Somewhere in the Stars

by Frank Polizzi

  “We all do. Look at how many died in our tank squadron and we’re still here. Don’t get me started.” He finished his wine. “Hey, buddy. I thought we made a pact in Florence not to talk about the war when we came back.”

  “I know, but with you it’s different. At least your cugino Carlo escaped the Nazis.” Nick poured another glass of wine for Nathan and himself. “Paul never got a chance to come home again. And what about our buddy, Al from Roseto?”

  “It’s not our fault, Nick.” Nathan took a sip of wine. “But I’ll tell you what else we still have on our chest.” He drank most of the wine. “Rachele and Caterina. They’re alive, God knows somewhere in Italy. It must be over six months since we last saw them.”

  “I never think of her anymore.”

  “You’re not going to bullshit me, Nick.”

  “No use cryin’ over spilt milk.”

  “Go ahead, hide your feelings, if that’s what you want. But the whole thing with Rachele still bothers me.”

  A shooting star trailed its white streak in a rapid sweep across the night sky. “Geez, did you see that, Nate?”

  “Sure, clear as the expression on your face.”

  “I swear it’s Paul signaling us.”

  “Maybe you’re right, buddy.” Nathan tracked the stars.

  “Remember when Giuliano was gunned down by that pezzo di merda SS officer?”

  Nate shook his head in recognition.

  “You know, Nate, after all we went through, I’ve always wondered what did happen to Carlo.”

  “My father thinks he must have left for Palestine after the war with the others from the Jewish Brigade. They wanted to set up a new homeland for Jews worldwide.”

  “Maybe he stayed in Italy.”

  “The only way we would know for sure is if we went back and retraced his steps. But I don’t think either of us will be going back any time soon.”

  Nick put his hand on Nathan’s shoulder and then he looked up at the stars.

  “Imagine for a minute that Paul is looking down at us from somewhere in the stars, while we’re drinking his father’s wine. Here’s one for you cuginu.” They clinked glasses and finished off the wine, including the dregs.

  XXII

  The morning after the celebration, Gaetano found his son sitting at the redwood picnic table the family set up in the backyard, an al fresco version of their kitchen table. Nick drank a cup of coffee while tapping ashes into a pressed glass ashtray. Gaetano sat next to him and waited for Nick to speak, the silence louder than the festivities of yesterday.

  Nick remained silent not out of disrespect, but rather cataloging in his mind all the topics that would be off-limits. He already knew that marriage was not on his agenda, though he recognized that’s what his parents most wanted, and of course, grandchildren, a boy for his father and a girl for his mother. There would be nothing to stop his parents from hinting around that theme, so from day one, Nick’s strategy would be a fulltoothed smile followed by responses they wanted to hear. What happened in Italy during the war, a country so far away now, would not be broached at any table, inside or out, except for one topic.

  “Papà!”

  “Come stai, Nicolo?”

  “Beni, Papà. I spoke to Nannu.”

  “Nannu? Non possibbili!” Gaetano’s face turned white. “Patri miu è mortu! The Municipio wired me his death notice. No relatives left in Sciacca.”

  “You don’t understand. I spoke to him when I was in Sicily. Right before our squadron headed out for Palermo.”

  Gaetano pinched his fingertips against the right thumb and shook his hand lightly, as if to say: ‘What in God’s name are you saying?’

  “Nannu must have died sometime after I left him,” Nick blurted out, wiping some tears from his cheek.

  “July 24, 1943, figghiu miu.”

  “I’ll always remember that afternoon with Nannu. He may have been very old, but the lines in his face showed strength.” Nick’s eyes lit up. “He charmed me with so many stories about you.”

  Gaetano wept and Nick hugged his father.

  “Pop, he said I looked like you.”

  “Si, è veru, tu si un Spataro. Bravu, Nicolo.”

