Fire in the Hills Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  POSTSCRIPT

  Teaser chapter

  The Honorable Thing

  In another month, Roberto would turn fifteen. And in a month Roberto would have been at his farm for half a year. He’d hidden for half a year.

  Ivano was wrong. Not everyone who knew the truth about this war was part of the spine of that giant animal, that noble beast. Roberto knew the truth, and he was doing nothing about it.

  Roberto wanted three things. He wanted to stay safe. He wanted to get home. He wanted this war to end. So far he’d put them in that order of priority. Maybe it was time to rearrange his priorities.

  Like the orphans of Naples. They’d put ending the war in first place.

  Mamma wouldn’t want him to die like Ivano had. Papà wouldn’t want him to, either. Roberto didn’t want to die doing the honorable thing.

  But he no longer wanted to live doing the dishonorable thing.

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  DUTTON CHILDREN’S BOOKS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa • Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of

  the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by Donna Jo Napoli

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or

  by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and

  retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a

  reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine,

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  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or

  third-party websites or their content.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-66295-9

  1. World War, 1939-1945—Italy—Juvenile fiction. [1. World War, 1939-1945—Italy—Fiction. 2. World War,

  1939-1945—Underground movements—Italy—Fiction. 3. Survival—Fiction. 4. Italy—History—German

  occupation, 1943-1945—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.N15Fir 2006

  [Fic]--dc22 2005036721

  Published in the United States by Dutton Children’s Books,

  a division of Penguin Young Readers Group

  345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  www.penguin.com/youngreaders

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To the spirit of Giuseppe Grandinetti, my Uncle Joe,

  who fought in World War II

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the many librarians who helped me amass reading materials, and to Bill Reynolds, who did that as well as giving comments on this story. Thanks to Barry Furrow, for reading chapters as I wrote them—also to Robert and Eva, ever loyal. Thanks to Katie Ailes, Paolo Asso, Libby Chrissy, Leila Goldnick, Zach James, Hilary O’Connell, Beatrice Rubin, Richard Tchen, all of whom gave comments on earlier versions. Thanks to Annette Murphy-Shaw and her sixth-grade reading class at Holyoke Elementary School in Holyoke, Colorado, in spring 2005. Thanks to Eleanor Salgado’s and Mary Reindorp’s fourth-period eighth-grade language arts classes at the Strath Haven Middle School in Wallingford, Pennsylvania, in spring 2005. Thanks to Michael Sawyer and his eighth-grade language arts classes at the Ira Jones Middle School in Plainfield, Illinois, in spring 2005. Finally, thank you to my incomparable editor, Lucia Monfried.

  1

  ROBERTO STOOD ON THE DECK of the American warship and peered through the dark. A quarter moon glowed in the middle of so many bright stars.

  Yes. There it was. Finally. The faintest outline, but unmistakable—the coast of Sicily. The island at the very bottom of Italy. He was coming home, at last.

  His fingers curled around the smooth metal rail beside a cannon, and he smiled into the warm air. He’d come so far already. He could do this final short stretch—just Sicily to the mainland, then north to Venice. He was almost there—almost safe.

  Maybe Mamma was in the kitchen right now, with the radio on, listening to war news like she always did. But she wouldn’t hear anything that could make her guess where he was. Never in a million years. America was the enemy—there’s no way anyone could have dreamed he’d wind up getting a ride back home on an American ship.

  Soldiers passed, putting on helmets as they went. Someone handed one to Roberto. He tightened the strap under his neck and remembered the warning one of the American soldiers had given: “The waters are full of floating mines. If they hit us, swim against the tide—’cause the mines will be going wherever the tides go.”

  Mines floating in the sea.

  But, with any luck, Roberto wouldn’t have to worry about them. The Germans didn’t know the Americans were coming. His ship would land, and he’d run away. Then hitch a ride. And another. And another. He’d be home in a couple of days, a week at most.

  Still, Roberto tightened the helmet strap even more.

  The storm that had wracked the night was well over, but a sudden sea breeze hit like a final gulp. It cooled Roberto’s bare chest. He stood tall and breathed deep and felt stronger than ever.

  It was midsummer, more than a year since he’d been kidnapped by the Germans for forced labor. A fuzz had formed over his upper lip. His birthday had come and gone; he was fourteen. He hadn’t taken a moment to think about that till now. What must his parents have felt, seeing his birthday pass and having no idea where he was, if he was even alive? Well, on his next birthday, he’d have Mamma’s famous cake. He could almost hear them singing, almost smell t
he burning wax of birthday candles, almost taste the creamy hazelnut filling.

