Street Boys (10 page)

22

16TH PANZER DIVISION HEADQUARTERS
FIFTEEN MILES OUTSIDE OF NAPLES. SEPTEMBER 26, 1943

Colonel Von Klaus sat on a soft folding chair, feet stretched out, the heels of his boots resting on top of an empty wine crate. He was reading a two-week-old newspaper, its pages crammed with stories that regaled the German people with tales of victorious battles that never happened and the panicked attempts by the Allies to halt Hitler in his tracks. There was no mention of the thousands of bodies lying dead, frozen victims of the Russian winter and an army that thrived under brutal conditions. There were no columns devoted to the advances made by the British and American forces throughout Italy, as they eased their way into reclaiming the country from German hands. Nothing was written of England’s resolve not to cave to the pressure of the German assault, its people hanging on to their country despite a pounding that would have caused others to easily raise high the flag of surrender.

German tanks and trucks were short on fuel and in need of fresh tires to continue to mount their massive dual campaigns. Army morale was at its lowest point since the start of the war and the supply runs of food and water had slowed to a trickle. The once-feared Luftwaffe, the centerpiece of Hitler’s war machine, was running on low throttle, its pilots flying off into battle with engines in drastic need of repair, their weapon hatches filled as much with propaganda leaflets as with bombs. Von Klaus folded the newspaper in half and tossed it to the ground, weary of the lies that had replaced the reality of Germany’s fate.

Von Klaus leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, anxious for this current mission to come to a close and curious as to what the future held in store for both him and his family. He knew his life in the military would soon be at an end. A postwar defeated Germany would be a poor home for a career soldier, even if a fraction of the atrocities he had heard about were proven true. He was too poor to pursue a life of leisure and ill-suited for much else beyond a battlefield campaign. He was a man grounded in the ways of a soldier, comfortable in command, at ease with the orders dispatched by unseen faces. In all likelihood, Von Klaus reasoned, his future would be mapped out by events out of his control, his choices and his new way of life, if there was even to be one, left to the whim of strangers.

Von Klaus opened his eyes when he heard the footsteps.

He stared at the disheveled boy standing in front of him, Kunnalt by his side. “Who is your new friend?” he asked.

“A former prisoner of the juvenile jail in Naples,” Kunnalt said. “He was freed during the evacuation. He walked into camp a short while ago, said he had information we could use before we move our tanks into Naples.”

Von Klaus looked across at the boy. He appeared more rugged in manner than many of the other children he had seen wandering the side roads, lost and adrift. His eyes were harder, his demeanor harsh, his gaze cold and steady. “Why would you want to help us?” Von Klaus asked him, speaking again in Italian.

“I want the war to end,” the boy answered. “Helping you will make that happen faster.”

“What’s your name?” Von Klaus asked, lowering his feet and sitting up in the chair.

“Carlo Petroni,” the boy said. “I lived in Piazza Mercato with my family before the war.”

“Why were you sent to prison?” Von Klaus asked.

“I was guilty of the crime of hunger,” Carlo said with a shrug. “I had no food and there was no money, so I took what I needed from those who had it. I don’t apologize for what I did and I wasn’t the only one in Naples to steal what I ate.”

“I don’t like thieves,” Von Klaus said. “They not only steal, they lie. Which will put into doubt anything you tell me.”

“You’ll kill me if I lie,” Carlo said. “And being found dead is not part of my plan.”

“I can easily have the information beaten out of you,” Von Klaus said. “That usually saves time and guarantees that what I hear will be the truth.”

“I wasn’t dragged here,” Carlo said. “I walked in and chose to tell you what I know, not the Americans and not any of the resistance fighters.”

“And why are we your chosen ones?” Von Klaus asked, voice dripping sarcasm.

“I stand a better chance to make a profit working with you,” Carlo said. “The Americans don’t care to pay for information and the resistance fighters expect it for free.”

“And what makes you think I’ll be so free with my money?” Von Klaus asked.

