Tippler released his grip on the rifle and turned on his back, staring up at Zimmler, reaching behind him for one of the cigarettes he could now claim as his own. “Got a light?” he asked.
Zimmler tossed him a lighter, eyes still focused down on the square. “It seems there’ll be no shortage of target practice for you today,” he said, leaning forward and pointing at an array of street boys converging on the square from all four angles, each running low, guns and rifles in their hands.
Tippler stood up, cigarette dangling from the center of his mouth, looked out at the square filled with boys partially hidden in corners and against walls and nodded. “Well, we know they’re not here to take control of an empty zoo,” he said, blowing two thin lines of smoke through his nose. “They must have heard that Panzers are heading into the area. It’s the only reason for so many of them to gather here.”
“I’ll get Zoltan and Glauss from downstairs,” Zimmler said, picking up his rifle and moving from the ledge. “We can make better use of the box of grenades they’re sitting on from up here than they can from down there.”
“I just hope they haven’t used them all up killing water rats,” Tippler said not bothering to hide the sarcasm.
“Do you want me to bring you anything?” Zimmler asked, walking into the short alcove toward the long row of stone steps.
Tippler looked back out at the square and studied the position of the boys. “As many cigarettes as you can find,” he said. “I feel a long and profitable day coming on.”
Wilhelm Glaus stretched his arms toward the ceiling and twisted his neck from side to side, right foot resting on a large box of German grenades. The stench of the abandoned aquarium and festering zoo cages had infiltrated his clothes and gear pack, while the endless army of war-starved water rats parading up and down the stairwell had shoved his patience beyond its normal limits. Over the span of the interminably long past several days, Glaus felt as much a prisoner as any of the animals who once lived within the walls of the ancient structure.
Glaus looked up when he heard the echo of Franz Zoltan’s steps cascade down the empty halls, his low whistling coming across loud as an aria. Zoltan was a rare breed of soldier, always in a pleasant mood, never troubled by the orders he was given to carry out and content with both his place and position within the pecking order of command. He had been groomed since childhood to be a career soldier and had learned to find solace in being told what to do by others, be they strangers or friends, so long as they wore the same uniform.
Zoltan turned the corner and smiled when he saw Glaus, his chubby face red and his breath coming in spurts. “Lots of activity in the square,” he said to Glaus. “It’s filling up pretty quickly, boys hiding on all sides. Something big looks like it’s about to happen, which answers your question as to why they would want us to sit here and do nothing but wait.”
“It’s about damn time,” Glaus said, turning to reach for his rifle. “If I had to spend one more day in this shit hole, I was going to let the rats have me for breakfast.”
A different voice responded. “They’re Neapolitan rats,” Maldini said, his body shrouded in darkness, a machine gun in his hands. “They might not have the stomach for Nazi blood.”
Glaus instinctively turned, aimed his weapon at Maldini’s voice and fired twice. The return volley came at him from the side, from deep inside the empty fish tank, three bullets piercing through his arm and the side of his neck. He dropped his rifle and fell over backwards, his head resting on top of the crate of grenades. Zoltan stood frozen in place, his eyes zeroed in on the dead soldier next to his boots. “Turn around,” Maldini told the soldier, “and walk up to the tower. We’ll be right behind you.”
Zoltan glanced to his left and saw Giovanni and Frederico step out from behind the slimy terrain of the fish tank, guns in their hands, walking toward Glaus and the crate of grenades. One of the boys looked back at him and waved. Maldini came out from behind the shadows. “You’ve done well,” he told the boys.
“It wasn’t easy,” Frederico said, lifting one end of the grenade crate, his head turned away to avoid the dead body perched near it. “These Nazis were no fun to live with. All they did was sleep and talk about the war and the rats.”
“And they also made bets about us,” Giovanni said, stepping over Glaus and picking up his end of the crate. “A dead boy was worth a cigarette.”
Maldini stared down at the boys, each holding a gun in one hand and the side of a grenade crate in the other, then turned to Zoltan. “I don’t need cigarettes,” he told the soldier. “So I’ll kill you for free. Now, let’s go to the tower. It’s time we met your friends.”
