Street Boys

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Maldini stood with his arms inside the round end of the sewage tunnel, his legs immersed in the cold waters of the bay. The tunnel jutted out a dozen feet past the rear of the castle, its thin corroded cover overrun with grass, dirt and moss. The water was at low tide and the current was pulling gently to the west as Maldini reached up and helped ease the first boy out of the tunnel. “Keep your head low,” he said as he placed him in the water. “Walk while you can and then swim when you must. And rest if you get tired. So long as you hug the shore, it’ll be difficult for the Nazis to see you.”

  The boy nodded and began his slow move downstream as Maldini turned back to the tunnel. Inside, the shaft was crammed with two long rows of soot-stained boys, some wounded, others shaken and frightened, all of them overwhelmed by the intense level of fighting they had just endured. Vincenzo and Nunzia crawled along the length of the tunnel, keeping the boys in line, tending to wounds and calming fears. Franco was down at the rear end, directing the ones who were still fleeing the burning castle. Maldini did a rough head count. There were less than fifty boys waiting to pounce into the bay. It meant that at least twenty-five lives had been lost in the fight.

  He helped each boy out of the tunnel, his hands red with the blood from their wounds. Maldini prodded them on their way, offering meaningless words of courage and support, watching as they floated in the waters of the bay. He eased the last of the boys into the water then jumped back up into the tunnel, running up to join Vincenzo and Nunzia. In the distance, he could make out the shadowy forms of Franco and Angela. “Call them down,” he said. “It’s time for them to go. Then you two follow. I’ll stay back and string together the line of grenades and swim out to meet you as soon as that’s done.”

  “What about Connors?” Nunzia asked. “We don’t leave without him.”

  “Yes, you will,” Maldini said firmly. “Both of you will. It’s going to take me a few minutes to string the line and get the grenades in place. He’ll be here by then.”

  “What if he isn’t, Papa?” Nunzia asked.

  Maldini could hear the desperation in her voice. He gently gripped his daughter’s arms in his hands. “It won’t take the Nazis long to figure out our escape route,” he said. “Once they do, if those boys aren’t out of the water they will die. They are in this fight because of us. Many have been killed thanks to the plans we put in place. I’m not going to let anyone, even a man I’ve grown to care about and respect, allow that to happen. In my place he would do the same.”

  “Your papa is right, Nunzia,” Vincenzo said quietly. “We wait until the grenade lines are strung. It’s the best we can do.”

  Nunzia’s black eyes were red temper hot and her cheeks were flushed with anger. Her hands balled into tight fists. “He would never leave any of us,” she said, spitting out each word. “He would fight until he was dead. If either one of you leaves this place without him, without knowing if he’s alive or dead, you’ll have betrayed a friend.”

  Maldini looked back at his only daughter and nodded. “Get Franco and Angela,” he said. “The four of you go out there and make sure the children get to safety. We’ve left enough of our dead behind for one morning.”

  “And the American?” Nunzia asked.

  “I’ll get him out of the castle,” Maldini said. “I promise you. It’s the least I can do for the man my daughter loves so much.”

  Nunzia embraced her father and held him tight in her arms. “Ti amo, Papa mio,” she whispered.

  “Anche io ti amo,” Maldini said back to her. “Con tutto il mio cuore.”

  Vincenzo held Nunzia’s hand, waiting as Franco and Angela ran up next to them, both crouched down to keep their heads from hitting the ragged top of the tunnel. “Let’s go,” he told her. “The children are waiting.”

  Maldini waved them off as he watched each one dive into the cold water and disappear around the bend of the sewage tunnel, swimming their way downstream. He found a soggy cigarette in his torn shirt pocket and tried to light it with a damp match. It caught on the third try and he smiled when he heard the crackling of the brown tobacco. He took a deep drag and blew the smoke up toward the tin ceiling. He then turned away from the water’s edge and walked back into the mouth of the storm.

