Fire in the Hills Read online

  Swing, swing, wipe.

  Roberto’s head throbbed. Memories were bullets.

  Swing, swing, wipe.

  Crack! He was underwater. He swam hard for the surface, bursting out at the last moment. His whole body sucked in air. Pieces of metal and rope and rubber splashed down around him. His ship had been hit.

  Roberto swam for open water, swam for hours. Sometime in the night he washed up onshore far from the harbor, like a dead thing. Joe and Randy, some American soldiers, found him. They couldn’t believe a kid his age was off alone in the middle of a war. They offered him a smoke. When he didn’t take the cigarette, they gave him a chocolate bar. “Hershey’s,” Joe said. They watched him eat and lick his fingers, and they laughed.

  He patrolled the coast with them. They slept in shallow trenches in the sand. They ate straight from cans. The pears were delicious, in their thick syrup. And Randy taught Roberto the names of all the birds in English. So many birds.

  At night Roberto watched the wave crests break into glowing white sea foam. At dawn he watched flamingos ascend in huge, rosy clouds.

  That week was like a dream.

  But the next was a nightmare. They were called to Lake Bizerte to help process Axis prisoners from a huge battle there. Joe, who spoke broken Italian, told Roberto to keep his mouth shut. If anyone knew he was Italian, he’d be taken prisoner, too.

  Bizerte was a mess. The buildings had been smashed by heavy shelling, the streets blown to dust. Arabs draped in white cloths watched them walk by, their faces as immobile as those of the camels that stood beside them, held by a halter. One little girl peeked out from around a man, looked at Roberto, and ran her fingers across her throat, as though she were slashing it. Her eyes flashed hatred. Stray dogs and cats skittered out of their way.

  And then they got to the prisoners. Most were German. The rest, Italian. Prisoners and prisoners and prisoners. They stretched off in lines as far as Roberto could see.

  The Italian soldiers’ feet bled; Mussolini didn’t provide shoes. Their rolled-up pants and unbuttoned shirts revealed scabs and bruises. They talked about how being captured was the best thing that could have happened. They swarmed gratefully into cages made of barbed wire and cactus hedges, and held out their hands for cans of beef and packets of biscuits. They ate like the starving.

  A German band of seven motley performers played music through it all. Some Axis soldiers actually swung their fingers in the air in time with the beat. One man swung an arm missing its hand. The worst sight, though, was the dead. Floating, bloated bodies filled Lake Bizerte.

  The infantry prisoners walked to their cages. But the Nazi officers climbed into jeeps or their own little staff cars and actually drove themselves to prison, swerving around the corpses. And the vultures.

  Abandoned tanks. Shovels, pipes, shattered guns, empty helmets. Twisted telegraph wires. Piles of burnt, blackened things—charred beyond recognition.

  At one point a shell came tearing out of nowhere. Everyone jumped and aimed their guns. But it had just come from a pile of flaming debris.

  Bodies sank into the soft ground, as though part of the earth itself. American soldiers turned them over with their boots, looking for the living. Swarms of flies rose and settled again. The Americans chewed gum and moved on.

  The pungent smell of burning—oil and steel and cloth— welled up everywhere. And dust. Soldiers wrapped cloth around their faces to keep it out. It didn’t work.

  After Bizerte, Joe and Randy and Roberto climbed into a truck and went west with other Allied soldiers, across Tunisia into Algeria. They passed dummies in Allied uniforms, stuffed with dried grasses and topped with helmets, made up to look like antitank gun crews from above, to lure Axis planes into wasting bombs on them.

  In Algeria they trained for the invasion of Sicily. Then they got into the Landing Ship Tanks and went across the sea. The whole way the soldiers talked about land mines and how many people they’d seen have a leg blown off, or an arm, or a head. After a while Joe stopped translating for Roberto.

  It was just as well.

  Swing, swing, wipe.

