Miracle at St. Anna

by James McBride

  He sat in his living room bursting with frustration, with Ettora at the table carefully moving the plate of water and olive oil from side to side. She was ignoring him. She knew about the rabbits. And she knew he knew she knew. All because he’d stuck his finger in her hole many years before. The war was letting every fool with a grudge exact his revenge, Ludovico thought furiously. Well, not here!

  Ettora’s gaze followed the plate as the drop of olive oil went left, then right. Finally, it broke apart into several smaller drops, and the room moaned. Ettora stood up.

  “This outcome,” she said to Renata, who looked aghast, “means only that you are still apart. It does not mean you will not come back together. Don’t be afraid. It’s a sign.”

  “What kind of sign?” Renata asked.

  “A sign that something good is coming.”

  “Like what?”

  “A good sign is coming,” Ettora repeated.

  The rain outside banged heavily against the roof, jangling Ludovico’s frayed nerves. He wished it would stop so they would all leave. He couldn’t take it anymore. The old witch was trying to kill him. He could feel the anger surge up in his throat, trying to roar out of him. The hell with her signs! He would end the spell now. He would confront her this very moment, and tell her—tell them all—about the rabbits, and to hell with it, let them tear up the bedroom floor and eat the rabbits, every single one of them. The devil was going to show up next if he didn’t do something immediately.

  Ludovico raised his hand to get the attention of the room, one gnarled finger pointed skyward, and just as he was about to speak, he heard the bump of heavy boots hitting the front steps, followed by a loud knock at the front door.

  Silence.

  The Germans at the top of Mt. Cavallo couldn’t have gotten down the mountain that fast, he thought in alarm. Not without anyone noticing. There were lookouts everywhere. Besides, one of the sisters at the convent had tolled the church bell three times ten minutes ago, signaling that all was clear. The villagers, packed inside the room, stared at one another in alarm.

  Then came the sound of another pair of boots hitting the wooden steps, followed by another heavy knock.

  The villagers scurried about the room, putting away the plates and olive oil and chestnuts. Ludovico, seated next to the door, waited a moment until all was hidden, then stood and opened the door and realized he had waited too long.

  The devil himself had arrived.

  Standing in the black, pouring rain was a giant black man holding the white statue head of what appeared to be the Virgin Mary under his one arm. In his other arm was a bundle wrapped in a jacket. The black man was dressed as a soldier, heavily armed, with a long rifle strapped to his back and bullet-filled bandoleers crisscrossing his mighty chest. His nose, widened in exhaustion, breathed air in and out like a pig’s snout. Standing directly beneath the giant, Ludovico could feel the hot air whooshing out of his nostrils.

  “Mother of Jesus,” the old man said, backing away and crossing himself.

  The giant stepped inside, followed by three more heavily armed dark men. All four were huge, even the smallest of them was bigger than every Italian in the room, and dripping wet. Stamps was the last to enter. He quickly looked around the room at the gawking Italians, then barked at Bishop. “Keep watch outside while we find out the deal here.”

  Bishop said, “Man, I ain’t staying out there by myself.”

  Stamps ignored him and looked at the room of staring Italians again. He closed the door behind him and spoke to Hector. “Tell them we’re Americans.”

  “Americanos,” Hector said.

  The room looked to Renata. She’d studied English in Florence and spoke it better than anyone else in town. Renata sat gaping at the giant Negro with the odd statue’s head beneath his arm. He was so tall he’d had to crouch down when he entered the house, and he stayed crouched, his gigantic head swiveling slowly back and forth, moving like the head of a dinosaur as he gazed around. She could not stop herself from staring. She could not shut her mouth. She could not remember a word of English.

  Stamps saw the room looking at Renata and settled his eyes on her. Sitting at the table dressed in men’s clothes, her small hands open, palm up on the table, her long black hair tucked underneath her cap giving her the look of a souped-up car, her mouth wide open in shock, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. Her huge black eyes looked like globes between olive-shaped, slitted lids as her stunned gaze zipped from one of them to the other. Stamps had never seen anything like that, a woman dressed like a man, and so beautiful underneath it. He noted with appreciation the hips and thighs that lay casually against the cloth of the baggy pants she wore, and he tried not to stare. He was exhausted and thought perhaps he was dreaming.

