by Felice Arena
Chris remains cool. He offers Antonio the other half of the orange.
Antonio refuses angrily.
‘Kid, I’m sorry,’ Chris says softly. ‘Bad choice of words. You’re right to be feeling the way you are . . . but I’m not going to deny that in this case we drew the long straw.’
Antonio shakes his head. ‘Don’t you care? What about Simonetta? And her mother? Do you think they got out of it alive?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ he says. ‘But we can’t change the outcome, either way. We can only hope they did. Look . . . over there.’
Antonio turns to see, in the day’s last rays of sunlight, a hillside town in the distance. ‘Agira?’ he asks, even though he recognises it from Mamma Nina’s painting.
Chris nods. ‘So we must be close to your aunt’s home.’ He pulls a map from the breast pocket of his jacket.
‘Someone’s coming,’ Antonio says.
An old man shepherding his small flock of sheep approaches them.
‘Vi siete smarriti?’ he asks. ‘Are you lost?’
‘No, well, sort of,’ says Antonio. ‘I’m looking for Angela Cicero. I’m her nephew and I know she lives near here.’
‘Angela?’ the old man says, waving a long stick to keep his sheep in line. ‘You mean Franco’s wife?’
‘Ah, yes. I guess . . .’ replies Antonio, glancing over at Chris, whose expression seems to be telling him to stop talking.
The man looks closely at them. ‘That’s a German motorcycle, but you’re Italian. And you sound more Sicilian than my sheep! Where have you come from?’
‘Can you tell us where Angela lives?’ Chris says. He hops on the motorcycle and gestures for Antonio to jump on.
‘You’re facing the wrong direction,’ says the old man. ‘You need to turn back and when you reach the first intersection you turn right and go for about a mile. You’ll see the Ciceros’ house on a little hill to the left. Are you from up north? I can’t place your accent . . . are you Tuscan?’
Chris revs the throttle and pretends not to hear the old shepherd. And Antonio waves goodbye as they speed off.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Antonio as Chris speeds on down the road. ‘I was trying to help. You don’t think he’ll make trouble for us, do you?’
Chris doesn’t answer. A few minutes later he rolls to a stop at the dirt driveway leading up the hill to Aunt Angela’s house and starts scoping out the surrounding fields.
It’s strange to see the actual house – Antonio has known it as a painting all his life – and now here it is, real and solid in front of him. It looks as if it hasn’t changed since Mamma Nina was a child.
‘That’s it,’ Antonio says, his stomach churning. ‘I can’t believe we made it.’
‘Okay, this is what’s going to happen,’ Chris declares, sounding very official and distant. ‘You walk up to the house, you knock on the door, and your new life begins . . .’
‘But –’
‘Just listen!’ Chris snaps. ‘It will be dark soon. I’ll dump the bike and make my way across these fields to that clump of woodland to the right of the house. I’ll hide out there until the plane arrives. I can’t risk meeting your aunt and her husband – that would put us all in danger.’
‘But . . . but . . .’ Antonio stammers. Time is running out. ‘The truth is . . . I don’t want to live with my aunt.’
‘Well, what’s the alternative?’ says Chris. ‘You can’t live on your own, and you can’t go back to your hometown with that gangster after you. Sometimes, kid, when change is forced upon us there’s nothing we can do but to go with it. I’m sure once you’ve settled in with your aunt, it will begin to feel like home.’
‘But there is another option,’ Antonio says, taking in a deep breath. He has to ask now or he’ll never get a chance. ‘Can’t I come with you? Back to America. It makes perfect sense. Can I? Can I come with you?’
Chris sighs heavily.
Antonio’s hopeful feeling disappears. He knows immediately that he’s going nowhere. His mouth is dry. His stomach is in knots.
‘Kid.’ Chris sighs again. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t take you with me – it’s just not possible. But when this war is over . . . maybe, someday when you’re grown up. Maybe one day you’ll travel to America . . . ’
Antonio turns away from Chris and begins marching towards the house. Tears stream down his dusty face. He doesn’t look back at the spy.