Zoltan nodded and began a slow, deliberate walk up the wide stone stairwell. “Strip the dead one of his weapons,” Maldini told the boys as he followed the Nazi. “And come up along the dark end of the stairs. Any trouble, just stay hidden. If they’ve heard any shooting upstairs, let them think it’s me. Right now, you two are the strongest in here. You’re invisible and you have machine guns and grenades. Not even a Nazi would bet against you.”
Connors looked up at the imposing structures surrounding him, at the large spacious square and at the six tanks positioned in a semicircle around the zoo and the archways. He checked the dozens of boys around him, spread and scattered, laying low, guns poised. Von Klaus had, as he had expected, adapted to their continued presence, sending stronger forces into every square, each now prepared to meet a level of resistance and confront it in harshest terms.
But the boys had adjusted in their own way to the ever-shifting course of battle. Combat experience can be achieved in moments, each second of fighting worth a month of training. Connors knew that many of them still weren’t fit to be in the middle of such fiery fields. There was among them, however, a core group, led by the examples of Vincenzo and Angela, who seemed to be gaining in confidence. They had learned to adapt to the give and get of a hit-and-run street skirmish, utilizing their own knowledge of the city and its hidden secrets while exploiting the weaker points of their exposed enemy. Connors understood that future battles would only get harder, and that any talk of victory against such a superior force was more a boy’s wish than a soldier’s reality. But as he looked out across the square, just minutes away from another deadly confrontation, he also knew that rumblings of doubt were now imbedded inside the Nazi camp, chipping away at their veneer of confidence and that, in itself, was cause for hope.
Franco slid up alongside Connors, two machine guns strapped around his neck and a row of grenades clipped across his waist. “It’s here,” the boy said. “About fifty or so meters behind the other tanks. The signal for them to fire will come from Maldini up in the zoo towers. As of right now, everything that needs to be in place is in place.”
Connors nodded, glancing across the square at Nunzia, who was huddled against a stone wall, a machine gun cradled in her hands, four street boys hiding in her shadows. She looked over at him, gave him a wave and a warm smile, her face luminous under the glare of the guns and the dust swirling through the piazza. Franco caught the exchange between the two as he sat down next to Connors, checking the ammo clips on his guns.
“My uncle was a captain in the army,” Franco said. “Fought in many battles during the first world war. He told me he was always a good soldier, but when he fell in love with my zia Anna, he became an even better one. Maybe the same will be true for you.”
Connors looked questioningly at the boy.
Franco checked the tank movements behind Connors before speaking again. “I have eyes and I know where to look. Besides, I had a bet with Maldini. He said you wouldn’t ever gather the courage to say anything to her.”
“It’s not exactly the best time for a romance,” Connors said.
“Anytime is a good time,” Franco said with a shrug. “Even in a square filled with tanks, soldiers and snipers, you’ve touched her heart and she’s taken yours.”
“You should write a book,” Connors said, ge
tting ready to step into the square.
“You can’t find love in a book,” Franco said as he stood and gripped both machine guns.
The tank shell exploded one floor above, shards of brick and glass spraying the ground around them. The force of the blast knocked Connors face forward, machine gun slipping from his hands. Franco dove into the darkened hall of an empty building, a thick cloud of smoke swooping down the corner stairs. German soldiers riddled the area around the two of them with heavy fire, bullets clipping off pieces of stone and sending pockets of dust floating into the air. From the other sides of the square, Nunzia and the street boys answered the barrage with one of their own, bringing down a handful of the soldiers closing in on them, all the while watching the tanks churn in a semicircle and pound at the buildings and houses above them. She looked over toward Connors and, through the pockets of smoke and fumes, could see that he was still on the ground.
The tank attack made movement into the square difficult, the Nazis looking to pin the boys into the craters of the buildings and kill them in clusters. If they did venture into the square, they would be easy targets for the soldiers on the ground and the sniper in the tower. “They’re getting too close,” Gennaro said to Nunzia, his voice coated by the dust. “And they’ve made it so we can’t advance and can’t retreat. And we can’t stay here. Which leaves what?”
