by Felice Arena
It’s a lot tougher climbing down the bumpy cliffside track than climbing up it. Antonio step-slides down the dusty narrow path that snakes down to the grotto, grasping onto rocks to keep his balance. He’s glad he has left the fishing pole at the top – it’s hard enough carrying the sack.
‘Hello?’ Antonio calls, when he reaches the bottom of the cliff. The tide is out and he can step into the grotto.
Before his eyes even have a chance to adjust, he’s grabbed from behind, his mouth cupped by a coarse hand. His heart is pounding. He can feel the cold barrel of a pistol under his chin.
‘Heck, kid!’ Chris exhales, releasing his grip on Antonio. ‘You just can’t creep up on me like that!’
The American limps a few steps and falls to the ground, looking more exhausted than before. The morning light streaming through the entrance of the grotto is dim, and the interior of the cave is darker than the previous time Antonio was there.
He catches his breath, his gaze still on the gun. It’s stamped and turned steel. It looks cold and deadly. He has never seen one like it before – it’s nothing like what the Germans or Italians carry.
‘It’s the FP-45 Liberator,’ says Chris. ‘Single-shot action. And next time you need to give me some kind of signal. Maybe we should have a whistle.’
The American whistles in three short pitches while uncocking the pistol.
‘I hope there’s something to eat in there,’ Chris says, pointing to the sack in Antonio’s hands. Antonio passes it over and the American rummages through it as if he’s digging for treasure.
He shoves the bread into his mouth, and swigs down water. Antonio crouches beside him and separates the first-aid supplies from the food.
‘Whoa, kid. What did you do, rob a doctor or something?’ Chris says with his mouth full, now grabbing for a fig.
‘Yes,’ says Antonio matter-of-factly, lighting one of the candles he packed. He notices Chris is impressed.
‘Nice work,’ Chris says. He begins peeling back his bloody shirt from around the top of his left leg.
Antonio winces when he catches sight of the wound. It’s a gruesome, deep gash surrounded by dark bruising.
‘It’s pretty nasty, eh?’ Chris says, gritting his teeth. He begins gingerly cleaning the cut with iodine and applying the Mercurochrome. ‘Move the candle a little closer; I need to see what I’m doing here. And hand me the bandages.’
Antonio does.
‘There you go.’ Chris sighs heavily, wrapping the fresh clean gauze around his thigh tightly. ‘That should ward off any infection and I’ll be up and running in no time. If I’m lucky and make it back home, I’ll have a terrific story to tell.’
‘So what is your story?’ asks Antonio.
‘You mean my life story?’
Antonio nods.
Chris sighs. It’s obvious that the American is reluctant to talk. But Antonio is curious, and is dying to know more about this man from the other side of the world.
‘Come on – tell me. You know what it took me to get these medical supplies. What a risk it was.’
‘You’re right, kid. If we’re to trust each other . . . All right then, here goes. I’ll give you a scaled-down version. I don’t want to bore you.’
Antonio grins, as the spy wriggles into a more comfortable position, wincing as he shifts his wounded leg.
‘Only eight months ago I was a college professor,’ says Chris. ‘I used to teach Italian at Columbia University in New York – which is famous for its Italian department. Lorenzo Da Ponte taught there.’
Antonio is confused. ‘Should I know him?’ he asks. ‘Is he from around here?’
Chris laughs. ‘No, but he’s one of your famous countrymen. He was the librettist for some of Mozart’s most famous operas.’
Antonio shrugs. ‘Who the prickly-pear is Mozart?’
‘Come on, you must know Mozart. The world-famous composer from the eighteeth century?
‘Anyway, I taught there. And I know what you’re thinking, how does an American end up teaching Italian? Two words: Marina Buonamici. She was my high-school sweetheart – her parents had come to America from Genoa. And I wanted to impress her so much I taught myself Italian. Marina and I didn’t last, but I discovered I had a talent for learning languages so I majored in Italian at college and before long I was teaching it.’
‘How did you become a spy?’ Antonio feels impatient. He’s waiting for Chris to get to the best bits of the story.