  By the beginning of the 1946 New Year, Nathan had enrolled at the San Francisco Art Institute in the Russian Hill district to study graphic arts, while Nick started at the San Francisco State College majoring in American Literature, the GI Bill of Rights picking up the cost. Throughout the spring semester they would meet up at the Legion of Honor Museum like before and take in the latest exhibit, followed by a game of catch in Lincoln Park, avoiding subjects that might remind them of the war years. They buried themselves in their studies and the semester moved along in an uneventful way.

  Nick took a psychology course as an elective and enjoyed reading about behavior and the dynamics of family and how they related to the outside world. He didn’t like it when he saw himself as someone boxed in by these ties and his North Beach enclave. The saying that ‘you can take the person out of neighborhood, but you can’t take the neighborhood out of the person’ troubled Nick not because he was sorry about his life in North Beach, but that he might be forever stuck in time and place. So he put his textbook down and lost himself in novels from the nineteenth century, Mark Twain his favorite author since high school. He had been closed out of a British Lit course from the same time period and chose Russian literature as a good counterpoint to his major.

  One spring afternoon at San Francisco State, Nick sat on a small patch of grass under a Bronze Loquat tree near the old main building with its soaring, Italianate tower. The sun shone and some red, yellow and white tulips slid out of green sheaves, a cool breeze cutting the new heat of the sun, while he read Chekhov’s story, “The Lady with the Pet Dog.” Nick was so engrossed by the narrative, he lost sense of his surroundings. When he finished the story, it was the first time in a long while he felt right with the world, even though he didn’t have a woman to share it with. He began to sound more like his mother and tried to stop her words from echoing in his head. Nick thumbed through the pages of the short story and reread the climactic closing. When he looked up, he heard kew notes ending with a whistle from the tree right above him. As he searched for the exact location, a western bluebird, its head and feathers a brilliant blue over a rust body, flew away to rendezvous with his mate. He watched its flight as the male bird found refuge in a tree across the street. His eyes dropped to the students passing by and came across a familiar face that didn’t belong on campus and he rose up to greet her.

  “Deborah, is it really you?” Nick would have liked to rehearse what he wanted to say, but she was right in front of him, anxious about this moment since his discharge from the service.

  She laughed nervously as she put the break on the carriage she was pushing. “Nicky, I can’t believe it. Nathan told me all about you. You look so mature now.” She laughed again. “I mean in a good way.” He flashed back to their time in the San Francisco Botanical Garden, as she fixed the blanket covering the baby.

  “You’re still pretty as ever, Deb.” Her face turned pink while he mumbled something as the baby cooed. Deborah pushed her long hair back as he asked: “Babysitting?”

  “What? Oh, he’s mine. Didn’t Nathan tell you anything?”

  Nick winced, then composed himself. “Let me have a look. Cute, very cute.” It was his misfortune to run into Deborah, with a kid no less, and still beautiful. He was just a schmuck still going to school, while she was getting on with her life. “How old is she?”

  “It’s a boy. Has the good looks of his father.”

  “Nah, he’s a dead ringer for you.” He lied but continued. “I see a little of Nathan in the kid too.”

  “No, he’s all David. Oh, that’s my husband. We got married before he joined the Coast Guard. He’s going nights at San Francisco Law School, thanks to the GI Bill.”

  Deborah may have appeared nervous but Nick’s stomach tightened in pain, and then his le
g began to act up causing him to wince. His eyes glazed over Deborah and the child. He wanted to end this conversation.

  “Nicky, I’m really sorry. I hope that you don’t hate me. The last letter I got from you was when you were still in tank training.”

  “That’s strange. I sent you letters from Morocco and Sicily and never got anything in return.”

  “I never got them and figured you forgot about me. Anyway, you know how strongly my father felt about us not keeping company.” Deborah pressed her palms on her cheeks. “That’s why I sent the last letter, when you and Nathan were in Rome. Hope I didn’t sound too awful.” Nick looked off in the distance and recalled Nathan saying he didn’t want to get in the middle of this. When he faced Deborah again, her eyes had turned glassy. “Forget it, Nicky. It’s not your fault.”

