“It’s like a small city in there,” Connors said. “You could hide a battalion behind those walls and no one would have a clue they were in there. The Nazis should have made this one of their early targets or turned it into their headquarters. They should’ve done whatever they needed to keep it out of our hands.”
“The Nazis might have been saving it for last, bring it down on their way out of the city,” Maldini said with a shrug. “Just before they left for Rome.”
“Maybe.” Connors lit a cigarette. “It looks to me like they’ve spread themselves out too wide. Even when they looked to take the city from the center and then branch out from there, they did it in chunks, not as a whole. The boys have been good fighters, better than I thought. And the plans have been solid, risky enough for the Nazis not to figure them out in advance. But even with all that, it just doesn’t feel right.”
“You’re just like Vincenzo,” Maldini said, arching his eyebrows over at Connors. “You both overthink every move and maneuver. You need to have reasons for every action taken. It’s because you’re a soldier and he wants to be one. You ask military questions and expect military answers. That’s not always the right place to stop.”
“Explain it to me, then,” Connors said. “Tell me why the second most decorated officer in the German command, running with the best tank division they have, can’t beat back an army of kids?”
Maldini stared at Connors for several seconds, his arms folded as he stood against a stone wall. “Because the Colonel has a stomach for battle but not for murder,” he said. “If these were American troops he was fighting, they would have already tasted the full power of that division. But they’re children. He sees it and he knows it. He’s a fighter who can’t give the order that will ensure his victory.”
“But he can’t allow himself to lose. He won’t be able to live with that either.”
“You’re right,” Maldini said. “That he cannot do. Which means, at some point, he will have to shove aside the concerns of the man and take on the demands of the soldier. Then it will take much more than surprise attacks and street cunning to run him out of Naples.”
“If that’s going to happen, it’s going to be soon. He’s not long on time and he’s low on fuel. He’s got to finish the job here and make a run for the north, ahead of the Brits and my guys.”
Maldini checked the sky for signs of an early-rising sun, his face and hair tilted toward the mild breeze. “It will be today, tomorrow at the latest. But for now, the sun still greets the morning as if the world were at peace.”
“When I first met you, back in the square,” Connors said, “I wasn’t expecting much. You seemed more interested in your wine than in the kids.”
“Don’t be fooled,” Maldini said. “I still prefer wine to children.”
“I’ve seen you fight,” Connors said. “And I saw how you helped Vincenzo and the others with the plans. That’s not something a drunk usually does.”
“My father was an engineer,” Maldini said. “He helped design many of the tunnels we now use to run from the Nazis. I used to watch him work. I loved to see how a pencil drawing he began on a thin sheet of paper in his little office would end up covering hundreds of miles of a city’s streets. And it was how I made my living, too.”
“That explains the planning,” Connors said. “But you’re also good with a gun. Not many engineers are.”
“This isn’t Italy’s first world war,” Maldini said. “And it’s not mine either.”
Connors patted Maldini on the arm and started to walk away. “I’m going to see if the boys need any help.”
“Are there any Italians in the rich city where you live?” Maldini asked, nodding his head toward the soldier.
“It’s not rich,” Connors said. “And there are no Italians. You’d probably have to drive to St. Louis to even find a family that serves anything with a red sauce on it that’s not barbecue.”
“You don’t have pasta as your primo?” Maldini’s manner was more curious than concerned.
“Only if macaroni and cheese counts. And then it’s your only course.”
“What do you put on the macaroni and cheese?”
“Salt,” Connors said. “Sometimes milk if it’s served too hot.”
“In Naples, not even a sick infant would put milk on his pasta,” Maldini said with pride. “We don’t even like to put milk in our coffee. And there, at least, you could understand its function.”
Connors snickered and walked toward the older man. “What’s your favorite meal, Maldini? The one you would ask for if you could ask for anything?”
