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Hefting knapsacks filled with army rations, the strongest Jews start down the mountain alone or in small groups. Others mill about, conferring, almost ready or ready but unsure. Claudette hurries across the parade ground to where the Brösslers stand. “Santino says we can ride partway in the trucks. We’ll sit on the boxes in the back. If the driver stops, be ready to get out fast and run.”
Overhearing this, a family from Ma
Somewhere inside, a foot is trod on. Hearing grumbled Yiddish, Frieda reflexively takes command, as though accommodating unexpected guests at her di
He lifts the tailgate into place and bangs on it twice to signal the driver. “Wait!” Claudette cries. “Santino, aren’t you coming with us?”
The truck’s engine roars to life. Eyes on Claudette, Santino hops away from the exhaust pipe and crashes into Lieutenant Miroglio. “Sorry, sir! I didn’t see you!”
“Love is blind,” Miroglio says. “Look after them, Cicala. And God be with us all.”
Gears grind. The sun rises. Beneath the tented fabric, the air warms. With only a few hours’ sleep after the trek over the mountain, smaller children and older adults soon fall asleep. Claudette can’t imagine how they manage it, with the truck swaying around switchbacks and jolting over ruts, but as the morning crawls on, her head sinks lower and lower.
An elbow rams her ribs. “Wake up!” Duno whispers fiercely.
She wipes a thin line of drool off her chin and mutters “Sorry” when she sees how wet his shoulder is.
He shakes his head and mouths, “Shut up!”
The truck is motionless. Sunlight flickers on the canvas. Leaves rustle all around. Frieda Brössler lifts Steffi from Claudette’s lap. The little girl doesn’t rouse, but her sister, Liesl, is stiff with fear. “Wake up, Liebling,” Frau Brössler says softly, shaking Steffi. “We have to walk again.”
“I don’ wa
“Hush!” Her mother hands Steffi the china-faced doll. “Hold her tight!”
Canvas flaps jerk open. Everybody jumps. “The first convoy’s gone on, but there’re more coming up the road.” Santino motions for Claudette to jump down while Albert translates. “We’re leaving the truck here.”
The driver has nosed the vehicle into a thicket. Duno helps him heap branches against the truck for camouflage while the others assess the terrain. The nearest mountain rises steeply from a stony riverbed. Three days ago, this would have seemed an impossible climb.
Draping rolled-up army blankets over their shoulders and slinging mess kits around their necks, the Ma
Another quick conference, from German to Italian and back again. The soldier grimaces— a barely perceptible change. It’s probably more responsibility than he wants, Frieda thinks. Nevertheless, he takes it with good grace, and lifts Steffi onto his shoulders.
For a long time, the only sound is the crash of vegetation and the huff of their own labored breathing as they climb. “Mutti! You’re going too fast!” Liesl complains, bringing up the rear. “I can’t—”
The flat crack of a single gunshot in the distance silences her. “Un cacciatore,” Santino says casually. “A hunter,” Albert translates with matching, if breathless, composure.
Everyone above the age of nine stares, first at Albert Blum, then at Santino. A rattling burst of machine pistol fire confirms their silent skepticism, and all discussion ceases. They grip roots, haul on branches, making for higher ground. Knapsacks full of ration cans thump against their backs. Wild berry canes snap at legs and faces. Thorns rip clothes and scratch tender skin. For the next two hours, not even Liesl complains.
“Mangeremo qui,” Santino says, unslinging his ’91 and leaning the rifle barrel against a fallen log beside a miniature waterfall.
“We’ll eat here,” Albert translates, dropping onto the log near the carbine.
Clutching Antoinette’s china face, Steffi whimpers when the soldier lets her slide off his back to the ground. “What are you crying about?” Liesl snarls. “You got to ride!”
Duno looks around. “We’re lost.” No one answers. “We’re lost!” he says louder.
“Maybe that’s good,” Albert says. “The Germans will be lost, too!”
“You’re always so cheerful,” Claudette grouses, flopping onto the ground.
“The truck driver said there was a village over there,” Duno claims, pointing. “Una villa!” Santino levers open ration tins, playing deaf. “We should have crossed the ridge where that pine tree comes out of those rocks. We’re going in circles.”
“And you have such a lot of experience in these matters, Mr. Fenimore Cooper?” his father asks. “You know the woods better than a man born here?”
“He wasn’t born here,” Claudette feels compelled to point out.
“Don’t mix in, Claudette!” her father warns, taking a tin from Santino.
“Papa, he’s from Calabria!”
Hearing the word, Santino looks up, can opener in hand. He doesn’t understand what the Hebrews are saying, but he hears Duno’s scorn and accepts it as his due. He’s tried to keep them going upward, but when the ground slopes down, is it another ravine or are they going back toward the San Leandro again? I should have gotten a compass from Miroglio, he thinks glumly, but he catches Signor Blum’s eye and jerks his head toward the Brösslers. “Tell them not to waste their strength. And quiet down. There could be Germans in the next ravine.”
Albert translates. Mouths snap shut. Duno stalks off angrily. The others eat in a silence broken only by Steffi’s quiet chatter. “There’ll be a handsome nice prince,” she tells Antoinette. “He’ll have a big pretty castle and soft big beds…”
Sharing the fallen tree trunk, Santino and Albert chew companionably, eyes on a valley barely visible through a stand of elms. A low rumble rolls over them. Thunder, not artillery. A moment later, the first drops of rain smack against leaves. Santino pulls out a square of oilcloth and wraps his rifle in it.
Albert asks, “Are you a good shot, Santino?”
“My no
“But not so bad either, eh?” Albert guesses, nudging him with an elbow.
Santino smiles modestly. “We should try to get up to those rocks before dark. Maybe we’ll see something.”
“Santino, the peasants— the contadini—will they help strangers?”
“Sì, certo, signore.”
“Even Jews?”
“We’re all human beings, signore. Even Turks and Africans.” In point of fact, until his unit was deployed in southern France, Santino Cicala didn’t know there were still Hebrews alive in the world. If anyone had asked, he’d have said ebrei were only in the Bible. Like Egyptians, or those other E-people… Ephesians! “Italians don’t hate strangers, signore. We hate the uncle who screwed us out of an inheritance. Like Mamma used to say, ‘Trust only family, only family can betray you.’ She tried to get along with everyone, but…” He shakes his head. “Zia Rosa won’t talk to her brother, and he won’t talk to his wife’s nephews, and nobody talks to my cousin Salvatore. My no