“Tell him to show me some papers,” Stamps said. Hector translated.
“This is my papers,” Peppi said in English, nodding at his rifle.
The door to Ludovico’s house opened, and Train emerged, holding the boy.
Stamps glanced at him but kept the barrel of his gun up. “Train, put that kid inside.”
Train approached excitedly. “This boy’s talking, Lieutenant. It’s important.”
“Not now, Train.” Stamps kept his eyes on Peppi.
The Italian looked at Train, the giant with the head of a statue tied to his hip and the tiny child in his arms, and smiled, just for a moment. There was neither fear nor friendliness in the smile, only recognition. Stamps decided that not only did he not like this stranger with the wind in his face, he didn’t trust him, either. The man was clever, too smart, and hard.
Out of the corner of his eye, Stamps could make out several villagers approaching, including Ettora, who with her poor eyesight fumbled about from side to side, banging into walls and tripping over rocks and other obstructions as she approached. Several old men and women followed her. Stamps barked at Hector, “Tell them to stay back.”
Hector shouted orders, but the villagers ignored him. They approached, and as they did, Stamps could see they were animated. Some began shouting. Stamps couldn’t believe they were the same gentle, friendly people from the previous night. Several things had gone on during the night that he didn’t want to know about. For one, Bishop had disappeared with the long-legged young student from the Academy of Art and Design and Hector with the old signora who had spun him around for several dances. Last Stamps remembered, he’d drunk a bottle of grappa and had fallen asleep singing “Valentino” with Ludovico and two other toothless old men. The four of them had fallen asleep together on Ludovico’s floor after playing poker. Stamps couldn’t remember if he’d lost the squad’s three backpacks or if he’d won one of Ludovico’s four sacks of chestnuts, which suddenly appeared from yet another cavern beneath the floorboards, which seemed to conceal endless treasures. He remembered only that the four of them had fallen asleep together, huddled by the fire, and that he’d awakened shivering in the middle of the night to see old man Ludovico get up and throw a fat log on the fire. He remembered thinking, in his drunken stupor, what a nice gesture that was, for the old geezer to make such an effort to warm them all. He was liking Italy more and more. He decided that if he survived the war—a big if—he wanted to stay. He’d never held an old white person’s hand before in his life. He’d never slept with three old white geezers before. They’d huddled together against the cold and slept like children.
Now the bubble had burst. The Italians were arguing heatedly. He noticed that the leader of the partisans did not flinch as several villagers harangued him with pointing fingers and accusation in their voices. He seemed focused on Ludovico, who was talking with the others. Ludovico said something to the leader, who responded. Ludovico’s eyes widened in what appeared to be fear at something the leader said, and then the old man stepped back and the villagers suddenly hushed. Stamps saw a flash of fear pass across Renata’s face as she stared at the angry partisan.
“Tell him to come inside to eat and we’ll talk this over,” Stamps said to Hector.
Hector translated, but Peppi shook his head.
“I’m in charge here. We have jurisdiction,” Stamps heard himself saying. It sounded ridiculous even as he said it. This Italian, he thought, is not like me. I’m a trained soldier. This man, he is a . . . Stamps didn’t know what the hell he was, but whatever he was, he sure didn’t need vexing. Renata said something to the leader that made his gaze soften slightly. The leader nodded and lowered his rifle. The four Italians, pushing their prisoner in front of them, filed into Ludovico’s house, followed by the Americans.
The entire village tried to cram inside Ludovico’s house to see the prisoner, except Train, who stayed in the bedroom with the boy. The partisans sat at the table, and Renata poured them bowls of soup. Immediately, they began gorging themselves. As they ate, Stamps looked the German over closely.
He was young, maybe nineteen, ragged and filthy, with a gaunt face, hollow jaws, blond hair, and blue eyes, which stared at the food with such jagged desperation that Stamps figured he probably hadn’t eaten in days. Stamps poured some soup into a cup and handed it to the prisoner. The partisans glared furiously as the German gulped the soup down.
“Where you from?” Stamps asked.
