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  Connors lay there and held him in his arms. It was all that was left for him to do. He couldn’t radio back to headquarters for help, not that it would have been able to save Taylor’s life. The transmitter had been blown to bits along with Willis, but even if he still had it, he couldn’t risk giving away his position to any other Germans who were in the area. So, instead, Connors just sat and listened to a soldier he had never liked gasp and wheeze his final words. Taylor told him as much as he could about his life in the short hours he had left. Connors nodded and smiled when the words called for it, wiping the younger soldier’s brow and promising to let his family back home know how brave he had been.

  “I never did want to come to Italy,” Taylor said, blood running in a thin line out of his mouth and down his neck. “Now I guess I’ll never leave.”

  “You shouldn’t have moved,” Connors said. “I had him. All you needed to do was hold your position.”

  “Can’t let you be the hero every time,” Taylor said, managing a snicker.

  “It wouldn’t have killed you,” Connors said.

  “Thanks for staying with me,” Taylor said.

  “You’d have done the same,” Connors said.

  “Don’t bet your life on it,” Taylor said, his eyes closing for a final time.

  12

  PORTO DI SANTA LUCIA, NAPLES

  SEPTEMBER 26, 1943

  Twelve rowboats, in rows of two with four to a boat, slowly made their way out from the shore of the bay.

  Maldini and Vincenzo rode in the lead boat, the older man pulling on a set of wooden oars, gliding them through the calm waters. The boats were weighed down with massive fishing nets curled up and running along their centers. The hot sun was now at full boil, its scalding rays browning the backs of the rowers. They slapped hands full of seawater on their shoulders and arms, seeking a mild dose of relief.

  “How will you know when to stop?” Vincenzo asked.

  “My father fished these waters most of his life,” Maldini said. “He made sure his children knew the ways of the sea. The tide moves at its own pace, affected only by time and weather.”

  “Which means what?” Vincenzo asked with unmasked impatience.

  Maldini pulled his oars out of the water and rested them inside the boat. “Which means,” he said, “that we are here. Floating above the guns.”

  “Should we drop the nets?” Vincenzo asked, standing on unsteady legs in the center of the boat.

  “It’s what I would do,” Maldini said. “But then, I’m not the one in charge.”

  Vincenzo cupped his hands around his mouth, balancing himself against the bumps of the small waves. “Lift your nets,” he shouted to the boys in the other boats. “And hold them above your heads. Stand as steady as you can.”

  The boys grunted and grimaced as they went about a task that normally required the girth and strength of grown men. They struggled with the nets as a few of the younger kids fell over the sides of the boats and one nearly capsized his small vessel. “Have them bend their legs,” Maldini told Vincenzo. “It will help steady their weight.”

  Vincenzo shouted out the new instructions and then looked back at Maldini. “How far do the nets need to be tossed?” he asked.

  “Enough to stretch them out,” Maldini said. “Fifteen feet would be a decent throw. Even ten feet would be acceptable. Anything less, we would pull up nothing but sand and shells.”

  “They’re not strong enough to make that long a throw,” Vincenzo said, sitting back down in the boat, his hands resting on Maldini’s knees.

  Maldini stared at Vincenzo, the stubble on his face glistening from the spray mist of the waves. He then turned to look back at the boys struggling with the nets. “Grab that rope from the bow,” he ordered. “Run it through the ring behind me and then go boat to boat and link them together. It will keep us in tight formation. I’ll meet up with you and Franco in the last boat.”

  Vincenzo tore off his shirt, ran the thick chord through the circular ring at the nose of the boat and dove into the sea. He swam with one hand, holding the rope above his head with the other, pulling it toward the extended arms of a curly-haired twelve-year-old. “Give it back to me at the other end,” Vincenzo told him, “then jump into the water. It will be easier for you to empty the nets from there.”

  Maldini was in the water, swimming toward the last boat on the line. He stopped and turned back toward Vincenzo. “Have the youngest child swim to shore,” he called out. “We need more boys. As many as can be found. It will take many hands to lift the nets from the bottom.”

