Street Boys (23 page)

“Everyone’s too young to die,” Dante said, lowering his head and bracing his body for the rush.

They were less than ten feet apart when Gaspare and Dante dropped their arms and bolted toward the three soldiers.

Gaspare caught the middle one chest high, the rifle wedged between them, and the two fell backward in a dusty stumble, the soldier slipping on the mangled stone under his feet. Dante pounced on the Nazi to his right, grabbing for the rifle, turning the butt end away from his body and pushing it down toward the ground. The third soldier, free from any of the entanglements surrounding him, put aside his rifle and pulled out a handgun. He pointed it at Dante’s back, watching the boy struggle with might and conviction with a man twice his weight and height.

Gaspare was down on the ground, the Nazi’s knees keeping his arms pinned, his fingers scraping against rocks and dirt. Two crisp punches landed flush to the side of his face, instantly causing his right eye to swell. He struggled to move, but the bulkier man’s body was too difficult to budge. Gaspare looked up, stared into the soldier’s hard, shark-gray eyes and turned his head, barely dodging a third blow aimed at his face. He glanced across at Dante, deep in the midst of his own intense fight, his opponent quick to take the advantage that his age and superior strength ensured.

The Nazi grabbed Dante by the throat, thick fingers of a massive hand squeezing the skin below his jaw, turning the boy’s face pepper red. He held him out at arm’s length and looked at the soldier with the handgun. “Shoot the little bastard,” he said.

The soldier nodded and cocked his gun, easing his finger onto the curved trigger. The boy clasped his hands around the Nazi’s wrist, trying to pry free from the hold. “Stay still,” the soldier said to him, voice dripping with contempt. “And die as you were meant to die. With a bullet to your back.”

Dante, the strength sapping from his body, leaned his face closer to the Nazi and sent a stream of spit into his eyes. The lid snapped on the soldier’s temper. He threw the boy down to the ground, his head bouncing off the hard cobblestones. He wiped the spittle from his face and picked his rifle up from the ground. He pushed aside the soldier with the handgun and stood towering over the frightened boy. He stomped a heavy boot on his chest and forced open the boy’s mouth with the thin end of his rifle. “Cry if you want,” the soldier said to Dante. “It won’t bother me.”

The bullet caught the Nazi at the base of his neck, just below the thin edge of his pith helmet. His eyes opened wide, his mouth flushed out a stream of blood and his hands fell limp at his sides, the rifle tumbling to the ground. The soldier dropped to his knees and his head sank. The soldier on top of Gaspare jumped to his feet and reached for his rifle, looking up to the trees for sight of the shooter. He aimed toward the thick, spiked leaves of the pines and fired off two rounds. The first return shot nicked him in the arm, the second grazed the side of his right leg, catching more cloth than skin.

The third put a dent in his forehead.

The Nazi dropped like a puppet cut free of his strings, his face resting only inches from Gaspare, his eyes swollen shut, blood from his nose and mouth flowing down onto the front of his dirty white shirt. The third soldier looked up to the trees, down to the two fallen soldiers and then at the two boys, one prone and bleeding, the other on his knees with a German rifle in his hands. He aimed the cocked pistol at Gaspare, his grip not as hard, his demeanor no longer as confident as it was mere seconds earlier, before a volley of shots from unseen rifles had brought down two men in his unit. He fired two shots at Gaspare, the boy dodging the wayward bullets, gathering all his remaining strength to turn his body to the side, his battered face falling off the edge of the curb.

Dante gave the trigger a hard squeeze, the force of the rifle causing him to shuffle his feet, his shoulder feeling the bump from the butt end of the recoil. He dropped the rifle as soon as he saw the look on the soldier’s face. He was only twelve years old but had seen enough of death in that short span of time to know when its arrival was at hand. He walked away from the soldier, ignored the thud of his fall, stepped over the bodies of the other two dead Nazis and bent down to lift Gaspare’s head gently off the hard stones. He wiped at the streams of blood coming down the sides of the boy’s face with the palms of his hands, eager to ease his pain. “You did well,” Gaspare said to him, speaking slowly through a ripped lower lip, his voice tight and raspy.