  13

  THAT EVENING RINA FED THEM CALF’S BOWEL—long lengths of boiled hose—with beans and wild greens. For dessert they had cheese and the last of the dried pears. It might rain its heart out outside, but in this house there was warmth.

  They had settled around the radio when the knock came. Manfreddo opened the door.

  A small person came in, hunched over in a drenched coat. From the shoes, Roberto knew immediately this was a girl. So did Rina. She stopped washing the dishes and rushed to help the girl out of her long, dripping coat. “Come, sit. Have you eaten?”

  The girl’s face was round, like a child’s, but inside that worn cotton dress she was clearly a young woman. And her eyes were huge and sunken with sadness. She reached a hand down the neck of her dress and pulled out an envelope.

  Rina sat at the table. The lamp hissed. No one spoke.

  The girl put the envelope on the table in front of Rina. Her arms were skinny. Her hands struck Roberto as too tiny to be useful.

  Roberto filled a bowl from the pot of beans and bowels that was still sitting on the woodstove. He put it on the table.

  Manfreddo had been staring at the envelope. But now he seemed to wake up. “Sit,” he said to the girl, gesturing toward the bowl, awkward in the role of host but trying his best. “Please eat a little.”

  The girl sat. She took a bite. Then she ate steadily. Roberto sensed she was working not to rush, not to seem rude. He recognized the struggle; this girl was very hungry.

  Rina spoke with her eyes on the envelope. “Forgive us for being so inhospitable. We didn’t even introduce ourselves.”

  “I know who you are,” said the girl. She stopped eating and put her hands in her lap. “It is an honor to meet you finally, Signora Coeli.” She bowed her head to Rina. Then she looked at the boys. “And to meet you, Manfreddo . . .” She stood and held out her hand across the table. Manfreddo shook it. She studied the other boys. “. . . and Angelo . . . and Emilio . . . and Roberto.” She shook hands with each of them after she said their name; she picked the right boy for each name. “I am Teresa.” She sat again.

  Rina opened the envelope. It was a letter. Emilio went over and stood by her shoulder. Rina gasped.

  “Come here,” said Manfreddo to Emilio. He gathered his youngest brother under one arm and Angelo under the other. He looked at Roberto. “Get over here.” Roberto moved close to Emilio’s other side. They huddled, their eyes on Rina’s face.

  Rina’s mouth moved as she read silently. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Then she put the letter down and sobbed. The others circled her, everyone hugging, everyone crying, even Teresa.

  Then Rina pushed them all away. She went into her little room. She shut the door.

  Manfreddo picked up the letter. He read aloud.

  VIA REINA, 5

  MILAN 12 MARCH 1944

  My dear mamma and brothers,

  I write to you from prison. The German Military Tribunal has condemned me—General Kesselring has signed the sentence. I’ll die this evening. They’ll shoot me.

  I know I should have written to you sooner. I thought about you often. But I was busy. And asking someone to carry a message home would only have taken one more person out of the good fight for the length of the journey.

  Know that I fought well.

  At first I fought for revenge. Because of Papà. Because of how the Nazis shot him down for doing nothing but standing by the side of the road as they passed.

  But then I learned what this war is about. And when I found out, I thought I was losing my mind. This is a war about the most basic things. About freedom. And dignity. Every ugly thing you hear about the Fascists and the Nazis is true. Every ugly thing you’ve ever imagined happens under their guard. And things you’d never ever be able to imagine on your own—they happen, too.

  They say that if they shoot enough of us,
they’ll kill the spirits of the rest of us. They’ll triumph. But that’s wrong. All of us who know the truth about this war—we are like the spine of a giant animal, a wild thing that can never be tamed, never be caught in a cage. We will carry that beast forever, to victory. One after the other of us. No matter what.

  But, really, I don’t think the Nazis even believe that shooting us will stop the resistance. They shoot us just to make terror—just to do as much harm as they can before the end. Because they know they will lose in the end. They have to.

