Miracle at St. Anna (Movie Tie-in) (13 page)

“Mother of Jesus,”
the old man said, backing away and crossing himself.

The giant stepped inside, followed by three more heavily armed dark men. All four were huge, even the smallest of them was bigger than every Italian in the room, and dripping wet. Stamps was the last to enter. He quickly looked around the room at the gawking Italians, then barked at Bishop. “Keep watch outside while we find out the deal here.”

Bishop said, “Man, I ain't staying out there by myself.”

Stamps ignored him and looked at the room of staring Italians again. He closed the door behind him and spoke to Hector. “Tell them we're Americans.”

“Americanos,”
Hector said.

The room looked to Renata. She'd studied English in Florence and spoke it better than anyone else in town. Renata sat gaping at the giant Negro with the odd statue's head beneath his arm. He was so tall he'd had to crouch down when he entered the house, and he stayed crouched, his gigantic head swiveling slowly back and forth, moving like the head of a dinosaur as he gazed around. She could not stop herself from staring. She could not shut her mouth. She could not remember a word of English.

Stamps saw the room looking at Renata and settled his eyes on her. Sitting at the table dressed in men's clothes, her small hands open, palm up on the table, her long black hair tucked underneath her cap giving her the look of a souped-up car, her mouth wide open in shock, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. Her huge black eyes looked like globes between olive-shaped, slitted lids as her stunned gaze zipped from one of them to the other. Stamps had never seen anything like that, a woman dressed like a man, and so beautiful underneath it. He noted with appreciation the hips and thighs that lay casually against the cloth of the baggy pants she wore, and he tried not to stare. He was exhausted and thought perhaps he was dreaming.

He spoke to Hector. “Ask her where the Germans are.”

Hector complied.

Renata blinked and caught her breath. She stared at Train, whose weight made the floor under his feet sag. She was worried that the giant Negro would step into the bedroom and fall through the floor into her father's rabbits, which everybody knew about. The floor groaned under Train's giant feet. Finally, Renata spoke to Hector. “Are you staying long?”

The three Americans looked for translation to Hector, who paused. Hector was fluent in Italian. In addition to speaking the classic Italian of the Army's translations school, he'd spent plenty of time with Italians back in Spanish Harlem, where his family had moved from San Juan. From the age of ten until he joined the Army, he'd spent half his weekends getting the shit kicked out of him by Italian kids and the other half beating their brains out, but he'd never seen any as pretty as this one who sat at the table dressed in men's clothing. Instead of translating, he said, “No. We just dropped by 'cause his tailor lives nearby.” He nodded at Bishop. Several Italians in the room, including Ettora, two twin cockeyed teenage girls named Ultima and Ultimissima, and a rail-thin woman named Fat Margherita laughed.

Stamps snapped, “What's so goddamn funny, Hector? Ask the woman where's the Germans.” He looked at Renata. “Where's the Germans?
Dove tedeschi?
” He said it loud, as if talking louder would make her understand. The room silenced in fear.

Renata sized him up. Long, thin, angular, he was taller than the two who stood behind him, and she guessed he must the lieutenant,
il tenente.
Hector, with his pointed nose, smooth hair, cleft chin, and smaller stature seemed more Latin. The other dark Negro behind him, with gold teeth, dimples, and sparkling eyes, reaching for his cigarettes, had a coolness, a slickness about him that was exciting, but she instinctively didn't trust him. He reminded her of the jazz music she had once heard in Florence—it was gorgeous, but it could lead to too many bad places. No, the one who knocked her down was the lean
tenente
still glaring at her, all business. He was, she decided, very beautiful. Long arms, wide shoulders, deep hazel-brown eyes, skin the color of chestnuts, his face illuminated by the glow of the warm fire. Even frowning, she thought, he was the most exotic thing she'd ever seen. She suddenly wished she was wearing a dress. She pointed at the window. “Everywhere,” she said.

Stamps nodded toward Train. “The boy needs help.”

“What boy?” she said.

