“Don’t knock the candle,” said Willard. “We’ll be cooked.”
“Cooked sounds lovely. At least we’d be warm.”
She recalled all those winters in Charlesport when she had wished for snow. One December she had glued cotton on her windowsill so she would awaken to a white Christmas. Tuck had once built her an igloo from sugar cubes, large enough to stick her hand in. She had longed to sleep in flannel pajamas on an icy-cold night. That life, those desires, seemed so far away now. She felt old.
“Give me your hands,” said Willard. He was lying beside her and pulled off her gloves. He rubbed her fingers, bringing them, prayer-like, to his face, to blow steam on them. The gesture brought a tingle of embarrassment to her skin, and she looked toward the wall, where a patch of graffiti glowed in the candlelight. Pfc. Ryan Fitzpatrick spent a damned cold night here, 1944. Below that, in another script: Beware: the mice speak Italian. And to the left, in a childlike script: Tell Mae West Jimmy Mahoney loves her.
What had happened, she wondered, to the men who wrote those words?
As quickly as the thought came, she pushed it away.
“Are the winters in Chicago this cold?” she asked.
“Arctic. There’s also a ferocious wind. Thankfully I don’t sleep in a hayloft there.” He slipped her gloves back on her hands. “Now, lie like a mummy and tuck them under your armpits.”
Juliet lay back.
“We have about twelve hours until the sun is up,” said Willard. “We should conserve our candle.”
“Okay.”
In the pitch dark, she could no longer make out his face. But she heard the rustle of hay and suspected he had turned to face her, one hand propped beneath his head. He must have been no more than six inches away. She could feel the warmth from his skin, pressing through the cold air. From somewhere above came a steady drip—the sound of ice melting off a tree. She could hear his breathing, and her own. She still longed for him.
“I’m wide-awake, over here,” she whispered. “Cold and wide-awake.”
“Shall I tell you boring life stories to put you to sleep? Something from awkward, lonely childhood?”
“I’m afraid I take the gold medal there. . . . So how old are you anyway?” she asked.
“Thirty-two.”
“That’s not so old,” she said, but the number did seem wildly far from her own: she was two months shy of her nineteenth birthday. She studied the number in her mind—thirty-two, thirty-two—as though it contained a secret about him.
“It’s old enough to remember how different the world looked at your age. How different it all felt.”
“You really are a stodgy old mentor.”
Willard laughed. “I suppose I asked for that. Come on, let’s try to get some sleep.”
She heard his head thump gently back against the wooden loft. Juliet marveled that the night before, she’d thought she would never see Willard again, and here they were, together, in the darkness of the Italian countryside. If there was, as he’d said, only the war and the rest of the world, they had somehow found a secret space in between. As she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, she wondered if any part of her, or any part of him, had understood that the decision to find Barnaby and Reardon would give them this.
The next day, they followed a mountain path into a woodland of towering poplars. The jeep zigzagged for hours through the cathedral of trees, branches whipping the windows, clumps of snow padding against the roof. Here and there, squirrels scrambled through the forest. Out of sight, the greedy rattle of a woodpecker’s beak sounded disturbingly like machine-gun fire.
From the forest they emerged into warmer air. The snow hardened to icy pellets, clattering against the jeep as they bumped along a muddy mule path. Beside them ran an old stone wall, uneven and crumbling, upon which sat the occasional helmet, an abandoned mule harness, the soaked remains of a vulture.
“Even the scavengers have been scavenged,” said Juliet.
In Firenzuola, they entered a tavern brimming with Polish soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder, stomping their beaten black boots to the strum of a banjo. Shaking the water from their coats, Juliet and Willard wormed through the smoke-filled room; at the bar, an elderly woman with one milky eye monitored the soldiers and the focus of their attention: a girl, perhaps eleven years old, dressed in a khaki man’s shirt belted with a frayed rope. Barefoot, with blackened toenails, she twirled and spun, a large Polish helmet on her head falling over her eyes each time she came to a stop. For a moment Juliet thought it was Liberata, and then she realized the girl’s hair was too light, her eyes too dark. What was similar was the weariness in her face.
