by Felice Arena
The American needs to get in touch with his contacts, he thinks. For that he’ll need a radio transmitter. Antonio wonders how hard it would be to steal one. He shakes his head. How could I do that without being caught? I’d need some sort of distraction . . .
The jeep comes to a halt in the front of the pastry shop. And as if on cue, a group of Italian soldiers enters the piazza. Antonio recognises the two men he met in the boat outside the cave, Morelli and Vitti.
He remembers part of their conversation, and has an audacious idea . . .
il gioco
THE GAME
As Antonio makes his way towards Morelli and Vitti, he wedges his notebook into the back of his pants and shoves his charcoal pencils in his pocket.
‘Ciao, amici! Hey, friends!’ he calls out cheekily, flagging their attention. ‘Imagine seeing you again!’
‘What do you want?’ Morelli sneers.
‘Nothing,’ says Antonio. ‘But I was just thinking about how you said that Italy is better than Germany in soccer. Apparently that’s not true – not according to those two.’ Antonio points at the German soldier, who has hopped out of the jeep and is chatting with his comrade in front of the pastry shop.
‘What? What are you talking about?’ says Vitti.
‘They told me that our team is so weak that any German could outplay us.’
‘Questo è assurdo! That’s absurd!’ Morelli snorts, spitting on the ground. ‘Someone should remind them that we were champions in two World Cups.’
‘Hey, I’m just passing on what they told me.’
Antonio leaves the Italians and heads back towards the German soldiers. This bit is going to be a bit harder, he thinks. He hardly speaks any German.
‘Hey! Sie sagen . . . um, Deutsche nicht spielen Fussball . . .’ Antonio stutters, pointing back towards the Italian soldiers, ‘um, nicht gut!’
‘I speak Italian, boy, what are you trying to say?’ says one of the German soldiers.
Antonio switches back to Italian.
‘I just thought you might want to know that those soldiers over there – they’re talking about how crazy you are for thinking you’re better than them,’ he says. ‘And they said you need reminding that the German football team will never be world champions. That title will always belong to Italy.’
‘They said that?’
Antonio nods.
The soldier translates for his friend. ‘Well, I’ve got something to say to them,’ he says in Italian.
The two Germans brush past Antonio and walk towards Morelli and Vitti.
Antonio grins. They’ve taken the bait. He backs towards the German jeep and the radio just waiting to be stolen.
But then it gets even better . . .
One German soldier grabs the soccer ball from the two boys playing in the centre of the piazza.
‘Give it back!’ they yell, but the soldiers ignore them.
‘Hey!’ the other soldier calls out to the Italians. ‘So you think you’re better than us? Viva Italia? Never! No way!’
Antonio can’t believe his luck. Surely Morelli and Vitti can’t ignore a challenge like that.
The soldiers put down their weapons, unbuckle their artillery belts, and roll up their sleeves. Everyone in the piazza stops what they’re doing and gathers around the perimeter of the square to watch the two-on-two soccer showdown.
The rules are loose, but straightforward. ‘First to three goals wins,’ Morelli announces, as more locals stream into the town square, laughing and chatting. More German soldiers come out of the Pasticceria Antica to watch and more Italian soldiers gather together forming an unofficial cheer squad. They begin to chant . . . ‘I-ta-li-a! I-ta-li-a! I-ta-li-a!’
Antonio’s face lights up. No one has played a game of soccer in the piazza since the Germans moved in.
The fishermen place their buckets at either end of the piazza to serve as goals. The Germans are the first to kick off. Everyone cheers and the contest is under way.
Antonio knows he has to act fast now. He melts back into the excited crowd, and now almost everyone is cheering for Morelli and Vitti.
‘Italia! Italia! Italia!’
A roar erupts as Vitti kicks the first goal.
Antonio weaves through the crowd towards the jeep. When he reaches it he takes a sweeping look around him. Good, all eyes appear to be on the game. He steps slowly back towards the front passenger seat and takes a deep breath. All he needs to do now is reach out and grab the radio. But then he spots Simonetta about twenty metres away.
