Street Boys (34 page)

“My rosary beads,” the boy whispered, moving his fingers along his pants. “They’re in my pocket.”

Connors dug a hand into the boy’s pocket and eased out a string of black beads, the bottom row wrapped around a silver crucifix. He gently pried open Maurizio’s palm and placed the beads in the middle, then closed the hand and held it to his chest for several seconds. He rocked on his heels and watched as the boy brought the crucifix up to his lips. “
Grazia
,” he said, his eyes once again shining.

The boy began to shiver and shake, the blood gushing from the open wound, his thin legs trembling under the torn cotton pants. He held out his arms and awkwardly lifted his head. “Be with me,” he said to Connors and Nunzia. “I’m too afraid to die alone.”

Connors and Nunzia stretched out in the middle of the empty tracks, resting their heads on Maurizio’s thin shoulders, their arms wrapped around his bloody body. They closed their eyes, listening as the boy said a soft and gentle prayer.

They stayed and held him until he died.

Connors waited for Nunzia outside the tunnel entrance, his uniform drenched in Maurizio’s blood, a moist cigarette smoldering in his right hand. His face was flushed red and he pounded against the hard brick wall with his fists. All soldiers reach a point, as do most men, when the reality of death overwhelms them. It can happen on a battlefield or in a mess hall. With some, it can occur decades after the last bloody body was seen, thousands of miles removed from the painful memory. But the moment always finds its place. For Steve Connors, that place was in the middle of an empty train tunnel in an Italian city torn to shreds, listening to a frail boy taking his last breath.

Nunzia stepped up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Connors kept his head down, eyes staring holes through the grimy side of the wall, his hands pressed against the still-hot bricks. “I cleaned his wound and found a shirt in the back pile that fit him,” she whispered. “And I folded the rosary beads around his fingers.”

“They try to teach you to keep it all buried, from day one of boot camp,” Connors said, the top of his head pressed against the wall. “To act as if you can’t see any of the horrible things that happen around you. To keep your focus on the enemy and not on some guy you just left bleeding back in the middle of a mud field, whose last name you’re not even sure you can remember. But how can you not see it?”

“No one really survives a war,” Nunzia said. “There are never any winners or losers. There are just those who bury their memories and those who live with them every day.”

Connors turned around and slammed his back against the wall, his eyes bitter and red. “He was twelve and he got shot in a battle over train tracks,” he said. “And he died braver than any soldier I’ve ever seen in the field. He looked right into my eyes and there was no anger there, no hatred. There was just a quiet peace. That little boy understood more about living and dying than I ever will.”

She walked over to him and rested her head against his shoulders, her arms wrapped around his waist. “Death and war is all that most of these boys have known,” she whispered. “What happy times they’ve had in their lives are so far in the past, it’s difficult to even imagine. They now live day to day. Just like me and just like you.”

Connors clasped his hands around hers and held on to them tight, his head still crammed with images he knew would linger for the rest of his life. “The other boys are waiting,” he said finally. “We need to be with them.”

“They wait for you,” she said. “Vincenzo is their heart and my father was their soul. But you’re the one who lifts their courage, who makes them believe they belong on the same field with the Nazis.”

“It doesn’t sound like I’m doing them any favors,” Connors said.

“You give them hope,” Nunzia said. “That’s something they haven’t had since the war started and it’s something no boy should be without.”

Connors lifted Nunzia’s face, his arms around her waist. “Is that what I give you?” he asked. “Hope?”

“Yes,” she said with a gentle nod of her head. “That and much love.”

“I’ll look for you when the dust settles,” Connors told her.

“I know you will.”

He brought her back up to him and kissed her one last time.

34

SPACCANAPOLI

The final battle for the streets of Naples began at two in the afternoon on a sunny first day of October.

The sky was as clear as a pane of glass and the sun burned down on the large piazza that was dominated by bombed-out houses and dark, imposing office buildings, their windows blown out. In the center of the square was a large church, its three-tiered steeples grasping for the heavens, its curved stone steps leading to the shuttered iron doors. Seven wide alleys led into and out of the square, a dim route to another area of the city. Spaccanapoli sat on Naples like a giant squid, it’s large tentacles spread in all directions.

