Street Boys (13 page)

28

16TH PANZER DIVISION HEADQUARTERS
FIFTEEN MILES OUTSIDE OF NAPLES. SEPTEMBER 27, 1943

Colonel Von Klaus walked alone, head down, shoulders sagging, along an empty stretch of burnt grass. He was a man who liked to avoid conversation or mingling with his soldiers in the hours before a mission was to begin, even one so outwardly simple as his current assignment. He sought, instead, to find solace in his own thoughts, going over a plan in detail, giving weight to the repercussions of each proposed maneuver. He still felt a slight tinge of unease over the Naples mission. He had been in far too many battles, seen too many of his men fall to enemy fire, to allow his emotions to surrender to the notion of no resistance from a virtually abandoned city.

His short meeting with young Carlo Petroni had done nothing but amplify his concerns. Perhaps it was nothing beyond the nonsensical ramblings of a boy out to make a profit. Or maybe the thief spoke the truth, that there was a mobilization going on in Naples, gearing up to take on his tanks as soon as they set foot on Neapolitan soil. He had followed the tenets of his duty and had sent word of the meeting back to high command, alerting them to the possibility of a minor counterattack taking shape. He reenforced what he knew they wanted to hear, that no force, regardless of how large or small, would prevent the successful completion of his mission.

Von Klaus never doubted his victory. He only fretted now over the manner in which he should battle a force that would clearly be small, young, poorly armed and hidden. Their only visible advantage was that they would be more familiar with the terrain than his troops. But even granting them such a minor concession could not make up for the amount of experience and skill his men brought onto a field of battle. The resistors would, in their best moments, amount to little more than an annoyance that needed to be swatted aside. Nonetheless, Von Klaus would be sending his men into a fight against children, and that was a thought that did not sit comfortably on his mind. It was the one ingredient missing from his arsenal of experience, and one he preferred not to add. His mind flashed briefly on his son, living in safety in a city that seemed destined to be bombed, and wondered how he would react if put in a similar position as the boys waiting for him down on the streets of Naples. He rubbed at the corners of his eyes, finding himself fatigued for the first time by the very thought of armed conflict. He stared out at the barren fields around him, at what had once been lush olive groves and vineyards, now left in ruin and decay. Soldiers never get to see a country at its best. They are always present when conditions are at their bleakest, people their most desperate. Every stretch of land he had seen in his military career had been charred and every foreign face belonged to that of an enemy.

Now, for the first time, those faces would be those of children.

“A telegram for you, sir.” Kunnalt’s voice boomed out from behind him, breaking into his moments of silence. “From command headquarters.”

“Is it marked for my eyes only?” Von Klaus asked, still with his back to his young aide.

“No, sir.”

“Then read it to me. Let me hear what great wisdom they have to share.”

Von Klaus lit a cigarette as Kunnalt rustled open the sheaf of white paper, careful not to tear it as he did. “Well?” he asked, finally turning to face him, catching the loss of color from his face, shaken by the typed words he held in his hand. “What do they have to say for themselves?”

“It’s their response to our notification of a potential conflict in Naples from some of the children who remained behind,” Kunnalt said, his voice a few octaves lower than normal.

“I can’t wait,” Von Klaus said, cigarette squeezed between his teeth.

“They have scrapped plans for one more night of heavy bombing prior to our arrival tomorrow,” Kunnalt said. “But they will send one plane over the city.”

Von Klaus walked closer toward Kunnalt, his eyes catching the tremble in his hands and his ears tuned to the cracking of his voice. “For what purpose?” he asked.

“They will be dropping 100,000 pieces of candy onto the city streets, sir,” Kunnalt said slowly. “Each one wrapped and laced with poison.”

Von Klaus dragged on his cigarette and lowered his eyes to the ground. He reached a hand out and took the sheet of paper from Kunnalt’s trembling fingers. “Don’t speak of this to any of the men,” he told him in hushed tones. “I don’t want my soldiers to feel shame while they fight for their country.”

