Fire in the Hills

Table of Contents

 

 

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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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

 

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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

 

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

R
OBERTO 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 the 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

S
WIM. 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.