The German soldier motioned desperately with his hands, indicating he spoke no English. Hector stepped forward and spoke to him in Italian, then Spanish, to no avail.
“Now we go back,” Bishop said. “You wanna get on the radio?”
“No. We wait till Nokes radios again. That’s what he said to do.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you, man? We got what he wanted. They said to get a German prisoner. We got one. He’s setting right here, eating like a butcher’s dog.”
“How do we know he’s a German?”
“Who the fuck is this guy? Joe Louis?”
Stamps seemed uncertain. “Well,” he said, “we have to wait till they radio us to tell them.”
“What for? So they can make us get six more? Hell no. I say we take him over the mountains and back where it’s safe.”
“What’s safe, Bishop? There’s Germans over the mountains. That’s what the old man said.”
“What’s the matter with you, Stamps? We can’t sit out here with these wops till one of these signorinas decides to give you some pussy. You had your chance last night.”
Stamps felt the blood rising to his face. Hector he could stand. Even Train, ignorant as he was, Stamps could tolerate. But something about Bishop pushed his button every time. He saw in him every shiftless, shuffling Negro preacher he had ever known; people who acted just like whitey wanted them to act, chasing tail like they just couldn’t wait to get back to the womb, smiling in front of whitey, always laughing, playing cards, shuffling, riding the railroads, playing fiddles at jook joints, drinking and shining and partying, listening to low-down jazz on Saturday and hollering the gospel to God on Sunday. They held niggers back a hundred years. He undid the Colt .45 revolver at his belt.
“I can court-martial you right here, Bishop.”
“Go ’head.”
Peppi spoke. “This is our prisoner.”
These were the first words he had spoken to the room, and he said them in English. The tone and gravity of his words silenced everyone. It was as if a deep-freeze had suddenly descended.
“You had plenty time to talk to him before you got here,” Stamps said.
Peppi shook his head, showing he did not understand. Hector translated. Peppi nodded, then spoke in English again. “None speak German. We hope somebody here speak German.”
“They got ten niggers speak German back at the base camp. Come with us there and we’ll get it done.”
Peppi listened to Hector’s translation and shook his head. “No,” he said in English. “He’s ours.” He rose from the table, his soup unfinished, and barked an order in Italian. The other three partisans rose as one, stuffing bread into their pockets and reaching for their rifles and the German prisoner.
Bishop raised a hand toward Peppi, who drew back. “What’s going on here?”
Peppi spoke to Stamps directly in English. “We have some questions to ask him. After he answers our questions, he can go. He is not leaving before that time.”
“Hell he ain’t.”
Peppi turned and pointed his rifle at the German’s head. Just then, the door opened and Train entered, holding the boy. The German, with the barrel of Peppi’s gun pointed at his face, suddenly did something unexpected. He awoke from his stupor and stared at the boy, a long, glazed stare, and began to cry, babbling in German with loud, long wails. Then he bashed his head against the table. He banged it again and again with such force that the table shook, and the boy, cradled in Train’s arms, began to cry in fear. Loud, te
rrible howls—of the soldier and the boy—filled the room.
“See what y’all done!” Train cried. “Got him all upset.” Train cradled the child’s head against his mighty chest, and with bandoleers and statue head swinging, turned and pushed through the villagers toward the doorway. The boy’s wails echoed softly as Train carried him out into the snow, leaving behind the German, whose howling had modulated into bleating sobs.
Stamps was confused. He lowered his rifle.
“Christ,” Bishop said. “Let ’em take ’im, Stamps. I don’t give a damn. I ain’t fighting nobody over no damn German.”
Stamps stared at Peppi for a long time before speaking to him. “Let’s talk about this outside.” He nodded at the German. “He ain’t goin’ nowhere. We got a captain coming we got to wait for, anyhow.”
Peppi looked around the room, then nodded slowly.
Four of them, Stamps, Hector, Peppi, and Rodolfo, exited to talk in the snow while the other two partisans stayed, their rifles pointed at the German. The moment the four men stepped outside, the villagers inside Ludovico’s house began talking heatedly. “I told you!” Ludovico hissed to Renata. She ignored him. She looked at the two partisans. “Hurry up and eat,” she said.
