Street Boys

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “Who looks after you?” Von Klaus asked.

  The boy hesitated, reluctant to reply. He stared at Von Klaus and shook his head. “I don’t need anyone,” he said.

  “Your leader would be proud of you,” Von Klaus said, his voice soft and sad. “If he were still in charge. Have you heard the news? About Mussolini?”

  “Is he dead?” the boy asked.

  “Not yet, but it won’t be much longer,” Von Klaus said. “He’s signed over his command to the Fascist Grand Council. He’s no longer in power. And you no longer need to fight.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” the boy asked, the first hint of fear etched in his voice.

  “What’s your name?” Von Klaus asked.

  “Massimo,” the boy said.

  “Why would you ask such a question, Massimo?”

  “You’re a Nazi,” Massimo said, his lower lip starting to tremble. “And Nazis killed my mother and father.”

  Von Klaus shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to kill you, Massimo. But I am going to give you an order and I expect it to be followed.”

  “What kind of an order?”

  “I want you to go up deeper into the hills,” Von Klaus said to him. “Find a bigger bush to hide behind. And this time, stay low enough to the ground that you will not be seen from the road. You never know. There might be more Nazis behind me. Can I count on you to follow such an order?”

  “Yes,” Massimo said.

  “Good,” Von Klaus said. “Spoken like a true soldier.”

  The colonel nodded as he and Massimo exchanged a final glance. Then the boy turned and ran back up the sloping hillside, higher and deeper into the coverage than when he had first been found. Von Klaus looked away once the boy was out of sight and caught a disapproving glance from his second-in-command, Sergeant Albert Hartz, standing alongside his tank, arms folded across his massive chest.

  “Would you have preferred I shot him dead?” Von Klaus asked.

  “He’ll run and tell others our position and where we’re heading,” Hartz said.

  “What others? All the other seven-year-olds?” Von Klaus said with a smile. “Nonetheless, inform high command. Let them know there may still be children hiding in the area. That should satisfy any of your concerns.”

  “It is still a risk I would not have taken, sir.”

  “Then you can take a measure of pride in knowing that you are a better Nazi that I am,” Von Klaus said.

  The colonel turned away from Sergeant Hartz, rapped on the side of his tank and looked back up at the hillside as his Division continued its slow descent into Naples.

  10

  CASTEL DELL’OVO, NAPLES

  SEPTEMBER 26, 1943

  One hundred boys and girls sat around the castle’s edge. Carlo Maldini stood to the side, the back of his wool shirt soaked with the sweat brought on by the early-morning heat. Nunzia was off to his left, her eyes studying the faces of Vincenzo, Franco and Angela.

  “Are you the leader?” Maldini asked Vincenzo.

  “I don’t lead anybody,” Vincenzo said. “They followed me.”

  “That means they’re looking for you to lead.” Maldini eased himself past Nunzia and stood towering above Vincenzo. “Except in many cases, the good Lord sends bread to those who can’t chew.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Franco asked, looking over at Vincenzo and Angela.

  “It means your friend here acts like a leader, even talks like one,” Maldini said. “But he doesn’t think like one.”

  “I told you, I’m not anyone’s leader,” Vincenzo said.

  “Then why are you here?” Maldini asked. “And why do they follow you? It’s because they heard you talk. But that only gets you so far. Now they need to see you think.”

  “We’re making a plan,” Angela said. “Just in case the Nazis do come.”

  “Does this plan call for weapons?” Maldini asked. “Or are you just going to stare at the Nazis until they leave?”

  “Many of us have knives and a few have handguns,” Vincenzo said. “It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

  Maldini turned away from Vincenzo and stared out at the glimmering waters of the bay. “Think back,” he said. “Think to when the Nazis first came to Naples. What is the first thing they did?”

  “They took away the guns and rifles our fathers kept,” Franco said.

  “That’s right,” Maldini said, glancing over Franco’s shoulder as twenty more boys hustled to join the group. “And they took them where?”

