Street Boys (4 page)

8

PIAZZA PLEBISCITO, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943

Vincenzo stood in the center of the largest square in Naples, surrounded by the Palazzo Royale and the church of San Francisco di Paola. Hundreds of children were spread throughout the square, waiting for some direction, some voice to tell them what to do. Franco and Angela walked past the crowd and stood across from Vincenzo, their backs cooled by the shadows of a large statue.

“I counted twenty-three knives and four handguns,” Franco said. “One of them looks like it works.”

“A map of the city would be a good thing to have,” Vincenzo said.

“So would more guns,” Angela said.

“We need to keep the youngest children out of sight,” Vincenzo said. “We don’t know what’s coming and when, but we have to keep them safe. They should have gone to the hills.”

“We can use them as messengers if we need to,” Franco said. “Nothing more than that.”

Vincenzo walked around the large square, staring at the ground, gazing under piles of rubble, looking down at shattered cobblestones. “Not every bomb the Nazis dropped on us exploded. There are at least a dozen here in the square.”

“If we can find some carts, we can gather them up,” Franco said.

“How do you know the bombs will be of any use?” Angela asked. “They didn’t explode when they were dropped from a plane. What are we going to do?
Slide
them toward the Germans?”

“I have no idea,” Vincenzo said, with a voice filled with weary irritation. “All I know is they are bombs and that they do explode.”

Angela turned and sat under the shadow of the bronze statue of King Ferdinand I, leaning her back against the cold marble. “You haven’t said anything about me being a girl,” she said.

“What’s there to say?” Vincenzo said with a slight shrug. “You want to stay, you can stay. Girl or not.”

“Would you turn me away if you could?” she asked.

“You’re not the first girl to fight for Naples,” Vincenzo said. “Eleonora Fonseca fought in the rebellion in 1799. Did pretty well, too, at least from what I read about her. She helped in the victory that made the city a republic.”

Angela nodded her head. “What else do you know about her?”

Vincenzo walked closer to Angela, a sparkle in his eyes. “She had her moments,” he said. “When the Cardinal came to power, he had the leaders of the uprising punished. He ordered Fonseca taken to the Piazza Mercato. She was put on a scaffold and executed.”

Vincenzo glanced over Angela’s shoulder and winked at Franco. “Cheer up,” he said to her. “Nazis don’t use scaffolds.”

“How many of them will there be?” Angela asked, a slight trace of fear creeping into her diffident manner.

“We won’t know until they’re back in the city,” Vincenzo said. “If they really do come back.”

Angela looked around her, at the boys and girls spread throughout the square, sitting under the warmth of a loving sun. “How do we keep them alive?” she asked.

Vincenzo stayed silent for several minutes before answering. “The streets are our best weapon,” he said. “We use what they give us. The dark alleys and the paths under the sewers. Hidden walkways inside churches and museums. Tunnels outside the railroad station, guard towers of Saint Efremo, castle grottos that lead out to sea. If we use all that, we can fight and never be seen. We’ll be an invisible army. One that can beat the Nazis.”

“
Beat
them!” Franco said with an air of frustration. “Entire
armies
couldn’t beat them. They’ve killed over four hundred thousand Neapolitans and none of us has even
seen
a German soldier except from a distance. But you can talk about beating them with an invisible army of children. The words of one lunatic put us in this place, Vincenzo. I’m not ready for the words of another.”

“It’s been tried before,” Vincenzo said. “Against an army just as formidable.”

“When?” Franco asked.

“The sixteen hundreds, during the Spanish rule,” Vincenzo said, “a young fishseller named Aniello led a band of rebels against Ponce De Leon. They were short on weapons, but used what they had and fought well. Not very different from what faces us.”

“What happened to them?” Angela asked.

“They were betrayed,” Vincenzo said, jamming his hands in his pockets. “And Aniello was captured. The Spanish cut up his body and tossed it on top of a large pile of cow shit.”

Franco looked at Vincenzo and grinned. Angela leaned her head down and covered her mouth.

“What?” Vincenzo asked.

“If you’re going to keep telling us these stories of yours,” Angela said, “it might be nice if one of them, just one, ended on a happy note.”