  Maldini found Connors in a rear corridor, hunched down on his knees, hiding from the shadows of two passing Nazis, the handle of a long knife palmed in his right hand. Maldini inched in toward him, walking gingerly on the slippery subbasement floor strewn with water, dust and debris. He gave Connors a quick nod and pulled a pistol from his waist- band, waiting with his back pressed to a redbrick wall for the Nazi soldiers to cross his path.

  When the two soldiers were five feet away, standing on opposite ends of the subbasement, Connors moved first. He leaped to his feet, grabbed one Nazi from behind, and shoved the knife deep into the center of his back. The second Nazi turned when he heard the scuffle but Maldini stepped out of his nook and fired three shots, sending the soldier sprawling to the muddy floor. Maldini ran toward Connors, stopping only to retrieve the Nazi’s machine gun. He was quick to notice the rope cut across the American’s throat and the blood flowing freely down the front of his chest. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to find your way alone,” he said to Connors. “I should have left you a compass.”

  “It wouldn’t have helped,” Connors said. “I have no sense of direction.”

  An explosion just above their heads caused the ground to tremble and the walls to crack and splinter. “Then follow me close,” Maldini said, starting to run down the back end of the subbasement. “I won’t come back for you a second time.”

  “I’m right on you,” Connors said.

  He followed Maldini out of the subbasement, into the sewage tunnel. Above them, they both could hear the heavy footsteps of Nazi soldiers, searching through rubble and flames for any hidden boys or escape routes.

  Maldini led the way around tight corners and through dusty crawl spaces, navigating each turn with an agility and skill that belied his years. He scampered like a child in search of a favorite, secret place. As he ran, rushing to keep up with the older man, Connors realized that while Vincenzo and the others knew their way around the streets of Naples, Maldini could take them into places no Nazi could ever find. He was their one guide to the underground, moving through tunnels and sewers with relaxed precision and a confident step.

  They were both out of breath when they reached the last loop of the sewage tunnel. Maldini wiped at his brow with the corners of an old handkerchief. “The water’s up ahead,” he said between gulps of breath. “Jump in and turn to your right. The current will then take you where you need to go.”

  “I’ll go in when you go in,” Connors said. “You don’t have the time to put up that grenade line by yourself. The Germans will figure out a way to get down here, it’s only a matter of minutes.”

  “You don’t need to know how to swim,” Maldini said with a knowing smile. “The bay is kind to all, even Americans. And I’ll be right behind you. It won’t take me long to get the line ready.”

  “I think you told me once you weren’t cut out to be a hero,” Connors said.

  Maldini shrugged his shoulders. “I’m from Naples,” he said. “We lie a lot.”

  He walked to a corner of the dark tunnel and picked up a rolled-up row of tin wire, a dozen grenades strung through its loops. He turned and looked up at Connors. “My daughter’s waiting for you,” he said. “And Neapolitan women hate to be kept waiting. Especially the foolish ones who think they’re in love.”

  Connors gave him a warm look and an easy nod. “She’s waiting for her father, too,” he said. “I’ll see you in the water.”

  As Connors’s heavy boots sent a vibrant echo against the slate sewer walls, Maldini started to unspool the long row of wire, walking backwards, carefully laying each line down in a wide zigzag pattern. There were enough grenades on the roll to send a fireball hurtling down the central sewage line and back through the gaping holes in t
he castle structure. It would be enough to bring down the remains of the building and all who stood inside.

  Maldini had unfurled half the line when he heard the familiar sounds of Nazi boots and machine-gun fire coming down the far end of the corridor toward him. He picked up his pace, releasing the wire as he did, placing the last of the grenades down in the center of the sewage tunnel. He slipped to his knees, reached a hand out for a loose grenade, gazed up at the soldiers, who were shooting and shouting as they closed in and quietly pulled the pin as he dropped the bomb. He got to his feet, bullets zinging past him, landing with loud echoes against the sides of the tunnel roof and walls, and ran for the open hole twenty feet away. His run gave way to a slide as he slipped on a strip of oily surface, waving frantically for Connors to stand away from the tunnel exit. “Worry about my daughter,” Maldini shouted. “Not about me.”

  “Stay low and keep running,” Connors yelled back, watching Maldini get on his feet and run toward him. “I hate traveling alone.”