  Vincenzo stepped away from Maldini and looked down at the water splashing against the sides of the pier.

  “That’s right,” Maldini whispered. “They threw them in the bay.”

  “How deep?” Vincenzo asked.

  “Fifty feet,” Maldini said. “Seventy-five at the most.”

  “Can they still be used?” Angela asked.

  “Once they’re dried, cleaned and oiled, they’ll be good as new,” Maldini said. “Maybe a bit rusty, but nothing worse than that.”

  “And we get them out how?” Vincenzo asked. “It would take every free hand we have a full day to dive down and bring up each gun. And that’s assuming we were good enough even to do something like that. Then you would need another full day to dry them out. The Nazis might be in the center of the city before one of us would be able to fire off a single shot.”

  “You’re not thinking!” Maldini said, between clenched teeth, his index finger jabbing against the side of his temple. “You’re ready to fight any Nazi who might come into Naples, but you don’t even know how to pull guns from still waters.”

  Maldini stepped away from the edge of the pier and walked in a tight circle around Vincenzo. “My daughter tells me you are a student of history,” he said to him. “You should know your religion as well.”

  Vincenzo glared into Maldini’s eyes, the older man’s harsh words a chilling challenge to the boy, forcing him to look beyond the words and pictures of old schoolbooks and confront the reality of his situation. If the leaflets were right and the Nazis were returning to Naples, it would not be words that would force them to take a step back, but the actions of the children that stood in a circle around them. Vincenzo looked away and glanced at the long row of fishing boats moored to the dock, their oars spread out on the hot ground to dry. “The boats,” he said.

  “That’s right,” Maldini said, smiling. “The boats. You will do as the apostles once did. You take the boats out and let the waters fill your nets. Only in place of fish, you pull up guns.”

  “Will you stay and help us?” Franco asked.

  “It is no longer my war,” Maldini said.

  “I will help you,” Nunzia said, arms at her sides, her eyes hard. “And so will my father. It is better for him to drink his wine in the middle of the bay than behind the window of an empty building.”

  Maldini stared at his daughter for several moments, then looked at Vincenzo and shrugged. “It is easier to fight a Nazi than go against the wishes of a Neapolitan woman,” he said.

  11

  IL CAMALDOLI, NAPLES

  SEPTEMBER 26, 1943

  Steve Connors lay prone in the warm grass and looked down at Naples. He rested his binoculars by his side and turned to gaze out across the bay, toward the islands of Ischia and Capri in the distance, and then back down to what had once been a city. The bullmastiff lay head first next to him, his face buried between two large legs, asleep. Taylor and Willis sat behind him, each picking at the contents of a small can of hash with the edges of a cracker.

  Connors ran a hand across the stubble of his chin, his eyes burning from the hot sun and the difficult drive. He had come to Naples expecting to see ruin, the same as he had come across at every one of his stops in Europe. But he had not been prepared for the level of destruction that stretched out before him.

  He lay there and stared at the devastation for nearly an hour. He had seen men die and had buried soldiers who had become friends in
a short span of time. But those were losses sustained in the fiery heat of battle. What he saw now was affixed to a larger, even more frightening plateau. On that bluff, surrounded by pristine waters and lush islands, Steve Connors was made a witness to the price of war. There, during those long moments under the blazing Italian heat, the history of the most conquered city in Europe played itself out through the eyes of a tough young corporal from the small town of Covington, Kentucky.

  Naples has known neither peace nor prosperity in its centuries by the sea.

  It began as a Greek settlement, a port of rest for seamen coming in from Asia Minor, sometime in the fifth century. The Greeks named the town Neapolis, which translates to New City. Under their rule, Naples began to develop. An extensive roadway system modernized access into and out of the city, and its citizens were taught and encouraged to speak Latin. Soon, the Greeks were ousted and the remnants of the Roman Empire took their place, only to be supplanted by the Byzantines.

