Somewhere in the Stars

by Frank Polizzi

  “Medic!” Nick called out. One of the attending medics acknowledged him by waving his hand. He came over when he finished changing a battle dressing.

  “Corporal Spataro, how are you feeling today?”

  “Lot of pain, but that’s not why I called for you.” Nick looked at his nametag and epaulet.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Specialist Kelly, I need a favor.”

  “Sure, but call me Bill. And you’re?”

  “Nick.”

  “Do you need more morphine?”

  “Yeah, Bill.” Nick grabbed his shirtsleeve. “But I need something else.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You see those wooden boxes out there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, my two buddies died the other day.” Nick grimaced and moved onto his good side.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, but let me finish. I want to go over there and say goodbye. You know what I mean.”

  “Your leg was smashed up real bad. I don’t know if I would recommend it.”

  “I just need a little time, that’s all. Whatdaya say, Bill?”

  “I’ll ask the Captain but I’m not promising anything.”

  “Thanks. Could you also find out what’s going on with my buddy, Fein?” Nick motioned with his head in Nathan’s direction.

  A half hour later Bill returned. “Captain Randazzo said fifteen minutes and right back to the cot. Your buddy is being carefully monitored until we move him to a fully equipped facility. The doctor said not to worry. He’s seen plenty cases of serious trauma to the head and he thinks Fein’s chances are good.”

  “You’re a pal, Bill.” The wrinkles on Nick’s brow flattened out.

  “When I am finished making the rounds with Doc, I’ll help you over there. In the meantime, let me give you some more morphine to fortify you.”

  Two hours later Bill came back with a crutch and got Nick up.

  “Jesus Christ, easy Bill.”

  “I’m doing the best I can. You’re not supposed to be up anyways.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Nick grinded his teeth when he was standing.

  “Okay, put your weight onto my shoulder and then we’re off.”

  The Staff Sergeant from the graves-registration unit checked the Graves Registry, found Nick’s crewmembers and pointed them out. Bill practically carried him over to Al’s coffin and Nick patted it. He then hobbled over with Bill to Paul’s wooden box and leaned on it. He rubbed the wood.

  “Do you want to say a prayer, Nick? You’re Catholic, right?”

  “In name only, but you can say one if you like.”

  Bill recited the “Hail Mary” and when he finished, Nick said: “One last favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “Could we go over to the table to see if there’s any personal stuff for Paul? He was my cousin, you know.”

  “I’m sure the sergeant won’t mind if we take a look.”

  When they reached the table, Bill asked and the staff sergeant retrieved a small envelope. Bill eased Nick into a folding chair and unfastened the contents spreading them on the table. He reached for Paul’s dog tags among the few items. He ran his fingers over the perforations, kissed the tag and dropped it back into the envelope.

  “Ready, Bill.”

  When the specialist grabbed Nick’s left hand to place over his shoulder, he commented: “Those paws of yours are filthy. I’ll get them all cleaned up as soon as we get back.”

  After Bill adjusted him to sit upright on the cot, he returned with a basin of steaming water, brown soap and a white hand towel. Nick smiled thinly.

  “I can do this myself, Bill. You go ahead and take care of the other guys. Thanks again.”

  Nick washed his hands in a methodical way, scrubbing gritty layers of dirt, dried blood and grease embedded in every crease of his palms and fingers. He scrubbed again, as some tears dropped into the basin, then wiped his hands with the towel now smudged gray and brown. He flung it to the ground, moved the basin to a rickety table next to him and slid himself under the sheets so that only his forehead was visible. His face rippled the sheets in short spurts, until he inched for some air, a stew of sulfa, iodine, blood and the indefinable smell of death, an odor Nick could recognize but not describe, bringing him back to North Beach for another scene of lu mortu—the family gatherings at wakes with the ever-present, sickly sweet odor of white lilies and the ugly floral face of death, white gladiolas.

  One morning toward the end of May 1944 Ziu Francesco received a telegram, which he brought into the dining room, opened it, then handed it over to his daughter, Maria. La famigghia gathered around the table, as she read the message:

  THE DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON PAOLO BURGIO SPECIALIST IST CLASS WAS KILLED IN ACTION IN THE PERFORMANCE OF HIS DUTY AND IN SERVICE TO HIS COUNTRY …

  Maria stopped reading because she couldn’t see through her tears and placed the telegram on the dining room table. Zia Concetta grabbed the table and lowered herself to a chair and wept. The younger children cried as they looked at the faces around the table. Ziu Francesco remained dumbfounded near his wife. Concetta rose and wrapped her arms around Francesco and still he did not cry. He could not have heard such a thing, his mind playing tricks on him. The youngest Francesco, or Ciccio as Nick liked to call him said: “Papà, is it really true that I’ll never see Paolo again.” Then Ziu Francesco broke loose and screamed so loud, his voice could be heard down the block and echoed all the way to the top of the Coit Tower. He grabbed onto his wife and sobbed in her arms, a story told in verità to Nick by his cugina Maria, one that resonated more than any Sicilian tale he had ever heard from Ziu Francesco or his Mamma and Papà.