The two boys ate.
Outside the house, Bishop paced back and forth while Stamps and Hector argued with Peppi. Finally, Bishop stalked over to Train, who was seated on a crate by the side of the house within view of Stamps and the others, the now calmer boy sucking his thumb, still cradled against Train’s chest. Bishop lit a cigarette and watched Train rock the boy, then begin a series of taps against the boy’s arm. The boy tapped back.
“What you doin’, love tappin’ him?”
“Ain’t love tappin’. He talks that way.”
“Nigger, you got too much time on your hands.”
Train ignored Bishop. He was focusing on the boy, who tapped again. Train’s face clouded for a moment, then he said, “You sure?” and tapped the boy’s arm twice.
The boy tapped back once.
Train turned to Bishop. “He’s scared stiff.”
“Shit. So am I.”
“He says one of them up there was on that hill yonder near the church and done a bad thing.”
“How you know he says all that?”
“I knows it, man. We got a way of talking. He says he was up there at that church.”
“So that’s where he comes from. He must’ve seen that German up there.”
“Yeah, he seen him. He seen the Italian, too.”
“Who?”
“That one, with the big ears.” Train pointed at Rodolfo.
“That don’t make no sense to me,” Bishop said.
“What around here do?” Train asked.
15
RUN
It took two hours to sort it out, standing outdoors in the heavy snowfall, and by the time they were done, Stamps was more confused than he had been at the beginning. The partisans had said the German was part of the 16th Panzer SS Division, which had killed a large number of civilians at the church, that much he understood. Something about a sign posted. That much he also got, but the business about who posted it he did not understand. The German had indicated that there was an old man nearby who knew the whole story, and that he himself had not participated in any killings.
Given the anger in the faces of the villagers, who crowded around the German as if they wanted to kill him, Stamps understood that, too. He’d deny it to the end if he were the German, whether he’d done it or not.
But what he did not understand was the reaction of the youngster to the German, and vice versa. The crowd in Ludovico’s had taken the German outside, and when Train, with the boy in his arms, had drifted closer to the angry crowd, the boy had become visibly agitated again. And the German, seeing the youngster, inexplicably dropped to his knees, repeating something in a trembling, soft voice, over and over, in Italian. The boy motioned for Train to kneel so he could move closer to the German, and he had responded to the German—in Italian, so softly that only those standing close by, including Peppi, could hear it.
That was new.
And so was Peppi’s response.
The partisan had turned to his main lieutenant, the one with the big ears they called Rodolfo, and questioned him pointedly. There was a flurry of talk back and forth. Several villagers looked on anxiously.
Stamps said, “Hector, what’s going on?”
Hector had just returned from putting together the radio and signaling to division headquarters that they had a German and a problem.
“They said hold tight. Nokes is coming himself. Take him about a day. He has to go by night.”
“Great. I feel better already.” Stamps knew Nokes would watch his own tail. If Nokes got through, then it was safe to return to base.
“Something else. We’re not going back. There’s a possibility we might attack on Christmas.”
“What? Who said that?”
“Birdsong. He got on the radio after Nokes was out of earshot.”
“From where?”
“ ’Round here, that’s what he’s saying.”
“Shit, man. There’s no Germans around here, ’cept this one.”
“Well, that’s what they’re saying. They’re saying there might be a whole bunch more.”
Stamps felt his heart faltering. “Maybe this German does know something.”
“Hell if I know.”
Stamps looked at the German. The partisans were talking quietly among themselves, and the other villagers had gathered menacingly around the prisoner. Some began kicking him. Two old ladies threw rocks at him. Bishop placed himself in front of the German and directed them to stop, but several more had now gathered, and the small crowd suddenly surged forward, talking and cursing. Bishop tried to push them back. “Stamps, we better move him outta here.”
Stamps agreed, though he could not understand what was happening. Clearly, the villagers wanted the German’s head. Still, they didn’t seem to like Peppi much either. Peppi, for his part, now seemed more interested in his own partisan soldier than in the German, talking to him in a measured but heated tone. The other partisan was shaking his head animatedly.