She’s not watching the game. She’s staring right at him.
Why can’t she just mind her own business? She’s so annoying! Antonio thinks. He gestures to her to stop staring. Simonetta pulls a face and disappears into the crowd. The crowd roars again. Another goal to the Italians.
‘This game will be over soon. It’s now or never,’ Antonio tells himself. The radio is sitting on the seat, just waiting for him to pick it up. He edges forward, but just as he is about to lean into the jeep, he hears Simonetta’s voice.
‘Hey!’ she calls. Antonio freezes. He looks up to see Simonetta running towards him.
When she reaches him, she hugs him as if they’re long lost friends. Antonio tenses up. It’s so strange to be held.
‘What are you doing?’ he hisses, trying to step back.
She whispers into his ear, ‘There’s another soldier. Behind you. He just came into the piazza and is looking in this direction.’ Simonetta releases her embrace and she smiles. ‘You still haven’t told me your name.’
‘It’s Antonio.’
‘Well, that’s another “thank you” you owe me, Antonio.’
Before he can say anything else, Simonetta runs off towards the German soldier.
‘Help me! A thief has snatched an officer’s gunbelt!’ she says frantically, taking the man by the arm and turning him around so he can’t see Antonio. ‘I saw him go this way! Please! Please!’
This time Antonio wastes no time. He grabs the field radio and charges off down a narrow laneway.
la pressione
THE PRESSURE
‘These are great, kid!’ says Chris, shoving bread into his mouth while flipping through Antonio’s drawings.
‘I added comments beside each landmark. And you can see I drew some maps too,’ Antonio tells him. ‘I marked out where the Germans mainly hang out in town . . . and where their bunkers are positioned along the beach.’
‘And what’s that? In the bag?’ Chris asks.
Antonio has been waiting for this moment all night and morning. He’s so excited by how Chris might react that he got no sleep the night before.
‘I think you’re really going to like this,’ he says, pulling out the field radio. ‘I nicked it from the Germans and now you’ll be able to make contact with your –’
‘No! No!’ says Chris when he sees the radio. ‘Oh, kid, what have you done?’
Antonio is confused. He can’t tell if Chris is angry or upset. ‘You don’t like it?’
Chris sighs. ‘It’s not about whether or not I like it. You’re risking enough already. Stealing from German soldiers puts your life in peril.’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ Antonio says, startled by the unexpected reaction.
Chris sighs heavily. ‘No, I’m the one who should be sorry, kid. You’ve done nothing wrong. I shouldn’t have involved you in the first place. I didn’t think enough about the fact that I’m putting a child in danger.’
Antonio tries not to show how furious this makes him. ‘I’m not a child!’ he snaps. ‘I’m almost thirteen! You asked for help and I can help. You said yourself you needed a radio. Well, here it is!’
Chris expression relaxes a little. ‘You’ve got a lot of gumption, kid, I’ll give you that,’ he says. Then he smiles warmly at Antonio. ‘You did get a radio – although a German radio is set on a different frequency from an Allied radio. Only the Resistance will be able to get hold of one of those. But you didn’t kno
w that. I’m going stir crazy in here – the pressure is starting to get to me. Today some patrol boats came so close I could hear the soldiers’ voices. I thought I was a goner. I might not be so lucky next time.’
Antonio looks at Chris’s wounded leg. He’s still limping and it doesn’t look strong enough to tackle the steep path up il Diavolo. He wonders how Chris is sleeping on the damp rock at the back of the grotto.
‘What you need is a new hideout,’ Antonio says. ‘And I’ve got the perfect place in mind – that’s if I’m still allowed to help you?’
Chris smiles again and nods.
It’s late afternoon and Antonio is itching to get away, but Mamma Nina needs him to help write a letter.
‘Can’t we do this later?’ he says, feeling impatient. ‘The sun will be setting soon and I’ve got some serious fishing to do.’ Antonio would normally never lie to Mamma Nina, but this is not a normal situation.