‘Hey, kid!’ Chris calls out to him. ‘I’ll never forget what you did for me!’
But Antonio doesn’t respond. He just continues walking.
la zia
THE AUNT
Antonio takes a deep breath, wipes away his tears, and knocks on the door of his aunt’s stone cottage.
No answer. He knocks again, but louder. This time the heavy wooden door slowly swings open.
The face of the woman standing in front of him is thin and narrow. Her wispy grey hair is tied back in a bun. It’s obvious that this is his Aunt Angela – in her eyes Antonio can see a less cheerful version of Mamma Nina.
‘Yes?’ she asks, looking past Antonio to see whether he’s alone.
‘Buona sera, signora,’ says Antonio, formally and nervously. ‘I’m Nina’s son.’
‘Antonio?’ she says under her breath. Then her eyes widen. ‘Are you hurt? What has happened?’
‘Pardon?’ says Antonio.
‘Those scratches and cuts!’ she says. ‘You look half starved. And you’re filthy. Were you in an accident?’
‘Oh,’ says Antonio. ‘I’m okay. But Catania isn’t. It was bombed.’
‘Catania bombed? Dear Lord!’ she says. ‘Then come in. You can’t be wandering around in the night while those bastardi are dropping bombs on us.’
Antonio steps into the cottage. It smells of freshly baked bread. Aunt Angela moves towards the stove. ‘I was just to about to have my supper, before my husband returns from town,’ she says. ‘If you’re hungry, you can have some.’
‘Yes, please,’ Antonio says politely, shuffling towards the table, hardly able to believe that he is actually standing in Mamma Nina’s childhood home and feeling overwhelmed by the smell of food.
‘Sit,’ she adds, her back still turned to Antonio. ‘If you’re here, it means my sister is gone,’ he hears her say quietly. ‘Oh, Nina . . .’
As Antonio pulls up a chair, he takes his notebook out of his back pocket and places it on the table. It’s pretty battered after all he’s been through in the last few days.
Antonio sees that his aunt’s shoulders are shaking, and he hears her sniffling. Is she crying?
Antonio doesn’t know what to say. When she turns she wipes away her tears and serves up a bowl of zuppa di ceci, chickpea soup, with warm doughy homemade bread.
‘Mangia!’ she orders, hovering over Antonio. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mother,’ she adds. ‘But we haven’t spoken in many years.’
Antonio hungrily slurps up the soup. It’s been over a day since he last ate.
Angela sighs. ‘I couldn’t have children,’ she says. ‘It’s a cross I’ve had to bear in life. But you’re not Nina’s child, really, are you?’
‘Yes, I am!’ Antonio snaps defensively.
There it is . . . again, thinks Antonio. I’ll never escape it.
‘Not a child of her blood,’ says Angela. But then she says something that takes him completely by surprise. ‘Well, who am I to judge? God knows I’ve been at the receiving end of some cruel remarks for not being able to have children – treated as though I’m some leper. You may be a rota, but that does not mean a thing. Sometimes our family is not the one we’re born into. Sometimes it’s the one we choose. I’m sure my sister raised you as if you were her own.’
Antonio nods. Finally, someone seems to understand.
‘Of course, my husband won’t agree with me, so let’s not mention that,’ she adds. ‘For him it’s all about blood, family and the old ways. But who doesn’t think that way on this island
?’ She smiles at Antonio.
Antonio nods and mirrors her smile. He likes her.
‘Listen,’ she says, pulling up a chair and gently taking Antonio’s hands. ‘A word of warning. When I received your mother’s letter I had decided that I would help you but as for my husband – that’s another story. It would take a miracle for me to convince him to take you in. If I say you’re a great worker he just might be persuaded. But you will have to promise to work hard, be good and not cause any trouble.’
It’s a lot for Antonio to think about, but he nods in agreement.
Suddenly Angela’s expression changes. From outside comes the sound of a horse and cart approaching the house.
‘That’s him,’ she says. ‘He’s back.’
il traditore
THE TRAITOR
Antonio catches his breath as his aunt’s husband, Franco, swings open the front door.