‘I was approached by a US intelligence agency called the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services. They were searching for anyone who could speak and understand the language of our enemies, that is, Italian or German.’
‘I got that part,’ Antonio says. ‘I guess we’re the bad guys in your story.’
Chris nods and looks apologetic. ‘Yeah, well, anyone who speaks the language and is fit and prepared to serve their country makes a perfect candidate to become an operative for the agency. My wife’s father fought and was killed in the First World War, and in her eyes he was a hero. So when the OSS came knocking on my door, I thought here’s my chance to do my part. They enlisted me immediately. Fast-forward several months later and I’m in a camp in North Africa training in combat warfare and code-breaking. And only a couple of days ago I set out on my first mission . . . on a flight to Northern Italy.’
‘Wait!’ Antonio says. ‘This is . . . was your first mission?’
‘Yeah, not a great start, right? I was part of a six-man team and we were forced to bail out of the plane over the south-eastern coast of Sicily. There was a fierce storm. I was lucky to get out before the aircraft crashed into the sea. I don’t know about the others.’ Chris pauses. He gazes off to the side, his entire body seems to deflate. ‘I might be the only survivor.’
‘And?’ says Antonio, softly. ‘How did you get here?’
‘I thought I would die,’ Chris says, his voice cracking. ‘My parachute opened but I was blown miles away from the crash site – whipped about in the storm like a stringless kite. Then the wind tossed me against these cliffs – my leg took most of the force of the impact. Somehow I was able to get to my feet, sink my parachute into the sea and hide out in here.’
Chris sighs. ‘Anyway,’ he says suddenly shifting the mood. ‘That’s my story. So far.’ He pulls something from the sack ‘What’s this?’
It’s Antonio book of drawings.
‘Um, that’s not for you. It’s mine, sorry,’ says Antonio snatching it back. ‘I, um, I just put it in there cause I’m used to taking it with me wherever I go. It’s nothing. I just like to sketch in it.’
‘Can I have a look?’ Chris asks, extending his hand.
Antonio has never shared his drawings with anyone except for Mamma Nina, and even then, only rarely.
‘Come on. Please?’ the American says.
Antonio reluctantly hands over his notebook. He is nervous and slightly embarrassed. He watches Chris slowly and intently turning through the pages. Antonio is trying to read his expression. Chris is not giving much away. But then halfway through the book he looks up at him and smiles.
‘Wow, kid, wow! You have talent. These drawings are fantastic! So you’re an artist. Is that me?’ Chris points at the illustration Antonio had drawn the night before. ‘You did my portrait! It’s really me. And who’s this woman? Is that your grandmother?’
‘No, that’s my . . . um, mother.’
‘What’s with the pause? You’re not sure whether she’s your mother or not?’
‘No, she’s my mother. It’s just that . . . um, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Oh, okay. What about your dad?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Brothers or sisters?’
‘No,’ Antonio says bluntly.
‘Just you and your mum?’
Antonio nods.
‘Well, I’m a dad. I live with my wife, Betty, and my daughter, Rose. She’s six years old.’ Chris looks away, flipping through the notebook again. ‘
They’ll be so worried about me.’
Again there’s silence.
‘Your sketches of buildings and the streets of your town are so realistic. You have a real gift, kid. And it’s given me an idea. But first things first.’ Chris’s voice is serious now. ‘I need to somehow communicate with headquarters and report my status. I’ll have to arrange for rescue. I need to make contact with the partigiani, the partisans, or least that’s what they’re called in the north of Italy. They’re sometimes known as la Resistenza, the Resistance. But down here I’m not so sure.’
‘Partigiani? Resistenza?’ Antonio repeats. These are words he hasn’t heard before.
‘Yes. Locals who are against the Nazis and the fascists and are secretly helping the British and the Americans – the Allies.’
‘You mean like me?’ Antonio asks. ‘I must be a partigiano because I’m helping you.’
