Fire in the Hills (18 page)

“Thanks so much.”

“Wait,” she said. “Kiss me first.”

He stared a moment, stunned. He kissed her, one tentative kiss. Then he ran along the roof to the next home, and the next. He ran over the connected roofs till he got to the end house. From here, he could see the road that ran perpendicular to the one blocked by the disabled jeep. It was a bigger road, and a German truck rumbled along it. But he was a poor shot. He'd never hit anything at such a distance.

Still, he knelt, aimed, fired. The front right tire of the truck blew. Just like that.

He lay flat on the roof.

Bullets zinged past. He heard screaming and shooting. A loud crash. A grenade.

He ran back along the roofs to the other end. It overlooked the next street perpendicular to the one blocked by the jeep. He shot. He shot and shot, till he finally blew out a tire.

The street on one side was narrow, but nowhere near as narrow as the alleys of Venice. It would be impossible to jump across to the next block. So he ran along the roofs, scouting the streets below. Finally, the jeep he'd crippled before was rolling again, with a new tire. He shot out another tire.

He passed the day that way, shooting out tires every time he heard traffic start again on one of the three streets he could aim at. In between, he lay on the roof and stared at the sky. The city exploded around him in intermittent battles. His upper-right chest hurt from the recoil of the gun. His neck ached from bending over the gun sight.

Eventually the sack of cartridges ran out. And eventually night came. The sound of bullets stopped. It was time to find Volpe Rossa.

He returned to the house of the girl who had helped him before. The girl who'd given him his first kiss. The roof door was unlocked. He went down the stairs as quietly as he could, rifle in hand, and out into the street.

There were no streetlamps on. And the moonlight didn't make it to the ground, the buildings were so tall and this street was so narrow. He hunched over and ran in the dark, turning onto whatever street seemed bigger. A patrol of German soldiers marched back and forth in front of a building on a piazza. This must be the Nazi headquarters. Lights were on inside.

Lupo hid in the shadows and scanned the piazza. He moved slowly along one wall, to get a better view of the whole place.

“What took you so long?” A boy came up beside him. It was Volpe Rossa—still in disguise.

Turbine was behind her. “With those soccer shoes, we expected you to be faster.”

“Come on.” Volpe Rossa scurried down one street after another. If a noise came from the left, she went right. If a noise came from the right, she went left. No matter what, she kept moving. Eventually, they emerged on the edge of town.

They ran into a field and didn't stop till the houses were far behind.

“Here's our choice,” said Turbine. “We can stay and fight. There's no doubt that the Allies will finish the job in Bologna by tomorrow at the latest. Then they'll head this way. The skirmishes of today were nothing compared to what's going to happen. Modena will be free within two days, mark my words. We can be part of it.”

Volpe Rossa touched the rifle in Lupo's hands. “Do you think you can use that?”

“I've been using it. I've blown out tires. Give me another cartridge and I'll blow out more.”

She smiled. “Good work.”

“What are you two talking about?” asked Turbine. “You mean Lupo won't kill anyone?” He put his hand on Lupo's shoulder. “Listen to me, Lupo. The one who survives is the one who shoots first. I can't take you into battle if you won't use that rifle.”

Lupo brushed Turbine's hand off his shoulder. “I take myself wherever I go. I use this rifle however I choose.”

Turbine hung his head and shook it. He looked off into the night. Then he looked back at Lupo. “You're right.”

“You said we have a choice.” Volpe Rossa crossed her arms at her chest. “What's the other possibility?”

“We can head toward the Veneto, where the Nazis are still strong,” said Turbine. “And we can help where they need it even more.”

“I know Lupo's vote,” said Volpe Rossa. “I vote with him.”

“Then we're unanimous.” Turbine picked up the rifle he had set on the ground when they stopped. “You have a birthday soon, right, Lupo?”

“April 25.”

Turbine took a cartridge out of his pocket and handed it to Lupo. “An early present. We better hurry if we're going to see Venice liberated in time for your cake.”