“Why would they give such an order, sir?”

Von Klaus rested the lit end of his cigarette against the thin sheet of paper and watched it catch fire. He held it, his eyes following the path of the flames as they burned the orders into black crisps, floating gently upwards into the air. “They do it because they are evil, Kunnalt,” Von Klaus said. “And they know no other way. But don’t ever lie to yourself. Not one of us, officer or soldier, is immune to that evil. In fact, we are very much a part of it. After all, we are the ones who lead its army.”

“What time do you wish us to break camp, sir?” Kunnalt asked, still visibly shaken.

“An hour before dawn,” Von Klaus said, turning to walk down the path of a once proud garden. “Have the lead and rear tanks fly high the Nazi flag. Raise the flag on the trucks as well. I want anyone who’s left in the city to be able to see it from a distance. Might help put a dent in their courage and weaken their will to fight. The fewer dead we leave behind, the better we’ll all feel.”

“Is there any message you would like me to relay to the men, sir?” Kunnalt asked, the weight of the colonel’s despair measured in his own deliberate tones.

Von Klaus turned and gave him a sad smile. “Yes,” he said. “Tell them not to accept any candy from strangers.”

29

PARCO VIRGILIANO, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 27, 1943

Vincenzo escorted the wooden cart through the wrought-iron gates, his hold on the mule’s rein firm but gentle. Franco manned the stirrups, guiding the cart with great care over the cobblestone streets, the slab rear of the wagon filled with unearthed mines wrapped in children’s clothing. The sides of the wagon were weighted down with heavy rocks, helping to give it a smoother ride.

“Is this the last of it?” Vincenzo asked, gazing up at Franco.

Franco tied the leather stirrups around the wooden stump and jumped to the ground, landing in front of Vincenzo. “I counted about thirty in all,” he said. “But there must be at least several hundred more, scattered throughout the main streets.”

“We’ve been lucky so far, but there’s no reason to push it,” Vincenzo said. “What we have now will have to be enough.”

Franco put an arm on Vincenzo’s shoulder and looked at his best friend. “I thought you were wrong for coming back here,” he said. “Then this morning in the piazza, when I saw smiles on faces that hadn’t smiled in years, I saw that it was the right thing to do.”

Vincenzo stared into the cart, the mines laid out in a careful order. “I don’t know if it’s wrong or right,” he said. “If a battle starts, those smiles will disappear and many of our own will die. We’ve all felt the bite of war, but none of us has ever fought in one. I don’t know what that will be like or how many of us will have the courage to endure it.”

“How much more courage do we need than what we’ve already shown?” Franco asked. “We live without a home, food or clean water. None of us will ever see our parents again. What’s on these streets, what’s left here, is all the family and home we might ever know. You were right to want to return to that.”

Vincenzo looked around at the vast grounds of the park that housed the tomb of Virgil, many of the thick trees and gardens spared the wrath of the bombs. “My father used to bring my mother here for their Sunday walk,” Vincenzo said. “I was just a baby, my sisters not even born. They would hold hands and laugh and talk, stopping under a tree to share a piece of fruit and watch me run across the grass. I always remember her smile, standing there, head resting on the shoulder of the man she loved. I would look back at her and laugh, making her smile even brighter. I don’t know what will happen to us, Franco. But I know we won’t laugh or smile that way again.”

The two of them stood next to the cart, letting the warm breeze and a welcome silence engulf them. They were two teenagers forced to abandon all joy and folly to tackle the decisions of grown men cast into armed conflict. It was a challenge both grasped with tender hands.

“We’ll laugh again, Vincenzo,” Franco said with a slight shrug. “We have no choice. We’re Neapolitans. It’s in our blood.”