“What I have to say is worth more to you than to the others,” Carlo said. “You and your men are the ones in danger and, if you care about them, you’ll pay to save their lives.”

Von Klaus walked over to the boy, the two exchanging hard glances, then turned to Kunnalt. “I know he’s not to be trusted,” he said in German. “What I don’t know is if he can be believed.”

“He’s a criminal, sir,” Kunnalt says. “If it is hidden and a danger, he would be the first to hear of it. Especially given the current condition of the city.”

Von Klaus nodded and rested a hand on Carlo’s shoulder. “I’ll pay for your information,” he said. “And you’ll pay if it turns out to be wrong. And the price I extract will be much higher. Are we clear?”

“Only a fool would refuse such an offer,” Carlo said.

Von Klaus glared at Carlo for several moments then turned his back, staring down a grassy ravine toward the city. “Tell me what you think is so vital for me to know,” he said.

Carlo took a deep breath, wiped at his brow with the sleeve of his torn wool shirt. He had been living on the streets long enough to be aware that he was about to take a huge risk. The German had not yet extended any payment, let alone told him how much he would receive. There was no guarantee that he would even pay. It would be easy for the colonel to listen to what Carlo had to say and then have him shot, dumping his body along the deserted road. On the other hand, if he said nothing, the German would shoot him just for wasting his time. Carlo was more at home doing business with thieves his own age or older members of the Camorra. While he could never run the risk of trusting them, he had seldom walked away from a deal with the short end of the bargain. But this was his first business transaction with a German officer. He knew how little respect the Nazis had for the people of Naples, branding them all as liars and cheats. Nazi bombs and guns had cost 400,000 Neapolitans their lives. One dead street thief wouldn’t be much cause for concern.

“The streets of Naples are not as empty as you think,” Carlo said, taking a hard swallow. “You could be taking your tanks into trouble. Not enough to cost you your mission, but enough to cost you some men.”

“Who is there to cause us any trouble?” Von Klaus asked, turning back to the boy. “The reports from the advance teams speak of nothing other than smatterings of elderly and children running loose.”

“Some of those boys are staying behind to fight,” Carlo said. “They may be armed. They’ll be fighting you on streets they know well, and they can find places to hide where even your best men will get lost searching them out.”

“How many boys and how heavily armed?” Von Klaus asked.

“Last I heard there were about two hundred,” Carlo said. “By the time your tanks come into Naples, that number could go up.”

“And their weapons?”

“Hunting rifles, mostly,” Carlo said, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets, sensing the colonel’s interest and growing in confidence that he had made the right choice. “A few handguns and enough bullets to keep both going for a few days.”

Von Klaus walked over to the boy, a determined manner in each step, a glint of anger flashing across his tanned face. “Why aren’t you with them?” he asked. “Why aren’t you getting ready to fight me?”

“I’ve never been with them,” Carlo said with icy detachment. “They’re young and listen to those who ask them to fight for stupid reasons. Reasons that will get them killed. I fight for myself and only if the price is right.”

“And what price have you placed on your betrayal?” Von Klaus asked.

“Five thousand lira,” Carlo said. “That will be enough to help me and my friends buy our way out of Naples. And for three rifles and three ammo belts, protection against anyone who tries to stop us.”

“What if the ones trying to stop you are wearing German uniforms?” Von Klaus asked. “Will you kill them, too?”

Carlo smiled and shook his head, quick to sense the colonel’s unease. He was having a difficult time measuring Von Klaus. He was used to dealing with men who let the rush of their emotions rule their power to reason. They would also have very little interest in him, keeping their focus mainly on what he knew that might help them. But Von Klaus wanted both. He was looking to wrest free what Carlo could tell him, but he also wanted to walk away knowing the full weight of the motives behind the sale of such information. It was, Carlo decided, what separated the soldier from the criminal.

“There would be no need for me to kill them,” Carlo finally said. “Not after I told them that we were friends.”

