Street Boys (32 page)

Maldini shrugged his shoulders. “I’m from Naples,” he said. “We lie a lot.”

He walked to a corner of the dark tunnel and picked up a rolled-up row of tin wire, a dozen grenades strung through its loops. He turned and looked up at Connors. “My daughter’s waiting for you,” he said. “And Neapolitan women hate to be kept waiting. Especially the foolish ones who think they’re in love.”

Connors gave him a warm look and an easy nod. “She’s waiting for her father, too,” he said. “I’ll see you in the water.”

As Connors’s heavy boots sent a vibrant echo against the slate sewer walls, Maldini started to unspool the long row of wire, walking backwards, carefully laying each line down in a wide zigzag pattern. There were enough grenades on the roll to send a fireball hurtling down the central sewage line and back through the gaping holes in the castle structure. It would be enough to bring down the remains of the building and all who stood inside.

Maldini had unfurled half the line when he heard the familiar sounds of Nazi boots and machine-gun fire coming down the far end of the corridor toward him. He picked up his pace, releasing the wire as he did, placing the last of the grenades down in the center of the sewage tunnel. He slipped to his knees, reached a hand out for a loose grenade, gazed up at the soldiers, who were shooting and shouting as they closed in and quietly pulled the pin as he dropped the bomb. He got to his feet, bullets zinging past him, landing with loud echoes against the sides of the tunnel roof and walls, and ran for the open hole twenty feet away. His run gave way to a slide as he slipped on a strip of oily surface, waving frantically for Connors to stand away from the tunnel exit. “Worry about my daughter,” Maldini shouted. “Not about me.”

“Stay low and keep running,” Connors yelled back, watching Maldini get on his feet and run toward him. “I hate traveling alone.”

The first bullet ripped into Maldini’s shoulder and sent him sprawling to the ground, his face laying flat inside a mud puddle. He lifted himself up to his knees and wiped the brown water from the sides of his face. He looked over at Connors, less than a dozen feet away, and pressed his right hand across his heart. “Take care of my daughter,” he said to him.

The second bullet hit Maldini in the square of his back but he never felt its sting. The loud explosion of the grenade line and the loud mushroom fireball that followed in its path drowned out all his pain. Connors saw Maldini’s head tilt back and his eyes close seconds before the fatal blast. He saw the line of flames come zooming in his direction and threw himself under the lapping waves of the bay, the ferocious anger of the fire above warming the murky water. He stayed under, kicking his feet and flapping his arms, as he awkwardly moved several feet away, hugging the shoreline and coming up for air under the shade of a hanging tree and a mound of wilted grass. He saw the mouth of the fire rush back toward the castle walls. He stood up in the shallow water, the salty waves washing and stinging his wound, and stared at the lip of the tunnel, expecting somehow to see Maldini miraculously emerge from inside the firestorm.

The bright morning sky had turned into early afternoon rust, fire and smoke high enough and thick enough to cover miles of the empty city. Steve Connors wiped the dripping beads of water from his face and walked back toward the open end of the sewage tunnel. He stood in front of the lip, the flames now down to thick, crisp curls of blue and white smoke, inside walls the color of coal. He removed his battered pith helmet and rested it inside the tunnel. He then took several steps back and saluted.

He held the salute for several silent moments, in memory of the man who had just given him the only gift that would ever matter.

His life.

29

PIAZZA GARIBALDI

Von Klaus stared down at the thin map spread out across the front end of his tank. Kunnalt held it down with both hands. The colonel then grabbed the map, tore it in half and tossed it to the ground. “One hundred men dead!” he shouted. “More than twenty tanks destroyed! Another fifteen more with barely enough fuel to make it out of the city. It’s a disaster and one that should never have happened.”

“The Italians have also sustained a significant number of casualties, sir,” Kunnalt said, defensively.

“This Third Reich of ours was to have lasted a thousand years, Kunnalt,” Von Klaus said. “Each one shrouded in glory. And now, we can’t even defeat an army of children.”

Von Klaus walked toward the well of his tank and pulled out a bottle of red wine. “There is no honor in fighting such a battle,” he said. He poured the wine into a tin cup and handed the bottle to Kunnalt. “Not like this. Not against children. There will be no victory for us here. No matter the final outcome.”