  He spoke to Hector. “Ask her where the Germans are.”

  Hector complied.

  Renata blinked and caught her breath. She stared at Train, whose weight made the floor under his feet sag. She was worried that the giant Negro would step into the bedroom and fall through the floor into her father’s rabbits, which everybody knew about. The floor groaned under Train’s giant feet. Finally, Renata spoke to Hector. “Are you staying long?”

  The three Americans looked for translation to Hector, who paused. Hector was fluent in Italian. In addition to speaking the classic Italian of the Army’s translations school, he’d spent plenty of time with Italians back in Spanish Harlem, where his family had moved from San Juan. From the age of ten until he joined the Army, he’d spent half his weekends getting the shit kicked out of him by Italian kids and the other half beating their brains out, but he’d never seen any as pretty as this one who sat at the table dressed in men’s clothing. Instead of translating, he said, “No. We just dropped by ’cause his tailor lives nearby.” He nodded at Bishop. Several Italians in the room, including Ettora, two twin cockeyed teenage girls named Ultima and Ultimissima, and a rail-thin woman named Fat Margherita laughed.

  Stamps snapped, “What’s so goddamn funny, Hector? Ask the woman where’s the Germans.” He looked at Renata. “Where’s the Germans? Dove tedeschi?” He said it loud, as if talking louder would make her understand. The room silenced in fear.

  Renata sized him up. Long, thin, angular, he was taller than the two who stood behind him, and she guessed he must the lieutenant, il tenente. Hector, with his pointed nose, smooth hair, cleft chin, and smaller stature seemed more Latin. The other dark Negro behind him, with gold teeth, dimples, and sparkling eyes, reaching for his cigarettes, had a coolness, a slickness about him that was exciting, but she instinctively didn’t trust him. He reminded her of the jazz music she had once heard in Florence—it was gorgeous, but it could lead to too many bad places. No, the one who knocked her down was the lean tenente still glaring at her, all business. He was, she decided, very beautiful. Long arms, wide shoulders, deep hazel-brown eyes, skin the color of chestnuts, his face illuminated by the glow of the warm fire. Even frowning, she thought, he was the most exotic thing she’d ever seen. She suddenly wished she was wearing a dress. She pointed at the window. “Everywhere,” she said.

  Stamps nodded toward Train. “The boy needs help.”

  “What boy?” she said.

  He motioned and Train undid his field jacket, revealing the shivering child underneath. He was pale and drenched, breath wheezing out of him, his eyes fluttering, rolling back and forth up into his skull.

  The sight of him prompted a flurry of motion from Ettora, Fat Marguerita, and the cockeyed twins, who gathered in close, standing on tiptoe. One of the twins tried to take the boy from Train’s arms.

  Train drew back. “Naw,” he said. The women surrounding him began to chatter at Renata in high-speed Italian.

  “Where did you find him?” Renata asked Hector. She was having a hard time making her brain function.

  “Down the mountain a ways. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. He can stay here till he gets better.”

&n
bsp; Hector translated for Stamps, who waited impatiently. Stamps shook his head.

  “He ain’t gonna get no better. He needs to get to a hospital. We’re taking him. You all can come. You gotta evacuate the area anyway ’cause of the Germans. Fightin’s gonna get hot ’round here once the division arrives. We’ll escort you down the mountains.”

  This translation sparked another wave of chatter. Finally, Hector said, “She says she’s not leaving, and neither are they. If you want to know more, talk to il parroco at the church up the hill.”

  “We just been there,” Stamps said. “Nothing there but a wacko.”

  Hector translated. The villagers looked at one another for a moment. Renata fired off a burst of Italian.

  “She says there’s no man up there. That’s the St. Anna church and the convent behind it. Just four nuns live there. She says there hasn’t been a man inside that convent for three hundred years.”