9

16TH PANZER DIVISION, FIFTY MILES OUTSIDE OF ROME
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943

Colonel Rudolph Von Klaus raised his head up to the warm sun, helmet resting on the edge of the tank, goggles loose around his neck. He found the ride down the coastline, dotted with farmlands and vineyards, a peaceful one and a welcome break from the toils of war. His troops seemed equally invigorated, each soldier eager to complete his mission in Naples and head home for some promised relief. He wondered what they would find back in Germany. Would their cities and towns be as battered as those they had crushed in Italy? Would their people be as withered and beaten down, as weary as the Italians he encountered, who seemed to have surrendered their very souls to a lost cause? No one, Von Klaus believed, could comprehend the cost of war more than a military man, and no one bore its damaging effects more than an innocent civilian. He was relieved it would all soon be at an end.

He caught the movement behind the large bush out of a corner of his eye.

Von Klaus tapped one hand on the inside lid of the tank and reached for his revolver with the other. The machine-gun unit shifted under him, moving slowly to its right, the bush in its target sites. “Draw him out,” Von Klaus said in a calm voice.

Six machine-gun rounds pelted at the dirt around the bush, kicking up small armies of dust and rocks. Within seconds, two small, thin arms were raised up, barely visible beyond the lush leaves of the bush. “Hold fire,” Von Klaus ordered.

Von Klaus watched as a barefoot boy in shorts and a dirty white T-shirt stepped out from behind the bush and walked toward his tank, arms still raised. The boy stopped at the edge of a dirt patch, his round face looking up at the colonel. Von Klaus stared down at the boy, momentarily flashing on an image of his own son, and hoped his child would never have to endure such conditions. “How old are you?” Von Klaus asked him. He spoke in a fluent Italian he had quickly mastered during a year spent as a student in Florence.

“Seven,” the boy answered. He spoke without either hesitation or fear.

“And what were you doing back there?” Von Klaus asked.

“Hiding,” the boy said.

The soldiers surrounding him erupted into chuckles and laughter. Von Klaus looked around at his men and then back to the boy. “You’re not very good at it,” he said.

The boy nodded and wiped at the sweat forming along his upper lip with the front of his shoulder, his arms still held high. “Are you a soldier in the Italian army?” Von Klaus asked him.

“No, signor,” the boy said. “I’m too young to be a soldier.”

“Then you’re too young for me to take as prisoner,” Von Klaus said. “So bring your arms to rest.”

The boy did as he was told, his eyes darting around at the soldiers next to him, rifles by their side. “My brother Marco was a soldier,” the boy said, looking back at Von Klaus. “He was in the war in Africa, fighting the English. He was killed there.”

“Who looks after you?” Von Klaus asked.

The boy hesitated, reluctant to reply. He stared at Von Klaus and shook his head. “I don’t need anyone,” he said.

“Your leader would be proud of you,” Von Klaus said, his voice soft and sad. “If he were still in charge. Have you heard the news? About Mussolini?”

“Is he dead?” the boy asked.

“Not yet, but it won’t be much longer,” Von Klaus said. “He’s signed over his command to the Fascist Grand Council. He’s no longer in power. And you no longer need to fight.”

“Are you going to kill me?” the boy asked, the first hint of fear etched in his voice.

“What’s your name?” Von Klaus asked.

“Massimo,” the boy said.

“Why would you ask such a question, Massimo?”

“You’re a Nazi,” Massimo said, his lower lip starting to tremble. “And Nazis killed my mother and father.”

Von Klaus shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to kill you, Massimo. But I am going to give you an order and I expect it to be followed.”

“What kind of an order?”

“I want you to go up deeper into the hills,” Von Klaus said to him. “Find a bigger bush to hide behind. And this time, stay low enough to the ground that you will not be seen from the road. You never know. There might be more Nazis behind me. Can I count on you to follow such an order?”

“Yes,” Massimo said.

“Good,” Von Klaus said. “Spoken like a true soldier.”

The colonel nodded as he and Massimo exchanged a final glance. Then the boy turned and ran back up the sloping hillside, higher and deeper into the coverage than when he had first been found. Von Klaus looked away once the boy was out of sight and caught a disapproving glance from his second-in-command, Sergeant Albert Hartz, standing alongside his tank, arms folded across his massive chest.

“Would you have preferred I shot him dead?” Von Klaus asked.