Four boys were positioned in each of the alleys, hidden against the sides of walls, guns and cocktails in their hands. Vincenzo peeked out from behind a large mound of rubble off one of the main alleys. He saw fifteen Nazi tanks move up and down the square and into the side streets, a large contingent of soldiers following in their wake. Von Klaus stood in the well of a tank in the center of the square, his eyes on the empty buildings, binoculars at rest, his body calm and at ease. Vincenzo leaned back down, head and shoulders resting on the sharp piles of brick and stone, wishing that somehow he could make the peaceful morning last forever.

Von Klaus surveyed the positions of his tanks and the placement of his soldiers. He took a deep breath and tapped against the side of his vehicle. The men in the well below him slammed in the first shell, braced themselves against the tank walls and fired. The first shot of the final battle landed in the middle of an abandoned pharmacy and sent it crumbling to the ground.

Vincenzo lit the fuse end of his kerosene bottle and hurled it over his head, watching it land against the rear of a Nazi tank. The hidden street boys jumped from their posts along the nooks and crevices of the alleys and fired at the soldiers that were stationed at the base of the square. The Nazis whirled at the sound of the shells landing at their feet and returned the shots with a furious volley of their own. The boys emptied their guns and began to back into the alleys, tossing rocks at the soldiers who were following them in, a tank trailing each small group. Vincenzo monitored the action, running down the center alley, sliding through the front door of the collapsed tram blocking his path, and emerging from the other end. He moved from one alley to the next, gazing over the tops of the trams, watching the boys lead the tanks and soldiers down the narrow strips. The Nazi soldiers were in aggressive pursuit, stepping over the bodies of fallen boys and firing down on those who scampered toward the trams. “Remember to jump in the driver’s side,” Vincenzo shouted. “It’s the only place not mined.”

He watched one boy slip and tumble across the dark cobblestones and then quickly get back to his feet, his body one long strip of welts, bruises and open cuts. He turned, threw his last rock at a rushing Nazi and looked across the tram at Vincenzo. “What if the tanks don’t even try to go over these?” he asked.

“We’ve left them no choice,” Vincenzo reassured the boy. “A tank never backs up. Especially if it sees its enemy waiting on the other side.”

“I only pray you’re right,” the boy said. He dove head first into the driver’s side door.

“So do I,” Vincenzo said in a low voice, his eyes on the Nazi tank less than twenty feet away.

Nunzia, Franco, Claudio, Pepe and Dante were running across the far end of the square, pursued by six Nazi soldiers, both groups firing at each other. The children circled and dove behind the edges of a large, empty fountain next to a pink stucco two-story building. Angela bolted out the shattered front door, tossed a lit kerosene bottle toward the soldiers, then jumped in beside the others behind the base of the fountain. The explosion killed two of the soldiers, sending debris down across their backs and heads. The children braced against the sides of the fountain and checked the ammo on their guns, the soldiers’ footsteps a rock-toss away. “They’re coming at us from both sides,” Angela said, glancing above the clipped wing of an urchin. “We can’t let them trap us in here.”

Dante secured his last clip into the chamber of his machine gun. “I’m tired of running,” he said. “I’m tired of everything. I think we all are.”

Nunzia looked at each of the children, holding them down, away from enemy range. “We just need to go a little farther,” she pleaded. “Once I get you out of the square, then you can rest.”

“No,” Dante said, his warm eyes sad, his lips pursed and determined. “We came here to fight, not to run.”

Nunzia watched as, one by one, they nodded their heads in agreement, then checked their rifles, machine guns and pistols, prepared to step into the teeth of the fight. “The Nazis have seen our backs for three days,” Angela told her. “It’s time for them to see our faces. See who it is they’re fighting.”

Nunzia looked above the rim of the fountain, a dozen soldiers easing in closer to them, crouched down low, machine guns at the ready. She turned back to the children around her. “Spread out across the base,” she said, “and fire until your guns are empty. If you need to run, head for the side alleys above us. And God be with you all.”

They rose as one, firing the last of their bullets at the surrounding troops.