‘The fish can wait,’ says Mamma Nina. ‘And besides, you’ve returned empty-handed so many times in the last week I’m starting to think you’re not meant to be a fisherman. Concentrate more on shoe shining instead. It’s easy money. Signora Lari told me just the other day that a soldier had stopped her and asked if she knew anyone who would polish his boots. So forget fishing, stop fidgeting, and write for me.’
Mamma Nina softly cups Antonio’s cheek. With surprise he notices there are tears in her eyes.
‘Do you know how difficult this is for me? I’m sorry, figlio mio. I’m sorry you are burdened with this.’
Antonio sighs and agrees to do it. His penmanship isn’t very good, but Mamma Nina can’t write at all, or read. Antonio left school over a year ago to look after his mamma and earn some money for the two of them doing odd jobs. But he had learned enough to be able to write out a letter.
Mamma Nina dictates to him and he scrawls each letter and word out very slowly on a page ripped from his notebook.
‘My dearest sister, Angela,’ she says. ‘I have something to ask you. The most important thing I have had to ask in my life. I hope you will be able to put aside our differences . . .’
Mamma Nina pauses while Antonio tries several times to spell out the word ‘differences’.
‘. . . and forget the years between us and help your only sibling, your flesh and blood. There is no other way to say this – I am not well and might not have much time left . . .’
Antonio stops writing.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Mamma Nina says bravely. ‘We both know I’m not getting any better.’
‘But you said you were!’ Antonio snaps, not wanting to hear it. ‘You are! You hardly coughed at all last night.’
‘Please, Antonio, just keep writing,’ Mamma Nina says in a frustrated and helpless tone. ‘Tell her this: I feel I might not have much more life in me. So if . . .’ She stops and corrects herself, ‘when the good Lord takes me, I hope you will find it in your heart to make a home for my child, Antonio.’
‘No way!’ Antonio protests. ‘There’s no way I’m living with your sister. You haven’t talked to her in years. I don’t even know her!’
‘She’s my only living relative and, God willing, you will live with her and her husband in the house I grew up in.’ Mamma Nina points at the painting on the wall of her childhood home. ‘Or would you rather go and live with the nuns at the orphanage? Where you’ll be nothing but a cast-off, doing backbreaking work with no freedom to do anything else? That’s no life for a boy.’
‘Why not? It’s where I belong!’ Antonio yells. ‘That’s what people have been telling me all my life.’
He knows his sadness and confusion is quickly turning into anger but he doesn’t care.
‘Maybe it would’ve been better if you hadn’t taken me in . . . or if I hadn’t been born at all. That’s what the entire town believes – I’m nothing but a rota!’
‘Now you take that back!’ Mamma Nina says, raising her voice. ‘And stop feeling sorry for yourself!’
‘Why? Because my feelings don’t matter? I don’t matter?’
‘Of course you matter,’ Mamma Nina exclaims. ‘God brought you into this world – and we deal with whatever we are dealt. But I’m your mother and you will do as you’re told.’
‘But you’re not my mother, are you? Not really.’
Mamma Nina clutches her chest and winces. All the yelling has triggered another coughing fit.
Antonio immediately regrets it. He can’t take it back, though, so he tries to cover it up. ‘I’m old enough to take care of myself,’ he declares, now standing up. ‘And I don’t need anyone to look after me.’
Antonio slams the pencil on the table, grabs his fishing pole, and storms out. Mamma Nina calls after him, but he’s already running down the road.
il mare
THE SEA
When Antonio reaches the beach road, he turns left instead of right towards il Diavolo.
The Mediterranean horizon is dotted with colourful wooden fishing boats bobbing in the surf. Silhouettes of fishing rods flick back and forth and nets are tossed overboard. Antonio wonders what it would have been like to have been born into a family of pescatori. All the fishermen in the town are fishermen because it’s in their blood, he thinks. It’s passed on from generation to generation. Is it in my blood? Do I come from a long line of fishermen? Or am I the offspring of a tiler, a farmer, or even a teacher?
As he heads east and follows the road along the coast, he thinks again of Mamma Nina and is overcome by a wave of guilt.