He motioned and Train undid his field jacket, revealing the shivering child underneath. He was pale and drenched, breath wheezing out of him, his eyes fluttering, rolling back and forth up into his skull.

The sight of him prompted a flurry of motion from Ettora, Fat Marguerita, and the cockeyed twins, who gathered in close, standing on tiptoe. One of the twins tried to take the boy from Train's arms.

Train drew back. “Naw,” he said. The women surrounding him began to chatter at Renata in high-speed Italian.

“Where did you find him?” Renata asked Hector. She was having a hard time making her brain function.

“Down the mountain a ways. Who is he?”

“I don't know. He can stay here till he gets better.”

Hector translated for Stamps, who waited impatiently. Stamps shook his head.

“He ain't gonna get no better. He needs to get to a hospital. We're taking him. You all can come. You gotta evacuate the area anyway 'cause of the Germans. Fightin's gonna get hot 'round here once the division arrives. We'll escort you down the mountains.”

This translation sparked another wave of chatter. Finally, Hector said, “She says she's not leaving, and neither are they. If you want to know more, talk to
il parroco
at the church up the hill.”

“We just been there,” Stamps said. “Nothing there but a wacko.”

Hector translated. The villagers looked at one another for a moment. Renata fired off a burst of Italian.

“She says there's no man up there. That's the St. Anna church and the convent behind it. Just four nuns live there. She says there hasn't been a man inside that convent for three hundred years.”

“Well, he musta snuck in there and filled up on three hundred years' worth of nooky then, 'cause who was that we seen up there, Butterbeans and Suzy?” Stamps said.

The four men laughed. Ettora the witch turned and approached Stamps. Being almost blind, she nearly fell over a chair, so she pivoted, wheeled, and headed straight again, nearly falling on him. She was so tiny that her head only reached his ribs. She pointed a finger at his ribs, her bracelets shaking as she spoke in broken English. “That's Eugenio. Crazy man. No see Father?”

From across the room, Ludovico watched silently, his heart pounding. He had to hand it to Ettora. She was brave. He wouldn't touch that big man with a flagpole.

Stamps said, “Don't know nuthing about no father,
signora.
Now I can make y'all go, but I ain't gonna. The boy needs a hospital, though.”

Ettora poked him in the ribs again with a finger that felt like a sharp stick. “Boy is here.”

“What's up? This kid might die.”

Renata stepped forward and said, “Where you take him?”

“Hospital.”

The young woman shook her head and spoke for a few moments in Italian, pointing out the window, and Hector's face clouded. “She says there's Germans on all sides of us as far as she knows: Vergemoli, Callomini, Mt. Caula, all the way up to Barga and down to the Cinquale. She don't know how we got past Ruosina, but she says the only way to Barga, where the Americans might be, is through that mountain pass.” He pointed out the window to Mt. Cavallo, the Mountain of the Sleeping Man.

The four looked out the window at the dark, pouring rain. Stamps imagined the mountain was like Mt. Everest.

“All right. Then we stay here till the weather breaks. Then we move out.”

Bishop's face furrowed into a grimace. “Move out where? You heard what she said.”

“Bishop, you think too much.”

“Okay, when they come for you, I'll write your folks. I ain't gettin' on any goddamn mountain and getting killed. We should stay here till help comes.”

“How do we know help's coming?” Stamps snapped. “Nokes probably told 'em we're dead. I'm not gonna sit here pootin' chalk and waiting for the Germans to roll up and do the boogie-jump on me. Maybe these people are with them. Maybe the Germans were following us. They might be watching us right now, for all we know. The canal wasn't no fuckin' surprise to them, that's for sure.”

Hector spoke out. “This ain't the Cinquale Canal, Lieutenant. Shit, this is a new world up here.”

Stamps hated this but knew Hector was right. He fought his own panic. Division would look for them, or maybe not. Till they heard otherwise, they were on their own.

“All right, then. We lay low till tomorrow and try to charge up the radio. The batteries are dead. Ask if they got electricity. Maybe we can charge it up someway.”

Hector complied, and Renata chirped out a response. Stamps watched as Ludovico glared at his daughter, then rose sleepily from his chair, yawned, and grinned, showing one shining front tooth in an otherwise toothless mouth.