Dante nodded and removed his torn shirt, pressing it against the side of Gaspare’s face. Up to their right, Angela and Claudio slid down from the top edges of the pine tree and walked toward them. The street girl, machine gun casually slung over her shoulder, glanced at the three dead Nazis stretched across the edge of the square and then turned to the two boys. “Gaspare needs to be moved to one of the tunnels,” she said to Dante. “The one near Via Toledo is the closest. Take Claudio with you and use only the side streets. Take all the Nazi guns and ammo belts, too. This way, if you come into trouble, you have what you need to fight back.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” Dante asked. “There’s nothing much more we can do here.”

Angela turned and looked around the square, the smoke from burning tanks and the wails of the wounded touching the sky. There were three tanks and a dozen soldiers still battling with Maldini and a handful of street boys scattered through the piazza. “I’ll stay until it’s over,” she said. “You help get them where they need to go.”

“We would have died if it wasn’t for you,” Gaspare said, helped to his feet by Claudio and Dante.

“That’s probably true,” Angela said, looking down at the dead Nazis.

Dante stripped the soldiers of their weapons, gazing up at Angela to nod his thanks. The girl looked back at him and smiled. Claudio lifted one of Gaspare’s arms and wrapped it around his shoulders and they started to walk toward a side street, their backs to the field of fire. “You be careful,” Dante said to Angela as he turned to follow them.

“I come from Forcella,” Angela said as she held the smile and watched him go. “We’re too tough to die.”

19

VIA DELLA MARINELLA

Connors, Vincenzo and Franco walked down the quiet street, placing kerosene bottles and grenades behind darkened stairwells and around the bend of the alleys.

“We’re running low on these,” Vincenzo said, hiding a bottle under a wooden crate next to a smoldering building.

“We’re making up for it with the grenades,” Connors said. “And they do just as much damage.”

“And as long as we don’t run out of Nazis,” Vincenzo said, “we won’t run out of grenades.”

“Where do you live?” Franco asked Connors. “In America?”

“A town called Covington,” Connors said, checking the street behind him. “It’s in Kentucky.”

“Is that in New York?” Franco asked.

“Not even close,” Connors said. “It’s outside Cincinnati.”

“And is that in New York?” Franco asked.

Connors looked at the boy and shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s not in New York.”

“If you ask an Italian what’s in America, he will say New York and California,” Vincenzo said. “It’s all we know.”

“Well, Covington isn’t anywhere near either one of those places,” Connors said, resting down the last of his grenades. “But it is close to Cleveland. And Detroit. And Kansas City. And St. Louis. Have you heard of any of those cities?”

“No,” Franco said. “I haven’t even heard of a saint named Louis.”

“Wait, I know one,” Connors said, snapping the fingers of his right hand. “It’s not far from Chicago. You must have heard of Chicago.”

Vincenzo and Franco looked at one another and laughed. “Chicago?” Vincenzo said. “You have a city in America called Chicago?”

“Yes, we do,” Connors said, confused by the laughter. “And it’s a pretty big one, too. Bigger than any city you’ve got here in Italy.”

The two boys shook their heads and laughed even harder. “Wait until Maldini hears this one,” Vincenzo said.

“Are you going to tell me or not?” Connors asked.

“In Neapolitan, the word ‘Chicago’ means ‘I shit,’” Franco said.

Connors paused for a few seconds and then joined in their laughter. “Really?”

“Yes,” Franco said. “Really.”

“Well, they do call it the windy city,” Connors said.

“With good reason,” Vincenzo said.

20

VIA FRANCESCO CARACCIOLO

The long-abandoned pier was shuttered and dark, the noon sun unable to crack through the old slabs of wood and thick piles of rock that framed the walls. Carlo Petroni stood in the center of the high-ceilinged room, his shoes resting on the damp floor, his back to the distant sea, his eyes peering into shadow. He turned his head when he heard the heavy footsteps behind him. “A light wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Carlo said. “I always like to know who I’m talking to.”

“It’s wartime.” It was a male voice, clearly American, standing less than ten feet away. “You can’t always get what you want.”

“I came like I said I would,” Carlo said. “At noon, alone and without a gun.”

Connors stepped out of the shadows and stood next to Carlo. “You also made mention of a tank,” he said. “And I don’t happen to see one here, do you?”

“It would be stupid to bring it here,” Carlo said. He maintained his calm manner, carefully taking note of the soldier hovering over him. He caught sight of the dried blood on his jacket and the bandaged wound below it. “It’s where we can both get to it. If that’s what we decide.”

