Miracle at St. Anna (Movie Tie-in) (21 page)

Stamps had met the real enemy the moment the colored troops arrived in Naples on the troop carrier
Mariposo.
They had climbed over the destroyed French fleet from boat to boat, their feet never touching the water, and watched the Italian civilians pouring off the harbor, paddling their small row-boats into the bay to meet the carrier. When the huge boat released its garbage, Stamps was shocked to see the Italians fish through it with their hands and nets, pulling out hot dogs, meat, bread, unopened cans of Spam and coffee. Outside the wire grate fence of the harbor's compound where the Negro troops were assembled, hundreds of Italians stood in ragged clothes—toothless old women, children begging for food. Stamps couldn't believe his eyes. The white commanders had issued strict orders not to feed the Italians. “There are enemy Fascists disguised among them,” they said. “You could be feeding the enemy.” But no colored soldier who laid eyes on those starving people that first day could not feel sympathy. Stamps watched every soldier he knew, even Bishop, sorry bastard that he was, fill his chow plate three or four times, then quietly back up to the fence to scrape its contents off into the pots and hands of the starving Italian refugees.

They did it every day. It was a running joke, the lines of colored men standing with their backs to the fences, the hundreds of Italians standing behind them, chowing down. And the Italians were grateful, too. They loved the soldiers back. They kissed them on the face. They touched their hands. They spread flowers on the bodies of those who died. They treated them like humans, better than the Americans did. The Italians were like the colored, Stamps thought bitterly, they know what it's like to be on the outside looking in. Feeding the enemy. He smiled at the irony of it. Who was the enemy? In America, Germans could eat first class, go where he couldn't go, live where he couldn't live, get jobs where he couldn't, and over here in Europe they were killing Jews like it was lunch. He'd read all about it in the Negro press. How the first American troops were finding giant camps full of dead Jews, burned to death, cities in Poland with human ash falling like snow from the smokestacks of the giant ovens where they were burning children, entire families. What Negro would do that? A Negro couldn't even think up enough hate to do that. A Negro was trying to make rent, save up enough to buy milk for his kids, survive this fucked-up war, and still, when the war was over, when all the fighting was done and all the people made up, a German could go to America and live well, start a factory, work in business, run a bank, while Stamps would still be . . . a nigger. He'd be lucky to get a job delivering their mail.

Sometimes Stamps felt his conscience was going to snap in two. He was constantly caught between showing his good face to the enlisted men and slogging through the bullshit that came from above him. A man like Bishop didn't understand. All he wanted was a warm place to shit and a piece of tail. Yet the larger irony of it all was that despite the war, despite the slogging in trenches, the mud, the rain, despite the sulking coloreds and the redneck captains, Stamps loved the Army. The Army had brought him to Italy, and he felt freer in Italy than he had ever felt in his life. The Italians had a lot on their minds, that was for certain—they were in the middle of a civil war, and dying—but one thing they didn't have on their mind was keeping the colored man down. They didn't seem to care whether Stamps was colored or not. They gave the colored man something he could neither buy nor earn in America, no matter how many stripes or combat badges or hero ribbons they pinned on him: respect. Stamps quietly noted that the Americans and German POWs were alike in their disdain for the Italians. The soldiers' arrogance, their lack of respect for these dignified, humorous, spirited people who had done nothing more than to be living in the wrong place at the wrong time, amazed Stamps.
And they were all white, too, all of them.
He couldn't get over that.

Italians, he concluded, didn't want their share of the cut for being white. They seemed not to care. They were looking to get to the next day. No wonder their music was so good, he thought, all that yelling and passion, all that opera. They got it, he thought. They understood it. Love. Food. Passion. Life's short. Pass me a cigarette. Gimme that grappa. Live a little. They were like coloreds without the jook joints. He decided, as he watched Renata appear out of a house wearing a dress for the first time and illuminating the piazza with her beauty, that he wanted to live in Italy someday. Right here in Bornacchi was a good start. The silent radio that had ceased barking stupid orders was a blessing. Radio be damned. He looked at the radio on the ground and actually entertained thoughts of destroying it. But he had the others to think of, and there was the small question of his dignity, of which he supposed there was a shred left. Somewhere along with his dignity, he supposed he had to throw in his training and his army discipline, too, though there actually wasn't much left of it. All the good officers he knew who followed orders, colored and white, were killed or so screwed up mentally they would never be right after the war. The hell with it. He was going to do like the rest of his men. Survive. Be stupid. Get lazy. Fall in love with a dumb kid like Train did, or maybe find out what this beautiful woman's name was. Why not? He hoped the radio never buzzed and crackled again.