“It would be a lie,” Von Klaus said.

“But one that would help keep me alive.”

“Perhaps. That’s all that matters to people like you in time of war, isn’t it? Staying alive.”

“It’s all that matters at any time,” Carlo said. “In battle or out. Staying alive is always the final goal.”

“Then you have achieved your goal,” Von Klaus told him. “At least for today. My aide will pay you your money. It’s a large sum, enough for you to buy your rifles and ammo from someone other than me. You’ll take the same path out of my camp you took in and there’ll be no need for any further contact.”

“What if I hear of something you might want to know?” Carlo asked, pushing past the limit of his luck. “I can get word to you in less than a day.”

“Look at me!” Von Klaus commanded in a voice loud enough to catch the attention of the soldiers milling about the surrounding tanks. “Take a good look and remember it. If I ever see you again, it will only be to kill you.”

Von Klaus turned and walked up a hill, toward a makeshift tent resting alongside his tank. He glanced over his shoulder and watched as the late afternoon sun spread its warmth across the edge of the Bay of Naples.

23

CATACOMBE DI SAN GENNARO, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943

Steve Connors walked quietly inside the centuries-old tomb of the patron saint of Naples, marveling at the large two-story web of galleries, which also housed the remains of countless bishops. He stared up at the mosaics and frescoes, impressed with their beauty and intricate design. He rested his pack and rifle against a corner wall and ran a hand against the cold stone, which had not crumbled despite the many years that passed and the thousands of bombs that fell. The weight of his footsteps echoed against the stillness of the empty chamber as he made his way through the shrouded darkness, inching slowly across the grounds Neapolitans held as sacred. He settled on a cool corner step, his back chilled against the smooth carvings of angels and saints.

He had wandered in, looking for a silent place to clear his head and plan his moves. He was now in the middle of a different mission than the one Captain Anders had sent him on and he needed time alone. The search and find would turn up empty, that he knew to be true. Any Americans operating in Naples were now either dead or heading toward the safety net of Allied lines. He realized that the minute he met the four boys sitting in his jeep. He knew not just from what they said, but from the way they looked at him and the manner in which they stared at his uniform, at the grenade patches on his sleeve and at the Native American Thunderbird etched on his shoulder. So, as far as Connors was concerned, that door was sealed.

But now he was stuck with an even bigger issue. What they wanted to do went beyond logic and common sense and strayed into the rougher terrain of passion. Those boys wanted to fight not because some officer higher up the ranks had ordered them to. They wanted to fight because the Nazis had left them stripped raw and vulnerable and frightened. They were cornered innocents, holding rusty guns and makeshift bombs, the pain they carried in their hearts their most valuable ammunition. But Connors knew that no matter how valiant the cause, theirs was a hopeless dream whose reality would end with bodies left to rot on empty streets.

Connors had no proof the Nazis were coming back to Naples. The leaflets that had been dropped could easily have been a ruse to frighten any strays out of the city. From his eyes, there simply was no reason for them to return. The city was desolate, huge chunks of it destroyed, no water or power was available for miles and no one patrolled its borders but a straggle of wanna-be soldiers. In all likelihood the only troops who would come marching back into Naples would be members of his own unit, fast on the heels of Montgomery’s British forces.

His initial instinct had been to motor up to Salerno, get a couple of trucks in tow, come back, round up the boys and bring them to safety. But that idea involved risk. He could face a delay at headquarters, or even worse, not be given authority to bring in the trucks and the drivers to rescue abandoned street kids. And besides, by the time he drove back into Naples, the boys would be scattered and hidden in places where no one would find them. He looked around at the dark figures staring down at him and knew he was on a fool’s mission.

“Most of what’s written on the plaques is not true.”

It was the voice of the young woman he had met by the pier, fresh and soft, standing off to his left, half-hidden by the shadows.

“Such as?” Connors asked.