30

VIA DON BOSCO

Nunzia sat huddled with her head down, a black sweater draped across her shoulders. Connors leaned against the side of a pine tree, staring out at the clear sea that overlooked the bluff. A contingent of street boys had gathered around them, building a small fire, boiling small tins of watered-down coffee, breaking off pieces of stale bread, their weapons at rest by their sides. They moved about silently, respectfully mourning one of their own. Vincenzo walked over and handed Nunzia a tin of coffee, waited as she took it and watched as she nodded her thanks. He moved several feet to her left and sat down between her and Connors, his legs bent against his chest, his eyes focused on the patch of dirt by his feet. The mastiff was in front of them, his thick paws stretched out, his head curled to one side.

“We all should try to get some rest,” Connors said in a low voice. “Both sides have had enough fight for one day.”

“We sent all the boys up into the hills for the night,” Vincenzo said. “They can take care of their wounds up there and get a night’s sleep without any worry.”

“Did Dante and Pepe come back with anything we can use?” Connors was talking to Vincenzo but his eyes zeroed in on Nunzia, wishing he could will away her sorrow or take the burden of her grief.

“The news isn’t good,” Vincenzo said.

“Let me hear it anyway,” Connors said.

“Half the city’s been destroyed.” Vincenzo stared back down at the ground, his voice tired and hoarse, arms and face still soiled from the day’s heated combat. “Von Klaus is moving his remaining tanks and troops toward the railroad tunnels and then into the center, into the middle of what we call Spaccanapoli. It’s the core of our city. If he’s successful at burning down both, his mission will not be a total failure.”

“How many tanks does he have left?” Connors asked.

“Dante counted thirty,” Vincenzo answered. “He was a distance away, so he might be off by one or two either way.”

“And soldiers?”

“About two hundred. Subtracting the wounded.”

“Where are they going to start? City or tunnel?”

“Pepe saw an advance team moving toward the tunnels,” Vincenzo said. “Which makes sense. It’s the easier of the two targets. And it’s a short distance between both areas, so they could move quickly from one to the other.”

“So will we,” Connors said. He stepped away from the tree, walked past Vincenzo and the silent Nunzia to bend down over the small sparkling fire. “It all ends tomorrow,” he said with his back to them, eyes peering into the crisp flames.

“There are less than a hundred boys left,” Vincenzo said, taking slow sips from his coffee tin. “About a dozen are wounded, but not enough to keep them out of the fight.”

“Leave the wounded ones in the hills,” Connors said. “And let them have enough guns and ammo in case some Nazis make their way up there.”

Connors stood and walked to Nunzia. He knelt down in front of her, reaching out a hand to caress the side of her smeared face. “You might want to sit this one out,” he said. “Stay up in the hills and help take care of the wounded kids.”

She looked at him, her eyes hard but warm, and shook her head, holding on to his hand with the edge of her fingers. “This is where I belong,” she said. “It’s where we all belong.”

He stared at her for several quiet seconds, then took a deep breath and nodded. “Stay here with Vincenzo,” he told her. “You both need to get some sleep. Have all the boys ready just before dawn and be down by the tunnels. I’ll meet you there.”

“Where are you going now?” she asked.

“I’ve never ridden on a tram before.” Connors leaned down and kissed her on the cheek and forehead, holding her close to him, losing himself in her warmth and sweetness. “I think it’s about time I did.”

31

VIA FRANCESCO PETARCA

Connors stared up at the six large, rusty trams. Their severed overhead wires cut them off from all current, the sides of their bodies were greased and oiled. Thick ropes were wrapped around their top rows, snaking down past the cracked windows and curling up under their base. He turned away and took in the wide mouths of the street alleys behind him, less than five hundred feet of hard cobblestones standing between the openings and the trams. He walked toward his jeep, where Dante, Pepe, Claudio and Angela were sitting inside. The mastiff stood next to the vehicle, his head jammed against Fabrizio, who was by his side. He took the keys out of his pants pocket and flipped them toward Dante. The boy caught them with his right hand. “You always wanted to drive it,” he said.

Behind them, the sun was starting to set, leaving them less than an hour of clear daylight. The surrounding area was barren, buildings torched and crumbled up and down the wide boulevard. “We probably won’t finish before dark,” Connors said. “If we don’t, we’ll build some fires along the alley entrances so we can see where we’re going. One more fire in this town isn’t going to attract any attention.”

“Where do you want me to drive?” Dante asked, anxious and eager, but also nervous.

“In front of that first tram, for now,” Connors said. “Stop it about six inches past the front end. Then grab the ropes from underneath and above the trams and tie them down hard to the back of the jeep. Anywhere would be good, except the wheel base.”

“You’re going to have the jeep pull the trams?” Angela asked.