“I would begin with a fresh antipasto misto.” Maldini leaned his head against one of the columns, his eyes closed, his mind conjuring up favorable images. “A nice bottle of red wine and fresh bread just out of the oven. Then, a large bowl of linguini in a thick red sauce swimming with clams and mussels. After that, a steak pizzaiola with a green salad dressed in olive oil and lemon. Two cups of espresso and a long glass of Fernet Branca and maybe some crunchy biscotti if I still have room.”
“That’s pretty impressive,” Connors said. “Want to hear mine?”
“Will it depress me?”
“Yes,” Connors said. “But it won’t take as long.”
“Already I don’t like it. A great meal should take time, both to make and to eat.”
“You want me to feel like a king,” Connors said, “put me down in front of a large platter of sliced meat loaf swimming in mushroom gravy and ketchup, side helpings of twice-cooked potatoes, fresh corn on the cob and my aunt Jane’s oven-fresh rolls. Top it off with a thick slab of peach pie and a double scoop of vanilla ice cream. That’s close enough to heaven for me.”
Maldini shrugged his shoulders and stared out across the expansive green lawn that separated the castle from the main road. “There should be more than enough room in heaven for both. Do you at least drink wine with such a meal?”
“Afraid not,” Connors said with a laugh. “Milk usually or sometimes pop or maybe even a beer.”
“I’d rather go hungry than eat a meal without a glass of wine,” Maldini said.
“Why are you asking?” Connors asked. “Just curious or are you planning a move to the States?”
“Not me,” Maldini said, shaking his head. “Made in Naples, stay in Naples. But I have a daughter who’s always wanted to travel. So it’s nice to know about a place she might one day visit.”
The four boys had slept in the tunnels longer than they should have, running now toward the castle, hoping to get there before the tanks and soldiers arrived. In the distance behind them they heard the drone of the engines and could feel the trembling along the cracks on the street. One of the boys, the tallest and oldest, stopped and turned to look at the barren avenue behind him. “We should be okay,” he told the others. “They must be at least half a kilometer behind us. We can make the castle with time to spare.”
“Then why are we running?” the youngest of the quartet asked.
“In case I’m wrong,” the older one said, picking up his run and moving along at a faster pace.
The four turned a corner, saw the imposing castle on their left, a half-mile farther down the wide road. They turned and gave each other relieved glances and sighs, grateful to be so close to the next chosen sanctuary in their fight. “I told you not to worry,” the tall boy said, his breath coming out in hurried rushes. “We should be inside the castle in less than ten minutes.”
The youngest slowed his pace, arms folded against his chest, trying to ignore the burning feeling deep in his lungs. “We can walk the rest of the way and still get there before the Germans. And that’s what I’m going to do.”
“No reason to take any chances.” The tall boy held to his run and waved the others to follow. “We can all catch our breath and get some rest once we’re inside.”
“This wasn’t worth the extra twenty minutes of sleep,” one of the two silent boys said, his head down, his tired arms dangl
ing against his sides.
They were within the shadows of the castle when the first bullet was fired.
It hit the younger boy in the fleshy part of his shoulder and sent him spiraling to the ground, blood from the wound mixing with scraped skin from the fall. The other three boys skidded to a stop and rushed to their knees to help their injured friend. Their eyes scanned the empty street for any signs of the shooter. “Don’t waste your time on me, Antonio,” the youngest boy said, his mouth dry, his eyes tearing up from the pain. “Get yourselves inside the castle. Don’t leave them any more targets.”
“Put your arms around my neck,” Antonio ordered him, shoving his own arms under the back and folded legs of the wounded boy. “We’re going to get behind those walls together.”
A second shot bounced off the edge of the pavement just to the left of the crouching boys, sending tiny fragments of rock bounding toward the sky. “Then we need to find that sniper,” one of the quiet boys said.
From the jagged rooftop of the castle, Vincenzo, Franco and Angela looked to their left and saw the advancing line of Nazi tanks and soldiers. It stretched more than a half-mile down the center road, the sea to its left, burning structures to its right. Farther down the road they saw the four street boys running toward the front gates of the castle, led by a tall, lanky teenager.
