Fire in the Hills (2 page)

He ran faster, almost blindly, beyond the little cluster of buildings that seemed to be all this town was made of. He kept running through dry grasses, across a barren plain. Distance—all he wanted to do was put distance between himself and the crack of rifles, the boom of bombs and cannons. Then he stumbled over something warm and hard—the metal of a rail, a train rail—and he felt like he'd been smacked in the head with reason.

Walking on the ties made good sense. It would be easier on his bare feet. They were already covered with cuts from ragged stones. He wouldn't be able to walk at all if he didn't give them a little protection—the protection the ties could afford. And the rails would eventually lead to Messina, the port town that was closest to the mainland of Italy. From there he'd find a way to cross the strait and head home. This was the answer. Yes.

He followed the tracks at a run, till he missed a tie and fell again, slamming his jaw on the dense wood. He got up and forced himself to move carefully. Formations of planes still passed above. But no one was following him, he was sure of that by now. It was okay to go slow. He picked his way with as much precision as the dark allowed.

The spacing of the ties was regular, and soon the swing of his arms helped him move without thought. His steps were like a pulse—thud, thud, thud—in the beast that was this night.

Morning eventually spread light from his left. That meant he was going south—he'd thought so, but he'd gotten so disoriented in his mad dash, that he hadn't been entirely sure. No planes had passed overhead for a while. The battle noises still came from a distance, behind and to the right, but muffled. He stopped a moment and looked back. Black smoke rose against the dawn sky.

A huge lizard clung to the rail maybe seven or eight meters in front of him, its tail stretched out full length. Roberto's approach must have woken it, for it turned its head and stared, as though daring him.

Roberto didn't know anything about lizards really, but he didn't think they would hurt you. Still, this was the lizard's territory, not his. He left the train tracks and made a wide semicircle around the lizard, then went back to walking on the ties. The lizard never budged.

Not much later, Roberto made out buildings ahead. He stopped and watched: white homes of neatly stacked stone blocks with worn stone staircases that wound up the outside of them—all so different from Venice. A town spread out beyond them. No people were on the streets, just a pair of stray dogs.

Well, of course not. Anyone with sense would be hiding. The explosions weren't that far away.

Did he dare go with the tracks right into the center of town? He needed water. And something to eat. And maybe a place to rest out of the sun.

He left the train ties and skirted around the edge of town, watching, listening. He didn't see a single uniform. He didn't hear a word of German.

Why should he be afraid then? This was Italy, after all. His homeland, at last. The people behind these doors were Italian civilians. His countrymen. And he was a kid, alone, clearly unarmed; there was nowhere on him to hide a weapon.

He turned down a street and ran his fingertips along walls covered with posters of Prime Minister Mussolini's head in a helmet, gazing far off, as if at the future. Stamped under each head was the word
Duce
—duke. Everyone called Mussolini the Duke, the leader of the military. Beside each head were fighting words, urging the people on, ending with, “
Se muoio, vendicatemi
—if I die, take revenge for me.” Brutal words.

Roberto pulled away in revulsion. He knew what Mussolini was all about. No one should fight for Mussolini.

Crash.

A man came tumbling out a door, slamming onto the sidewalk not a body length in front of Roberto. He wore a uniform.

Roberto turned and ran.

He didn't stop till he was far outside town. He could still see the train tracks from here. That was enough. He'd follow them from this distance.

The ground was mostly dry grass, raspy weeds, small rocks. He walked.

He walked all the rest of the morning.

Farmhouses were scattered across the plain. Beside one was an artichoke field. The artichokes had been cut already, but the farmer had left a few to blossom. Large purple flowers stuck up here and there. Mamma would have loved the sight.

Most of the farmhouses had small kitchen gardens right outside the door. Roberto got close enough to one to make out beans and zucchini. His chest swelled with need, his skin prickled. But the thought of who might live there numbed him again.

He walked all afternoon.