The return volleys were heavy, landing against the sides of the fountain and in the pink stucco wall behind them. Pepe rotated his machine gun from left to right, taking down two Nazi soldiers before the sting of a shoulder wound sent him sprawling to the dirt. Angela fired her rifle from waist level, scatter shooting and landing with a sniper’s precision. She tossed aside the empty gun and pulled the blade from the crook of her neck and flung it into the chest of a leaping soldier, his reach a mere inches from her face. Nunzia emptied her pistol and jumped under Franco and Claudio’s fierce fire, reaching for the machine gun of a fallen soldier. She came up on one knee, ripping bullets into the fronts and backs of the oncoming Nazis.

Beyond them, the piazza had exploded into a vast killing field, the fire on both sides heavy and often hitting its mark. The tanks rained down their anger on both brick and body, rumbling through the side streets and over collapsed and burning structures, seeking out their human targets. Von Klaus worked one end of the square, shouting out orders, directing his scattered troops to wreak their havoc on an enemy he never envisioned being as resilient or as dangerous as the street boys. Kunnalt, his shoulder bleeding from a wound sustained in the tunnel battle, was keyed in on the other end, his tanks firing at the array of silent buildings and the wild scampering of the children. Plumes of thick smoke, haze and blood filled a square that had once been the pride of all Neapolitans.

Connors was on the steps of the church, in the center of a small arsenal of machine guns, flame throwers, kerosene bottles and grenades, six boys spread out to his left and right, firing down on the Nazis with the final remnants of their rage. He tossed aside an empty machine gun and reached down for another, looked up across the square and saw Nunzia lead Angela and the boys on their valiant charge. He signaled the boys around him to seek shelter and keep firing as he inched his way forward, separated from the woman he loved by the enemy he loathed.

Vincenzo stood across the road, surrounded by a kneeling and wounded cluster of street boys, their weapons strewn by their sides, each watching as the tanks made their move onto the toppled trams. The front ends of the tanks squeezed down on the rusty hulks of the ancient buses, the sound of bending steel and breaking glass vibrating out of the dark, smoky alleys. The treads on the tracks churned as they eased themselves into the soft well of the hunkered vehicles. Fabrizio stood behind Vincenzo, the mastiff at his side. “Don’t worry,” Vincenzo said in a voice loud enough to be heard above the din of the tanks. “Maldini will not let us down.”

The tank in the middle alley went first.

The mines buried inside the tram gave off a violent and angry shudder, then the force split the tank and the body of the bus in two. The front end of the tank flew out from the mouth of the alley, trailing a long thin line of flame and smoke. It flipped end over end and skidded to a halt along the edge of the rail tracks. The tram let loose a large gulp of fire up the alley walls, torching what remained of the convoy of soldiers before forcing its flames into the open square.

The next three explosions shook the foundation of the piazza and sent the facade of many buildings and homes tumbling to the ground in scattered heaps. Soldiers and boys fell, carts and statues were toppled, shattered glass came down from on high, slicing its way through flesh and bone.

Von Klaus looked at the fires coming out of the alleys, shaken by the blasts, his face tinged a heavy shade of red from the intensity of the four-edged cauldron, knowing that within the confines of those tight dank corridors he had lost four tanks and twenty brave men. He slammed his fist against the side of his tank, as much in frustration as in anger, losing the tight leash he kept on his emotions, finally allowing the hardness of the street soldier to overcome the frailties of the man. He ordered his tank to circle around toward the mouth of the empty alleys and fire a volley of shells as it moved. The treads ran over and crushed rocks, glass and bodies. He saw Kunnalt, wounded and fighting on in a corner of the square, his soldiers firing at a woman and a line of street boys. “You win,” he shouted across the space between them. “You’ll finally get your wish.”

“Which wish is that, sir?” Kunnalt shouted back.

“To see them all dead,” Von Klaus said.

His tank moved forward, his eyes still on the bleeding young officer, the fires and explosions around them growing louder with each passing second.

The B-24 flew above the demolishing landscape, its experienced crew looking down at the inferno that engulfed
Spaccanapoli
with silent dismay. “Hold off on dropping any bombs,” the pilot instructed through his mouthpiece. “They’re too bunched up. We’ll end up wiping out the whole plaza. I think it’s best to bring it around again and see if we can get some gunfire in there without hitting somebody other than Nazis.”