The barkeep announced, “Mia pronipote.”
The girl was pulling up the hem of the khaki shirt, jutting out one bare leg, then the other. Her knees were calloused.
“Abbiamo solo grappa,” the barkeep said to Juliet. “Che cosa vuoi?”
“Grappa,” answered Juliet.
A whoop rose from the crowd as one of the soldiers swayed and collapsed into his compatriots. “Józef! Józef!” they called. Someone doused his face with grappa, and his wet eyes flashed open.
Willard studied the men’s uniforms, their arm patches. “It’s the Monte Cassino regiment,” he whispered to Juliet. “They lived through the ninth circle of hell.”
Juliet took a sip of her drink and handed the glass to Willard. He brought the glass to his mouth and surveyed the room.
Just then a group of American GIs burst into the tavern.
“The Polacks bothering you?” one of the Americans, having elbowed his way to the bar, asked the old woman.
“Abbiamo solo grappa. Che cosa vuoi?”
“What’s she saying?” the soldier asked Juliet.
“She asked what you want to drink. I suggest you say grappa.”
“Listen, these Polacks acting up? They better not lay a hand on that girl,” said the soldier. “I’ve seen just about enough of that shit. I have a daughter back home, and it ain’t right.” The man’s eyes started to tear and he gulped the grappa that had been poured. “It ain’t right.”
Willard took Juliet’s hand. “Let’s get going.”
The man looked her slowly up and down. “Wait, she’s not a child.” He suddenly moved behind Juliet and grabbed her waist and pressed himself into her. “Hmmm. She can stay.”
Willard moved to pry away the soldier’s hands and the soldier released a canine snarl. He grabbed Willard’s wrist, wrenching it hard, then abruptly let go and began to tear up again. He touched his cheeks in disbelief. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. It ain’t right what I done.”
Willard cradled his injured hand. “Private, there’s no threat here. You’re just here to have a nice time at a bar. Go find your friends.”
“You’re my friend.” The soldier opened his arms to hug Willard. “Stay and drink with me, friend. Have my grappa. . . .”
Willard pulled Juliet through the crowd onto the street, in time to hear the sound of a shattered glass. The banjo was silenced and the angry voices of Poles and Americans tumbled into the street.
Willard shook his head as he looked, with apprehension, back at the bar.
“He was just an idiot drunk,” said Juliet. “I’m okay. How’s your wrist?”
Willard pulled her brusquely down the street. At the corner, he turned and faced her squarely.
“I want to tell you something,” he said. “About Monte Cassino. About the Goumiers.”
“The mountaineer Goumiers Lovelace always talks about?”
“Yes. The fearlesss Moroccan soldiers who managed to finally conquer the abbey. I never thought I’d tell you this because I didn’t want to frighten you. But now I want you to be frightened. I need you to understand certain things about where we are and what’s happening. The night after Cassino was taken, the Goumiers spilled into the villages beyond the monastery. They raped thousands of women and girls. We don’t even have a full count. Some of the girls were as young as eleven.
Any men who tried to protect their wives or daughters were killed. These were the victors; these were our allies. The men don’t just go mute and tremble and turn guns on themselves when they go mad. They do worse. Our soldiers all know this happened, and it’s only made the men more unsettled, more confused. Anyone can do anything. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m not sure I did the right thing in letting you come.”
“I never would have stayed behind.”
As they stood in the gray afternoon looking intently at each other, two MPs briskly approached.
“Sergeant, Lieutenant, a moment. We’re looking for two deserters.”
The MPs produced two small photographs: Barnaby and Brother Reardon. Willard glanced at them with a distinct halfhearted interest, but Juliet couldn’t help staring at the photograph of Barnaby: His hair was cropped, his face entirely unharmed. His eyes were radiant. He was a perfectly healthy and handsome young man.
“We’ll keep a lookout,” said Willard.