  From that point on, Naples became the lethargic host to a revolving door of nations quick to conquer and just as eager to leave behind snatches of their culture and flee at the approach of the next enemy. The Normans were followed by the rule of the Swabians, who then fell to Charles of Anjou, who quickly branded the area surrounding the city as his own, crowning it the Kingdom of Naples. The Aragonese period, which began in 1441 and lasted until 1503, brought about cultural upheaval and the building of the great works of architecture, a few of which Steve Connors could still see from his post. Then came the arrival of the Spaniards, who ruled until the Austrian takeover in 1707, who then ceded the city to the Bourbons in 1734.

  By the eighteenth century, Naples had grown into the most populated city in Europe, one to which other national leaders would point to as the urban ideal. This moment of glory was not to last, however, as the city was brought to its knees by two blood-drenched and bitter revolutions. The Parthenopean Revolt began as a battle between intellectuals and ended with the cream of Neapolitan culture hanging by their necks. The French arrived with yet another revolution, this one led by Napolean’s brother, Joseph Bonaparte. After the Bonapartes were handed their European walking papers, the city was delivered back into the hands of the Bourbons. It was under their rule that the Camorra, the Neapolitan Mafia, first began to organize, initially giving themselves the less-sinister-sounding name of the Fine Reformed Society. They built a steady network, one that would never relinquish its power, maintaining an iron grip on the city through every passing decade, regardless of what foreign powers entered its gates, bending only slightly to Mussolini’s rule. To this very day, the members of the Camorra remain the undeclared kings of Naples, immune even to the outbreak of war and the evacuation of its people.

  Finally, on September 7, 1860, Giuseppe Garibaldi took control of the city, the first Italian to do so since the time of the Romans. It was to remain under the unsteady reign of Italian hands until the first of the Nazi bombs came crashing down.

  The turbulence of its history has contributed to the complexity of the Neapolitan character. The men are, by nature, cynical and have little respect for authority. A close-knit group, they are distrustful of strangers. They look with dubious eyes at even the most benign acts, knowing that behind each kind gesture lurks the potential for betrayal. Within their own country they are disliked, dismissed as shiftless, lazy and brimming with criminal intent. They wear the stripes of national hatred as a badge of civic honor.

  The women are fiery and loud, ruling over their children and younger siblings with tightfisted control. They are passionate in both love and anger and are not afraid to display their emotions in public, unlike their more educated counterparts to the north. They love to sing; fine, textured voices bellowing out mournful words to typically sad, Neapolitan ballads from “Soli, Soli Nella Notte” to “Un Giorno Ti Diro.” Most of the songs are tearful reminders of loves lost and lives burdened by the weight of poverty and illness. Neapolitan women are stubborn, religious and superstitious, believing in the magical healing powers of both saints and sinners. They attend church and lay down a gypsy’s curse with equal abandon.

  The complex genetic mix of so many different countries invading their city has given the women a distinct look, one that makes it possible for them to blend together as one on the streets of Naples and to stand out in a crowded marketplace in Milan. Their hair is dark and usually kept long, their eyes almond-shaped and the color of Greek olives. Their smile is wide and expressive and their laughter is as rich and textured as the red wine they are not shy about consuming. They grow old with comfort, wearing their age with as much pride as they would a rare new dress. Advancing years bring a firmer grip on their family rule, and they hold on to this control with dictatorial force. Their only known enemy is the one who blocks the path they have chosen.

  Connors stepped back from the bluff and stuffed the small binoculars into the rear of his pack. “Never seen churches so big,” he said to Willis and Taylor, glancing over at the sleeping mastiff. “You could fit half of Covington inside any one of them. And there are so many. The people who lived on those streets must have given a lot of hours over to prayer.” He turned to take one more look down through the smoldering smoke and misty haze of the broken buildings below. “Didn’t seem to do them all that much good though, did it?”

  “I never used to pray,” Willis said. “Not until I started eating army rations. Now I pray before every meal.”