And the other problem, Stamps thought wryly, was that if there was one German, surely there were more Germans close by, and if division was planning an attack, well . . . That part made his stomach hurt.
He said to Hector, “Tell these folks they’re gonna have to evacuate. If they ask why, tell ’em there’s an attack coming through here.”
Hector barked out the orders, which caused further consternation and questions, which Hector seemed to have trouble answering.
As if in answer to everyone’s questions, they heard shelling and artillery fire in the distance. Big fire. Heavy artillery. Everyone—the villagers, the partisans, the Americans—stopped and listened.
“Shit, where’s that coming from?” Stamps said.
“That’s in back of us,” Bishop answered. “Toward base.”
“Let’s take him inside.”
Most of the villagers scattered toward their homes. Hector and Bishop flanked the German. Stamps faced Peppi, his jaw set firm. He stared at Peppi as he spoke. “Hector, tell him we’re taking the German inside with us. He can come if he wants, but nobody’s leaving till Nokes gets here.”
Hector translated, and Peppi shrugged, then responded in Italian.
“He says he’s not safe here with us. He’s safer up in the mountains.”
“It ain’t safe up there. Tell him he’s safer with us. Let’s fight together.”
The translation came, and Peppi spoke to Stamps, directly this time, with a thick accent. “Thank you. Next time. We go see where the Germans are.” He pointed to Rodolfo. “He will stay here to watch the German for you. And for us.” Rodolfo smiled and shrugged nervously.
Stamps didn’t like it, but it was the best he could do. He looked at Peppi squarely. For the first time, he saw some bend in the Italian
. “Hector, tell him I give him my word that nothing will happen to this guy till Nokes gets here. Birdsong speaks German. Tell him I promise to let Birdsong talk to him before we take him back.” Stamps had no idea how he’d get Nokes to go along with his plan, but it was the best he could do. Either that or risk a shoot-out with these partisans, and given the granite stare of Peppi and his hardened band, Stamps got the distinct impression that would not be a pleasant undertaking.
Peppi pulled Stamps and Hector aside, out of earshot of the others. He spoke carefully to Hector, who translated. “He says watch him close at night. Someone may try to kill him.”
“That might be him,” Stamps said wryly.
Peppi smiled bitterly and waved his little finger as he spoke. “I am no bandit. I am not SS,” he said softly. “I don’t kill for nothing. You watch him close.” Peppi looked at the German, and Stamps had the distinct feeling that the young partisan was trying to make a decision.
With that he turned and left, his small band, minus Rodolfo, following, trudging toward the ridge from which they’d come.
Stamps didn’t wait until they were out of sight. He hustled his three soldiers inside, placed Bishop inside Ludovico’s living room with the partisan and the German, then posted Train and Hector at different windows. When all was set, Stamps called Hector over to the kitchen. They spoke quietly for a moment. Hector nodded and went to the bedroom, where Train was posted at the back window, facing the alley. The giant man stood at the window, his rifle propped on the floor barrel up, watching the partisans slowly make their way up the ridge and disappear. It was beginning to snow harder. The kid was jumping on Ludovico’s bed, making gurgling noises and happily rolling himself in the old man’s best woolen quilt.
“Diesel, Stamps wants me to talk to the kid.”
The giant said nothing. He stared glumly at the driving snow, thinking about his future. Nokes’s coming meant they would have to pull back to base, and when they did, where would that leave the kid? Maybe the captain would let Train keep the boy, if he asked him the right way. Train had no clue as to what Captain Nokes was like. He’d never really heard the man’s name before now. He’d had no interest in it before. It had never made sense to him to learn the names of the white captains, because they left so fast and whatever they said was law, anyway. They didn’t seem to mind that he didn’t know their names. All he had to do was smile and say “Yes, sir” or “No, sir” and that seemed to please them. They liked him. They said it all the time. They said he was a “good Negro.” He took no offense at it. He didn’t see the point of getting all riled up because a white man was running things and telling the colored what to do. That’s how it had been his whole life.
Miracle at St. Anna Page 17