The MP looked Juliet and Willard up and down. “I assume your papers are in order?”
Willard pulled Juliet close. “We’re on leave. Personal time.” It felt so close to the truth, so momentarily real, that Juliet leaned her head against Willard’s shoulder. As Willard reached for their passes, the MP gestured for him not to bother.
“Hell,” he winked, “grab it while you can.”
She wanted to remain standing like that but made herself pull away.
Outside town, they crossed a muddy field, and though the cold had turned the grass a pale and lifeless green, Juliet was certain it was the field where she had stayed with Beau and Brother Reardon a month earlier. The memory of holding Beau as his breath slipped away flooded her; somewhere nearby, Beau was buried. She might be his only friend to ever pass his grave.
Willard drove awkwardly, his wrist limp in his lap while he steered with his left hand.
A drizzle fell, the snow turned to slush, and the jeep splashed noisily along until she recognized the road where she and Brother Reardon had hitched a ride with Rufus. Within minutes they pulled up before the small church.
Inside, the Madonna, polished to a shine, gazed at Juliet from the altar. There were no cobwebs or dust, though a small spider scurried across the chipped blue folds of the statue’s dress. Nearby, a tattered white sheet—a hospital sheet—lay over one of the beds of hay. Otherwise, the church was empty.
“I was right,” said Juliet, dipping her hand in the full basin of holy water. “They were here.”
“Past tense, Juliet.”
She sat on one of the overturned pews. “I know.”
“Any more ideas?”
“They’ve probably gone to another church.”
“Unfortunately, this is Italy. There are over a thousand churches in Tuscany alone.”
“Well, we have the jeep. They’re on foot.”
He sat beside her. “Forty-eight hours, Juliet.”
But they had come this far; they couldn’t turn back now. “We’ll say we were robbed. We’ll say we got a flat tire.”
“They aren’t idiots.”
“One more day.”
“They’ll throw us in jail.” Willard shook his head. “I do not want you in jail.”
“I can handle jail.” The pronouncement was dramatic, though in truth she had no idea what jail might be like. And she suspected Willard was actually worried about worse than jail. She recalled the Goumiers.
“You’re like the boys fresh off the ships,” he said. “You know there’s destruction everywhere, but you don’t think it can touch you.”
“Touch me? It’s already knocked me flat on the ground. It’s why I’m sitting in a cold church in the middle of nowhere. Look, I don’t think I’m invincible, I think I’m necessary. I know something bad could happen, but I’m willing to risk it. I think you are, too. Anyone can change bedpans or pass a bottle of brandy around the ward right now. We’re the only ones who can help Barnaby and Brother Reardon. We knew, when we left, it might come to this, that it might take a little longer.”
Willard inhaled deeply, as though breathing in everything she had said; he seemed, for the first time, humbled by her. He looked around at the church.
“Regulations give us thirty days,” he said softly, “before we’re considered AWOL. After that, we officially become deserters. ”
“We won’t need thirty days.” She took his hand and urged him to stand.
CHAPTER 16
THEY BACKTRACKED, THEY sidetracked; they roamed the cold stone corners of abandoned churches; they stopped in dimly lit, smoke-filled taverns, asking patrons and barkeeps if they had seen men fitting Barnaby’s and Reardon’s descriptions.
In between the disappointed silences after each stop, they described to each other their experiences in Basic Training, their grueling transatlantic crossings to Europe. It seemed, somehow, that their lives had begun with the war, and they spoke little of anything else. They debated the skills of other doctors and nurses in the hospital. They ranted about the army supply system. To avoid speaking of what recriminations might await them, they spoke, restlessly, of anything else.
Every few minutes, Willard would interrupt what he was saying to warn, “Depress the clutch!”
“Dr. Willard, if you say it calmly, I won’t freeze up.”
“I’ve been driving since I was fourteen. I am an expert driving teacher.”
Juliet grinned. “I didn’t know they had cars back then.”
