Crossword (3 page)

It was a sign of the respect the OSS had for his abilities
that he was allowed the time to leave the European theatre, make the
transatlantic crossing, now relatively safe, and return home to visit his
family. It was also a sign of the concern they had for an operative in whom
much had been invested, and who ran the risk of losing his effectiveness and
edge from the constant psychological trauma to which he had been exposed.
Members of the Special Operations Branch of the OSS were carefully vetted,
particularly in regard to their ability to withstand the kind of mental
pressure that must be endured when operating behind the lines, often alone and
with few resources except what one could muster on their own. Larry had dealt
with situations that few could have tolerated, but his last mission had pushed
his coping skills beyond their limit and he bore wounds that still festered.

As lines were tossed between ship and dock he picked up his
duffel, packed and at his side since first light, and joined the crowd waiting
for the gangway to be lowered. There was an impatience to this group, a
shifting from one foot to the other, an agitation like a heating pot of water
not yet at the boiling point, tiny bubbles whirling this way and that, awaiting
that last bit of energy to transform into a churning cauldron. The clang of the
metal steps hitting the concrete surface of the dock silenced all conversation.
It would be only seconds now. Two sailors moved aside a section of rail and the
crowd burst through the opening, the clank, clank, clank, of feet on metal
reverberating across the deck as soldiers and sailors dashed down to their two
weeks of freedom. Larry resolved to bury everything from the last two years in
some deep place he would not access for the next fourteen days. As he was
funneled to the opening of the gangway amid the other soldiers, he picked up
speed until he was ejected onto the stairs, and by the time he reached the
surface of the dock with its myriad painted lines and stenciled numbers, his
mind had been swept clean, the detritus of a dozen operations locked away with
other war time horrors.

With his pack slung across his shoulder, Larry made his way
to the exit, waited in line to show his papers to some disinterested corporal,
then walked through the main gate and emerged at the southern end of Broad street,
the main north south thoroughfare through Philadelphia. He paused, looking
north over the city, turning his head left, then right, saying a mental
"hello" before adjusting his duffel and beginning the walk home. He
ignored the few taxis waiting, and turned down offers of a lift from several
people, volunteers, he thought, from the local USO. It was only a few miles,
and in spite of the heat, he preferred to walk, to ease himself back into the
old neighborhood rather than being suddenly deposited there, the aura of the
military still lingering about his person. Straight up Broad Street he went,
starting at the southern end of Philadelphia where the river curved around the
city, stopping at every corner just to look around, to become a part of the
city once more. After the first block, sweat soaked his shirt, but he didn't
mind. At Passyunk Avenue he left Broad Street, proceeding northeast as that
wide avenue cut a forty-five degree swath into the Italian part of the city.
The intersecting streets were lined by red brick row houses, one connected to
the other, the front stoops mini enclaves of activity. Here and there a
spurting fire hydrant drew local children to its cooling splash as they dashed
in and out of the water, their squeals rising above the other noises of the
city and mingling with the honk of horns as cars tried to squeeze by. When he
reached Ninth Street he turned north, walked about fifty feet then stopped and
put down his duffel. Larry breathed deeply and the smells of the neighborhood
filled his nostrils and brought with them a cascade of memories. No other sense
stimulated memories like the sense of smell. The Italian market was several
blocks away but he swore he could smell the aroma of Parmesan carried by the
warm air that slowly curled around him. He rolled up his sleeves, undid the top
few buttons of his shirt and slipped off his tie. The soldier was home.