  The first bullet ripped into Maldini’s shoulder and sent him sprawling to the ground, his face laying flat inside a mud puddle. He lifted himself up to his knees and wiped the brown water from the sides of his face. He looked over at Connors, less than a dozen feet away, and pressed his right hand across his heart. “Take care of my daughter,” he said to him.

  The second bullet hit Maldini in the square of his back but he never felt its sting. The loud explosion of the grenade line and the loud mushroom fireball that followed in its path drowned out all his pain. Connors saw Maldini’s head tilt back and his eyes close seconds before the fatal blast. He saw the line of flames come zooming in his direction and threw himself under the lapping waves of the bay, the ferocious anger of the fire above warming the murky water. He stayed under, kicking his feet and flapping his arms, as he awkwardly moved several feet away, hugging the shoreline and coming up for air under the shade of a hanging tree and a mound of wilted grass. He saw the mouth of the fire rush back toward the castle walls. He stood up in the shallow water, the salty waves washing and stinging his wound, and stared at the lip of the tunnel, expecting somehow to see Maldini miraculously emerge from inside the firestorm.

  The bright morning sky had turned into early afternoon rust, fire and smoke high enough and thick enough to cover miles of the empty city. Steve Connors wiped the dripping beads of water from his face and walked back toward the open end of the sewage tunnel. He stood in front of the lip, the flames now down to thick, crisp curls of blue and white smoke, inside walls the color of coal. He removed his battered pith helmet and rested it inside the tunnel. He then took several steps back and saluted.

  He held the salute for several silent moments, in memory of the man who had just given him the only gift that would ever matter.

  His life.

  29

  PIAZZA GARIBALDI

  Von Klaus stared down at the thin map spread out across the front end of his tank. Kunnalt held it down with both hands. The colonel then grabbed the map, tore it in half and tossed it to the ground. “One hundred men dead!” he shouted. “More than twenty tanks destroyed! Another fifteen more with barely enough fuel to make it out of the city. It’s a disaster and one that should never have happened.”

  “The Italians have also sustained a significant number of casualties, sir,” Kunnalt said, defensively.

  “This Third Reich of ours was to have lasted a thousand years, Kunnalt,” Von Klaus said. “Each one shrouded in glory. And now, we can’t even defeat an army of children.”

  Von Klaus walked toward the well of his tank and pulled out a bottle of red wine. “There is no honor in fighting such a battle,” he said. He poured the wine into a tin cup and handed the bottle to Kunnalt. “Not like this. Not against children. There will be no victory for us here. No matter the final outcome.”

  30

  VIA DON BOSCO

  Nunzia sat huddled with her head down, a black sweater draped across her shoulders. Connors leaned against the side of a pine tree, staring out at the clear sea that overlooked the bluff. A contingent of street boys had gathered around them, building a small fire, boiling small tins of watered-down coffee, breaking off pieces of stale bread, their weapons at rest by their sides. They moved about silently, respectfully mourning one of their own. Vincenzo walked over and handed Nunzia a tin of coffee, waited as she took it and watched as she nodded her thanks. He moved several feet to her left and sat down between her and Connors, his legs bent against his chest, his eyes focused on the patch of dirt by his feet. The mastiff was in front of them, his thick paws stretched out, his head curled to one side.

  “We all should try to get some rest,” Connors said in a low voice. “Both sides have had enough fight for one day.”

  “We sent all the boys up into the hills for the night,” Vincenzo said. “They can take care of their wounds up there and get a night’s sleep without any worry.”

  “Did Dante and Pepe come back with anything we can use?” Connors was talking to Vincenzo but his eyes zeroed in on Nunzia, wishing he could will away her sorrow or take the burden of her grief.

  “The news isn’t good,” Vincenzo said.

  “Let me hear it anyway,” Connors said.

  “Half the city’s been destroyed.” Vincenzo stared back down at the ground, his voice tired and hoarse, arms and face still soiled from the day’s heated combat. “Von Klaus is moving his remaining tanks and troops toward the railroad tunnels and then into the center, into the middle of what we call Spaccanapoli. It’s the core of our city. If he’s successful at burning down both, his mission will not be a total failure.”

