCRIPT

  AT THE END OF THE FIRST WEEK OF MAY 1945, the German government unconditionally surrendered, and the war in Europe ended.

  Of the 7,013 Jews who had been deported from Italy to death camps, only 830 of them lived to come back. Of those Jews who remained in Italy, 303 more died of mistreatment or suicide.

  Over 200,000 partigiani were formally enlisted in the resistance army, and many more people who were not formally enlisted fought—like the Roberto/Lupo, Teresa/Volpe Rossa, and Turbine of this story. Additionally, there were countless ordinary citizens who did their part without ever picking up a weapon. At least 40,000 of those formally enlisted died, but there is no way to accurately count the full number of Italians who died in the resistance.

  The particular events that happened to Roberto/Lupo in this story are fictional, though most are fictionalized accounts of events that happened to others during this period. I tried to stick to real happenings as often as possible to pay tribute to the staggering self-sacrifice and courage of the partigiani.

  If you would like to hear tunes of the resistance songs and learn more about the resistance and activities that celebrate the memories of the partigiani, please visit the Web site of the Associazione Nazionale Partigiani d’Italia: http://www.anpi.it.

  To hear the tune “Bella Ciao” and learn the words, go to the Web site: http://ingeb.org/songs/bellacia.html. This is undoubtedly the most well known of the resistance songs.

  If you would like to learn more about and hear the tune of the resistance song “Fischia il Vento,” please visit the Web site of the Parco Culturale “Il Sentiero di Fischia il Vento” in the region called Liguria: http://www.liguri.net/portAppennini/pak_fv.htm. To learn the words to the song “Fischia il Vento,” go to the Web site: http://ingeb.org/songs/fischiav.html.
You’ll find that the version given there begins with the words “Fischia il vento” (“The wind whistles”) instead of the “Soffia il vento,” given in this story. Popular songs have many different versions. In this story, I chose to give the version best known to my friends in Venice, since Roberto is from Venice.

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  DONNA JO NAPOLI’S

  NEW BOOK

  The Smile

  CHAPTER One

  “ELISABETTA, where are you going?”

  Oh, and I was so close to the door. Ah, well. I descend from tiptoe and walk from the corridor into the kitchen. On the cutting counter in front of her lie a skinned hare, raisins, pine nuts. “The garden is lovely this morning, Mamma.” I lean around her shoulder from behind and kiss her cheek. “But if you want help, of course I’ll stay.”

  “Ha! My sweet delight, do you think you fool me?” Mamma gives me just the briefest twinkle of her eye and returns her attention to mincing. “I know how you feel about cooking.” She makes three little tsks of the tongue.

  Many women of the noble class don’t cook, but Mamma takes pride in it. Under her quick blade, the bright green pile of parsley and rucola turns to a deep forest green mash. I move to stand beside her. The aroma bathes us. I can almost taste it.

  “This is your father’s favorite dish; I must be the one to prepare it. Alone. A good wife takes pride in her husband’s hums of pleasure at the dining table. You should mend your ways and learn the culinary skills. It will bring you joy.” She smiles contentedly, though she doesn’t look up. “False offers of aid—who taught you that?”

  I pick up a loose leaf and chew it. The bitterness makes me suck in my breath. “A good wife does so many things. You’re always adding to the list. I wager a good wife needs to know how to make false offers, too.”

  “Watch that tongue.” But she laughs. She wipes her hands on her apron, then turns to me. Her palms cup my cheeks lovingly. “You’re clever, Elisabetta, but you’ll be thirteen in just two months. In many ways you seem older than your years—yet in some ways, you’re far too young. Think about what needs your attention rather than running off to the woods.”