Continuing up Ninth Street he could see the stalls of the
market, a fixture in South Philly since before he was born. As he started passing
shops and their outdoor displays he saw people he knew, some nodding, some
coming up to him and giving him a hug, a few of the older women squeezing his
cheek and saying, "Don't worry, your mother will give you back the weight
you lost." The sounds of the market and the bustle of people filled his
ears and eyes. He found himself engaged in multiple simultaneous conversations,
felt his back being slapped affectionately, had pastries handed to him along
with slivers of salami and hard Parmesan cheese. Occasionally he heard,
"Isn't that Giacomo Sabatini's boy?" His forward progress slowed to
almost a standstill until one older woman broke through a group of men
surrounding him and told them in no uncertain terms that it was Larry's God
given duty to get home to his mother who was probably worried sick and that he
shouldn't be wasting time with good for nothings like them. They laughed, but
respectfully stood aside and with final pats on the back sent him on his way.

Feeling happy and alive, Larry hurried up the street, waving
and nodding to some of the folks, indicating he would talk later but had to get
home now. He stopped once to buy some flowers to bring home to his mother, but
the woman at the stall wouldn't take any money, saying only, "You're a
good son. God bless." Then she crossed herself and slapped the hand of a
young boy trying to take advantage of the distraction to snatch a rose. As he
walked away Larry heard her say, "You try that again, Anthony, I cut your
balls off."

Duffel over his right shoulder, flowers in his left hand and
a smile on his face, he continued up Ninth to Christian, turned right and
reached Eighth Street a minute later. His feet seemed to be carrying him
faster, and he had to restrain himself to keep from breaking into a trot. North
one block to Catharine and he swung to his right, then paused at the head of
the street. "God, it's good to be back," he said out loud, not caring
if anyone heard him. The street, however, was remarkably quiet, especially
compared to the bustling Italian market, a small group of boys half way up on
the left provided the only movement that kept him from thinking of it as
deserted. Savoring the moment, he walked on, inhaling, absorbing, opening
himself to the mood and character of the place, letting it all pass over him,
around him and through him until he stood in front of his house, where he
practically skipped up the steps and walked into the home where he grew up.

In the well-lit front parlor, with the large leather
armchair that was his father's favorite, and the white lace curtains that were
carried with care from the old country, stood his parents, Giacomo and Aletta
Sabatini. They had been standing and talking when he came in, and they
immediately turned to him, his mother clapping her hands together and crying
out, "Lorenzo, my son, oh, look at you, you're really home. Thank God
you're not hurt."

"It's Larry, Letta, he's an American. He was born
here."

"As if you had to tell me. Who was it that was in labor
all those hours, you or me?" Beaming, she walked toward him as he set down
his load, her arms spread apart in preparation for the hug that only a mother
whose son was in harm's way can give. Meeting her half way with equal emotion
in his heart, he embraced her, almost lifting her off the floor as he kissed
her cheeks. She pushed him back to look at him, tears in her eyes as she
examined him with the critical eye of a mother who has shepherded her boy from
infancy to manhood. For just an instant her broad smile faded when she looked
into his face, a mere flicker, seen by no one, and then she was once more
grinning. It was his eyes. When she looked into them, portals for a place much
deeper, Aletta could see beyond into a recess that was hidden from the world,
and in the darkness she found there, she perceived what the war had done to
him, and she had to suppress a shudder. "Well you're home now, and at
least while you're here, we're going to take good care of you."

Muscular and well built, he did not appear to carry any
excess fat on his body and at five feet ten inches, he had the look of a soccer
player. His jet black, straight hair and olive complexion spoke of his Italian
ancestry, one that was actually not far removed since his parents, Giacomo and
Aletta had emigrated to the United States from Sirmione, in northern Italy,
several years after marrying. Nine months and one day after arriving in the new
world, his mother gave birth to Lorenzo Enrico Sabatini, conceived somewhere
between Ellis Island and South Philadelphia, a one hundred percent American as
his father was proud to point out to anyone who would listen.

Giacomo, patient as long as he could be, almost pushed his
wife out of the way to get to his son, threw his arms around him and planted a
kiss on his cheek. "Pop, what are you doing home? I thought you'd be at
the shop."

"My son comes home from the United States Army and I'm
supposed to stay at work? Your mother and I were starting to worry; it took you
so long."