  Can you believe I am writing this way? Me, who never even liked school. Now I wish I had paid attention in history lessons.

  Angelo and Emilio, study well at school. Do better than me. There’s a lot to learn.

  Manfreddo, take care of Mamma. But don’t forget to make your own family. I have been lucky. I have loved Volpe Rossa—red fox. I wish you love, too.

  And, Mamma, please know that I fought well. My heart is at peace now, because I know I did my duty as a son and an Italian. I have come to cherish my ideals, conscious that I might have to give everything for them, even my life. This was my decision. I die with the calm of the strong. Know this. You can lift your chin higher now, for you raised me well. Despite all my foolishness before, despite how you worried, I grew up to be good. Don’t cry. And, please, forgive me for the pain that I’ve caused you. And, Mamma, be happy for me. I die like a man.

  I go now to join Papà, the one I have missed so much.

  With my last embrace,

  Your Ivano

  Manfreddo put down the letter and sat on the floor. Emilio sank onto his lap and circled his arms and legs around him. Angelo stood with his hand on Emilio’s head. They rocked forward and backward, crying.

  Roberto wiped at his tears. “Would you like another bowl?” he asked Teresa.

  She shook her head.

  “Then come with me to the barn. You can have my mattress.”

  “No,” said Manfreddo. “She can sleep in our room, and we’ll come out to the barn.”

  And so Teresa went into the other bedroom, and the boys went to the barn.

  They put Emilio on the mattress, and the three older boys pushed together straw and fell into a heap. But soon enough, Emilio crawled in on top of them.

  Roberto’s right arm was wet. Emilio had fallen asleep crying. It was March 22. Ivano had been dead for ten days. He’d never grow up. Or maybe he had. That letter seemed grown up.

  In another month, Roberto would turn fifteen. And in a month Roberto would have been at this 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.

  14

  RINA LOOKED AT TERESA. “Stay at least a few more days.”

  Teresa helped serve breakfast. “There’s work to do.”

  “For my sake,” said Rina. And she put her hands on a chair back and leaned forward and cried. She had been crying on and off since Sunday night. It was now Tuesday morning. Angelo and Emilio had left for school. They didn’t want to go, but Rina said they had to. One day home was enough. It would be better for them to go back to their routine. For all of them. They all had to keep moving.

  Roberto and Manfreddo were getting ready for a day of ploughing. It hadn’t rained on Monday. That meant the earth was soft, but no longer muddy. The best conditions for ploughing. They would probably finish today, if they could just manage to keep their minds on the job. If they didn’t let sorrow immobilize them.

  Teresa wore her hair in two tight braids. One had fallen over her shoulder when she put the bowl of hot milk in front of Roberto. Now she lifted the tips of both braids and tied them over the top of her head. “Manfreddo, are there any clothes Angelo has outgrown in this house?”

  “What? Sure. Mamma saves everything.”

  “All right, then.” Teresa kissed Rina on the cheek. “One more day. But only if you let me help in the field.”

  Manfreddo took the long-bladed hoe and went to the field on the slope of the hill. And, so, Roberto found himself beside Teresa, pushing and pulling the oxen. With a hat covering her tied braids, she seemed like one of the brothers. And she worked like one, too. Her strength surprised him. Roberto realized he didn’t know anything about her. She had hardly talked since she got here. “Did you grow up on a farm?” he asked.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “The less you know, the less they can get out of you if they torture you.”

  Who would come to this farm to torture him? Torture seemed a world away from this valley. And there was something missing from Teresa’s argument. “What would it matter if I knew about how you grew up?”

  “One bit of information here, another there, a third over there—you put them together and you figure out someone’s family.” Teresa wiped dirt and sweat from her face and looked at Roberto with disgust. “You really don’t know squat about this war, do you? If the Germans had found out anything about Gufo’s family, they’d have come and burned down the farmhouse. Rina and Manfreddo and Angelo and Emilio—they’d all be dead now. This is true.”