  A destroyer off to the right caught his attention; it foundered in the high surf. Someone opened fire. That’s all it took, a single shot; instantly more shots came from everywhere.

  His own ship let off volley after volley. Guns and cannons from all sides. He clung to the railing now. This couldn’t last. When no one onshore shot back, the Americans would stop.

  But they didn’t stop.

  The air itself seemed to explode. Each quick yellow flash was followed by a snow-white column of smoke that streamed up into the sky and blew away. The smoke got so thick, clouds sat on the water.

  Droning came from overhead. Loud and fast. Roberto could see them against the faint moonlight—nineteen, twenty, more. Twin-engine planes droning droning. German bombers. What? This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. No. Everything was going wrong. He was in the middle of a battle again—again again again. No!

  It poured bombs.

  The soldier beside Roberto fell to his knees, muttering. Praying?

  Roberto clenched his teeth so hard, his eardrums hurt.

  A bomb hit the destroyer in front of them. Flames shot upward, then across the ship. When they reached the ammunition cargo, it exploded. Heat hit him like a thick curtain. Sweat broke out on his head and chest and back. It stung his eyes. The bright light of the blaze illuminated the ships. Roberto had had no idea there were so many of them, strung out in a line along the coast. This was a massive operation. And he realized with a gasp that all these boats were easy targets for the German planes now.

  Another destroyer opened fire on the failing ship. Shooting at their own? But they had to—of course they had to. They needed the dark again. Only the ship was too close to shore, the water was already too shallow, the ship wouldn’t sink. They were all sitting ducks.

  A muffled explosion came from immediately behind them. Water mushroomed into the air, spraying the deck of Roberto’s ship, soaking everyone. They’d just been bombed—the plane had missed, but only barely. And more planes were coming, more bombs.

  On the beach mortar shells sent clouds of sand and smoke billowing up white, then turning black. When it cleared the littlest bit, Roberto saw people running for cover. Flames from buildings poked up red and yellow along the curve of beach. An ambulance screamed. Guns shot in staccato. Everything Roberto could make out onshore turned to rubble.

  One of the Landing Ship Tanks in Roberto’s convoy was already onshore. The tanks rolled off in file. Roberto’s LST headed straight in, its guns blasting. Soldiers manned the tanks and trucks on the deck, getting ready to roll them out onto the land.

  Suddenly his ship stopped, broached on a sandbar. The soldiers shouted to one another in confusion.

  Roberto looked over the side. He wouldn’t think about the mines in the water. His best chance was to act fast.

  He took off the American military boots he’d been given. He threw off his helmet and life jacket. He didn’t want anything that tied him to this war. He had to get away. To get home.

  He jumped over the side. His hands and knees sank into the wet sand. A wave broke over him. He choked on salt water.

  2

  SWIM. Swim for an isolated spot of shore. But there were way too many ships along way too much of the coast. And the water was so greasy with diesel oil from sinking ships that swimming was unbearably hard.

  Roberto focused his eyes straight for shore and refused to let anything else catch his attention. When his feet hit ground, he ran inland, past frantic masses of men struggling with jeeps stuck in the sand, heaving their weight and cursing. Bullets went every direction. People shouted. Mortar shells exploded in the sand beside him. He ran.

  Over the noise of everything else, ship bells clanged. Roberto looked back for an instant. A plane burned on the surface of the water. The ship beside it was half-underwater.

  He ran faster, almost blindly, beyond the little cluster of buildings that seemed to be all this town was made of. He kept running through dry grasses, across a barren plain. Distance—all he wanted to do was put distance between himself and the crack of rifles, the boom of bombs and cannons. Then he stumbled over something warm and hard—the metal of a rail, a train rail—and he felt like he’d been smacked in the head with reason.

  Walking on the ties made good sense. It would be easier on his bare feet. They were already covered with cuts from ragged stones. He wouldn’t be able to walk at all if he didn’t give them a little protection—the protection the ties could afford. And the rails would eventually lead to Messina, the port town that was closest to the mainland of Italy. From there he’d find a way to cross the strait and head home. This was the answer. Yes.