“You get us close enough, we might be able to knock off some of them tanks,” a gunner in the bubble, Sharky, said. “Help give those boys a little bit of a break.”

“Anybody make out that guy from the Thunderbirds in the crowd?” the pilot asked.

“Hard to see through all the smoke, but it looks like there’s a G.I. cornered over by that church to your right,” another voice answered.

“Whatever we do, let’s make sure we don’t hit any of those kids.” The pilot glanced over at the lieutenant to his right. “They’re dealing with enough shit without having to worry about us on their ass.”

“If you can get close to the north end of the square,” Sharky said, “I can get in a good swipe at those tanks and soldiers jammed in beside those alleys.”

“There are kids coming at them from the other end,” the pilot said. “By the time I swing around, they’ll be there.”

“Might just be enough for those tanks to know we’re here,” the rear gunner said. “Make them take a step back, knowing we’re closing in.”

“Let’s all just be patient,” the pilot said. “I’m going to keep moving around until one of you finds an opening. When you see enough clearance, then take your shots and make them count. Make the tanks a priority. The kids are too close to the soldiers for us to risk a swoop.”

“Do you want to keep the tanks contained in the square?” one of the gunners asked. “Or do you want them back out on the road?”

“Let it play itself out,” the pilot said, swinging the front end of the B-24 high to the left and away from the piazza. “In the square or out, be nice if we leave behind some burning tanks. There’s some pretty intense fighting going on down there. Which means that more sooner than later, one side’s going to have to move back. That’s when we go in.”

“Those kids look to be pretty much holding their own,” Sharky said. “Be nice if we can give them a hand.”

“They know we’re here,” the pilot said, gently easing the B-24 clear of the battle zone. “And they know we’ll be back. For now, that’s all we can give them.”

“Comfort first,” Sharky said, surveying the scene behind him, “bombs and bullets later.”

Vincenzo placed the wounded boy under the shade of a large pine tree, resting his head on top of a mound of torn clothing. He turned around and put both hands on Fabrizio’s slender arms. “I want you and the dog to stay here and keep an eye on the wounded,” he told him. “I need someone I can trust to keep them safe.”

Fabrizio nodded several times, his eyes wide and filled with confidence. “I won’t let anything happen to them,” he said.

“You should all be safe here,” Vincenzo said, the fires of the alley glowing at his back. “This street is not on a route the Nazis will want to take.”

“Where will you be?” Fabrizio asked, staring at Vincenzo and the dozen street boys standing behind him.

“Where I belong,” Vincenzo said.

He turned away from the boy and ran toward the fire in the alleys, the rest of the street boys trailing close behind, three of them holding thin blankets under their arms. “Jump right through the flames and you’ll be okay,” Vincenzo shouted, picking up his pace. “If the fire gets to your clothes, don’t worry. Someone will get to you before it can get to your skin.”

“Why are we going in this way?” one of the boys yelled out. “Some of the other alleys are wide open and clear.”

“There are soldiers and tanks waiting in the mouths of those alleys,” Vincenzo said. “They expect us to make a run at them from there. They’re not counting on us running through fire. Remember to have your guns ready to shoot as soon as you cross the flames. We’ll only be a surprise to them for a few seconds.”

“I hate surprises,” one of the boys said as he picked up his pace and passed Vincenzo and the others, several feet away from the arching flames.

“So do the Nazis,” Vincenzo said.

Nunzia, Angela and the boys stood in front of the fountain, firing the last bullets in their guns, the bodies of half a dozen soldiers strewn about their feet. A shot fired by Kunnalt, standing in the well of his tank, his uniform smeared in blood, clipped Claudio in the shoulder and sent him sprawling, one side of his head landing on top of a chipped piece of stone. Nunzia and Pepe pulled the boy behind the fountain, both still firing guns with their free hands. As she emptied the bullets in her chamber, Nunzia looked past the smoke and the heavy return fire and saw Connors running across the square toward her, two blazing guns in his hands. “Nunzia, get down!” Franco shouted, shoving her to her knees.