  Nick wanted to get the hell out of there but held his ground to save face. He was relieved when she made up a phony excuse about having to rush home to meet her husband for lunch near his father’s real estate office. It sounded like a garbled message breaking up on a walkie-talkie from the war. When Deborah was out of sight, he dropped down under the tree, pushed his books aside and leaned his head against its thin bark, shutting his eyes and returning to the San Francisco Botanical Garden. After a short while he found himself wandering the empty streets of Rome. He had coiled up in a ball on the grass and covered his head with the spring jacket he had tied around his waist and cut the rest of his classes. He daydreamed about Caterina and him living together, how she cared so much about him and tried to soothe his anguish over the lousy war, her body wrapped around him in unconditional love.

  That evening after supper, Nathan came by Nick’s house and they went into the backyard, sitting in the same spot on top of the picnic table. Nick lit up a cigarette and offered one to Nathan.

  “I’ll pass. I only smoked on breaks in the army to keep out of extra duties.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I heard you met up with my sister today.” Nick glared at Nathan. “Okay, I acted like a putz, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you. I said to myself what are the chances of the two of you running into each other in this big city? I’m sorry, buddy.”

  “Doesn’t matter now. I’m happy for her.”

  “Really?”

  “What do you expect me to say?”

  “I was going to say something to you, believe me, but was waiting for the right moment. Anyway, I think it was crummy when my father busted up your relationship with Deborah. He threw your letters in the incinerator. Just the other day, I reminded him. ‘Father, do you realize that Nick risked his life for Carlo, your own nephew.’ He was speechless for a while, which is unusual for my Dad, but he admitted you’re a true mensch. That you acted like a brother.” He placed his arm around Nick. “It’s just too bad my family was too blind to realize what a great guy you are. As for David, her husband, he’s all right, but he’ll never measure up to you.”

  “I’m okay, Nate. I get lost in my books.”

  Nathan pulled out a postcard. Nick could see an Italian stamp but didn’t say anything. “This may not be the best time to show you this but I’m too excited not to. I know we made a pact about the war but you said it was different for you and me, so …”

  “If you want to talk about a woman, just make sure it’s not Caterina.”

  “It’s hard to believe, but I received the postcard this morning.” Nathan smacked it in his hand. “From Padre Esposito. Got my address from his priest friend at the Vatican. He’s better than a detective.”

  “Spit it out, will ya!” Nathan looked nervous and happy at the same time, but Nick didn’t like where this was going.

  “Rachele! It’s about Rachele!”

  Nick flicked his cigarette onto the ground. “I thought she was a goner, lost in space.”

  “Stop with the glib attitude. Let me say something.”

  “Go ahead, I’m all ears.”

  “Something happened over there in a villa. The countryside north of Assisi. A well-known psychiatrist came up with a new theory for treating patients suffering from gross stress reaction. Takes them out of institutional settings to live on a working farm. Spends a lot of time talking to the patient in a garden setting.”

  “But you’re back home, Nate!”

  “Padre Esposito says she’s better. Not a 100%, but …”

  “Do you think she still remembers you?”

  “After Rachele was there for six months, she started mentioning my name. The psychiatrist asked Padre Esposito: ‘Who is this Nathan? It’s not an Italian name.’ That’s when the friar decided to track me down.” He looked sideways at Nick. “I’m going back.”

  “Are you pazzu?”

  “Yeah, I’m meshugganah, but I’m going anyway.”

  “What about your art studies at the Institute?”

  “As soon as the spring semester is over, I’m heading out.”

  “Chasing rainbows!” Nick felt bad after he said that but it was too late.

  “No, chasing the missing chink in my heart. I’m not going be a chump like you when it comes to women.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Nick looked up at the night sky but didn’t see anything. “Buona fortuna, buddy.”

  Nathan got off the table. “I want you to come with me.”

  “What for? You think I’m a loser.”