“She says her old man here knows how to get some.”

Bishop stared at Ludovico, his tattered vest, his shock of white hair, his toothless grin, his one gleaming front tooth.

“Wow,” he said to the others. “This one here could get a job snapping holes in doughnuts.” He smiled at Ludovico. “With chompers like that, ain't no hambone in the world 'fraid of you, is it, old-timer?”

The soldiers laughed. Ludovico, not understanding, grinned harder and nodded back, trying to show he was friendly. He had never seen Americans before. Whether they were really Americans or devils, he wasn't sure. Either way, he knew he was in deep trouble if that big one took two steps back into his bedroom and fell through the floor.

“Cut out the foolin',” Stamps barked. “We gotta think of a plan to call back to division and get the fuck outta here.” He turned to Hector. “Ask the
signorina
where we can stay. Then tomorrow the old-timer will show us how to use the electric.”

“No stay here,” Renata said.

“
Sì,
stay here!” Stamps hissed.
“Americano. Bosso.
American government pay for your whole house.”

Hector translated, and the women in the room snickered. Stupid American, Renata thought bitterly, staring at Stamps. He didn't understand Italians at all. Mr. Big Shot. Ten minutes ago she would have flung him down and made love to him right on the floor, she was so happy to see him. Now she couldn't stand him. If the Germans caught any of them helping the Americans, they all would be punished and his cute chestnut skin wouldn't mean a thing. Instead of speaking English to Stamps, she spoke to Hector, who translated.

“She wants to know are there more of us.”

Bishop piped up, “Hell yeah, honey. I know fourteen niggers in St. Louis alone, and two of 'em's waiting to be adopted.”

Stamps said, “Bishop, if you don't stop banging your gums I'm gonna kick your ass right here.”

Bishop stared at him dully. Stamps, he thought, was a yellow Washington, D.C., high-breed, an educated nigger know-it-all, and now he was taking advantage of the situation to show he was boss in front of all the Italian whiteys. He made note of this for future reference and said nothing.

Stamps spoke to Hector. “Tell her we need to sleep someplace.”

Hector translated, and Renata snapped a response at him. Hector replied, “She says there's a house not far; just outside, beyond the wall to the right, around the corner. It has a big cross on the front door. The old man will take us there. That's Eugenio's house, the crazy man we seen up at the church.”

The four Americans looked at Renata, who shrugged and said, “He doesn't sleep inside. He sleeps outside St. Anna church with his family.”

“I thought you said there was nobody there,” Hector said.

“His family is buried there. Three
bambini.
His wife.
Tedeschi. Boom-boom.
”

Renata stepped gingerly toward Train, stood on her tiptoes, and gently reached toward the boy, who still lay in his arms, limp and trembling, but the giant drew back. “It's all right, miss, I got 'im.”

Stamps watched Renata staring at Train, her cap tipped just so, her face barely reaching his massive chest. The head of the
Primavera
was stuck under Train's arm, his shoulders were so huge that the M-1 rifle slung across his back looked like a toothpick, the boy was so tiny in his arms he looked like a balled-up Chihuahua. It made quite an impression.

“Tell her it's all right, Hector,” Train stammered.

Hector's translation landed on the woman with no discernible effect. She said, “Tell your
tenente
the boy belongs here.”

Stamps already understood. “Cool down,
signorina.
We ain't going noplace. Train, give her the kid. They can take better care of 'im than you.”

Train, his tall frame bent inside the tiny crowded house with all the white people staring at him, felt cramped and confused. He swayed like a colossal tower, leaning over, trying to make sense of it all. This wasn't what he'd had in mind. Suppose these people were with the Germans, like the Italian mule skinners he had seen at the Cinquale? This boy had brought him luck. This boy had the power. Train had to pay him back some way. It all needed clearing up. “I done found 'im, lieutenant. I can takes care of him for now. Hector gived me some powder to give him.” Train pulled a packet of sulfa powder out of his breast pocket and waved it in the air.