“The body of San Gennaro is not buried here, like the signs say.” Her English was choppy, but easy to understand. “Only his head. It’s upstairs, in the rear chapel, up against a back wall.”

“What about this business about the flowing blood?” Connors asked. “That’s not on the level, either?”

“Depends on who you ask,” the woman said. “My grandmother swore on it to the very day she died. My father scoffs and laughs and says it is nothing more than the crazy rantings of a silly religion.”

“Which side do you fall on?” Connors asked, charmed by her voice, eager to see the face and body behind it.

“When I was little, I’d go with my grandmother to church on the three days of the year when San Gennaro’s blood would flow,” she said. “I never saw anything, but the old people acted as if they did. It made them happy. I guess that’s all that really matters.”

“It says on one of these that he’s the protector of your city,” Connors said. “Even I know that’s a lie.”

“He’s a saint,” the woman said. “Not a savior.”

“And what about you?” Connors asked. “What do you do when you’re not giving out history lessons?”

The girl stepped out of the shadows and walked closer to Connors, the wooden heels of her clogs clapping against the stone floor. She was tall and thin and as beautiful as any woman he had ever seen. It was a pure beauty, untouched and untamed, refusing to surrender an inch to the poverty and madness that thrived around her. She wore a pale blue dress, and her hair hung thick and loose, resting easily on top of her shoulders. Her lips were full and rich. But it was her eyes that locked Connors in. They were at once sweet and sexual, shining like candles in a darkened harbor. “I can help you,” she said.

“What’s your name?”

“Nunzia.” The young woman fleshed out the smile and offered him a hand to shake.

Connors reached for her hand, gently wrapping his fingers around her soft skin. He held her until Nunzia slowly pulled her hand free. “I was named after my father’s mother,” she said. “She was one of the first women in Naples to run her own business. It was a large bakery just outside the city limits. She took it over after my grandfather died and kept it going until the war started.”

“My grandmother had her own business, too, back home,” Connors said. “My family never liked to talk about it all that much, but I was always proud of her for doing what she did.”

“What kind of business was it?”

“My grandma Helen was a bootlegger,” Connors said. “She made illegal whiskey up in the Kentucky hills, sold it to the farmhands and factory workers in the area. She used her sons, my father one of them, as the runners. My dad used to hand out the jars and pick up the cash. She did well, too. Made a lot of money in her time. Most of which she used to put her boys through school.”

“Your grandma would have done well in Naples,” Nunzia said. “Here, the men are the ones who give out the commands, but it is the women who enforce the rules.”

“Where does that leave those kids?” he asked, standing close enough to smell a sweet mixture of black market soap mingled with natural beads of sweat.

“What do you expect them to do?” Nunzia asked, taking a few steps closer toward the stone walls. “Why should they listen to you? Every uniform they’ve ever seen, including the Italian, has only caused them loss and pain. It helps make their choice a clear one. Some will flee and hide, wait to be rescued. But most will stay behind and fight if there is someone to fight.”

“I can’t let that happen,” Connors said, in a firm voice.

“I don’t know your name,” she said, her voice soothing and warm in the stillness of the dark room.

“Connors,” he said. “Steve Connors.”

“And why do you care so much, Steve Connors?” Nunzia asked. “We mean nothing to you. We’re just another city in another country for you to march through with your tanks and your flag.”

“They’re just kids,” Connors said. “They’re not soldiers, no matter how many old rifles you put in their hands. And if the Nazis come, they will die. All that’s going to be left for you to do, then, will be to find fresh ground to bury them in.”

“They are close to dead, already,” Nunzia said. “You look into their eyes and you can see it. If there is a battle, it will be more than a chance for them to die. It will be a chance for them to live. I won’t help you take that from them. They have paid the price for that right.”

Connors stared at Nunzia and shook his head, running a bare hand across the back of his neck. “How would your patron saint feel about all of this?” he asked.

“If you believe in San Gennaro, you believe in miracles,” Nunzia said.