  Franco and Angela helped pull Maldini into the last boat.

  The older man was winded and had swallowed enough water to give his throat a salt burn. “Do you think the apostles had as much trouble with their nets?” Franco asked.

  “Probably not,” Maldini said, still gasping. “But they had Jesus on their side. You’re stuck with me.”

  The boats were lined up and tied together, bobbing in unison to the splashing beat of the waves.

  More than seventy-five boys, heads floating above the rising tide, swam on either side of the small crafts. Maldini stood in bare feet, square in the center of the first boat, the edge of a rolled-up fishing net gripped in his hands. Vincenzo, Franco and Angela flanked his sides, each holding the same net, waiting for Maldini to give the order. “The higher we throw it, the farther out it will go,” he shouted. “It should float up and out, unfurl like an old flag. Angela, you tell us when.”

  Angela steadied her feet and tightened her grip. She looked down at the water to make sure none of the boys were close enough to get trapped in its pull. “Forza, Italia!” she yelled as she reached up with all her strength and, along with the three others, fell back as they let the net go. They sat in the boat and watched the net float in the air, gently spread out and cover the water as if it were a crisply ironed tablecloth.

  “Did we do it?” Franco asked. “Is it out far enough?”

  Maldini rubbed the top of the boy’s head, both of them watching as the net sank slowly to the bottom of the bay. “You did well, Franco,” he said. He turned to face the others. “You all did. But we still have four nets left to throw. And after that comes the hard part. Pulling them up.”

  “We only have three more nets for the guns,” Angela said as she glanced down the side of the boats.

  “That’s right,” Maldini said. “But I asked two of the younger boys to bring out another boat, take it past us to the point and drop their net out there. With what they’re going to get they don’t need to throw it far or wait very long.”

  “What are they getting?” she asked.

  “I can only pray that they come back with enough fish to feed us all,” Maldini said. “We’ll have a hungry group on our hands at the end of the day.”

  “I guess now you could really use some help from Jesus,” Franco said. “He did some of his best work with fish.”

  “Jesus never fished in the Bay of Naples,” Maldini said. “In our waters, the fish fit a man’s net like a well-made pair of shoes.”

  “Keep the knots in your hand and the rope wrapped around your arm,” Vincenzo yelled to four boys swimming around the edges of the boat. “If you lose those, we won’t be able to bring the net and the guns to the surface.”

  “I’m holding it as tight as I can,” a cheery-faced seven-year-old said. “And I will pull them up by myself if I have to.”

  “How could Italy lose a war with a man like you on its side, Lucca?” Vincenzo said.

  “Because we always let the ones without heart lead us,” Maldini said, leaning over the boat and splashing cool water on his face. “The ones with heart are left to die.”

  13

  IL CAMALDOLI, NAPLES

  SEPTEMBER 26, 1943

  The bullmastiff led the way down the side of the bluff, walking with delicate ease along its narrow path. Connors followed, one hand holding his rifle belt, the other resting inside his pants pocket. His uniform wa
s sprinkled with dust and blood. He had buried Willis and Taylor at the top of the bluff, overlooking the Bay of Naples, using their helmets and rifles as markers.

  They had parked the jeep under an old pine tree, inside a neglected olive grove. There was little wind and the heat was cooling down with the evening shade.

  The bullmastiff saw the boys before he did and took a run toward them, barking and kicking up pockets of dust and dirt with his paws. Connors flipped his rifle from his shoulder to his hands and fast-stepped down the path toward the jeep. He stopped between the dog and the four boys sitting in his jeep, rifle at his side. One of the boys had his fingers wrapped around the ignition key. They were thin, dirty and disheveled and none was older than fourteen. Connors looked at each one, getting only frightened stares and nervous shifting in return. The mastiff had his paws on the side of the jeep and was low growling, ready to pounce at any sudden movements.

  “Do you speak any English?” he asked.

  “We all do,” the oldest of the four stammered.

  “How is that?” Connors asked. “That you all speak it?”

