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Now taking only light resistance, enemy troops move past the survivors of the first assault group, advancing to within sixty paces of the crumpled castle’s defenses. Encouraged by the lull, a Republican officer shouts into a megaphone.
“He says we must surrender!” Otello reports gleefully. “We are surrounded. Our position is hopeless.” An accurate description, as far as Simon can see, but everyone else seems amused, and the merriment is more raucous when Renzo shouts something in reply.
Roaring, the fascisti rise to charge. The boss’s voice cracks like a rifle shot. Bullets, grenades, and body parts fly, until the Republicans can neither advance nor retreat.
Renzo calls, “Cease fire!” There are cheers along the line. Otello giggles happily. “Their artillery is no good now! The gu
Far below, on the road skirting the base of the bluffs, a new and larger detachment starts upward. This time the Republicans are burdened with machine guns they hope will give cover while their casualties are extricated. Their climb will take hours.
Staffette hand out wine and cheese and British battle rations. Sitting with Claudia and the brigade medic, the boss waves off food, but accepts the grog. Duno glowers disapproval. Claudia shrugs. Renzo ignores them both.
From a distance, Simon considers the three of them. Jews, he thinks. Cla
The British are notorious for emotional constipation, but Simon has never seen a man drink with less emotion. The boss doesn’t get sentimental, or sloppy, or mean, or happy. He is businesslike and practical about drinking, as though getting blotto were a job he means to do, and do well. Renzo plays at war the way another man might play te
Crows and seagulls converge to bicker over bodies. Renzo passes the time plinking at birds that come too close to the Fascist wounded, but his hands shake and he’s a poor shot. The sun moves overhead. Fed and relaxed, oblivious to the moans and cries of the enemy wounded, some of the men settle down to nap. Others talk quietly. Simon’s own eyes begin to drop…
“Simon!” Otello whispers, shaking him.
Waking in an instant, Simon shades his eyes against the afternoon light. The Republican reinforcements are just out of range, setting up machine guns. They’re determined to get to their fallen comrades, but this will be the proverbial uphill battle, and they’ve learned to respect the commander of this brigade.
On some signal Simon does not detect, a partisan squad that’s moved to the enemy rear rises to let loose volley after volley. The Republicans turn to face the threat, only to be raked from their left. Those who survive the first fusillade wheel. That platoon drops out of the line of fire from a third platoon on the enemy right.
With a perfect view of the battlefield, Simon begins to feel like a guest sitting in the Royal Box at a Wimbeldon match. Holding the whip hand, he discovers, produces warm, happy feelings of invulnerability and power. This, he realizes, is what it must have been like for the Jerries when they started all this.
Gray-and-black uniforms turn red. Helmets cartwheel downhill. Rock and weed take on the color of oxblood. Junior officers bellow conflicting commands as men crumple and fall around them. Nobody knows who’s in charge, and the Republicans can expect no help. Surely, their officers won’t risk more pointless casualties.
Renzo calls for another cease-fire. Before long, the wounded are begging for water, for help, for mercy in late afternoon heat.
“Look,” someone yells. “They’re leaving!”
On the road below, the artillery units begin to withdraw. The guns are left behind, and the remaining troops begin to melt away. Some of them throwing off their uniform jackets.
Alone, a Republican officer begins to climb in the diminishing light. His face is in shadow when he arrives at the edge of the battlefield, where his batallion lies dead or dying. With a strip of white bandage in his hand, he steps into range and calls to his partisan counterpart.
Passionate argument breaks out among the brigade officers. Paying no attention, Renzo walks into the open to meet the Republican.
Mesmerized, Simon hardly breathes while both men pick their way awkwardly through the carnage. Either side could break this truce at any moment, but their officers speak at length, shake hands, and part.
Down in Sant’Andrea, bells begin to ring, and the sound spreads from church to church across the city. No one says a thing until Renzo has made his slow and painful climb back to the brigade.
Claudia is waiting for him with a bottle. His hard, scarred face unmoving and wet, Renzo shakes his head and starts to fall. Duno provides an arm to slow the collapse. Claudia bends to listen to the barely audible voice, then straightens to address the brigade. “The Germans have surrendered,” she says without emotion. “The war is over.”
Simon is sure he’s understood, but no one moves while she continues with something he can’t follow. “The Republican commander asks us to help with the dead and wounded,” Otello translates. “The boss says: they’re our countrymen. Honor them.”
Duno is the first to venture toward those still living. One by one, partisans put down their guns and follow.
PORTO SANT’ANDREA
Delirium. There’s no other word for it. Half-wild and half-starved, dressed in rags with flour bags tied around their feet, partisans march into the city, singing anthems of resistance. Their pace slackens to a saunter to accommodate cheering crowds, ten deep on either side of the street. Women and girls rush forward to embrace them and plant kisses on their cheeks. Old men push bottles of wine into their hands. Accordions and guitars appear. Everyone is singing at the top of their lungs.
Palms blistered and backs aching from a long grim night as grave diggers, the boss’s tattered men are very late to the party, but no one resists the joy for long.
Green, white, and red flags, stitched together from curtains and tablecloths, fly from every window. To Simon’s delight, a few makeshift Union Jacks wave in recognition of Britain’s real, if belated, aid to the Resistance. In every church, giddy young men clamber drunkenly into belfries, banging on the bells with mallets until their arms are rubbery and someone else appears, ready to do the same.
Soon Simon himself is crocked enough to take a turn. “Viva l’Italia,” he shouts over and over, until he’s too hoarse to go on. When his replacement arrives, Simon fills his chest with Italy’s soft coastal air and looks out over the Mediterreanean, listening to the rapturous noise around him. By God, I’ve justified my little life, he thinks. I did my bit to bring this day to Italy and these wonderful people.
Suddenly it seems like a hilariously good idea to slide down the church roof, and the wild applause Simon receives for the stunt makes up for the thump his tailbone takes. “You forgot to roll!” Otello wails, and the two of them howl with laughter until they’re too weak to stand. “Have you seen the boss?” Otello gasps, wiping his eyes.
“Not since this morning,” Simon tells him. He looks around, hoping to find Claudia, but the thought is lost when two fine young ladies present themselves for his approval. “I’ll dance when the war is over,” Maria Avoni said just before Simon saw her killed. In her honor, and with a paratrooper’s red beret on his head at long last, he drinks and dances with every girl he can grab.