“He’ll run and tell others our position and where we’re heading,” Hartz said.

“What others? All the other seven-year-olds?” Von Klaus said with a smile. “Nonetheless, inform high command. Let them know there may still be children hiding in the area. That should satisfy any of your concerns.”

“It is still a risk I would not have taken, sir.”

“Then you can take a measure of pride in knowing that you are a better Nazi that I am,” Von Klaus said.

The colonel turned away from Sergeant Hartz, rapped on the side of his tank and looked back up at the hillside as his Division continued its slow descent into Naples.

10

CASTEL DELL’OVO, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943

One hundred boys and girls sat around the castle’s edge. Carlo Maldini stood to the side, the back of his wool shirt soaked with the sweat brought on by the early-morning heat. Nunzia was off to his left, her eyes studying the faces of Vincenzo, Franco and Angela.

“Are you the leader?” Maldini asked Vincenzo.

“I don’t lead anybody,” Vincenzo said. “They followed me.”

“That means they’re looking for you to lead.” Maldini eased himself past Nunzia and stood towering above Vincenzo. “Except in many cases, the good Lord sends bread to those who can’t chew.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Franco asked, looking over at Vincenzo and Angela.

“It means your friend here acts like a leader, even talks like one,” Maldini said. “But he doesn’t think like one.”

“I told you, I’m not anyone’s leader,” Vincenzo said.

“Then why are you here?” Maldini asked. “And why do they follow you? It’s because they heard you talk. But that only gets you so far. Now they need to see you think.”

“We’re making a plan,” Angela said. “Just in case the Nazis do come.”

“Does this plan call for weapons?” Maldini asked. “Or are you just going to stare at the Nazis until they leave?”

“Many of us have knives and a few have handguns,” Vincenzo said. “It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

Maldini turned away from Vincenzo and stared out at the glimmering waters of the bay. “Think back,” he said. “Think to when the Nazis first came to Naples. What is the first thing they did?”

“They took away the guns and rifles our fathers kept,” Franco said.

“That’s right,” Maldini said, glancing over Franco’s shoulder as twenty more boys hustled to join the group. “And they took them where?”

Vincenzo stepped away from Maldini and looked down at the water splashing against the sides of the pier.

“That’s right,” Maldini whispered. “They threw them in the bay.”

“How deep?” Vincenzo asked.

“Fifty feet,” Maldini said. “Seventy-five at the most.”

“Can they still be used?” Angela asked.

“Once they’re dried, cleaned and oiled, they’ll be good as new,” Maldini said. “Maybe a bit rusty, but nothing worse than that.”

“And we get them out how?” Vincenzo asked. “It would take every free hand we have a full day to dive down and bring up each gun. And that’s assuming we were good enough even to do something like that. Then you would need another full day to dry them out. The Nazis might be in the center of the city before one of us would be able to fire off a single shot.”

“You’re not thinking!” Maldini said, between clenched teeth, his index finger jabbing against the side of his temple. “You’re ready to fight any Nazi who might come into Naples, but you don’t even know how to pull guns from still waters.”

Maldini stepped away from the edge of the pier and walked in a tight circle around Vincenzo. “My daughter tells me you are a student of history,” he said to him. “You should know your religion as well.”

Vincenzo glared into Maldini’s eyes, the older man’s harsh words a chilling challenge to the boy, forcing him to look beyond the words and pictures of old schoolbooks and confront the reality of his situation. If the leaflets were right and the Nazis were returning to Naples, it would not be words that would force them to take a step back, but the actions of the children that stood in a circle around them. Vincenzo looked away and glanced at the long row of fishing boats moored to the dock, their oars spread out on the hot ground to dry. “The boats,” he said.

“That’s right,” Maldini said, smiling. “The boats. You will do as the apostles once did. You take the boats out and let the waters fill your nets. Only in place of fish, you pull up guns.”

“Will you stay and help us?” Franco asked.

“It is no longer my war,” Maldini said.

“I will help you,” Nunzia said, arms at her sides, her eyes hard. “And so will my father. It is better for him to drink his wine in the middle of the bay than behind the window of an empty building.”

Maldini stared at his daughter for several moments, then looked at Vincenzo and shrugged. “It is easier to fight a Nazi than go against the wishes of a Neapolitan woman,” he said.