"How did you know I'd be home today? We didn't even
know when the ship would arrive at the base."

"You think you could walk all the way from below
Passyunk through South Philly and someone wouldn't call me?" They called
old Mrs. Esetta next door and she sent her son, you know, the good for nothing
who's always looking for his next bottle of wine, and he told your mother who
rushed over to the store to tell me. I closed up right away and came home.

Larry laughed and it felt good. "You have better
intelligence here than the army and navy together." He realized he still
held the flowers in his hand, and raised his arm to present them to his mother
when a female voice chimed in with mock annoyance.

"I hope you didn't pay for those, because I started
working at Filomena's flower shop, and if you were nice I might have given them
to you for free." It was his sister, Pia, and even before the words were
out of her mouth she was running to her brother. She flung herself at him with
such force that he was almost bowled over and had to take a step backward to
keep from falling. Using both arms, the flowers still in his left hand, he
lifted her off the floor and spun her around while she kissed him and buried
her face in his neck. "Oh, Larry, I am so glad you're home. I missed
you."

"I never even thought about you." She wiggled out
of his arms and punched him in the shoulder, sticking out her tongue for good
measure. "Of course I missed you, Piccola." It meant
"small," and he had called her that ever since she was born.

"Well, you never wrote. Not to any of us."

"Pia," her mother said, "your brother just
got home. Leave him catch his breath."

"That's OK, mom. I'm sorry about that, but I've been
places where mail just isn't a possibility." Remembering the flowers he
offered them, slightly battered, to his mother. "Here, mom, these are for
you."

"They're beautiful, Larry. Much nicer than what
Filomena sells." Larry and Pia both smiled, fighting hard to keep from
laughing.

"Sit, my son," his father said, motioning towards
his big easy chair."

"I'm fine on the sofa, pop."

"Letta, bring us in some lemonade, please."
Giacomo settled into his chair, Larry sat down on the sofa, weariness from the
long journey, as well as a fatigue that went deeper than muscles and bones,
having its effect on him. Pia curled up on the other end of the couch, and a quiet
settled about them. No words were needed.

Larry grew to young manhood in this loving ethnic community,
graduating from South Philadelphia High School with grades that were better
than average although not outstanding, except where his proud parents were concerned,
and excelled in track, especially the 440 and the mile. Larry was now
twenty-six years old and had enlisted in the Army at nineteen. When the war
broke out he was already a veteran, and after less than a year in combat he had
been asked to volunteer for a transfer to the OSS, Office of Strategic
Services, a new unit about which not much was known. He was told only that the
pay was better than the regular Army and that it would help his career in the
military. And by the way, the Captain had said, it might involve some work
behind enemy lines. About the dangers, high risk of death or capture, possible
torture and the fact that, if caught, he would be treated by his captors as a
spy, well, that wasn't mentioned until later when it was too late for him to do
anything. But, such was the Army.

His father was a skilled leather worker but the economics of
Italy had not been favorable, and when they failed to improve, the young couple
found it necessary to become itinerant workers, as both their parents had been.
It was, for Giacomo, a great disappointment, for he considered it a step down
not to have his own shop, where clients came to you, someplace where you could
welcome them, perhaps offering a glass of wine to the regulars.

Austria and Switzerland were not far, and soon they found
themselves in front of a large horse drawn wagon making their way into the lake
and border towns of these two neighboring countries. For Giacomo and Aletta it
brought back memories of their childhood, a time when they each made the same
circuit with their families, sometimes going to sleep hearing one language
spoken and waking up to the sounds of another. At an early age they could speak
German and French, as well as several little known dialects. Since itinerant
workers often traveled in groups for safety, the two children frequently found
themselves together at campfires, and a friendship was formed, one that grew
stronger for all the adversity and adventure in which it was born. They shared
the secrets and the trials of growing up, uniting them ever more closely, a
bond that was not lost on their parents, and a match was made, the betrothal
pledged.