“Move the children farther back into the buildings,” Nunzia said. “But they must keep shooting. We need to hold out until Papa gives the signal.”
“We have to stop at least one of those tanks,” Gennaro said, gazing down the square at a Panzer firing two shells into a building next to the zoo. “And we can’t do that with these guns alone.”
Nunzia stepped out into the square, firing her machine gun at a string of soldiers closing in on the burning house Gennaro and the others were using for shelter. “Let me worry about the tank,” she shouted over her shoulder. “You keep the children safe. Move only when you hear the signal.”
“What if it doesn’t come?” Gennaro shouted back at her.
Nunzia never answered, thrust into the middle of a crossfire battle with a quartet of Nazi soldiers, who returned her volleys with an arsenal of their own. She was down to her last few rounds, desperately reaching behind her, looking to pull a fresh clip from her waistband, the Nazis closing in, their bullets raining down on her, each shot missing her by fractions. She tossed herself to the hard ground, firing off the last of her bullets as she rolled, releasing the old clip and jamming in a fresh one. She came up on one knee and fired full force into the small circle of soldiers. Two of them took hits, grunting as they dropped to their knees. A third held his fire for a brief moment, his eyes shifting from Nunzia to the fiery second floor of the small house behind her. She saw his head shake and bounce back, a small bullet wound in his forehead sending him face up to his death. Nunzia gave a quick glance above her and saw Gennaro standing in an open window, light blue flames licking at his back and sides, a hunter’s rifle poised in his hands. He lowered the gun, tossed Nunzia a quick kiss and disappeared into the burning room.
The last soldier came at her from behind, towering over her, his shadow covering the bodies of his dead comrades. The Nazi kicked Nunzia to the ground, the bottom of his hard boot landing square in the center of her back, the machine gun in her hand sent skimming along the cobblestones. He walked toward her, watching as she struggled to reach for the gun, gasping for air from the severe force of the kick, and pulled a knife out of the protective sheaf of his ammo belt. The soldier stood above Nunzia, reached down and lifted her up to his chest, holding her by the back of her hair. His eyes narrowed and he gave her a bitter smile as he drew the knife closer to the side of her neck. Nunzia held his arm with both hands, the tip of the blade inching closer to her skin, the weight of the Nazi’s body bearing down on her slight frame. She moved her head away and braced her legs against the hard edges of the cobblestones, arching her back, using all her remaining strength to escape the sharp glint of the knife.
The bullet tore through the Nazi’s neck and lodged in his throat.
He dropped the knife and fell on top of Nunzia, his eyes quick to lose all signs of life, his head tilted, foam, blood and spittle seeping out of the corners of his mouth. Nunzia inched herself away from his slumped body, casting the soldier aside and jumping to her feet. She took the knife from the Nazi’s hand, looked across the square and saw Connors rush toward her, the smoking gun still in his hand. They were less than ten feet apart when she saw the Nazi soldier come out from behind the base of the fountain, aiming his rifle at Connors. “Get down!” she shouted. “Now!”
Connors dropped to the ground, his eyes following Nunzia’s, turned on his back and fired three rounds at the German standing to his right. He held the position as he watched the soldier topple over the side of the waterless fountain. Connors then rose to his knees, looked around the square and raced toward Nunzia, catching her in his arms. As they held one another in silence, the six Panzer tanks had positioned themselves on the north and south sides of the smoldering square, their steady barrage bringing finality to the few remaining structures. Connors lifted Nunzia’s face, gently holding it with three fingers of his right hand. He stroked each cheek, leaned his head forward and kissed her. For the briefest of moments, they were both able to ignore the fire and destruction around them.
Connors opened his eyes, Nunzia still in his embrace, and looked over her head. The Nazi had his back to them, his rifle raised and aimed at a street boy fleeing from one of the fast approaching tanks. Connors ran his hand down the side of Nunzia’s arm and grabbed for the knife she still held in her right hand. He pried it loose from her fingers, moved her aside, took two forceful steps forward and flung it, blade first, toward the soldier. The knife pierced his uniform and severed several main arteries, sending both the rifle and the soldier tumbling to the ground. Connors waved the street boy forward, signaling him to move to higher ground and safety. Nunzia stepped up quietly from behind and handed Connors an ammo pack and a German machine gun. “You’re pretty good with a knife,” she said.