Why did I have to say she isn’t my mother? She’s the only mother I’ve ever known, he thinks. It was cruel to throw back at her the very thing that ignorant people have said to me my entire life. Fear and frustration can make you say some stupid things sometimes. For the first time he realises just how afraid he is of losing her.
Antonio walks at a fast pace towards Signor Piccolo’s house. He stops and looks back over his shoulder to check no one is following him. In Sicily you can always count on someone’s eyes watching you. He remembers Mamma Nina saying that their island has been invaded so many times over the centuries that Sicilians are wired to be suspicious of everything.
Signor Piccolo’s house is only metres away from the beach, tucked away in a small cove and hidden from the road. It will hopefully be empty for a couple of weeks while he’s away in Siracusa. It will make a perfect new hiding spot for Chris.
Soon Antonio is walking from the road towards the stone villa. He wonders what it would be like to be Signor Piccolo – living alone, never married. He remembers the old man saying that he was married to the stars, sand and sea, and that it was all the family he had ever needed. Antonio ponders on that thought for a moment. If he loses Mamma Nina will the stars, sand and sea of Sicily be family enough for him? His stomach tightens and he immediately puts that grim thought out of his head.
Antonio checks the windows and front door of the villa – all locked – except for the back door. He lets himself in and begins rummaging through Signor Piccolo’s bedroom closet. He finds a jacket and an old weather-beaten hat and quickly puts them on. He examines himself in the wardrobe mirror. He might not look much like Signor Piccolo, but from a distance . . . well, it would hopefully be good enough.
Antonio moves to the kitchen and grabs a couple of lanterns.
He steps outside. Wild fennel bushes and rows of wild prickly-pear cactus plants grow against the side of the house. Antonio steps around to the front of the villa. It’s only fifteen metres to a small ridge that drops to the top of the beach – and another twenty metres or so to the water’s edge. He places the lanterns and his fishing line into Signor Piccolo’s wooden rowboat and rolls up his sleeves.
Here comes the hard part, he thinks, as he grabs the rope that’s attached to the breast-hook at the bow – the pointy front end of the boat. Antonio flings the rope over his shoulder and presses it diagonally across his chest, gripping onto it tightly with two hands. He takes in a deep breath and pulls. And pu
lls. And heaves. And grunts. Slowly but surely he drags the heavy wooden sea-craft towards the beach.
How does an old man like Signor Piccolo do it? he wonders. Do fishermen have super strength we don’t know about?
Antonio has been in boats many times, but he’s never had to launch or steer one. He stops to catch his breath when he reaches the ridge and slides the rowboat down on to the pebbled beach.
Eventually he makes it to the water’s edge and wades out into the sea, about waist depth, guiding and gliding the boat with each wobbly step – his shoes and socks completely waterlogged. Tiny waves roll in around him. The sea tonight is calm and the surface of the Mediterranean is still and reflective like a mirror.
Antonio almost capsizes the boat as he pulls himself out of the water and into it. The boat rocks and sways as he turns and faces the stern. He secures the oars into the oarlocks and lets out a huge sigh of relief. Victory! Well, a small one at least.
Antonio begins to row and the boat heads towards il Diavolo.
Halfway through the journey the sun dips below the horizon and the town lights begin to flicker on one by one, mirroring the star-soaked sky above. Antonio drops anchor and begins to fish, or at least tries to look as if he’s fishing.
He knows that on the main beach there are German soldiers looking out for anything unusual or suspicious. He drew out their positions for Chris and he’s aware that he’s now in direct sight of one of the bunkers. A powerful light beam sweeps across the bay. Antonio’s heart is pounding so hard it feels as if it’s going to beat right out of his chest. The large searchlight flashes over the waves and directly onto him.
Antonio has his back to the beach, one of the lanterns glowing by his side and his fishing pole in position. Nothing suspicious here, he tells himself, trying to stay calm. Just a local fisherman doing what fishermen do. The German guards seem to think the same thing – there are no sirens or patrol boats rushing out to apprehend him.