“That was Maldini’s plan,” Connors said. “Unless you think you can do it on your own, I’m going to go with it.”

“It will work,” Fabrizio said, stepping up alongside Connors, the dog fast by his side. “If Maldini said so.”

“Then there’s nothing else to do but get to it,” Connors said.

They began their work at dusk.

First they moved the silent trams across their tracks, the rear wheels of the jeep kicking up thick pockets of dust and hurtling small rocks into the air as it burned off strips of rubber. Its engine cranked and all cylinders were churning as Dante switched gears with the poise of a safecracker. Connors and Angela moved from tram to tram, making sure the gears stayed in neutral. They soaked the insides with kerosene, so they could soon be used as weapons against the remaining Nazi tanks.

Once they were across from the mouth of the alleys, on the back road leading into Spaccanapoli, Connors and Angela shifted the gears of the trams into park and slammed down on the emergency brake. Dante jumped the jeep into reverse and backed up into the front of the first tram. He jammed on his brake, helping to ease their stop. Behind him, Pepe and Claudio quickly undid the ropes.

Dante then circled the jeep around and eased it in front of the center of the first tram. “We’re going to have to drag each one across the mouth of that alley,” Connors told him, pointing at the five hundred feet distance they needed to travel. “You tie the ropes from under and above the tram back onto the jeep and you run that engine as hard as it can run. Even if it starts to smoke, don’t stop giving it gas. The rest of you come with me. We’ll push it from the other side. Use your back, your hands, I don’t care what, you have to get it to the ground.”

“The dog, too?” Fabrizio asked.

“I can’t think of a better time to have him around,” Connors said.

Angela stared up at the imposing old structures, long abandoned and decayed. “I don’t think there’s enough of us to do what you want.”

Connors looked away from the concerned gaze of the young street girl and up beyond her shoulders. He nodded his head toward the near distance and smiled. “There is now,” he said.

They all turned to see Nunzia and Vincenzo walking down the center of the boulevard, followed by the remaining street boys. They moved in tight formation, numbering less than a hundred, each carrying weapons by their sides or strapped loose across their backs. Their bodies had been scarred by war and marred by loss as they marched through the streets of their city. Connors walked closer to meet them, followed by Fabrizio and the mastiff. “I should have learned by now to give up on giving you people any kind of an order,” he said to Nunzia and Vincenzo.

Nunzia embraced Connors, silently holding him in her arms. Vincenzo turned to wave on the ones behind him toward the ropes and the trams. “I promise you, American,” he said. “When you give us the right order, we’ll follow it.”

It took them most of the night.

They pushed and tugged at each tram, twenty boys linked to one long thick strand of rope, Dante straining the gears and wheels of the jeep, ripping through the skin of their hands and the thread of its tires, all in the effort to topple the old steel dinosaurs. As each tram collapsed on its side it filled the air with mounds of dust and sent chunks of broken cobblestones and glass hurtling in all directions. The boys dropped the ropes and scurried away, waved clear from the massive hulks by Nunzia and Angela. After each takedown, the boys would stand in a semicircle and pump their small fists toward the sky, wiping drops of sweat and blood against the sides of their arms, eager to move on to the next tram in the line.

Once the half-dozen trams were resting on their sides like tired, old animals, the frayed ropes were double-looped around their tops and bottoms and then dragged, one by one along the bumpy, cobblestone streets, toward the wide end of the alleys.

“What if Maldini was wrong?” Vincenzo asked Connors. “What if the tanks won’t risk going over the trams?”

“They won’t be able to help it,” Connors answered with assurance. “A tank officer’s biggest weakness is that he thinks there’s nothing he can’t run over. And these trams are so old and beat up, those Panzers should be able to jump them without any problem. That’s why it’s important to have the mines and grenades rigged on the inside. I don’t want anything but flames coming out of those alleys.”

Vincenzo looked over at Connors and stared into the soldier’s clear, confident eyes. His uniform was reduced to brown smudges, blood smears and black soot marks, but the patch of the Thunderbird Division was still clean and visible. “Will it be enough to give us a victory?” he asked.

“You won your fight back on the very first day,” Connors said. “Just by staying here and standing up to the Nazis. But now you want more than that. Now you want to beat them. That’s going to be a little harder.”

“I’m glad you stayed with us,” Vincenzo said. “I don’t know if the boys would have held together without a soldier on their side.”

“You would have thought of something, General,” Connors said, walking down toward the alleys and the trams. “I’d bet my life on it.”