Stones in Water

by Donna Jo Napoli

  The Roman soldier held the canteen for him again. Then he capped it and eased himself out from under Roberto’s head. He spread out Roberto’s two sweaters and rolled them into a tube shape. He lifted Roberto’s head tenderly and slipped the sweaters under as a pillow. “There. That should make it a little better.” He stretched and yawned. “I feel as stiff as after I’ve been up all night driving.” He went to the stern of the boat, knelt, and paddled. He was a lousy paddler. No wonder he had taken Roberto along to paddle. No wonder.

  Roberto faded out.

  When Roberto came to again, he could tell by the sky that it was midmorning. He sat up. A moan escaped him.

  Roberto looked around. The boat was tied by a rope to a stick that served as a stake, shoved into the ground on the bank. And the boat wasn’t on the sea anymore; it rocked in the slow waters of a small creek. He shivered. He was naked to the waist.

  The Roman lay on the ground beside the stake and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He yawned and smiled. “Everything looks better after a little sleep, no?” He pulled the stake out, and threw it in the boat. Then he got in and felt Roberto’s forehead. “I shouldn’t be doing this. I should have just left you on the shore.” He gave a long whistle and smiled again. “I think I’m going crazy.” His tone was cheerful, despite his words. He carefully helped Roberto into one of the sweaters. The action hurt horribly, as though his arm would split from the pressure. Roberto cried out. The Roman winced. “If the fever doesn’t come back, we’ll give you the other sweater.”

  He opened his duffel bag and took out a square can and a can opener. He searched around and came up with a fork. He fed a forkful of beans to Roberto, then to himself. He alternated back and forth till the can was empty. He filled his canteen in the creek and helped Roberto drink. The water was slightly brackish, but not terrible. Roberto drank as much as he could hold. Then the Roman finished the canteen. He filled it again, closed it, and put it in the duffel. He pulled out the box of biscuits and handed one to Roberto. The Roman whistled. “A full belly helps the world look better, too.”

  Roberto gnawed on the biscuit. He lay back in exhaustion.

  The Roman sat on the bottom of the boat with his right elbow on one knee and his face resting in his right hand. His face went serious. “That was some stunt back at Odessa. You surprised me. I don’t know why you did it, but you’ve sure got guts.” He looked off. “What now? What do we do with you, kid? I can talk myself blue in the face, but I don’t find any answers. I have no idea.”

  Roberto panted. The heat returned to his face. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead.

  The Roman didn’t seem to notice. He looked up and down the creek and the shoreline. He took the paddle and went to the stern of the boat. He paddled furiously.

  Roberto could tell from the change in the movement of the water that the boat had entered the sea again. He could tell from the sun that they were continuing west. At least that much was in his favor. He tried to sit up. His arm hurt so badly he screamed.

  The Roman let out a little cry of sympathy. He put down the paddle and felt Roberto’s hot face. He shook his head. Then he pulled off Roberto’s sweater, going gingerly over the wound. He picked up a wad of material that Roberto now realized was his own shirt and dipped it in the water. He swabbed Roberto’s head and chest and arms. And all the time he worked, he chewed on his bottom lip. “Once we get to Romania, we’ll get you to a hospital for prisoners of war. Yes, that’s the only answer. Yes.”

  The Roman went back to the stern and paddled fast.

  Roberto wanted to shake his head, but his neck hurt too much to move it. He didn’t want to be a prisoner of war. He moaned.

  “Damn.” The Roman paddled faster.

  Roberto moaned as his head lolled about.

  The Roman suddenly stopped and looked at him with the saddest face in the world. “I don’t know anything about medicine.” He opened his canteen and forced water down Roberto’s throat. He took a knife out of his pocket. “But I know more about war than I ever wanted to know. If I turn you over, if you’re lucky, they’ll chop off your arm and you’ll have a fifty-fifty chance of dying slowly of infection from the amputation.”

  The terrifying image squeezed Roberto’s heart hard, then floated away, as if it were a memory. The pain in his arm wiped out all thought.