  He followed the tracks at a run, till he missed a tie and fell again, slamming his jaw on the dense wood. He got up and forced himself to move carefully. Formations of planes still passed above. But no one was following him, he was sure of that by now. It was okay to go slow. He picked his way with as much precision as the dark allowed.

  The spacing of the ties was regular, and soon the swing of his arms helped him move without thought. His steps were like a pulse—thud, thud, thud—in the beast that was this night.

  Morning eventually spread light from his left. That meant he was going south—he’d thought so, but he’d gotten so disoriented in his mad dash, that he hadn’t been entirely sure. No planes had passed overhead for a while. The battle noises still came from a distance, behind and to the right, but muffled. He stopped a moment and looked back. Black smoke rose against the dawn sky.

  A huge lizard clung to the rail maybe seven or eight meters in front of him, its tail stretched out full length. Roberto’s approach must have woken it, for it turned its head and stared, as though daring him.

  Roberto didn’t know anything about lizards really, but he didn’t think they would hurt you. Still, this was the lizard’s territory, not his. He left the train tracks and made a wide semicircle around the lizard, then went back to walking on the ties. The lizard never budged.

  Not much later, Roberto made out buildings ahead. He stopped and watched: white homes of neatly stacked stone blocks with worn stone staircases that wound up the outside of them—all so different from Venice. A town spread out beyond them. No people were on the streets, just a pair of stray dogs.

  Well, of course not. Anyone with sense would be hiding. The explosions weren’t that far away.

  Did he dare go with the tracks right into the center of town? He needed water. And something to eat. And maybe a place to rest out of the sun.

  He left the train ties and skirted around the edge of town, watching, listening. He didn’t see a single uniform. He didn’t hear a word of German.

  Why should he be afraid then? This was Italy, after all. His homeland, at last. The people behind these doors were Italian civilians. His countrymen. And he was a kid, alone, clearly unarmed; there was nowhere on him to hide a weapon.

  He turned down a street and ran his fingertips along walls covered with posters of Prime Minister Mussolini’s head in a helmet, gazing far off, as if at the future. Stamped under each head was the word Duce—duke. Everyone called Mussolini the Duke, the leader of the military. Beside each head were fighting words, urging the people on, ending with, “Se muoio, vendicatemi—if I die, take revenge for me.” Brutal words.

  Roberto pulled away in revulsion. He knew what Mussolini was all about. No one should fight for Mussolini.

  Crash.

  A man came tumbling out a door, slamming onto the sidewalk not a body length in front of Roberto. He wore a uniform.

  Roberto turned and ran.

  He didn’t stop till he was far outside town. He could still see the train tracks from here. That was enough. He’d follow them from this distance.

  The ground was mostly dry grass, raspy weeds, small rocks. He walked.

  He walked all the rest of the morning.

  Farmhouses were scattered across the plain. Beside one
was an artichoke field. The artichokes had been cut already, but the farmer had left a few to blossom. Large purple flowers stuck up here and there. Mamma would have loved the sight.

  Most of the farmhouses had small kitchen gardens right outside the door. Roberto got close enough to one to make out beans and zucchini. His chest swelled with need, his skin prickled. But the thought of who might live there numbed him again.

  He walked all afternoon.

  The mistral wind blew steadily, so he never got terribly hot. That was a lucky thing. Everyone knew Sicily could scorch you in the summer. Yes, that was lucky. He was lucky. He was alone and hungry and thirsty and empty-handed. But he was alive, in his own country, on a path that would take him home. And the wind blew.

  He heard the rumble of the train before he saw it. He ran for the cover of a bush and flattened himself on the ground. Trains carried the military, and he wouldn’t get near a soldier again. Ever.

  When it was out of sight, he stood. But he’d moved too fast, and his mouth was too dry; his head spun. He fell.

  It was hard to get up. He lifted his chest, but it was hard. He was tired. So tired. And, after all, this place was as good as any—because no place was safe. Not really.

  He let his cheek fall back onto the hot dirt.

  He slept.

  3

  WHEN ROBERTO WOKE, the sun told him it was already midmorning. He’d slept . . . what? Maybe fifteen hours. Maybe more. He sat up slowly, careful not to rush anything. It was time to think clearly. Figure things out.

  The corners of his mouth cracked. His tongue felt large and raspy.

  Water. The first priority was water.

  Where were the rivers around here? Sicily had rivers, he knew that from his old school lessons. Did they dry up in summer?