  “Well, he musta snuck in there and filled up on three hundred years’ worth of nooky then, ’cause who was that we seen up there, Butterbeans and Suzy?” Stamps said.

  The four men laughed. Ettora the witch turned and approached Stamps. Being almost blind, she nearly fell over a chair, so she pivoted, wheeled, and headed straight again, nearly falling on him. She was so tiny that her head only reached his ribs. She pointed a finger at his ribs, her bracelets shaking as she spoke in broken English. “That’s Eugenio. Crazy man. No see Father?”

  From across the room, Ludovico watched silently, his heart pounding. He had to hand it to Ettora. She was brave. He wouldn’t touch that big man with a flagpole.

  Stamps said, “Don’t know nuthing about no father, signora. Now I can make y’all go, but I ain’t gonna. The boy needs a hospital, though.”

  Ettora poked him in the ribs again with a finger that felt like a sharp stick. “Boy is here.”

  “What’s up? This kid might die.”

  Renata stepped forward and said, “Where you take him?”

  “Hospital.”

  The young woman shook her head and spoke for a few moments in Italian, pointing out the window, and Hector’s face clouded. “She says there’s Germans on all sides of us as far as she knows: Vergemoli, Callomini, Mt. Caula, all the way up to Barga and down to the Cinquale. She don’t know how we got past Ruosina, but she says the only way to Barga, where the Americans might be, is through that mountain pass.” He pointed out the window to Mt. Cavallo, the Mountain of the Sleeping Man.

  The four looked out the window at the dark, pouring rain. Stamps imagined the mountain was like Mt. Everest.

  “All right. Then we stay here till the weather breaks. Then we move out.”

  Bishop’s face furrowed into a grimace. “Move out where? You heard what she said.”

  “Bishop, you think too much.”

  “Okay, when they come for you, I’ll write your folks. I ain’t gettin’ on any goddamn mountain and getting killed. We should stay here till help comes.”

  “How do we know help’s coming?” Stamps snapped. “Nokes probably told ’em we’re dead. I’m not gonna sit here pootin’ chalk and waiting for the Germans to roll up and do the boogie-jump on me. Maybe these people are with them. Maybe the Germans were following us. They might be watching us right now, for all we know. The canal wasn’t no fuckin’ surprise to them, that’s for sure.”

  Hector spoke out. “This ain’t the Cinquale Canal, Lieutenant. Shit, this is a new world up here.”

  Stamps hated this but knew Hector was right. He fought his own panic. Division would look for them, or maybe not. Till they heard otherwise, they were on their own.

  “All right, then. We lay low till tomorrow and try to charge up the radio. The batteries are dead. Ask if they got electricity. Maybe we can charge it up someway.”

  Hector complied, and Renata chirped out a response. Stamps watched as Ludovico glared at his daughter, then rose sleepily from his chair, yawned, and grinned, showing one shining front tooth in an otherwise toothless mouth.

  “She says her old man here knows how to get some.”

  Bishop stared at Ludovico, his tattered vest, his shock of white hair, his toothless grin, his one gleaming front tooth.

  “Wow,” he said to the others. “This one here could get a job snapping holes in doughnuts.” He smiled at Ludovico. “With chompers like that, ain’t no hambone in the world ’fraid of you, is it, old-timer?”

  The soldiers laughed. Ludovico, not understanding, grinned harder and nodded back, trying to show he was friendly. He had never seen Americans before. Whether they were really Americans or devils, he wasn’t sure. Either way, he knew he was in deep trouble if that big one took two steps back into his bedroom and fell through the floor.

  “Cut out the foolin’,” Stamps barked. “We gotta think of a plan to call back to division and get the fuck outta here.” He turned to Hector. “Ask the signorina where we can stay. Then tomorrow the old-timer will show us how to use the electric.”

  “No stay here,” Renata said.

  “Sì, stay here!” Stamps hissed. “Americano. Bosso. American government pay for your whole house.”