  “If you aren’t lucky, they’ll shoot you.” The Roman took a box of matches from his duffel. “And I haven’t seen too many lucky prisoners of war so far.” He lit a match and ran the flame along the blade of the knife. “God help me.” He gritted his teeth, grabbed Roberto’s arm by the wrist, and made a quick slash through the bullet wound.

  Roberto threw himself away from the immense pain. He could hardly breathe. His tears flowed. His nose ran.

  But already the pain was changing. Roberto no longer felt like he was about to explode. Instead, he just ached. He ached and ached. The Roman pressed on the wound from both sides and pus and blood rolled down Roberto’s arm. When the pink turned to dark red, the Roman doused Roberto’s arm with seawater. He doused it over and over again. When he finally let go, Roberto turned his head away and slept.

  * * *

  Roberto opened his eyes to the flat, early afternoon sky.

  The Roman was looking at him while paddling steadily. Without a word, he lay the paddle down and dipped the shirt over the side of the boat. He doused Roberto’s arm. Then he felt his forehead. A grin broke out across his face. “You’re actually cool now. Cold even.” He laughed in happy relief. “Oh, thank God. If we don’t put some clothes on you soon, you’ll take a chill.”

  Roberto propped himself up on his right elbow. His chest was all gooseflesh. He looked at his arm. The Roman had ripped part of Roberto’s shirt into strips and tied three of them around the arm at equal intervals to hold the sides of the incision together. The cut was dark and caked with blood. But it wasn’t bleeding anymore. And there was no sign of swelling.

  “We’ll wrap a blanket around you and keep your arm sticking out. It’ll dry that way. Then if it doesn’t swell, that’ll be it.” The Roman didn’t look at Roberto as he talked. He was happy enough having a conversation with himself. “Dr. Maurizio to the rescue. If only Mamma could see me now. She always said I should have been a doctor.” He laughed again. “Me, a doctor.” He pulled a wool blanket out of his duffel and tucked it around Roberto’s chest, under his chin, and around his back. He whistled as he worked.

  Roberto lay back, grateful for the warmth of the blanket.

  The Roman helped Roberto drink from the canteen. “While you were sleeping, we passed the harbor at Costanta. We made good time because of the sandbars. The whole shoreline is dotted with sandbars that keep out the waves.” The Roman smiled. “And the wind was behind us. That helped, too.” He smoothed Roberto’s blanket and seemed to be a new person—lighthearted and loquacious—a chatterbox, even. “What a joke Costanta’s port is—it’s practically nothing compared to Rome’s. Anyway, another patrol boat stopped us. I played our trick—I was the soldier and you were my prisoner. We were lucky to be in Romania—an Axis country. They respect an Italian uniform. They might be the only people left in Europe who do.” He gave a bitter laugh. “One of their military boats escorted us past the harbor. They gave me two potato cakes.” He reached into his duffle. “Here’s yours.” He fed Roberto the potato cake.

  “Thank you,” said Roberto, swallowing the last of the cake. His voice came out hoarse.

  The Roman stared. “You’re Italian.”

  “Venetian.”

  The Roman sank back on his heels, stunned. “Who are you?”

  “Roberto. And I take it you’re Dr. Maurizio.”

  Maurizio laughed. “So you’ve got a sense of humor.” All at once he blushed. “We could have been talking, instead of you listening to me babbling to myself like a madman.”

  “You didn’t sound like a madman.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve done it all my life—whenever I’m scared,
I just talk.” Maurizio gave a quick nod. “But tell me: Who are you? How did you get here?”

  And so Roberto told him. Everything.

  Maurizio paddled as Roberto talked, scanning the shore and the sea regularly. He interrupted him only twice—once to check the wound and once to help him into his sweaters and tuck the blanket back into the duffel. When Roberto finished, Maurizio said, “While you’ve been talking, we’ve traveled the whole shoreline of Bulgaria. It’s short, that’s true. But I’m still amazed. Either we’re ridiculously lucky or they’re bunglers at war. How’s your arm?”

  Roberto smiled. “Better.” He looked up at billowing black clouds. He remembered the east sky the night before—how it had been starless. “The rain’s finally catching up with us.”

  Maurizio jerked to attention. “What?”