Having bandaged Willard’s wrist, Juliet had taken over the driving, and the jeep occasionally jolted and bucked as she struggled to shift gears.
By late afternoon, they had reached Pistoia, where Brother Reardon had once gone on a leave. The town was quiet and gray, and the low stone buildings crumbled into the street. From scraps of khaki army canvas and wool blankets a band of beggars and prostitutes had erected a camp in the piazza. A fire had been lit, fueled by splintered scraps of old furniture, and above it a large cast-iron pot sat on the massive front grille of a truck. Nearby, a one-armed man prowled with a large net. Beneath the arches of the gateway, he halted to watch the pigeons above. He dipped into his pocket and scattered bread crumbs. A dozen pigeons swooped down, and in one swift swing he netted four birds. The net erupted with a flutter of wings. With his good arm the man leaned into the net and, using his forearm and biceps like a vise, sealed it closed and scooped up the birds. He scampered off, his eyes darting nervously, the pole dragging along the wet cobblestones, click click click resounding through the square.
Children playing hopscotch shouted, “Buona caccia oggi, Luigi!” as he passed. In galoshes made from tire rubber, the children splashed through puddles.
“Chiesa?” Juliet asked the children.
A girl pointed to a narrow street off the square—“Oratorio”—then tossed a bullet casing onto one of the squares. The entire hopscotch board was strewn with bullet casings.
She and Willard walked to the small church. As they opened the wooden door, Juliet had the impression of a flurry of massive crows. But the crows were, in fact, long black robes from which the worn and worried faces of nuns peered out. Heads bowed in concentration, the nuns rushed about with trays and pitchers, cups and bedpans, moving in a constant stream, their feet invisible beneath their skirts. Around them, the beds were filled with children. A small nun, no more than five feet tall, eyed Willard’s Red Cross armband and threw her head back: “Dottori! Che fortuna! Abbiamo pregato!” Grabbing Willard’s elbow, she led them both toward a shivering boy.
“Il ragazzo non mangerà.”
Juliet looked at the child, and Willard pulled back the sheet over his swollen belly. Gently, he pushed on the boy’s right lower abdomen and the child burst into tears.
Juliet and Willard simultaneously pronounced: “Burst appendix.”
“He needs surgery,” said Juliet.
Willard raised his splinted wrist. “You’ll have to do it.”
“You’d prefer to leave him?”
Intently eyeing their debate, the nun stuck her index finger in the air, whisked away, and returned with a tray of medical implements that looked as though they were meant to open nuts and shellfish.
“Let’s at least get him somewhere private.” Willard scooped the boy into his arms and Juliet followed with the instrument tray. The nun led them behind the altar to a small, dimly lit sacristy, where a row of dusty purple cassocks hung from ornate brass hooks. They set the boy on a bare table laid with a white sheet.
“What do we have in the way of antibiotics?”
“Sulfonamide,” said Juliet.
“Good. But all we have for anesthesia is Pentothal. We’ll have to make that work.”
When the Pentothal had quieted the boy’s sobs, Juliet washed her hands and the instruments in a basin of water the nun had brought.
Willard handed Juliet a scalpel. “McBurney’s point. Two-thirds of the way from the navel to the anterior superior iliac spine.”
“Here?”
“Make the cut.”
Juliet took a deep breath and pressed the knife to the child’s hardened abdomen. The skin parted in one smooth stroke, opening a crevasse of bright pink muscle. She had watched hundreds of incisions, but it was different making the cut herself. It seemed a violation of something sacred, exposing the body, revealing its fragile and hidden machinery. She stared for a moment, stunned by how thin the skin was, what a delicate organ held a person together.
“Keep going.” Willard handed her the scissors, and she carefully snipped the muscle.
“Do we have anything like a Kelly clamp? I think . . . Dr. Willard, I think I made this incision too medial.”
“It’s fine.”
She continued the retraction until the peritoneum was in sight.
“Retractors?”
“We only have one. Do you see the cecum?”
“The what?”
The Secret of Raven Point: A Novel Page 24