His tanned craggy face doesn’t look happy to see a boy sitting in his house.
‘Who’s this?’ he says, hanging up his hat and marching over to the table. Antonio slides back his chair and stands to greet him.
‘This is Antonio, my sister’s son,’ Aunt Angela says nervously. ‘Remember . . . the letter. He got caught up in the bombing in Catania today. And made his way here . . . on his own.’
‘He can stay, but only for two weeks,’ Franco cuts in, pulling up a chair and glaring at Antonio. ‘I’m not in the business of taking in strays. He can go and stay with the nuns.’
‘But he’s family,’ says Aunt Nina. ‘And I thought . . .
‘He is no family of mine. Now . . . Basta! Enough! Where’s my dinner?’ Franco snaps. ‘Only two weeks – and while he’s here . . . he works. You can set up his bedding in the barn.’
Antonio notices the anguish on his aunt’s face. She has no voice in this household. And once again Antonio finds himself wondering what his next move will be.
Later, deep in the night, Antonio lies under his blanket on a bed of hay in the barn. He has dozed in and out of sleep for a few hours. And even though he is exhausted and every muscle in his body aches, his mind is spinning. He thinks of Chris. It must be almost time. Soon the plane will come and the spy will be gone forever.
Antonio sits up and reaches for the comfort of his notebook. He looks at the torn paper where pages are missing – his drawings of the German bunkers on the beach, places where the troops gather. Information about his home town that the spy might have some use for.
He can just see well enough in the light from the crecent moon streaming through the barn windows, to look at the drawings of everyone he cares about.
They’re all gone, he thinks – Mamma Nina, Simonetta and her family, and Chris.
He sighs. What time is it? If he knew for sure, he could perhaps step outside and watch the plane approach – and at least see Chris as he flies away.
Antonio leaves the barn and creeps up to the front door of his aunt’s house. He remembers a small clock sitting on the kitchen counter.
Just one look at the time – then I get out of there, he thinks. The agent at the elephant statue back in Catania had said to Chris to be ready for a zero-two hundred pick-up. It must be close to two in the morning now.
Inside it’s still and quiet – except for loud snoring coming from upstairs. Antonio holds his breath and tiptoes towards the kitchen, being extra careful not to bump into anything.
The clock’s hands show that it’s just before two.
On his way back to the front door, he hears the sound of a motor in the distance.
As he steps outside, a motorcycle tears down the driveway towards the house. Antonio drops to the ground to avoid being spotted in the headlight.
He rolls under the horse cart – curling up into a ball and hiding behind one of the wheels.
The motorcycle pulls up just a few metres from the house and Antonio freezes. He gasps in disbelief. It’s the gangster . . . the Viper! But how? How did he know to come here?
Antonio suddenly feels sick. He has the same unsettling thought he had when he saw the gangster and the priest at the Siracusa train station: the Viper has somehow got the information out of Filippo. Antonio grimaces. He doesn’t want to know what might have happened to him.
The gangster steps up to the front door, kicks it open and enters the house.
Antonio desperately wants to help his aunt but he knows that being caught there will only make things worse for them. He has to think of getting away. He has to make a run for it – now!
As he scrambles out from beneath the horse cart, his foot makes contact with a metal bucket. The clang is as loud as a church bell. Antonio curses, running to hide behind a stack of hay bales.
The gangster rushes back outside. ‘Come out, boy! I know you’re there! Did you really think I couldn’t find you? It pays to have a priest watching his neighbours.’
Antonio puts his hands over his mouth to stop himself crying out.
Uncle Franco’s voice booms from upstairs. ‘What’s going on?’ he yells.
Antonio peers around the bales and sees the gangster step back inside the house. Moments later he hears shouting from both men, and furniture being knocked over and Aunt Angela screaming, ‘Please don’t hurt him! We’ll do what you say.’
‘This is it. I have no other option,’ Antonio wills himself, jumping to his feet. ‘Uno . . . due . . . tre . . . GO!’