“It would also be stupid of you to lie about it,” Connors said. “Franco doesn’t trust you. Vincenzo doesn’t know you, and from what little I’ve seen, I don’t like you. Which leaves you lots of room to improve your situation.”

“I’m a thief,” Carlo said with a matter-of-fact shrug. “That makes it easy for you and your friends not to trust me or want to know me or even like me. But if you want to hear the truth, most of the boys you have fighting the Nazis out on those streets are thieves, same as me.”

“They stole because they had to,” Connors said, stepping closer to Carlo, his wound still stinging. “You and your band did it because you wanted to. To me, that’s a big difference.”

“But you’d take a tank from me, thief or not,” Carlo said, smiling in the darkness. “So it doesn’t matter what I am. What matters is what I have.”

“Why’d you bother to take the tank in the first place?” Connors asked. “You don’t strike me as a kid who’d risk his life to take on the Nazis. And there’s nothing left in Naples to steal. So, what’s a tank get you?”

“I want the Nazis out of Naples as much as any of your street boys,” Carlo said. “Just because I don’t cry when I pass a church or have sad stories to share with you doesn’t mean I care any less than they do.”

“What do you want for it?” Connors asked.

“I can be a help in what you’re trying to do,” Carlo said. “I can get in to see the Nazi colonel.”

He was neither intimidated nor afraid of the precarious route he was attempting to navigate. He was born into a life of crime and could handle the difficult workings of negotiation and survival with the skill of a seasoned professional. In the shadowy darkness of the pier hole, he had seen enough to weigh and measure the intellect and cunning of the soldier hovering above him. He saw Connors as a battle-hardened veteran, dangerous on the field and capable of dealing with the most vicious of enemies. But he also figured him to lack the skills that were needed to live and eat on the streets of a city like Naples, to fend daily for food and to fight off the predators who had marked the dark territories as their own. Carlo knew that in the open trenches of deceit, a criminal always held the upper hand. “And I can get in to see you,” he continued, his bravado running in the red zone. “You have no one on your side who can do both.”

Connors took a deep breath and then several steps back, turning away from Carlo. “No deal,” he said to the boy, his head down, hands by his side. “You can be on our side or theirs, but I’m not going to let you work both. It’s a bad game to play, especially in a war. The only one who comes out ahead is you.”

“You’re making a poor decision and a big mistake,” Carlo said, surprised at the savvy the soldier was exhibiting.

“I told him the same thing, but the American is a stubborn man.” Vincenzo’s voice came from the other side of the pier, hidden deep against a back wall. Carlo turned, his eyes narrowed, one hand holding a pistol pulled from his pants pocket, trying to pinpoint the other boy’s location. “I told him there was only one price a traitor is allowed to pay in Naples. But he chose to spare your life in exchange for your tank.”

“If I can’t have it both ways, then neither can you,” Carlo said, aiming the pistol in the direction of Vincenzo’s voice. “You get me and the tank or you get nothing. And either way, I’ll get to watch you die.”

“We already have your tank,” Vincenzo said, stepping forward, Franco walking slowly by his side.

Carlo lowered his gun, trying to quickly gauge whether what he had just heard was bluff or truth. “You wouldn’t even know where to find it,” he said. “I may be a thief, but you’re a liar. You don’t have anything, especially not my tank.”

The doors to the pier swung open and the sun bolted through.

Carlo shielded his eyes from the rays, the tip of his hand braced across his forehead. Vincenzo and Franco stood by his side, all three boys staring out at the German tank parked between the two iron doors, Maldini waving from the open pit. Connors walked past them, heading toward the tank, rifle draped over his shoulder, his pith helmet hanging on the barrel. He turned and stared at Carlo, who was visibly shaken. “I’m just a bystander in all this,” Connors said, a sly smile on his face. “But if I had to guess, I’d say you’re not the best thief in Naples.”

“You should go now,” Vincenzo told Carlo, looking at the boy with open scorn. “The colonel will want to know he’s lost one of his tanks. It’s better if he hears such bad news from a good friend.”

Connors leaned against one side of the tank, smoking a cigarette, his rifle and helmet by his feet. He was staring at Dante, sitting by the front of the tank, a piece of charcoal in his right hand, etching a sketch on a flat, thin foil of paper. Maldini watched from the mouth of the tank, his face cupped in the palm of his hand, his eyes filled with admiration.

“Some day, my little friend, your work will hang in galleries,” Maldini said. “But for now, it helps us figure a way to go on.”