  Hector translated, and the women in the room snickered. Stupid American, Renata thought bitterly, staring at Stamps. He didn’t understand Italians at all. Mr. Big Shot. Ten minutes ago she would have flung him down and made love to him right on the floor, she was so happy to see him. Now she couldn’t stand him. If the Germans caught any of them helping the Americans, they all would be punished and his cute chestnut skin wouldn’t mean a thing. Instead of speaking English to Stamps, she spoke to Hector, who translated.

  “She wants to know are there more of us.”

  Bishop piped up, “Hell yeah, honey. I know fourteen niggers in St. Louis alone, and two of ’em’s waiting to be adopted.”

  Stamps said, “Bishop, if you don’t stop banging your gums I’m gonna kick your ass right here.”

  Bishop stared at him dully. Stamps, he thought, was a yellow Washington, D.C., high-breed, an educated nigger know-it-all, and now he was taking advantage of the situation to show he was boss in front of all the Italian whiteys. He made note of this for future reference and said nothing.

  Stamps spoke to Hector. “Tell her we need to sleep someplace.”

  Hector translated, and Renata snapped a response at him. Hector replied, “She says there’s a house not far; just outside, beyond the wall to the right, around the corner. It has a big cross on the front door. The old man will take us there. That’s Eugenio’s house, the crazy man we seen up at the church.”

  The four Americans looked at Renata, who shrugged and said, “He doesn’t sleep inside. He sleeps outside St. Anna church with his family.”

  “I thought you said there was nobody there,” Hector said.

  “His family is buried there. Three bambini. His wife. Tedeschi. Boom-boom.”

  Renata stepped gingerly toward Train, stood on her tiptoes, and gently reached toward the boy, who still lay in his arms, limp and trembling, but the giant drew back. “It’s all right, miss, I got ’im.”

  Stamps watched Renata staring at Train, her cap tipped just so, her face barely reaching his massive chest. The head of the Primavera was stuck under Train’s arm, his shoulders were so huge that the M-1 rifle slung across his back looked like a toothpick, the boy was so tiny in his arms he looked like a balled-up Chihuahua. It made quite an impression.

  “Tell her it’s all right, Hector,” Train stammered.

  Hector’s translation landed on the woman with no discernible effect. She said, “Tell your tenente the boy belongs here.”

  Stamps already understood. “Cool down, signorina. We ain’t going noplace. Train, give her the kid. They can take better care of ’im than you.”

  Train, his tall frame bent inside the tiny crowded house with all the white people staring at him, felt cramped and confused. He swayed like a colossal tower, leaning over, trying to make sense of it all. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind. Suppose t
hese people were with the Germans, like the Italian mule skinners he had seen at the Cinquale? This boy had brought him luck. This boy had the power. Train had to pay him back some way. It all needed clearing up. “I done found ’im, lieutenant. I can takes care of him for now. Hector gived me some powder to give him.” Train pulled a packet of sulfa powder out of his breast pocket and waved it in the air.

  Stamps stepped over, yanked the droopy child from Train, and handed him to Renata. He gave her the sulfa packet, too. He stared at her directly. “This is the last of it. It’ll break his fever. You gotta dilute it to make it last longer, ’cause we got no more. Hector, translate that for me.”

  Hector said, “What’s ‘dilute’ mean?”

  “Forget it. Just tell ’em we’ll be back for ’im.”

  Train watched helplessly as the women placed the boy on Ludovico’s bed in the adjacent room and began to warm water and bustle about, busily preparing. The boy awakened from his stupor and began struggling and crying softly. The women held him down against the bed. “Maybe I oughtta stay here,” Train said glumly. He took two steps toward the bedroom. Ludovico watched in alarm as the floor creaked and groaned beneath his feet.

  Stamps shot a contemptuous look at Train, stepped to the front door, and flung it open. The sound of splattering raindrops filled the room. “Suit yourself. But tomorrow, when this weather clears, we’re gonna get the fuck outta here and go back, Sam Train or no Sam Train.”

  Stamps nodded at Ludovico, who followed him toward the door. The old man glanced back at Ettora as he headed out, looking for a sign on her face that would tell him something, but Ettora said nothing.