28

B
Y LUPO'S BIRTHDAY, all the things Turbine predicted would happen did. And more. Bologna was liberated on April 21, Modena on April 22, Reggio and Parma on April 24.

Meanwhile, on the northwest coast of Italy, the
partigiani
came down from the hills and took over Genoa. British planes had dropped arms to them, but much got destroyed in the drops, and what was left was little in comparison to what the Germans had. The
partigiani
mounted broken machine guns on roofs just for show. And still, by grit and determination, they prevailed. By the time the Allies arrived at the city on April 26, Genoa was already liberated—by the ragtag resistance.

Lupo learned about these things from the occasional radio and, mostly, by word of mouth among
partigiani
. That was their lifeline—any bit of promising news. Everyone was at the breaking point, but news like this kept them whole.

As Lupo turned sixteen, the north of Italy was almost entirely liberated. Some said April 25 should become the Festival of the Resistance, a day to be celebrated every year, as marking the victory of the
partigiani
and the end of occupation.

But not every place was free yet. Not the place that meant the most to Lupo.

The three of them—Turbine, Volpe Rossa, and Lupo—had come to Padua and were working with the
partigiani
right in the city. They got here partly walking, partly hitching rides in cars on back roads. For days they worked on fortifying strategic locations. By night they put up posters on walls of public buildings telling the Nazis and Fascists to surrender; the end was at hand.

The Nazis got in trucks and made for the Alps. But the
partigiani
had seized the bridges over the Brenta River, cutting off that escape route.

On April 27 the trapped Germans decided to ruin Padua. It was like a repeat of what Colonel Scholl's troops did to Naples back in September 1943. They blasted the city with heavy artillery fire, even though they knew they'd have to give it up.

But this time the people fought back immediately, and in overwhelming numbers, before the city could be reduced to rubble. They captured German soldiers and locked them in a huge barrack. The Germans wound up shelling that barrack and unwittingly killed hundreds of their own men. By the end of the battle, over 20,000 German prisoners were taken.

Through all this Lupo shot tires. He crippled dozens of German trucks, cars, jeeps, scooters.

The night of April 27 many
partigiani
headed north, chasing after the escaping enemy in the provinces of Treviso and Belluno. But Lupo, Volpe Rossa, and Turbine walked the main road toward Venice, wretched Venice, still occupied.

They walked in the center of the road, because the retreating Germans had scattered mines through the grasses. It was the Nazi mantra Lupo was way too familiar with by now: do as much damage as you can, even in defeat, or, maybe, especially in defeat.

Lupo recognized nothing on either side of the road, of course. Still, the terrain felt familiar. He didn't know if it could possibly be true, but he thought he smelled the sea. The lagoon. The place he'd swum as a boy—what seemed ages ago.

Mamma would be asleep now. She'd have the window open, because she liked a chill at night. It made her sleep better. Papà would be curled in a blanket beside her, because he hated to sleep cold. And his brother Sergio? Was Sergio still off somewhere in Germany?

Lupo breathed hard. He was exhausted from the day. His eyes burned. His feet stung. His shoulders ached. But a new kind of energy surged through him. He was almost home. At last.

“I've never been to Venice,” said Turbine.

“Neither have I,” said Volpe Rossa. “Tell us the layout, Lupo.”

“I don't know where to begin. It's nothing like any of the cities we've worked in together. There are canals everywhere.”

Turbine laughed. “Well, everyone knows that.”

“Halt!”
A German soldier jumped out from the ditch on the side of the road. He pointed a submachine gun at them.

Another ran from the ditch across the road, holding a pistol in front of him.

“Don't shoot,” shouted Turbine in German.

“What? You're German? I just heard you speaking Italian. All three of you.”

“I'm a spy,” said Turbine. “And they're Fascists.”

A truck came up a side road. It stopped. “Get in,” called the driver in German. “Shoot them and get in.”

“The man's German. He says he's a spy. He says the two boys are Fascists.”

“Shoot them and get in.”

“But he's German.”

“I'm Austrian, and even if he was Austrian, I'd shoot him.”

“I won't shoot a German spy.”

“Do whatever you want. Just get in! We have to go fast.”