  “Stop it, will ya. Listen to me. If I fail with Rachele, I couldn’t face this alone. I’ll go out of my mind. I need you there.”

  “Sorry, no can do.”

  “You’re one sorry ass.”

  “We’re not in the army anymore, so you can’t order me around, sergeant.”

  “You know what, Nick? You’re still a schmuck.”

  “Go back in time alla H.G. Wells. I’m staying right here, where it’s nice and safe.”

  “You’re just as miserable as me, and you know exactly what I’m talkin’ about. So why don’t you wise up. I’m going to Assisi.” Nick shrugged. “And I thought you were my buddy.”

  Nathan banged the back door shut and Nick waved his hand in disgust. He lay flat out on the picnic table and fell asleep. When he woke up, the night sky had brightened up with several constellations. He jumped off the table and ran into the house, slamming the door. His father came halfway down the stairs.

  “Nicolo, chi cosa fai?”

  “Nenti, Pop. Go to bed.”

  “Managgia! The door keeps banging.”

  “I fell asleep, Papà, and had a bad dream. It’s pazzu but I saw myself flailing my arms through the Pleiades constellation. You know, the one with seven Greek sisters. A bad omen, no.”

  Gaetano shook his head several times before going back to bed. Nick sunk into the sofa and grabbed his copy of Crime and Punishment. That his assigned book somehow meshed with his own personal life made him feel like singing the blues. Nick wasn’t a murderer like Raskolnikov, yet there was this thread of dead relationships for him on both sides of the Atlantic as he lay there reading, until his eyes blurred into a twisted sleep from the yellowed, artificial light, the book tumbling onto the floral, wool rug, the empty sound of night outside marked by the muffled tempo of the mahogany, Seth Thomas mantle clock.

  XXIII

  The next morning after breakfast, Nick sat at the picnic table facing the fig tree framed by a wooden fence. It was still shrouded with its galvanized, bucket hat, wrapped in tarpaper zigzagged with twine. He lit up a cigarette, watching a plume of smoke float in the wind, not focused on anything in particular. He heard a tinny scratch and saw a female northern cardinal with dull colors of golden brown and olive. Within seconds the unmistakable male with his red plumed crest and sash bottom alighted next to her. Nick was thrilled to see them together. He sat motionless in his North Beach backyard, letting the cigarette ash up, in a place where he would more likely see a common house sparrow. The male bird fed the female a tiny seed. Soon after, they alternated a song, what-cheer, what-cheer… wheet, wheet, wheet,
wheet. When they finished their melody, Nick inched his way off the bench to get a closer look at the songbirds. The female cardinal flew away, the male chasing after her without a moment’s hesitation.

  The image was bookmarked in his head like all those National Audubon prints in the library, the brilliant, dazzling colors stored in his youthful memory, especially when the rain pelted against the large windows of his neighborhood sanctuary. That was long ago when birds were just something to wonder at—their colors, their movement, their songs—connections to other living forms, but Nick needed to see the birds and even the stars in a new way, offering some inner meaning to patch up the tormenting thoughts he clung to—what he should have done or how he could have handled things differently. But there he was, thinking too much, reading too much, as his cuginu admonished him for. For now, Nick would have to put his last conversation with Nathan in a secret place, as easy as out of sight, out of mind.

  As soon as Nick had returned from the service, he continued the routine of spending Sunday with his parents, eating their customary multi-course dinner. His spring semester of college recently completed, Lucia returned from an early mass and spent the rest of the morning arranging an antipasto of local air dried meats and imported cheese, and preparing pasta al forno siciliana and a secondo platter of pork braciola and meatballs, to be followed by fruits and nuts, and caffè e un po di Sambuca. Nick read the San Francisco Chronicle and other newspapers stacked up on the table and Gaetano listened to his Caruso records in the living room, as the sun lit up the rear kitchen. When Lucia called out, Nick got rid of the papers and Gaetano scurried in, sitting at the head of a white porcelain enamel table.