30

STRADA VICINALE PALAZZIELLO, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 27, 1943

Connors and Nunzia stood on the edge of a hill and looked down at the main road leading into Naples. There, spread out before them across a two-mile span, was the full force of the German 16th Panzer Division. Eighty Mark IV tanks paved the way for more than five hundred well-armed and well-trained soldiers. Behind them, sand jeeps pulled antiaircraft artillery and two dozen mules ambled along, packed down with bombs and flame throwers. Connors turned away from the convoy and looked at Nunzia. “They’re heading toward the main road,” he said. “That’ll lead them to the center of the city and from there to the piers.”

“Will they ever just leave us alone?” she said in a low voice. “They’ve taken everything and still aren’t satisfied. I don’t think they’ll ever be satisfied until we’re all dead.”

“We should get back,” Connors said, his eyes still on her. “Help get those boys ready for a fight.”

“Do you hate them?” she asked, staring down at the convoy.

“Who?”

“The Nazis,” Nunzia said.

“Most of the time,” Connors said. “A lot of those soldiers are no different from me or the guys in my unit. Same age, pretty much. Same background. Drafted into the army, taken to some country and told to fight and kill the guy on the other side of the field. At least you start out thinking that way. Then one night you’re sitting in camp, having coffee and a smoke with some G.I. from the same part of the country as you, sharing a laugh and some memories. Then a bullet goes in his head and he ends up flat on the ground right in front of you. See that happen often enough, you don’t think the guy on the other side is like you at all. And all you want to do is kill him.”

“Have you killed many?” she asked.

“Yes,” Connors said. “But no matter how many of them you kill, it doesn’t erase the image of a guy in the same uniform as you, bleeding in your arms, just lying there, waiting to die. It’s different from losing family, but it stays with you just as long and just as hard. It turns you into another kind of person. Or maybe just the kind of person you were all along.”

“You’re a good man, Connors,” Nunzia said, her warm eyes staring at him from under the shade of the tree. “Put in the middle of a horrible war.”

“I’m a good soldier,” Connors said. “That’s different from being a good man.”

31

CASTEL DELL’OVO, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 27, 1943

Connors stood in the center of a candlelit room and stared down at a crudely drawn map of Naples. The paper was torn and soiled, the etchings colored in pencil and charcoal. “You guys run out of crayons when you drew this up?” he asked, trying to read the street indicators.

“It has everything we need,” Vincenzo said.

“And I need to see and hear everything you know,” Connors said, looking up at the boy. “The sooner the better. We don’t have much time.”

“The Nazis know our streets and roads almost as well as we do,” Maldini said. “They’ve spent enough time here.”

“But they don’t know how many of us are here,” Connors said. “And we need to make that work in our favor. And we need to do something else.”

“What?” Vincenzo asked.

“We strip those tanks of fuel,” Connors said, walking around the small table, his eyes on everyone in the crowded room. “We strip them of power. We have to blow up that tanker.”

Vincenzo and Franco exchanged a furtive glance. “How many explosives will that take?” Franco asked.

“It’s not a question of how many,” Connors said. “It’s how close we can get the explosion to the tanker. The gas will take care of the rest.”

“When?” Vincenzo asked.

“Tomorrow night,” Connors said. “It has to be hit before the tanks can get to it.”

“And what do we do until the tanker arrives?” Angela asked.

“Get ready for war,” Connors said.

They worked through the night.

On the side streets that led into the main piazzas in the center of the city, a small squadron of boys raised barricades made from stone and rock and rested empty rifles on top of them. Maldini led the youngest of the boys through the sewers of Naples, giving each a marked post in the underground passage from which they could view the street above and be able to place objects under the wheels of passing tanks without fear of detection. Connors, Nunzia and Franco worked on the small arsenal of unexploded bombs that had been collected, separating the explosives from the shafts and positioning them at posts throughout the city, to be tossed at the enemy. Several dozen boys were placed on various rooftops and church steeples, given the best rifles and the most ammo, free to take aim at the German soldiers who would eventually pass below. Angela and little Tino found all the kerosene that had been stored in anticipation of winter’s arrival and placed the liquid into empty wine bottles, corking them with torn shreds of clothing. They left the bottles in church and building entryways, large lit votive candles beside them. Minor roadblocks were set up using old carts and discarded furniture. The strongest of the boys were sent out to lug large pots filled with seawater up to the highest buildings and rest them on top of thick piles of old wood. When the Germans arrived, the wood fires would bring the water to a boil and the water would be tossed down on the passing soldiers. “How’d you come up with that idea?” Connors asked Vincenzo.