  “See?” Roberto pointed. “It’s slow, but that rainstorm has been following us since last night. You could tell from the sky.”

  “Maybe you could tell,” said Maurizio, with an edge in his voice. “I couldn’t. We’ve got to get to shore.” He turned the boat to cut across the waves and paddled fiercely.

  The clouds raced now, as though the storm had a burst of new energy. Roberto pushed himself up on his elbows. He could see the wall of gray rain press toward them.

  And suddenly the rain was upon them in fat, heavy, pounding drops. Lightning cracked close by. Maurizio paddled harder than ever. He threw his whole body into every stroke.

  The boat bottom caught on the sand. Maurizio jumped out and leaned over Roberto. “Can you get out by yourself?” he shouted over the wind.

  “I think so.”

  “Hurry then.”

  Maurizio grabbed the duffel and balanced it on his head. He carried it onto the shore. Roberto climbed out and stood in shin-high water, fighting the waves to hold on to the boat. Hateful pain ripped through his arm, but he wouldn’t let go. The rain pelted his face and soaked him to the bone. Maurizio ran back and pulled the boat up out of the water. Together they turned it upside down and shoved it under bushes at the edge of what looked like a fairly dense forest. Then they pushed the duffel and the paddle under and crawled in themselves.

  Roberto rolled onto his back, exhausted. He felt the hot blood run from his wound. He must have knocked it open in all the rushed activity. It was dark as night under the boat. He was cold, bitterly cold. The wind howled. The rain banged on the underside of the boat.

  Maurizio groaned. “Everything hurts. My hands, my back. I can’t begin to think what you must feel like.”

  “I’m okay,” lied Roberto.

  Maurizio gave a small laugh. “And I can swim like a fish.”

  “You can’t swim?”

  “Not a stroke.” Maurizio laughed more. Then he fell silent.

  Roberto huddled up against him for warmth. “If we’re ever in a storm again and the boat turns over, grab on to the side. The boat won’t sink. I swear.”

  “Okay. I’ll remember that.”

  “And . . .”

  “Hush!” Maurizio clapped his hand over Roberto’s mouth and pressed hard.

  And now Roberto heard them, too. Voices. German words. Roberto slowly turned his head away from Maurizio’s hand so that he could peer out under the tilted-up edge of the boat. But he couldn’t see a thing—everything was dark and lost in the rain. The voices rose in heated discussion, clear and loud. They couldn’t have been more than a few meters in front of the boat. So many voices—a troop of maybe two dozen. Had they seen Roberto and Maurizio come to shore? Were they looking for them? Still more voices came, and now from behind the boat. There were Germans everywhere. They were surrounded.

  Roberto trembled, now more from fear than cold. Even if the Germans weren’t looking for them, someone was bound to stumble over the boat in this blinding rain. Roberto drew his knees up and twisted onto his right side and stared out at the bouncing drops. The Germans kept talking—talking and talking. Roberto gathered his energy and waited.

  Maurizio curled around him from behind and put his arm across him. Roberto could smell the sourness of fear in his breath. He could feel the tension in his arm. They lay together like hunted animals in a lair.

  Finally the voices seemed to move away. Yes, the Germans were leaving. And now Roberto couldn’t hear them anymore. Had they really left? It was getting late and the rain wasn’t letting up—maybe the German troops had decided to camp for the night in these woods. That would be a sensible thing to do. Maybe they had moved away only a few meters. If they camped close by, they would find Roberto in the morning. They would find him. His jaw hurt from tension. His shoulders ached. He was tight and hard everywhere. He stared into the rain.

  They would find him.

  The rain fell. The ground turned to mud under Roberto’s cheek. Everything slowly went soft. Night came.

  * * *

  When Roberto woke, he knew instantly that Maurizio was gone. He recognized that sensation of being utterly alone, even before he remembered where he was. He ran his hands frantically along the hardening mud. His fingers closed around the thin neck of the paddle. At least he had the paddle.

  He listened closely. Nothing but the sound of birds. He peeked out from under the edge of the boat. The sun dazzled him. He blinked and edged himself along until his whole head stuck out.

  The blanket was stretched over a bush, drying. The other contents of the duffel sat here and there in the sun.