“It’s something I picked up from an old lady I met the other day,” Connors said, taking the gun and pack and her hand.
Maldini held the gun to Zoltan’s back, standing with the Nazi in the shadows of the stairwell. They both could hear the footsteps coming closer, less than one floor above them. Maldini quickly glanced behind him and saw Giovanni and Frederico hovering in a corner, rifles hanging across the top of the crate of grenades. “Remember this,” he whispered into Zoltan’s ear. “No matter what happens, I’ll make sure you die before I do. Capito?”
The Nazi arched his back. He stiffened when he heard Zimmler’s voice echo down at them. “Glaus!” he yelled, his voice booming like a stereo in and out of the empty fish tanks. “Zoltan! Time to wake up and join the war. The tanks are in the square. So are some of those boys that have been pestering us. We need you to bring the grenades up.”
Zimmler stopped in midstep and Maldini heard the click of his rifle trigger. “Answer him,” he whispered to Zoltan. “Tell him you’re on your way. And say it loud so he can hear you.”
“We’re bringing them up,” Zoltan shouted in German. “We’re just getting our gear ready.”
“Can you manage on your own?” Zimmler asked. “Or do you two women need a man’s help?”
“Have him come down to you,” Maldini said, moving the gun away from Zoltan’s back and placing it up against his neck. “Tell him you found some wine, lots of it, and ask what you should do with it.”
“Do you want us to bring the wine up as well?” Zoltan asked, wiping at the sweat coming off his brow. “Glaus found a case hidden in one of the tanks earlier today.”
Maldini heard the hurried footsteps and turned to the boys behind him, holding up his right hand and signaling them to prepare to fire. Giovanni and Frederico pressed their rifles against the top of the crate, spread out their bodies and took aim at the da
rk steps above them. Maldini put an arm around Zoltan’s waist and the two stepped farther back against the stone walls of the aquarium. Zimmler turned the corner, standing several feet across from the two men, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder, a smoldering cigarette jammed in the center of his mouth. Maldini looked at the two boys and nodded.
Both bullets found their mark, hitting Zimmler at chest level and sending him skidding down the remaining steps. Giovanni and Frederico stood and walked over to where the soldier was stretched out, their rifles aimed down at him, waiting for any movement. “His time with us has passed,” Maldini said to them, still holding the gun on Zoltan. “Take his rifle and belt and start heading up. And do it quietly. We still have one more Nazi to deal with.”
“What about him?” Frederico asked, pointing his rifle at Zoltan. “You sure it’s safe to leave him here alone? He might get loose and shout out. Warn the sniper we’re coming his way.”
“Don’t worry,” Maldini said, walking past the boys and the bodies of the two dead Nazis. “He’ll be bound and gagged. And he won’t be alone. We have an army of rats down here who will keep a very close eye on our friend.”
Tippler had one eye squinted shut and focused his other down the trigger line of his high-powered rifle. He had a street boy in his scope, moving from a burning building to the edge of the fountain. The sniper stiffened his upper body, held his breath and squeezed down on the trigger, the recoil bouncing off the top of his shoulder. The boy fell in a heap, his head down as if asleep, crouched in a corner of the square, hidden by the shadows of a long-abandoned basin. “Like sending pigs to the market,” the sniper said in a low voice, a half-smile on his lips. He gently brushed the rifle along the edges of the embankment seeking its next target.
Tippler stopped when he saw the American soldier running through the square, a young woman by his side. He pulled a fresh bullet from the pouch on his belt and slid it into the cartridge holder, jamming the casing in place. He wiped the rifle down with a damp cloth he kept next to his cigarettes and double-checked the scope. “There you are,” the sniper said. “The ghost of Naples. I wonder how many of his cigarettes Zimmler would wager on your life?”
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