  Rome had fallen on June 4th to the Allied Powers. General Clark’s units of the Fifth Army were the first to reach the city, a picture of him standing by a large road sign for ROMA, printed in the newspaper. Not long after, Nick and Nathan were moved to a military hospital in the eternal city, still recuperating from their wounds. Colonel Jones had received a notice from the Counter Intelligence Corps (CIC) in Rome that they were looking for Italian and German interpreters who were getting harder to find. The colonel passed the information on to Captain Monroe. When the captain visited them at the hospital, he went over their qualifications. Nick had spent many afternoons back home picking up standard Italian, something his Papà encouraged him to do despite protests from his father’s paesani, who felt his son might act superior to his parents. Nathan’s father taught his son German at an early age. After reading the medical reports, the captain offered to let his men transfer out, since the severity of their wounds made it unlikely they would be able to return to his company. Nick’s leg injury not only tore through the muscle tissues but also the nerve endings, while Nathan’s head injury from shrapnel in the back of his cranium on the right side affected his sight and hearing.

  “So what do you think about the captain’s offer?” Nathan asked while lying on his hospital bed.

  “Paul and Al are gone and look at us.” He stretched and held up a crutch. “Look at me. And your head is still bandaged up like Frankenstein.”

  “What do you say?”

  Nick raised his voice. “You look like Frankenstein.”

  “You don’t look so hot yourself.”

  “How’s your head?”

  “I’m okay except for that seizure I had in the field hospital. The doctor said you never know when it might happen again.”

  “That’s what I’m concerned about.”

  “Ah, don’t think anything of it. Maybe, we’d be able to stick together if we get assigned to that intelligence unit.”

  Nick sat up and looked out the Palladian window, once a perfect example of classical symmetry, now askew in a cracked and scarred stucco wall. He looked at the sky. “I wonder what cuginu Paul is doing upstairs. Not that I’m such a good Catholic. More like being superstitious, when you come down to it.”

  �
��After what happened to our buddies and my relatives, I don’t know if I can step foot in a shul again.”

  The next day a nurse led them to the inner courtyard that had a garden with a fountain in the center. The sun felt luxurious on Nick’s face as he read a library copy of Dante’s La Vita Nuova. Nathan had a bunch of newspapers on his lap and spread out the International New York Times, scanning it for any news about Northern Italy.

  “There’s not a damn thing in this rag about the Italian Jews. And what about my cousins in Venice? It’s like we’re an invisible people.”

  “You have to keep saying to yourself, no news is good news. I think I’ll write to my father before we get the mail, this way it’ll go out sooner.”

  Nick wrote to his father:

  Dear Papà,

  How is Mamma? I am sitting in the garden of the hospital now. I’m sorry that I have not written lately but I feel mighty bent. I miss my cuginu, Paul, and my friend Al, the paisanu from Roseto. I feel guilty I survived and they didn’t, but then again I also feel lucky to be alive. I don’t know what to make of it, Pop.

  You know, many GIs feel you’re lucky to be wounded, so you won’t have to face the daily routine of killing or being blown up yourself. Never knowing when it would happen. My leg has been severely damaged but it’s considered bona fortuna. I have heard of soldiers creating their own luck, if you know what I mean. I suppose I should be careful as to what I say in a letter. Papà, all I can say is that I would lie prostrate at the altar of our parish church, pray that if I had a son, he should not have to go through this. No one should. I would like to come home right now, but that is just a dream. I need to change the subject, pop.

  I shouldn’t be talking about this stuff, so do your own censoring for Mamma when you read it aloud.

  Con affettu, Nicolo

  By the time Nick finished writing, a hospital attendant was bringing in the mail and Nick placed his father’s letter in the attendant’s hand. Nathan waited for Nick to read the news aloud from his own family instead of his stumbling over the blurred words. After reading the letters for his buddy, Nick read his first letter and a short while later, he let it drop to the floor.

  “What happened? You look white as a ghost.” Nick didn’t respond and focused on the drizzling fountain outside the window. “Okay Nick, give your old pal a clue.”

  “Your sister ditched me. Met someone else. Says she’s sorry, but it’s all over. That’s just grand with me stuck on the other side of the ocean.”

  “Come on, Nick. You know my father well enough that this was bread that wasn’t going to bake.” Nathan groped his way over to Nick’s hospital bed, but he turned his head away. “What are you scared of? Before I got hit in the head, I got a bunch of letters from Deb. Turn around you jerk and listen up.” Nick faced Nathan. “My kid sister has nothing but good things to say about you. Deb said she worries about you and me every day. She needed something to get her mind off things. That’s why she started dating this guy in college.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “She wanted to let you know, so you won’t think about her in the same way.” Nick’s eyes floated to the ceiling. “This relationship with Deborah is all in your head, spinning around like the stars you like to gaze at.”

  “Humph! And I thought you were my friend.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, Nick. We’re both caught in this juggernaut and nothing will ever be the same. Just forget my sister. I know it’ll be hard, but you’ve got no choice now.”

  “You always have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

  “Slow down when you speak, Nick.” Nathan pointed to his ear. “You’re making a tragedy out of this. You knew where this was going with Deb.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Buddy, let’s just try to get through this war in one piece. That’s all we can do. I am really sorry about this mess.”