  “They left at dawn.” Maurizio appeared from around the end of the boat. “Take your sweaters off to dry. The rest of your clothes can dry on your back.”

  Roberto came out, stood, and stretched. “They were near.”

  “Very near. I think you’re my lucky charm, Roberto.” Maurizio smiled. Then his face went solemn. “But luck can’t hold forever.”

  Roberto took off his sweaters and draped them over bushes. Then he and Maurizio sat on the ground side by side.

  “It’s time to figure things out,” said Maurizio. “We’re only a few hours from the strait.”

  The strait—the gateway to the Mediterranean, at last. “Didn’t Turkey stay neutral in the war?”

  “Last I heard.”

  “Well, then,” said Roberto in confusion, “what do we have to figure out?”

  “What we’re going to do—each of us.”

  Roberto’s heart lurched. “Each of us? We should stay together, whatever we do.”

  Maurizio didn’t answer.

  “Dressed the way we are, we can pass through any waters—taking turns acting as the captor and captive.” Roberto’s words tumbled out. Then suddenly it hit him: Maurizio’s actions didn’t make sense. The pain in Roberto’s arm must have clouded his thinking from the very minute he met Maurizio—nothing Maurizio had done made sense; he could see that now. Maurizio was an Italian soldier, and Bulgaria had signed the Tripartite Pact. Bulgaria was with the Axis forces. Maurizio didn’t have to hide from the Bulgarians when they passed the Bulgarian shore the day before. And Maurizio didn’t have to hide from the German soldiers the night before. “Why didn’t you go into a Bulgarian port? Why didn’t you join those German soldiers?” Roberto moved on his butt away from Maurizio until he was facing him. “Did you do it for me? Because they’d arrest me for deserting?” His heart sped. His words tumbled out faster and faster. “How much food do you have left? Could we camp here, just till my arm heals, and then we can part ways? Please.”

  “Shhhh.” Maurizio patted Roberto’s shoulder. “They’d never arrest you. You’re a kid. They’d arrest me.”

  “You? Why?”

  “I’m the deserter.”

  The deserter. Now it fit together. All at once, all of it fit together.

  Maurizio leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I joined up willingly.” He spoke vaguely, like an old man. “My country was at war, and Mussolini was inspiring. I trained like a fiend. I was the perfect fascist. I don’t know what was on my mind. It’s not like I was blind and deaf. I saw them round up the Jew
s in Rome and put them in a ghetto. I heard how whole families shared a room and there were almost no bathroom facilities. But I just didn’t think about it. I was so stupid. Can you believe I was that stupid? Can you believe me?”

  Roberto blinked the burn from his eyes. The ghetto in Venice was old—Jews had lived there for centuries. They loved living there—it was beautiful and quiet. He realized now that he hadn’t had any idea of what it meant when he’d read about Jews being gathered into ghettos in other parts of Italy. It was easy to be stupid. “Yes. I believe you.”

  “I got on that train up through Germany and across Poland with pride in my heart. And that’s when I saw them. At first I was shocked at the women and children, running up to the train every time we stopped, begging. Standing there in dirty rags.”

  Roberto nodded. He reached into his pocket. The Polish girl’s gift stone was still there.

  “After a while I didn’t see their faces anymore—they were just floods of people. We passed Jews pushed along and beaten. Most of them with hardly a rag on their backs. This was what I went to war for?” Maurizio pounded his fists on the ground. “No, this was nothing like it was supposed to be. I saw a troop of Hungarian boys being whipped about their legs. The blood ran down in stripes.”

  Roberto swallowed. He knew what those Hungarian boys were thinking, what they were feeling. Hungary was aligned with Germany, just like Italy. But alignments meant nothing in this war.

  “By the time we reached Russia, I was unsure of everything. And then we took Rostov. There were so many bodies. The Germans fought the Soviets, but the Italians, we were stupefied at the masses of bodies. It didn’t matter who was German and who was Soviet. Everything was strange and crazy. No one could think about who to kill; there were too many corpses to bury.” Maurizio reached out and took Roberto’s hand. “And so many of them were kids. They hadn’t even started shaving yet.”