A card game had started on Ludovico's steps. Two women had taken Train's boy and were trying to get him to eat an apple. A chicken had mysteriously appeared and was crackling over the fire. Wine was being passed around, and there were toasts to Christmas, which was only four days away. Out of the corner of his eye, Stamps saw Train giving a piggyback ride to a little girl. Someone had a guitar out and began to play a Christmas song. Bishop was wooing a long-legged girl by the fire. Several more chickens had miraculously appeared. It was a regular party, a real holiday party.

Hector was seated next to the fire. He broke off a piece of rabbit leg and passed it to a middle-aged
signora
and her little boy. The
signora
looked with more than mild interest at Hector's long fingers. “Hec, something's wrong here,” Stamps said softly.

“You're right,” Hector answered him, as the
signora
grasped him by the hand and pulled him up for a quick dance around the fire. The guitarist struck up a faster song. “But if you think on it hard enough,” he gasped, as the woman flung him in a circle, laughing wildly, “maybe tomorrow will never come.”

14

THE GERMAN

But tomorrow did come, and with it came snow and a German.

The sun had stretched its fingers above the mountain's horizon, and snow was falling lightly on the wooded ridge facing Ludovico's house. Stamps had just emerged from the alley behind the house and was washing his face in the icy creek when the German appeared beyond the stone wall, walking down the ridge from above. Stamps saw him and flattened behind the waist-high wall, reached for his carbine, then remembered he'd left it inside. He ran inside the house to grab it and tell the others, but Train had gone behind the house to take the kid to the bathroom. Bishop and Hector were gone.

Stamps ran to the corner where his carbine stood, grabbed it, checked to see if it was still loaded, then ran back outside and took a position against the wall, his rifle aimed at the approaching German.

Across the open field and down the mountain ridge the German came, alone. He was helmetless and unarmed, his hands at his sides, staggering down the grassy ridge of the mountain as if his legs could barely carry his weight. Behind him, the bushes parted and four young men appeared, holding rifles trained on him. Stamps heard yelling in Ludovico's house and in the other houses, and Bishop and Hector appeared out of nowhere. Stamps snapped, “Hector, go get Train and the old man.”

Hector went into the house and emerged with Ludovico and Renata.

“Oh, no,” Renata murmured, crossing herself as she ran down to the creek to join the Americans.

Stamps, Hector, and Bishop crouched, their rifles cocked, as the Italians and their prisoner slowly made their way down the ridge and across the field, and approached the creek. Renata waited until they were about thirty feet off and shouted at them. They shouted back.

“What did they say?” Stamps asked.

“They want to eat.”

“Tell them to put down their weapons and we'll feed them all they want.”

Renata shouted and the Italians responded. “They say they'll put theirs down if you put yours down.”

Stamps looked at Hector. “That's what they said?”

“Sounds right.”

“I ain't lowering this gun. They could be Germans disguised.”

Renata snorted. “They're not Germans.” She motioned the partisans forward.

The Italians advanced slowly into the creek that fronted Ludovico's house and waded across.

“What you think? You think they Italian?” Stamps asked Bishop.

“If it looks like fish, smells like fish, and tastes like fish, you can bet it ain't buzzard.”

Stamps watched Renata march up to the Italians, who had emerged from the water onto the snowbank. She walked up to the one who had huge ears and grabbed an ear. Rodolfo winced as Renata shook him by his ear. “No German has ears like this,” she declared. She said something in Italian, and the four partisans laughed.

Stamps lowered his weapon slightly as the Italians approached to within ten feet, but he kept the barrel close to his hip just in case. The leader, a short, thin, balding man with a handsome, slender face, motioned for the others to stand back. His eyes were dark and hard as pool balls, his stare as straight as a razor's edge. His face was weathered and seemed to have the wind in it, as if shifting breezes and strong gales blew about it without stirring it. He was a young man, Stamps guessed, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and while his clothing was worn, Stamps could see that beneath it the man was built for power and speed. Though he moved slowly, he was lithe and easy in his movements, like a panther or a small mountain lion. Stamps was immediately afraid of him. He glanced at the others. They were young, too. One was a boy whose rifle was nearly as long as he was.

The leader came forward to meet Stamps.

“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.