“
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
,” Vincenzo said. “Only he had oil and much bigger pots.”

“His fires didn’t burn the building down, either,” Connors said. They walked together along the darkened city streets, their eyes focused on all the activity around them. “You like the movie better or the book?”

“I like them both,” Vincenzo said.

“You get to go to many movies?” Connors asked.

“Before the war, I would go every week,” Vincenzo said. “To the
pidocchietto
.”

“What’s that?”

“You see the movie outside,” Vincenzo said.

“I get it,” Connors said. “Like a drive-in.”

“Yes,” Vincenzo said. “Except in Naples, no cars. Only feet.”

“Do you get yourself popcorn and a Coke when you watch a movie over here?” Connors asked. “Like we do.”

“I love Coca-Cola,” Vincenzo said with a sweet smile. “But I don’t know about popcorn. Is it a candy?”

“No, not really,” Connors said, walking past a row of bombed-out buildings. “It’s hard to explain. It’s just something you eat when you watch a movie. Some people even think it makes the movie better.”

Vincenzo nodded, and glanced over at two boys placing makeshift bombs down an open sewer. “Do you think any of this will work?” he asked.

“Probably not,” Connors said. “Do you?”

“They need to think we’re everywhere,” Vincenzo said. “For every one of us they see, they must believe hundreds are hidden. They need to think they’re up against thousands, not handfuls. It’s our only chance.”

They walked in silence for several moments, each lost in his own thoughts. They turned when they saw the pudgy boy from the soccer game approach from behind. He was short and squat and had thick brown hair that he gelled down and parted in the center. His face was a youthful mask of innocence, highlighted by a smile and a pair of watery brown eyes. “Is it all true?” he asked, nodding at Connors and patting the top of Vincenzo’s arm. “We are getting ready to fight Nazis?”

Vincenzo hesitated and then shook his head. “Yes, Angelo,” he said. “It’s true.”

“I want to help,” Angelo said, close to pleading. “I’ll do anything. Just tell me what you need.”

“For the moment, nothing,” Vincenzo said, avoiding Connors’s concerned gaze. “But I’ll get word to you soon as I have something for you.”

“What do I do until then?” Angelo asked.

“Find a good place to hide,” Vincenzo said. “A place where no one can see you. Not the Germans and not even any of the other boys.”

“What should I wear?” he asked. “In case you need me to fight.”

“If that time comes,” Vincenzo said, “you dress for battle. But until then, you do nothing except hide.”

Angelo smiled, took two steps back and gave them each a salute. “Don’t worry, Vincenzo,” he said, turning and heading back down the darkened street. “I’ll be the best-dressed soldier in your army.”

Connors waited until the boy was out of earshot and then looked over at Vincenzo. “I don’t want to put a dent in your plans,” he said. “But if that’s the best you got, you might as well pack your shoes and some cheese and move up to the hills.”

“Angelo is different from the others,” Vincenzo said. “He means well, but he’s slow. His brain is not right. Two years ago, the Fascists beat his parents to death and held him there to watch. Since that day, he has not been the same boy.”

“I’m sorry,” Connors said, his eyes shifting to the ground. “Should have figured something wasn’t right from the way he talked. Will he be okay by himself?”

“He means well and he has a good heart,” Vincenzo explained. “That’s something neither the Fascists nor the Nazis could take away. And he usually does what he’s told. So, if he hides, he should be safe, no matter how the battle turns out.”

“Are there any more boys out there like him?” Connors said. “You know, that need looking after?”

“We are all like him, American,” Vincenzo said.