  “We are taught to speak three languages,” the boy said. “Neapolitan first. Then Italian and then English.”

  “Why are you here?” the boy in the front passenger seat asked.

  “I was about to ask the same question,” Connors said, looking from the boys to the dog. “And since I’m the one with the rifle, I’d like my answer first.”

  “We’re looking for Nazis,” the boy said. “See if they’re really coming to Naples again. And then report back.”

  “Report back to who?” Connors asked.

  The four shot quick glances at one another and then looked back down at the dog and the soldier. “The others in our group,” the one holding the ignition key said.

  “Let’s say the Nazis are coming back,” Connors said. “What happens then?” He walked closer to the jeep, rifle slung once again over his shoulder.

  “I guess then we fight,” the boy closest to Connors said.

  Connors stared at him. The boy’s eyes were dark and rich; his face round, sweet and innocent; his hair clipped back and short. “Fight the Nazis?”

  “That’s what you do,” the boy said. “Why can’t we?”

  “The Nazis have a habit of shooting back,” Connors said. “That’s one reason to think about.”

  The boys stayed silent for several seconds, eyes glancing up toward the ridge where the firefight had taken place.

  “Does your dog understand Italian?” the boy in the back asked.

  “That’s all he understands,” Connors said.

  The boy in the back smiled at the dog and snapped his fingers. “Scendi jou,” he said in as firm a voice as he could muster. “E siedati!”

  The bullmastiff lowered his paws, stepped back from the jeep and sat on the dirt, his mouth open, large tongue dangling. Connors looked at the dog and then back to the boy.

  “It’s good to know he listens to somebody,” he said. “Tell you his name if I knew it. But I can tell you mine. It’s Connors.”

  “I am Dante,” the boy in the back said. “The boy next to me is Claudio. And the two in front are Gaspare and Pepe.”

  “How many are there in this group of yours?” Connors asked.

  “About two hundred,” Dante said, stepping down from the jeep. “Maybe two hundred and fifty.”

  “All boys?”

  “A few girls, but not many,” Gaspare said. “Just the ones without any family.”

  “Any American soldiers down there?” Connors asked, leaning against the side of the jeep, his helmet off and resting on the hood.

  “You’re the first one any of us have seen,” Dante said.

  “What about Italian resistance?” Connors said. “Any of them with you?”

  “No,” Dante said. “They left before the evacuation.”

  “Are we your prisoners now?” Claudio said, speaking for the first time. He was the youngest, his brown hair touched with streaks of blond, looking nervous and ill at ease in the rear of the jeep.

  “Why don’t we say that for the time being we’re working together,” Connors said. “At least until we see how everything in Naples plays out. Just me, the dog and the four of you.”

  “What is it you want us to do?” Dante asked with a hint of suspicion.

  “It’s not anything that’s going to get you into trouble,” Connors said. “If I’m anywhere in this, it’s on your side. Understand?”

  “Si,” Dante said, nodding along with the three other boys.

  “Good,” Connors said, throwing off his pack and wedging it in the back of the jeep between Dante and Claudio. He tapped the younger boy on the knee. “You’re going to have to ride on your friend’s lap,” he told him. “We need to make room for the dog. The same goes for the two of you in front.”

  Connors waited for the boys to shift seats and then snapped his fingers and watched as the mastiff hoisted himself into the back. “His breath is horrible,” Claudio said, cupping a hand in front of his face. “He smells like old feet.”

  “He’s not the cleanest duck in the pond,” Connors said, jumping behind the steering wheel. “But he’s good company and he smells trouble long before it hits.”

  “What do you call him?” Claudio asked, moving his hand from his face to the top of the mastiff’s head.

  “I only knew one Italian name before I ran into you guys,” Connors said, shifting into reverse and moving back toward the road. “And that’s Benito. So that’s who he is. At least to me.”

  “You named him after Il Duce?” Gaspare said, his olive eyes flushed wide. “In Naples that could get you killed.”

  “We’re not in Naples,” Connors said. “Yet.”

  “You still haven’t said what you want us to do,” Pepe said, partly hidden under Gaspare’s weight.