The mistral wind blew steadily, so he never got terribly hot. That was a lucky thing. Everyone knew Sicily could scorch you in the summer. Yes, that was lucky. He was lucky. He was alone and hungry and thirsty and empty-handed. But he was alive, in his own country, on a path that would take him home. And the wind blew.

He heard the rumble of the train before he saw it. He ran for the cover of a bush and flattened himself on the ground. Trains carried the military, and he wouldn't get near a soldier again. Ever.

When it was out of sight, he stood. But he'd moved too fast, and his mouth was too dry; his head spun. He fell.

It was hard to get up. He lifted his chest, but it was hard. He was tired. So tired. And, after all, this place was as good as any—because no place was safe. Not really.

He let his cheek fall back onto the hot dirt.

He slept.

3

W
HEN ROBERTO WOKE, the sun told him it was already midmorning. He'd slept . . . what? Maybe fifteen hours. Maybe more. He sat up slowly, careful not to rush anything. It was time to think clearly. Figure things out.

The corners of his mouth cracked. His tongue felt large and raspy.

Water. The first priority was water.

Where were the rivers around here? Sicily had rivers, he knew that from his old school lessons. Did they dry up in summer?

Those people in the farmhouses the day before had to get their water from somewhere.

Wells.

He got to his feet and brushed off. A slight nausea made him pause to breathe deep. It passed, but he was still light-headed. And the air felt funny in his ears—buzzy like insects. He walked, looking, looking.

It wasn't long before he saw another farmhouse. Isolated. With a well to one side.

A well in a dry land was maybe the most valuable commodity a person had. Who knew what trouble he could get in for taking water without asking first?

A tree behind the well hung heavy with yellow-orange fruits. Apricots? Were they ripe?

He watched a while. No one came out. No one went in.

He couldn't just stand there forever. In fact, he felt like he couldn't stand there for a moment more. His knees wobbled. He was nauseated. Such a short while without water could do this?

Well, sure. People died without water. Especially in the sun. Besides, he hadn't eaten, either.

He went up to the door and knocked.

“What do you want?” came a woman's shout.

“Water,” called back Roberto, trying to make his voice sound trustworthy. A woman. A woman was less likely to have a gun. He screwed up his courage. “And food. Bread. An apricot or two. I could work for it.”

“You're not Sicilian, what are you doing here?”

“I . . . I was in a battle.”

“What battle? Where?”

“On the coast.”

“Which town?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you mean, you don't know? How can you not know?”

Her questions were like fists; his answers, like limp hands. Against all odds, though, the exchange invigorated Roberto. He was speaking his own language again, finally. And it didn't matter that the woman behind the door spoke Sicilian dialect, not Venetian, and not standard Italian. His ears were so greedy for a familiar language that he didn't have trouble following it.

“I haven't had a drop to drink for almost two days. Please. I'll work for you. I promise.”

The woman opened the door a crack: drawn face, hair pulled back tightly, black eyes that gave nothing away.

Roberto raised his hands in surrender, as Maurizio had taught him to do way back in Turkey. Maurizio, who was dead now, who Roberto had refused to let himself think about. His hands took on such a sudden heaviness, he feared he'd fall forward.

“Put your hands down,” the woman said breathily, as though she was the weary one. “What can you do for me?”

“What do you need done?”

She stood back and let him pass inside and poured him a glass of water. A second. A third. Then she led him to a field and pointed.

Two boys cut wheat. They were kids, around eight and ten, no older, for sure. The woman turned without a word and went back to the farmhouse.

Roberto walked up behind the boys. They'd given him a quick glance when he was standing with the woman, but now they worked as though he wasn't there. Sweat dripped down their backs. Their hair gleamed with it. They'd already cut about half the field. They must have been working since dawn. Or maybe they'd cut the day before, too.

There were only two scythes. What was Roberto supposed to use? He stood empty-handed, feeling like an idiot.

“Make bundles,” said the older boy, between swings of the scythe.

Roberto bent and gathered cut wheat in his arms.