  Roberto did too know things about this war. More than he wished he knew. But there was no point in arguing. “Gufo?” he said, instead. Who was Gufo? It was such a strange name—it meant “owl.”

  “Ivano. Many of the partigiani have a nome di guerra—a war name. The name of an animal, or maybe of a legendary hero, like Orlando, or maybe a natural phenomenon like Terremoto—‘earthquake.’ It’s what you go by, to keep everyone safe.”

  “Safe? Who’s safe in the middle of war?” Roberto said with challenge in his voice.

  Teresa lugged at an ox. “We keep one another’s spirits safe. As for the body . . . well, it’s going to die sooner or later anyway. But we do what we can to protect it. We don’t tell what doesn’t need to be told.”

  “Ivano told you his real name.”

  “Gufo knew I’d die rather than give him up.”

  And it dawned on Roberto. Of course. “Are you Volpe Rossa—the red fox in his letter?”

  “No one outside the partigiani knows our war names.” They reached the end of the row. Roberto turned the oxen around, to start the last row of the field. “How do you keep one another’s spirits safe?”

  Teresa rubbed her throat. Then she opened her mouth and sang,

  “Soffia il vento, urla la bufera,

  Scarpe rotte, eppur bisogna andar

  A conquistare la rossa primavera

  Dove sorge il sol dell’avvenir.”

  “The wind blows hard—the storm howls—shoes are ruined—but still we must keep going.” Her voice was neither clear nor in tune. But the words were fingers, closing around Roberto’s heart. She sang of conquering the spring, where the sun of the future rises. She sang of every little neighborhood being the home of rebels, every woman helping, stars guiding, hearts and arms strong in the fight. But she didn’t stop there. The words painted naked truth: she sang that if death should get you, the partigiani would avenge you. She sang that their fate was surely harsh, in the face of the evil they were chasing. And then she sang of the wind ceasing, the storm calming, and the proud partigiano going home, with his red flag unfurling, and all of us victorious, free in the end.

  Roberto couldn’t speak, his heart hurt so much.

  “The Garibaldi Brigade in the northwest—up
in Piemonte—they sing that. And it spread. Now all of us sing it.”

  “Sing it again,” said Roberto. “Teach me.”

  That night Roberto took Teresa on a long walk, all the way to the hill that Ivano and Angelo had taken him to last autumn. They stayed for hours. No Nazi trucks passed on the road below. But it didn’t matter. Roberto knew they were out there.

  “Have you been far north?” asked Roberto.

  “I helped organize the biggest strike—the one at the Fiat plant in Turin last spring. We stopped the city’s economy, the whole Fascist machine, for a day. And I sounded the sirens to announce the strike. I did it myself.” Her voice rang with pride. “The Fascists didn’t want the rest of Italy to know how hard we were fighting against the war up north. They squelched all information about the strikes. You probably didn’t even hear about it.”

  Roberto hadn’t heard about it, no, but not because of Fascist censorship. He hadn’t even been in Italy then. “Have you been to Venice? Are there lots of Germans there?”

  “All of northeast Italy is a German stronghold. It’s supposed to be under Mussolini’s leadership, but he’s just a puppet for Hitler.”

  “I thought Mussolini was in prison.”

  “You really know nothing. The Nazis broke into that prison way back in September. They set Mussolini up at Salò as the true head of Italy. So now there are two Italys: the republic aligned with the Allies, led by the king and his General Badoglio. And the Fascist dictatorship aligned with the Nazis, led by Mussolini. And both of them are crippled.”

  Roberto pressed one fist inside the other hand. Salò wasn’t far from Venice. “Are there partigiani in Venice, too?”

  “There are partigiani everywhere. You find good people everywhere.”

  Roberto let himself fall onto his back. A rock dug into his shoulder. “What’s a girl doing in the partigiani?”