“That’s Antonio Murino and his friends.” Angela couldn’t hide her frustration. “They’ve never been on time once since I’ve known them. They can sleep through anything. If they could, they’d sleep through the rest of the war.”
“So would I,” Franco said with a shrug, looking across the stone wall at Vincenzo. “It’s all about the company you keep.”
The three of them jumped back when they heard the shot. They glanced over the edge of the wall, watching the four boys huddle together and Antonio try to lift the wounded one into his arms. Franco pointed across from the castle, down a side street hidden by shadows and ruin. “There’s smoke coming from that alley,” he said. “It was only one bullet, but I don’t think they’d risk a soldier out alone.”
Vincenzo braced himself against the side of the wall and waved an arm at Connors and Maldini. “One of the boys is down,” he yelled. “They’re close enough to make it, but they’ll need some help.”
“We’ll get them in,” Connors shouted back. “Meantime, try to spot that shooter and fire down on him when you do. Chances are you won’t hit him, but the cover fire will at least keep him clear of us.”
Connors checked the clips on his machine guns and looked over at Maldini. “You up for an early-morning run?”
“Only to keep you company,” Maldini said as he tossed his rifle across his shoulder. “If it were up to me, I’d sit here, have a coffee and watch the tides rise and fall.”
Connors and Maldini were halfway across the grassy field, heading for the open road and the four boys. The morning sun warmed their backs, the Nazi tanks and soldiers were closing in from the streets above. From the rooftop, Franco and Angela fired a stream of gunfire in the direction of the sheltered alley, hitting nothing but rocks and cracked glass.
“He may have pulled back,” Vincenzo said, moving along the castle walls, desperate for a better glimpse. “The question is why. He had four open targets and took only one. Why risk the exposure if you’re not going to make the move?”
Angela lowered her gun and stood up straight, her eyes betraying her concern. “Maybe it was a mistake,” she said.
Vincenzo pointed toward the center of the alley. “Someone ordered him to stop. I think there are tanks down those side streets.” He stared into the smoke-filled corners of the streets, his hands resting on the tops of the tower rocks, watching as Connors and Maldini closed in on the four boys. “One of you go and find Nunzia,” he said. “She should be in one of the rear rooms on the main floor. Have her get everyone ready. This battle’s going to start a little sooner than we thought.”
As Connors and Maldini ran toward the four boys, the Nazi tanks were now visible down the road behind them. Antonio was still holding the wounded boy in his arms. “The sniper’s off to the right,” he told Connors. “He fired twice and then stopped. Maybe he’s just waiting for us to run.”
Maldini reached over and checked on the wounded boy, lowering the bloody shirt and glancing at the gurgling bullet hole. “What’s his name?” he asked Antonio.
“He’s my cousin Aldo,” Antonio said. “The two behind me are Pietro and Giovanni.”
Maldini rubbed the top of Aldo’s head and walked over toward Pietro, the young boy shivering in the early-morning sun. He leaned down and wrapped his warm hands around his shoulders. “I need someone strong and brave to protect me when we make our run for the castle,” he told him. “Would you do that for me?”
Pietro stared back at him, his lower lip trembling, his olive eyes wide with fright, and nodded. “Si,” he said. “I will protect you.”
“Then I have nothing to fear,” Maldini said. He stood, keeping an arm across the boy’s shoulder. “For now I have you with me.”
“We’ll run on the sniper’s side of the road,” Connors announced. “If he’s still there, that’ll cut down on the angle of his shots, make it harder to hit any of us.” He looked at each of the four boys, the rumblings of the approaching tanks echoing in his ears, and gripped the two machine guns in his hands. “We don’t leave behind any of our wounded. If someone gets shot, those closest to him make the grab. Just like Antonio here did. But if one of us gets killed, the rest keep moving. Leave the dead where they fall.”