Chris chuckles. ‘Yeah. I suppose. Yes, you are. But I need groups of people. People who are against what Hitler and Mussolini stand for – against the dictatorship. And I’ll need you to be my eyes and ears . . .’ He looks down at his wound. ‘And legs, for now, at least. Intelligence has told us that there’s an underground movement slowly building here in the south, but it’s incredibly small, hidden, and it’s difficult to pinpoint the players involved. Kid, this isn’t a game. This is deadly work, and if you reveal yourself to the wrong people, I don’t know what will happen . . . I’m sorry to involve you, but you’re my only hope of getting out of here.’
Antonio’s mind races. Life has been tough since the Germans moved in – despite what some people said. Most people in town loved the Prime Minister of Italy, Benito Mussolini. And many of them also talked well of the Chancellor of Germany, Adolf Hitler. But Antonio hated the things that had happened since they joined Germany in the war.
All my life I’ve been made to feel different or second rate because I’m a rota, he thinks. Supporters of Mussolini and Hitler treat everyone that way – like they’re better than everyone else, like they should control the world. They say things like ‘we’re born to fight’ and ‘no one can challenge us’.
‘Why can’t people just get on? Why do they have to judge other people?’ he asks Chris.
Chris shakes his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘But it sounds like you know what it’s like not to be given the freedom to be who you are. The Nazis don’t treat people justly and humanly. They want to take away our basic human rights and liberties.’
Antonio nods. ‘I can do this,’ he says intently. ‘I know how to be invisible. No one looks at me anyway. I’m just a rota – a ghost to most people. What do I need to do?’
‘A rota?’ says Chris. ‘That means a wheel. What do you mean you’re a wheel?’
Antonio takes in a deep breath and explains what it means. He looks to see if Chris’s expression changes. Is he disappointed? Disgusted? Will Chris still want his help once he finds out what he is? But the spy’s face is showing the complete opposite.
‘How lucky you are to have someone like your mother who took you in as her own,’ he says in a matter-of-fact way.
Antonio is astounded. He’s never considered himself lucky or looked at his life in that way before.
‘Life is a gift, no matter how we come into this world, kid,’ Chris says.
Antonio is thrown by the spy’s kind words. He feels a warm feeling wash over him.
But Chris obviously has no idea the effect his words are having on Antonio. ‘Since you’re an artist, could you gather information for me?’ he asks. ‘Sketch and map your town – the major roads, the streets, the landmarks, the topography of the coastline and inland, nearby villages. Perhaps even document the artillery bases and track enemy movement. You’ll be carrying on my observation operation in a way. And while I didn’t end up in the location I was assigned to investigate, every little bit will help.’
For the first time in his life Antonio sees a chance to prove his worth. A chance to choose his own place in the world – to be more than just a boy to be despised or pitied.
‘Why?’ Antonio says. ‘Are we going to be invaded by the Allies?’
The spy shakes his head. ‘To be honest, I don’t know, kid. I wouldn’t rule it out. Can you do it? Can you be a spy?’
Antonio stands and moves towards the entrance of the cave. ‘Let’s find out,’ he says.
la piazza
THE PIAZZA
Over the next few days Antonio does the same thing each day. Observe. Draw. Move on. Observe. Draw. Move on. He slips in and out of shadowy corners and archways of buildings. He stands against doorways, fountains and walls that lead up steep stone stairways. He even sketches and takes notes as he snakes and winds through market shoppers and church¬goers in the piazza.
In every spying moment Antonio is nervous, excited and skittish. But he is no closer to knowing who might be partigiani, or part of the Resistance. He is also aware that he is racing against the clock. It’s only a matter of time before another boat patrol will scour the coastline – and discover the spy.
But for today Antonio is watching people in the Piazza Salvatore, the main square of his town. He is standing in the shadows in a narrow alley that runs off the piazza. The square is buzzing with movement and the sunlight is bouncing off the crumbling facades of the buildings that encircle the piazza. The buildings are as white and decorative as a wedding cake.
Diagonally opposite, a group of old men are talking outside Pasticceria Antica. Antonio knows most of them. Signor Barbagallo, who always seems to be chewing something. ignor Portia, always smiling. There’s Signor Greco, hands constantly waving and gesturing. And Signor Ensabella, always dressed immaculately.