The boy looked up at Connors and pointed to his drawing. “What do you call that in English?” he asked.

“A catapult,” Connors said, tossing the cigarette aside and crunching down on his knees next to Dante. “I used to see them in those Robin Hood movies with Errol Flynn. They caused the Sheriff of Nottingham and his troops a ton of trouble.”

“It will cause the Nazis even more,” Vincenzo said.

“Robin Hood was a great Italian,” Claudio said. “The best with a sword. Even better than Zorro.”

“There’s no way Robin Hood was Italian,” Connors said. “He was English. He lived in Sherwood Forest. That’s not in Italy. That’s in England.”

“I saw the movie,” Claudio said. “He spoke Italian. His men did, too.”

“They change the voice in the movies,” Connors said. “They make the actors sound Italian. But they’re not.”

“How do you know they didn’t change the voice in your country?” Dante asked. “To make you think he was English.”

“He wasn’t Italian and he wasn’t English,” Vincenzo said. “Neither were his men. They were myths. They didn’t exist. Not here and not in England.”

“What about Robin Hood’s catapult?” Maldini said, smiling down at them from the tank. “We all know from the movies it can stop men. But can it stop a tank?”

“If there was something heavy enough inside,” Connors said. “And if you can get your shot off high and at an angle, I suppose it can do some damage. But you’re going to need something more than rocks.”

“What if there was a bomb in it?” Vincenzo asked, looking from Maldini to Connors. “We collected one hundred and fifty bombs from the squares. So far, we’ve used about sixty of the cylinders. A few haven’t gone off, but most of them have. If we get lucky and put the right bomb inside the catapult, it could destroy a tank.”

“And the Nazis won’t know which ones are good and which are bad until they hit ground,” Maldini said. “Which means no matter what, if they see a bomb coming their way, they have to go the other way.”

“We’re forgetting something here,” Connors said. “We don’t have a catapult. Least not one that I’ve seen.”

“You’ll see one soon,” Maldini said. “We have plenty of wood, rope and wheels and a dozen boys working to put them all together in an old barn behind the Rione Villa. They should be finished by nightfall.”

“Those bombs weigh at least four hundred pounds each, if not more,” Connors said, noting the quiet confidence of Maldini and the boys. “You’re going to need something in the sling that can hold and release that kind of weight.”

Maldini jumped down from the tank and stood between Connors and Vincenzo. “The Nazis helped us with that,” he said. “The last night of the bombing, they hit the church of Gesù Vecchio and blew out the bell tower. The bells landed in the square, a little dented but in one piece. They’re more than heavy enough to center the catapult and release the bomb.”

“First, the Nazis went up against our mines, grenades and rifles,” Franco said. “Now we add a bomb and a tank. We get stronger as they get weaker.”

“Don’t get carried away just yet,” Connors warned. “Up to now they’ve been spread out across the city. With the tanker gone, they’re going to tighten the units, bring the fight closer to the center of town. They’ll try to squeeze us in a circle, force us to stay in one place longer and drag the fight out until it’s to their advantage. It’s easier to handle them in small groups; you can hit quick and run fast. The bigger the units, the tougher it gets to do damage without losing a lot of boys.”

“There is still time to make changes to our plan,” Vincenzo said. “Franco has the carrier pigeons all in place. They can get word out in less than an hour.”

“We’re going to have to move quicker than that,” Connors said. “We need to react to what they’re doing and we won’t know how until we know what they’re doing. The plan will have to change on the fly, which means we don’t have less than an hour. We have about fifteen minutes.”

“We need more than pigeons to get that done,” Maldini said.

Connors spread apart his feet and looked down at the manhole cover below. “What we need are these sewers,” he said. “We use the pigeons in the air and Angela’s little crew of sewer rats underground. That’ll be our line of communication and we keep it open all the time. Get a rotation set up and never stop it. All the boys will know exactly what’s being done and where, every second of this battle. We keep all the surprises on the Nazi end.”

“We can talk to each other and the Nazis will never see it,” Vincenzo said. “We’ll be above them and below, invisible.”

“Franco, how far can your pigeons go with a message and come back with an answer?” Connors asked.

“A hundred miles,” Franco said.

“Who do they fly to?”

“They head for the closest coop in the area,” Franco said. “From there, it’s up to the messenger.”

“How far do you need them to go?” Maldini asked.

“Salerno,” Connors said.