  Nick left the other letters unread, inching his way on crutches to the garden, and sat on a ledge surrounding the fountain. He fixated on a distorted reflection. Nathan shrugged and went back to his bed, skimming the words in his letters. Nick didn’t acknowledge him after that, even though their beds were just four feet apart, except for the morning when Nathan woke up for breakfast and had a seizure, falling onto the white terrazzo floor, while Nick screamed for a nurse. Nathan had no recollection of what happened after he recovered. The concussion from bashing his head against the metal of the tank had left its mark. He resigned himself to waiting for Nick to work things out, checking him out from the corner of his eye as he read his newspapers with a magnifying glass the nurse had lent him.

  A few days later, as if they were in the middle of a conversation, Nick blurted out: “You know, Nate, a woman would do anything to have somebody love her the way Dante loved Beatrice.”

  “You’re in a Renaissance mood.” Nathan laughed. “Certainly in the right country for it.”

  “Why don’t we get out of this crappy room and go into the garden? You can sketch it. It would be like old times. Me watching you do magic with colored pencils, pen and black ink, pastel chalk, you name it.”

  “I don’t know. I’m still having trouble with my vision.”

  “Come on. Give it a try. Something to remember this place by.”

  Since their condition showed signs of improvement, they were allowed to sit outside in the garden on a regular basis. One day before dusk, the light was perfect for Nathan to exhibit his chiaroscuro techniques. Nick still felt anger inside when he thought about the loss of Paul and Al, and then more gloom, when he thought about his first love, Deborah, as he muddled along in a hospital garden.

  “Minchia.”

  Nathan looked up. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, Nate. Just finish what you’re doing.”

  When Nathan completed the drawing with several crumbled attempts on the ground, he showed it to Nick. “What do you think?”

  “Turn it into an oil painting.”

  “Guess you like it.”

  “Why don’t you get some supper without me? I want to stay here for a while and watch the sunset.”

  “Sure, buddy.”

  Nick struggled with a cane over to the fountain. He sat on the edge and ran his hand through the scant water, barely creating a ripple. He glimpsed at the North Star blinking, the rest of the sky empty. He heard a nightingale sing in a trance-like pattern from a hidden spot. His mood muted the bird’s song and he was unable to stop the sadness from creeping its way back into his thoughts. Nick remembered last drinking wine with Paul that tasted of raspberries and spice, so far away, Zia Concetta smothering him with kisses and Ziu Francesco telling tales of the old country at family parties, very far away, Mamma and Papà and the magnetic field of family charges, enduring but also invisible, now so far away, playing baseball with Paul on the grass in Lincoln Park or a story of Al playing catch with his brother in Roseto, so very far away, yet still closer in his thoughts, holding Deborah close to him in the San Francisco Botanical Garden, framed by pink azaleas, conjuring up a shower of cream-colored, magnolia petals floating around them—the magnolia part never really happening to Nick, but that’s how he wanted to remember it now, like a remembrance of lyrics or melody of a favorite song of his and connecting it to her countenance. Nick wished that he could somehow write an exquisite love sonnet like Dante, for a brief time to have the fire of the poet’s words, so he could let all the pain drain out of his head, but he didn’t have it in him, not like Nathan anyway, instinctively a painter, Nathan more like a brother than a friend, a cliché that Nick recognized and in verità, Nathan was even better than any real or imagined brother. All he could do now was struggle to move along, putting pressure on the cane to ease the pain in his leg, glaring at the fading sun, not a inamorata or a sparkling star in sight, the North Star already gone and even the damn bird speechless.

  IX

  The transfer came through before Nick and Nathan were released from the hospital and it wasn�
�t long before they shared a room in the sprawling headquarters of the Counter Intelligence Corps in Rome. They were called upon to interrogate prisoners, translate captured documents or act as interpreters when dealing with the locals. They also spent many hours listening to intercepted Axis radio messages, which would became a monotonous duty for them but they were happy to have a private space when their work was done.

  “Look at that view, Nathan,” Nick said as he held the dark curtain to the side. “We can see all the way to the Campidoglio.”

  “Yeah, it’s swell.” Nathan sat straight up on the edge of his bed.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “You know. I’m worried sick about my cousins in Germany. And right here in Italy.” Nick understood those emotions—worrying about family. Everybody had their stories to tell but from what he had heard, just being Jewish this time around could prove fatal.

  Nathan looked out the window. “It is an amazing structure. Still around after 19 centuries.” He turned towards Nick. “Where will all the Jews be after the war’s over?”

  Nick didn’t have a good answer for his buddy. This was no time for platitudes. He better understood Nathan’s determination to join up—his European cugini needed help right away. While Nick changed into civvies, he thought how this topic was making his buddy all nerves and not something he wanted to dwell on either. Nathan lay on his cot with his hands behind his neck like he was some kind of prisoner, so he figured he would play his best cards to keep Nathan’s mind off things.

  “Do you want to go for some pasta amatriciana?” Nathan remained in the same position. “How about that new dish, pasta carbonara? Maybe pick up a few broads later.”