And he bolts down the drive, away from the house.
l’aereo
THE PLANE
Antonio runs like he has never run before. His whole short life flashes before him – he sees the people who loved and believed in him, the only people who didn’t see him as a cast-off.
A couple of hundred metres down the driveway, Antonio tenses at the sound of the motorcycle revving up, followed by the terrifying roar of it bearing down on him. In that same moment he hears the buzz of a plane approaching from over the horizon.
Tears start streaming down his face. And as if things aren’t frightening enough, suddenly three jeeps turn into the driveway, their headlights illuminating both him and the motorcycle behind him.
They’re German military cars. Overcome by a paralysing fear, Antonio’s legs give out from underneath him and he collapses on the side of the road. He can see the armed soldiers in the open tops of the cars.
The men start firing and the rat-a-tat-tat of the shots cuts through the night.
With his face pressed into the dirt, Antonio hears what he thinks is the whirling sound of the Viper’s motorcycle spinning out of control, swerving and crashing to the ground.
Without even slowing down, the Germans speed right past him. Antonio feels the hot whoosh of the exhausts and is almost overcome by the gasoline fumes.
They’re after Chris – they must be. The German cars bump off the driveway and head across the fields. Antonio watches until all he can see are their lights. The old shepherd on the road must’ve alerted them, he thinks.
Antonio wobbles to his feet. Will Chris have time to get on the plane and take off before they get there?
Then he sees the gruesome sight of the Viper’s body beside him. It’s more awful than anything he’s ever seen. He knows the man is dead. His face is smeared in gravel and blood.
Antonio feels numb – the horror he has seen no longer shocks him. War does not discriminate, good or bad. It destroys everyone.
Antonio looks back to the fields – shouting and gunshots echo across the valley. And then . . . There’s a rhythmic, accelerating thrum of an airplane engine taking-off.
‘Yes! Yes!’ cries Antonio. ‘The Germans are too late!’
Moments later the rattle of a piston-driven propeller whirs above him. The plane is almost invisible. It vanishes into the night sky.
‘Goodbye, Chris,’ Antonio mutters softly. ‘I’m not going to live here and I’m not going to live in an orphanage. Now that the Viper is dead. I’m going back to where I belong – back to live with the stars, the sand and the sea.’
il ritorno
THE RETURN
Signora Lari steps out from the Santa Maria into the bright late-summer sunlight. She is elderly and bent over, but her face is round and rosy. She walks around a parked Allied Sherman tank – she’s tiny next to the giant armour-plated vehicle.
As she passes a group of American soldiers, they greet her warmly and she smiles back politely – something she would never have done to a German soldier. She sees a man knocking on the door of the apartment building next to the church and approaches him.
‘No one lives there anymore,’ she says.
‘Are you sure?’ he says in Italian. ‘I’m looking for the people who lived here during the war – Filippo Rocca and his family – his wife Lucia, his daughter Simonetta and Filippo’s parents.’
‘O Dio,’ says Signora Lari, making the sign of the cross. She lowers her voice. ‘The father, Filippo . . .’ She looks back over her shoulder as if checking that no one is in earshot. ‘Well . . . he and his parents are no longer with us. May they rest in peace. This town escaped the bombing but we have had our share of loss.’
‘And his wife and the girl?’ asks the man.
‘I heard they fled up north. Around the same time our parish priest disappeared. There were rumours that the mother was English and a spy – you just never know about people, do you?’
The man smiles and shakes his head. ‘No, I guess you never do.’ He pauses and then says, ‘I’m looking for a boy by the name of Antonio. His mother was Nina.’
Signora Lari sighs. ‘My dearest Nina. She was one of my closest friends.’
‘She was? So you know the boy then? Is he here?’ The man frowns. ‘Is he . . . is he alive?’
The woman nods.
The man exhales – relieved. ‘Can you tell me where I can find him?’
‘Oh, poor Antonio,’ the woman says. ‘I wish I could have done more for him. After Nina passed away, I wanted to take him in, but look at me, I’m an old lady, and don’t have many years left, and I barely have enough to look after myself. He went to live with his aunt and uncle in the country but was not there for long.’
