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Authors: Lorenzo Carcaterra
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Maldini said. “But I asked two of the younger boys to bring out another boat, take it past us to the point and drop their net out there. With what they’re going to get they don’t need to throw it far or wait very long.”
“What are they getting?” she asked.
“I can only pray that they come back with enough fish to feed us all,” Maldini said. “We’ll have a hungry group on our hands at the end of the day.”
“I guess now you could
really
use some help from Jesus,” Franco said. “He did some of his best work with fish.”
“Jesus never fished in the Bay of Naples,” Maldini said. “In our waters, the fish fit a man’s net like a well-made pair of shoes.”
“Keep the knots in your hand and the rope wrapped around your arm,” Vincenzo yelled to four boys swimming around the edges of the boat. “If you lose those, we won’t be able to bring the net and the guns to the surface.”
“I’m holding it as tight as I can,” a cheery-faced seven-year-old said. “And I will pull them up by myself if I have to.”
“How could Italy lose a war with a man like you on its side, Lucca?” Vincenzo said.
“Because we always let the ones without heart lead us,” Maldini said, leaning over the boat and splashing cool water on his face. “The ones with heart are left to die.”
13
IL CAMALDOLI, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943
The bullmastiff led the way down the side of the bluff, walking with delicate ease along its narrow path. Connors followed, one hand holding his rifle belt, the other resting inside his pants pocket. His uniform was sprinkled with dust and blood. He had buried Willis and Taylor at the top of the bluff, overlooking the Bay of Naples, using their helmets and rifles as markers.
They had parked the jeep under an old pine tree, inside a neglected olive grove. There was little wind and the heat was cooling down with the evening shade.
The bullmastiff saw the boys before he did and took a run toward them, barking and kicking up pockets of dust and dirt with his paws. Connors flipped his rifle from his shoulder to his hands and fast-stepped down the path toward the jeep. He stopped between the dog and the four boys sitting in his jeep, rifle at his side. One of the boys had his fingers wrapped around the ignition key. They were thin, dirty and disheveled and none was older than fourteen. Connors looked at each one, getting only frightened stares and nervous shifting in return. The mastiff had his paws on the side of the jeep and was low growling, ready to pounce at any sudden movements.
“Do you speak any English?” he asked.
“We all do,” the oldest of the four stammered.
“How is that?” Connors asked. “That you all speak it?”
“We are taught to speak three languages,” the boy said. “Neapolitan first. Then Italian and then English.”
“Why are you here?” the boy in the front passenger seat asked.
“I was about to ask the same question,” Connors said, looking from the boys to the dog. “And since I’m the one with the rifle, I’d like my answer first.”
“We’re looking for Nazis,” the boy said. “See if they’re really coming to Naples again. And then report back.”
“Report back to who?” Connors asked.
The four shot quick glances at one another and then looked back down at the dog and the soldier. “The others in our group,” the one holding the ignition key said.
“Let’s say the Nazis are coming back,” Connors said. “What happens then?” He walked closer to the jeep, rifle slung once again over his shoulder.
“I guess then we fight,” the boy closest to Connors said.
Connors stared at him. The boy’s eyes were dark and rich; his face round, sweet and innocent; his hair clipped back and short. “Fight the Nazis?”
“That’s what you do,” the boy said. “Why can’t we?”
“The Nazis have a habit of shooting back,” Connors said. “That’s one reason to think about.”
The boys stayed silent for several seconds,
“What are they getting?” she asked.
“I can only pray that they come back with enough fish to feed us all,” Maldini said. “We’ll have a hungry group on our hands at the end of the day.”
“I guess now you could
really
use some help from Jesus,” Franco said. “He did some of his best work with fish.”
“Jesus never fished in the Bay of Naples,” Maldini said. “In our waters, the fish fit a man’s net like a well-made pair of shoes.”
“Keep the knots in your hand and the rope wrapped around your arm,” Vincenzo yelled to four boys swimming around the edges of the boat. “If you lose those, we won’t be able to bring the net and the guns to the surface.”
“I’m holding it as tight as I can,” a cheery-faced seven-year-old said. “And I will pull them up by myself if I have to.”
“How could Italy lose a war with a man like you on its side, Lucca?” Vincenzo said.
“Because we always let the ones without heart lead us,” Maldini said, leaning over the boat and splashing cool water on his face. “The ones with heart are left to die.”
13
IL CAMALDOLI, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943
The bullmastiff led the way down the side of the bluff, walking with delicate ease along its narrow path. Connors followed, one hand holding his rifle belt, the other resting inside his pants pocket. His uniform was sprinkled with dust and blood. He had buried Willis and Taylor at the top of the bluff, overlooking the Bay of Naples, using their helmets and rifles as markers.
They had parked the jeep under an old pine tree, inside a neglected olive grove. There was little wind and the heat was cooling down with the evening shade.
The bullmastiff saw the boys before he did and took a run toward them, barking and kicking up pockets of dust and dirt with his paws. Connors flipped his rifle from his shoulder to his hands and fast-stepped down the path toward the jeep. He stopped between the dog and the four boys sitting in his jeep, rifle at his side. One of the boys had his fingers wrapped around the ignition key. They were thin, dirty and disheveled and none was older than fourteen. Connors looked at each one, getting only frightened stares and nervous shifting in return. The mastiff had his paws on the side of the jeep and was low growling, ready to pounce at any sudden movements.
“Do you speak any English?” he asked.
“We all do,” the oldest of the four stammered.
“How is that?” Connors asked. “That you all speak it?”
“We are taught to speak three languages,” the boy said. “Neapolitan first. Then Italian and then English.”
“Why are you here?” the boy in the front passenger seat asked.
“I was about to ask the same question,” Connors said, looking from the boys to the dog. “And since I’m the one with the rifle, I’d like my answer first.”
“We’re looking for Nazis,” the boy said. “See if they’re really coming to Naples again. And then report back.”
“Report back to who?” Connors asked.
The four shot quick glances at one another and then looked back down at the dog and the soldier. “The others in our group,” the one holding the ignition key said.
“Let’s say the Nazis are coming back,” Connors said. “What happens then?” He walked closer to the jeep, rifle slung once again over his shoulder.
“I guess then we fight,” the boy closest to Connors said.
Connors stared at him. The boy’s eyes were dark and rich; his face round, sweet and innocent; his hair clipped back and short. “Fight the Nazis?”
“That’s what you do,” the boy said. “Why can’t we?”
“The Nazis have a habit of shooting back,” Connors said. “That’s one reason to think about.”
The boys stayed silent for several seconds,
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