  “How many tanks does he have left?” Connors asked.

  “Dante counted thirty,” Vincenzo answered. “He was a distance away, so he might be off by one or two either way.”

  “And soldiers?”

  “About two hundred. Subtracting the wounded.”

  “Where are they going to start? City or tunnel?”

  “Pepe saw an advance team moving toward the tunnels,” Vincenzo said. “Which makes sense. It’s the easier of the two targets. And it’s a short distance between both areas, so they could move quickly from one to the other.”

  “So will we,” Connors said. He stepped away from the tree, walked past Vincenzo and the silent Nunzia to bend down over the small sparkling fire. “It all ends tomorrow,” he said with his back to them, eyes peering into the crisp flames.

  “There are less than a hundred boys left,” Vincenzo said, taking slow sips from his coffee tin. “About a dozen are wounded, but not enough to keep them out of the fight.”

  “Leave the wounded ones in the hills,” Connors said. “And let them have enough guns and ammo in case some Nazis make their way up there.”

  Connors stood and walked to Nunzia. He knelt down in front of her, reaching out a hand to caress the side of her smeared face. “You might want to sit this one out,” he said. “Stay up in the hills and help take care of the wounded kids.”

  She looked at him, her eyes hard but warm, and shook her head, holding on to his hand with the edge of her fingers. “This is where I belong,” she said. “It’s where we all belong.”

  He stared at her for several quiet seconds, then took a deep breath and nodded. “Stay here with Vincenzo,” he told her. “You both need to get some sleep. Have all the boys ready just before dawn and be down by the tunnels. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Where are you going now?” she asked.

  “I’ve never ridden on a tram before.” Connors leaned down and kissed her on the cheek and forehead, holding her close to him, losing himself in her warmth and sweetness. “I think it’s about time I did.”

  31

  VIA FRANCESCO PETARCA

  Connors stared up at the six large, rusty trams. Their severed overhead wires cut them off from all current, the sides of their bodies were greased and oiled. Thick ropes were wrapped around their top rows, snaking down past the cracked windows and curling up unde
r their base. He turned away and took in the wide mouths of the street alleys behind him, less than five hundred feet of hard cobblestones standing between the openings and the trams. He walked toward his jeep, where Dante, Pepe, Claudio and Angela were sitting inside. The mastiff stood next to the vehicle, his head jammed against Fabrizio, who was by his side. He took the keys out of his pants pocket and flipped them toward Dante. The boy caught them with his right hand. “You always wanted to drive it,” he said.

  Behind them, the sun was starting to set, leaving them less than an hour of clear daylight. The surrounding area was barren, buildings torched and crumbled up and down the wide boulevard. “We probably won’t finish before dark,” Connors said. “If we don’t, we’ll build some fires along the alley entrances so we can see where we’re going. One more fire in this town isn’t going to attract any attention.”

  “Where do you want me to drive?” Dante asked, anxious and eager, but also nervous.

  “In front of that first tram, for now,” Connors said. “Stop it about six inches past the front end. Then grab the ropes from underneath and above the trams and tie them down hard to the back of the jeep. Anywhere would be good, except the wheel base.”

  “You’re going to have the jeep pull the trams?” Angela asked.

  “That was Maldini’s plan,” Connors said. “Unless you think you can do it on your own, I’m going to go with it.”

  “It will work,” Fabrizio said, stepping up alongside Connors, the dog fast by his side. “If Maldini said so.”

  “Then there’s nothing else to do but get to it,” Connors said.

  They began their work at dusk.

  First they moved the silent trams across their tracks, the rear wheels of the jeep kicking up thick pockets of dust and hurtling small rocks into the air as it burned off strips of rubber. Its engine cranked and all cylinders were churning as Dante switched gears with the poise of a safecracker. Connors and Angela moved from tram to tram, making sure the gears stayed in neutral. They soaked the insides with kerosene, so they could soon be used as weapons against the remaining Nazi tanks.