The soldier with the pistol collected their rifles. The one with the machine gun made them climb into the back of the truck. Then the two German soldiers climbed into the back behind them.

The truck crossed the main road and went up back roads, heading north.

It was too noisy to talk in the open truck bed. And the sides were too high to see anything. The truck kept going and going. It was slow, this beat-up truck, but it was steady. With every minute it put more distance between Lupo and his home.

And he'd been so close!

This couldn't happen. He couldn't let it. Not now. He stood up.

The German aimed the submachine gun at him.

Turbine yanked him back down.

Volpe Rossa closed her arms around his chest from behind. She held him tight.

The truck rumbled along as dawn came. Now the road wound up into the foothills of the Alps. They were heading to Austria. No.

The motor coughed. And died.

It started again, coughed, died.

“Damn!” The driver came around to the back of the truck, holding a semiautomatic rifle. “We're out of gas.”

“Then they'll capture us,” said the soldier with the pistol.

“I know this area. I know a place we can hide, past Asiago. If Italians come in little groups, we can kill them easily from there. We can kill plenty before we're captured. Come on.”

They tramped through the woods. The driver led the way. One soldier kept his pistol in Lupo's back. The other kept his machine gun aimed at Turbine's and Volpe Rossa's backs. Flowers sweetened the air with all the zest of spring. Lupo swallowed his sour saliva.

After about half an hour the driver said, “Here.” He stopped at a hole and pointed down with his rifle. “We killed plenty at this spot last winter. Then this spring the Italians killed plenty of us. They even threw in Italian whores who slept with our officers.” He turned his eyes on Volpe Rossa and Lupo. “So now it's our turn again.”

The other two soldiers edged over and peeked into the hole. They coughed and put their hands over their nose and mouth. “What a stench!” the one with the submachine gun said.

Lupo knew this place. He'd never been here, but he'd heard about it. Venetians called it the Buso. But its name in Italian was Buco della Luna—“Moon Hole.” It was a natural rock formation, a type of cave, he guessed, with its opening at the very top.

“How far does it go down?” the one with the submachine gun asked.

“I'll show you.” The driver looked at Turbine. “You really German?”

“Yes,” said Turbine.

“So you're a spy?”

“Yes.”

“Prove it. Push the short guy in.” He pointed at Volpe Rossa, who was still dressed like a young boy.

“No!” Lupo stepped forward.

The soldier with the pistol jammed it in his face. “Stay put.”

“They're Fascists,” said Turbine. “Both of them.”

“They're Italian,” said the soldier with the submachine gun. He pointed it at Volpe Rossa.

A spasm zipped through Lupo so hard, his nose brushed the pistol barrel in his face. He had to protect Volpe Rossa. No matter what.

“Push the short guy in,” said the driver. “Then we can force the other guy to jump. They might be Fascists, but I'm sure they're dirty Catholics. So if the short guy doesn't die right off, the other guy will kill him when he falls on him.” He smiled with satisfaction. “He can commit murder and suicide at the same time. A double sin for a Catholic.”

Turbine grabbed Volpe Rossa by the arm.

Lupo opened his mouth to shout when—what?—Turbine kissed her. Turbine kissed Volpe Rossa. And she kissed him back. They loved each other. And Lupo hadn't even known. Or maybe he had. That's why he'd been so annoyed with Turbine all along; he'd sensed it. From the very first encounter, something had sparked between them. Oh, yes, he'd known. Volpe Rossa kissed Turbine. His Volpe Rossa.

The soldiers were as astonished as Lupo. Even more so, because Volpe Rossa was dressed as a boy. They stood there, jaws dropped.

Lupo sprang. He snatched the pistol in front of his face and shot the soldier holding the submachine gun. That soldier slumped forward over the gun.

Someone jumped on Lupo's back. It was the other German soldier, the one Lupo had grabbed the pistol from. They rolled in the dirt. A rifle went off somewhere. A machine gun hammered the air. Lupo didn't know who was shooting, who was being shot. Nothing made sense. He was rolling with this soldier, rolling and kicking and fighting and—