  “You think we’ll ever get a taste of that Italian food we hear the Dagos in our unit talk about?” Taylor asked, holding up his can of hash. “Or is this as good as it’s going to get?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a nice cool glass of wine myself,” Connors said. “All we got in Covington is moonshine and watered-down beer.”

  “From the looks of what’s left of that city down there,” Taylor said, “the only wine bottles we’re going to find are broken ones.”

  The first shot rang out and bounced off a rock, missing Connors’s leg by less than an inch. The second one clipped the back of the tree where Taylor and Willis were eating their hash, sending both men scurrying for cover. “You see anything?” Taylor shouted out, rifle at the ready, as he braced himself against the side of a large boulder.

  Connors looked at the mastiff and watched as the dog stood, his eyes staring up into the clearing to his right. “In the thick bushes,” he said. “About two o’clock.”

  “How many you figure?” Willis asked. He was laying flat down, the tree his only cover.

  Connors ran from the edge of the bluff and threw himself to the ground, seeking cover behind a small stone wall. Two bullets rang out, each nicking off a piece of rock. “So far, I figure it’s just the one,” he said. “But the others could be out there waiting for us to make a move.”

  Taylor raised his rifle above the boulder and fired off two quick rounds into the bushes overhead. “Save your ammo,” Connors said. “Count on seeing him, not on luck.”

  “If he’s in there, I’ll bring him out,” Taylor said, checking his ammo belt. “When I do, you take him.”

  Connors nodded. “Willis, you any good with a gun?” he asked the medic.

  “I’m better with wounds,” Willis said, his head still down.

  “You figure Krauts or Dagos?” Taylor asked, his knees bent, waiting to make his move.

  “Italians have no reason to shoot at us now,” Connors said. “My guess is a Nazi scout team.”

  The mastiff’s bark forced Connors to turn to his left and he fired off two rounds as soon as he saw the glint of a rifle. The second bullet found its mark as he heard a loud grunt and saw a German soldier fall face forward into a row of hedges. Taylor looked over his shoulder and then waved across to Connors. “The medic covers me,” he said. “And you take out the other German.”

  “He’s got the sun to his back,” Connors said. “You’re going to be shooting into glare. He’ll have clear sight on you. None of us will have it on him.”

  “We can’t
wait,” Taylor said. “There might be more than two or there might be more coming. Or he can radio back for help. I’m moving and I’m moving now. Back me.”

  Connors took a deep breath and nodded. “Go,” he said.

  Willis and Connors fired into the hedges above them as Taylor made his way up the bluff, running from tree to tree, looking to gain leverage on the hidden soldier. The mastiff stood next to Connors, protected by the row of stones. “I’m just shooting blind rounds here,” Willis said. “I’m going to move to that tree to the right.”

  “Stay put,” Connors said. “Let Taylor get to the top of the hill, then we both move.”

  “Got an aunt back home like you,” Willis said. “All worries and no smiles. I’ll meet you at the jeep.”

  Willis jumped to his feet and ran for a large tree covered by a thick circle of shrubs. “Willis!” Connors shouted, watching as the medic stepped into the green patch, the area below his feet too dense for him to see the hidden mine. The explosion sent Willis flying back, his chest and face blown away. He lay there, still and dead, a young boy from Iowa who had promised his mother he would make it back home.

  Connors lowered his head and took in several slow, deep breaths. “Damn it,” he said. “Goddamn it!”

  He looked back up and saw that Taylor was now directly across from the German’s position. Taylor was well-hidden by the trees and took careful aim with his rifle, looking to shoot low and hit at the ground cover. He fired off three quick rounds and popped out an empty ammo clip. He reached behind him for a new eight-bullet clip, the smoke from his rifle drifting into the air and giving away his position.

  Connors saw the German move away from his coverage and raised his rifle.

  He had him in his scope lines when he saw Taylor move toward the soldier, firing off a steady stream of bullets. Connors held his aim until he had a sure shot and then both he and the German soldier squeezed their triggers at the same time. They both hit their target.

  It took Scott Taylor the rest of that afternoon to die.