“No, stupid. Roll it. Show him, Piero.”

The littler boy dropped his scythe and rolled the cut wheat along the ground, gathering more as he went.

Roberto rolled wheat into bundles and left them at the end of each row of wheat. He rolled and rolled until his neck and back ached from bending over.

“Here.” Piero handed him his scythe and took over rolling.

So Roberto cut wheat. It was harder than it looked, and Piero was clearly stronger than he looked.

After a few hours, the woman called from the edge of the field. The boys dropped what they were doing and ran. Roberto followed.

The table was already set. The boys washed their hands and faces and sat on the benches, with forks ready. The midday meal was whole young artichokes, boiled and flavored with vinegar. And a bowl of spaghetti with fresh tomatoes. And apricots.

The boys talked a little, but Roberto hardly heard them. He ate till his stomach hurt.

“Rest now,” said the woman. “You've earned it.”

The boys obediently trooped into another room to nap.

“No one can work in the heat of the afternoon,” said the woman. She carried the dirty plates to the sink.

Roberto wasn't sure what to do next. He stood uncertainly.

“Sit back down. You stay there.”

He sat and watched her.

She returned to the table and stood over the bowl of water the last few apricots were floating in. She picked one up and dried it with her dishcloth. She rolled it round and round, round and round. It was long past dry. Little bits of the skin were coming off now. If she kept doing that, the whole thing would come apart. She stopped at last and said, “Did you see Carlino?”

Roberto blinked in confusion.

“My son.” She put the apricot on the table, wiped her hands on the dishcloth now, and sat beside Roberto. “He's taller than you. A bit stouter. His hair curls like yours. He's in uniform, of course, like all the others. But he has a wonderful smile. If you saw his smile, you'd pick him out.” Her words raced with sudden urgency. “You'd recognize him. Like an angel.”

Roberto rubbed his lips and pretended to search his memory, but, really, he wondered if she was crazy. How could he explain to her that he hadn't looked at anyone's face? How could he explain the chaos of battle?

But he wouldn't explain it to her even if he could. It wouldn't help anyone to know something that horrible.

He couldn't look her in the eyes at first.

When he finally dared to, though, he found her eyes weren't on him anymore. They stared past him. She got up without waiting for an answer and opened the door.

It took a few moments for Roberto to realize she wanted him to leave. A lump formed in his throat. But it shouldn't have. He hadn't wanted to stay. Not really. It was the lure of food that made his fingers curl under this bench and hold on tight. And the lure of a home. And a woman's voice.

But the sooner he left, the sooner he'd be on the path toward his real home, his real mother.

As he went out the door, the woman said, “Don't put your hands up in surrender when someone opens their door. Act like a half-wit, instead. It's hard to have mercy, but easy to have pity.”

4

R
OBERTO STOOD ON A HILLTOP and looked down at the battleships moored in the wide harbor of the city below. Soldiers in tan milled around the waterfront. Those were British uniforms, he was sure of it. He'd seen them in war newsreels back in Venice, so long ago. Sun glinted off their helmets.

He'd heard the battle two nights before. He'd slept outdoors in the scratchy dry scrub of these foothills and squeezed his eyes shut against the glare of the explosions and rocked from side to side on the ground till the noises finally ceased and sleep finally came. The next day he'd sat there, unable to get himself to move. But he had to move today. The need for water was that simple. He had to.

He wasn't sure how long it had been since he first set foot in Sicily. He'd lost track of the days. But one thing he knew, this was taking longer than he'd hoped.

His plan had been to march as many hours as he could, always within sight of the train tracks, and stop only when he absolutely needed water, food, or sleep. But explosions interrupted the plan. They came at any hour of the night or day, always from the direction of the coast. A day might pass without them, but then they'd return. And every time he trembled and ran for the hills. If he was lucky enough to find a cave, he stayed there. Longer than he should have. Once, he found a cave with a stream inside it, and he stayed for three whole days.