Maldini walked over and stood next to Connors. “Now that the American has put us all in such a happy mood,” he said. “What else is there to do but run?”
They moved in a straight line along the edges of the street, crouching low, using the rays of the sun behind them as cover. Connors led the way. Antonio, with Aldo in his arms, was close behind. Maldini took up the rear, his eyes focused on Pietro and Giovanni.
They were less than a quarter of a mile from the castle entrance.
Connors skidded to a stop, guns at his side, when he saw the tank slam out of the front of a burning building. Seven others soon followed, each with a dozen soldiers in its wake, their rifles and machine guns aimed at the two men and four boys. The tanks spread out and blocked off the road to the castle entrance, the soldiers crowding in alongside each one. Connors turned and looked behind him, where a dozen other tanks and more than sixty soldiers were closing in. He took a deep breath and stared over at Maldini. “If you can think of something clever to get us out of this,” he said, “now would be the time to tell me.”
“As a matter of fact,” Maldini said, squeezing Pietro closer to him. “I do have an idea.”
“Share it with me.”
“We’re going to surrender,” Maldini said. “And then let them have everything they want. Including the castle.”
Connors walked over to Maldini, his eyes to the ground, shaking his head. “That’s an insane idea,” he said. “Even if it works.”
“The insane ones always have a better chance,” Maldini said, moving with Pietro toward the waiting Nazi tanks and soldiers.
27
VIA TADDEO DA SESSA
Carlo Petroni walked down the center of the street, making his way toward the Palazzo Reale and a meeting with the colonel. He knew he was short on time. The street boys had dismissed him and taken the tank he had stolen from the Nazis. Von Klaus, who neither liked nor trusted him, had grown impatient and wanted results from the money he invested. Carlo realized his initial plan of playing one side against the other was no longer valid, which left him little choice but to side with the Nazis, gather his small band and do battle against the street boys. It was what he planned to tell Von Klaus at their meeting, attempt to convince the dubious Nazi that he would be a useful ally in the fight to quell the children’s uprising. His one other possibility was to run, make his way north and ply his criminal trade on the fresh streets of Rome or Milan until t
he war was at an end. But it was not in Petroni’s nature to flee, regardless of how dangerous or untenable the situation in which he found himself. Carlo also knew enough to understand that whatever the outcome of the battle for Naples, it wouldn’t last beyond another day or two. And he was confident he could survive for that short a time, even against a vindictive Nazi. Carlo Petroni was a good thief, but he excelled at surviving.
He was about to turn a corner when he saw the little boy running toward him, a large dog by his side. “Don’t go down that street,” the boy shouted, his voice barely heard above the loud barks of the dog.
Carlo ignored the boy and continued walking, turning down a side street that would bring him out closer to Nazi headquarters. The boy’s footsteps grew louder as did his shouting. “Stay out of there,” he yelled. “It’s too dangerous.”
Carlo was halfway down the street when he turned and faced the little boy and the dog. “What do you want?” he asked.
“You can’t go down there,” the boy said. “Come back this way. I’ll show you a safer way to go.”
“Who are you to tell me where to go?” Carlo asked.
“My name is Fabrizio,” the boy said.
“Your name means nothing to me,” Carlo said. “And your words mean even less. Now go play with your dog and leave me alone.”
“The street is mined,” Fabrizio told him. “You have to come back this way.”
“Did one of the others send you here?” Carlo asked. “To tell me some lie and get me to come back with you?”
“No one sent me,” Fabrizio said. “And I never lie.”
“You live in Naples long enough, you’ll learn that the truth is not your friend,” Carlo said with a dismissive wave.
Carlo turned and continued his walk down the dank street. Fabrizio and the mastiff watched him go, the boy stepping back from the shadows.
Fabrizio and the mastiff were halfway up a short incline leading toward the tunnels when the explosion rocked the street behind them. They ran back and stood against a brick wall, staring through the waves of smoke at the ruined body of Carlo Petroni.
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