  “Benito understands you a lot better than he does me,” Connors said. “Be great if one of you could tell him to stop pissing in the jeep.”

  14

  16TH PANZER DIVISION, SEVENTY-FIVE MILES OUTSIDE OF NAPLES. SEPTEMBER 26, 1943

  The four Mark IV tanks were lined up, gun turrets facing the front of the large pink stucco house. German soldiers, armed with machine guns and flame throwers, approached the house from the rear, trampling over grapevines and fig leaves. Von Klaus stood in front of his tank, staring out at what had once been lush gardens and fertile fields. He marveled at the design of the house. The walls were built thick enough to keep out the harshest summer heat and the most chilling winter winds. The marble steps leading to the oak-wood front door were expansive, black iron handrails helping to guide the path. The entryway had the look and feel of a palace hidden in the middle of paradise. A palace he now needed to bring to ruin.

  “Has the house search been completed?” Von Klaus asked Kunnalt, standing alongside him.

  “Yes, sir,” Kunnalt said. “The last of our men should be coming out at any moment.”

  “And what did they find?”

  “It’s been pretty much gutted, sir,” Kunnalt answered. “A few paintings left on the walls. Some furniture scattered about in the downstairs rooms. Nothing that appears to be of any value.”

  Von Klaus turned to Kunnalt and smiled. “At least not to us,” he said. He walked a few steps closer to the house, gazing up at the windows to each room, every one shiny and clean. “For an abandoned home, it’s very free of dust, don’t you think?”

  “I hadn’t noticed, sir,” Kunnalt said, in step behind the colonel. “Perhaps it hasn’t been left empty very long.”

  “Have the house searched again,” Von Klaus said. “And this time, look beyond what it is the owner wants you to see.”

  “Looking for what, sir?” Kunnalt asked.

  “This is the home of a very rich man,” Von Klaus said. “And more than likely a very smart one as well. A man like that would plan ahead. He wouldn’t flee from such a place like a crazed peasant with all the valuables he could carry o
n his back. He would make sure those valuables would be safe, hidden from all eyes. They are in this house, Kunnalt. And I would wager that when you find them, you will also find that man.”

  Kunnalt snapped his heels, gave the colonel a crisp salute and walked back toward the front entrance to the house, shouting out orders as he moved. Von Klaus reached up and grabbed a tree limb resting just above his head. He snapped off a batch of thin, red grapes and held them in his hands. “I would have preferred wine,” he whispered, pulling the grapes from their stems. He leaned back against the side of his tank, eating the grapes one at a time, and waited.

  It was just after dusk when the colonel looked up and saw Kunnalt leading an elderly man in a soiled suit out of the house. The man had hair the color of snow and a beard as thick as a farmer’s hedge. He was short but stout and moved with the quiet dignity of one bred to wealth. He walked with his head raised, his eyes fueled by an angry fire.

  “You were right, sir,” Kunnalt said, standing in front of the colonel, the man just off to his right. “There were a number of hidden passageways throughout the house, each of them leading to a series of large underground rooms.”

  “And what were in these rooms?” Von Klaus asked, gazing over at the man.

  “As you expected, sir,” Kunnalt said with an air of admiration. “Old portraits in large frames, wooden boxes filled with jewelry and several yellow envelopes sealed and stuffed with money.”

  “Which room did you find him in?” Von Klaus asked, tilting his head toward the man.

  “He was in the subbasement, sir,” Kunnalt said. “Hiding in a small closet off the main hall.”

  “Everything you found belongs to me,” the old man said in a hard voice. “And to my family. Anyone else who takes it is nothing more than a thief.”

  “That’s a fine-quality suit you have on,” Von Klaus said to him. “And it is a truly beautiful home that you own. In addition, you have all this wealth stored inside of it, enough to feed all that’s left of Naples. Every Italian from Rome down has been stripped of all possessions. The only ones left untouched, as you seem to have been, are the Blackshirts. The Fascists. Which would make you a follower of Mussolini. Is that correct?”