A German soldier brushes past them and enters the pastry shop. Antonio imagines what the man will order – almond-paste biscotti! Antonio licks his lips.
Buying anything from the pastry shop is nothing but a dream for Antonio. The store’s cakes and biscuits are only for the wealthy in town or the German troops, who have a serious appetite for marzipan.
Antonio thinks of Mamma Nina saying, ‘Antica’s cannoli are said to be the very best in all of Sicily. Even the nuns don’t know how to make them that delicious. I’d love to taste one once in my lifetime. But we starve while others dine on sweets. The world is absurd. Who can understand it?’
Antonio quickly sketches the exterior of the shop and scribbles the Nazis swastika beside it. He makes a note to tell the American, ‘Where there is sugar, there are Germans.’
In the opposite corner of the square several women are gathered around local fishermen. The men are carrying buckets of leftovers from their early morning catch – the fish they couldn’t sell to customers down at the beach. Antonio looks for Mamma Nina’s friend Signor Piccolo but then remembers he has left town for a couple of weeks to visit his sister in Siracusa.
But what if he’s not really visiting his sister? Antonio thinks. What if it’s all a cover-up? Could he be part of the underground movement?
Antonio looks at the women. Maybe one of them is a partigiana? Maybe the stocky one pushing the others to get her hands on the squid? Or maybe that woman standing in a balcony window watching her two small sons kicking a soccer ball in the centre of the piazza? No one would ever suspect a mother. Antonio sighs. Finding the Resistance was going to be tough.
‘What are you drawing?’ Antonio whips round, almost dropping his notebook. It’s Simonetta.
‘What the sweet Jesus do you think you’re doing sneaking up on me like that?’
‘Ha!’ Simonetta laughs. ‘Did I frighten you? A tough guy like you who breaks into people’s homes.’
‘Shhh! Keep your voice down,’ Antonio says, snapping his book shut. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m with my grandfather,’ she says, pointing to the group of old men. ‘He wanted to introduce me to his friends and show me around town. So how is the mysterious patient feeling? Better? Did you figure out how to bandage the wound?’
&n
bsp; ‘What?’ says Antonio, acting as if he doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
‘You know,’ she says. ‘The person who needed first aid.’
Antonio shakes his head and begins to walk away from Simonetta.
She follows him. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t blow your cover that night,’ she says. ‘So . . . you’re welcome. A thank you would be nice.’
‘Thanks,’ Antonio says, sidestepping the two young boys playing soccer. ‘Now, leave me alone.’
But before Antonio can take another step, Simonetta snatches the notebook out of his hand and darts across the piazza towards the group of old men.
Antonio swears and runs after her.
Simonetta is weaving around people in the piazza. Antonio can’t catch her and he’s seething with frustration. She’s giggling as if it’s a big game.
‘Give it back!’ he says. But he doesn’t want to make too much of a scene and draw any attention.
‘Simonetta!’ a gruff voice bellows. Simonetta stops and quickly flips through the pages of the notebook. Antonio twists her around and grabs it back. One of the old men is glaring their way – it’s Simonetta’s grandfather. ‘Come here, now!’
‘Si, Nonno,’ she says, reluctantly walking over to him. As she moves away, she looks back over her shoulder and says to Antonio, ‘You’re a really good drawer.’
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Simonetta’s grandfather is scolding her. ‘That’s not how a young lady should behave. You shouldn’t be hanging around grubby boys, especially him. He’s a rota.’
Antonio feels a sharp stabbing pain in his stomach. There it is again – judgement. Antonio imagines what it would be like to tell Simonetta’s grandfather to go stick it.
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a jeep beeping at him. Antonio quickly jumps out of the way. These days only military vehicles are allowed in the piazza. As the jeep moves on past him he catches sight of a field radio on the front passenger seat. It’s encased in an olive leather canvas case – the size of a rucksack. Antonio has often seen German soldiers carrying and using them, but he’s never got close enough for a proper look at one.
