Spinelli sat down beside the old man and for a while just gazed out at the hills of San Sebastiano. He could see a small orchard of olive trees there, the limbs heavy with fruit not yet ready for harvest. It seemed to him that everything had been provided to the human species—food, water, the company of others, every imaginable invention, from screened windows to penicillin. All people had to do was keep from letting greed or the hunger for power take over their lives. But we can’t manage even that, he thought, can’t seem to agree that the suffering a human life automatically includes is enough; we have to add to it. The Mussolinis and Hitlers and Hirohitos have to add to it.
“Lei, dove abita?” he asked the man after a time. Where do you live?
“A farm,” the man said. “Mancini Farm. I am called Domenico Mancini.”
“Stefano Spinelli,” he said and held out his hand. The man’s palm was calloused, the grip firm.
“My farm is a long walk from here,” Domenico said. “A very long walk.”
“We could try for a ride.”
“Try.” Domenico lifted his face toward the road, as if to say: it’s useless, but try.
In fact, Spinelli thought, it might very well be useless. He could walk back to the monastery, he knew that. Eight miles. But old Mancini would never make it, and the man reminded him of his uncle Carmine, the same peaceful eyes, the same narrow, pointed shoulders and large hands.
He stood and stepped to the edge of the road and waited. Nothing. The crickets chirping, the silence of the end of day. Over his left shoulder, the sun was just setting. Soon darkness would envelop them, and then the old man would be stranded here until dawn.
Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. The better part of half an hour. Twilight was wrapping its shadows around them. And then, a pair of headlights in the distance. Spinelli stepped onto the edge of the road and held out a thumb, and by the time the vehicle came close enough for him to realize it was a German military truck, it was too late to back away. The driver saw them at the last minute and hit the brakes hard, and the old man was on his feet and walking into the road in the dust and darkness. Spinelli reached up and opened the door wide, saw the German soldier there in the interior lights—so young and tanned, he looked like he might have come from a party at the beach. A captain, Spinelli was surprised to see . . . if he was reading the insignia correctly. Smooth-faced, clear-eyed, a crooked mouth, somehow unthreatening. Spinelli helped Domenico climb into the seat and then climbed up beside him, squeezing against the door so the old man’s legs wouldn’t be pressed against the shift. The German soldier started off without a word.
After a mile or so, the captain broke the silence. “Ercolano?”
“Sì, sì,” the old man said.
Spinelli was perfectly happy to let Domenico do the talking, but the driver leaned forward and looked at him. “E tu?” he said. Decent accent.
“Same, same,” Spinelli said. Lo stesso, lo stesso. “We live with each other.” And then, to the old man, in dialect: “Please pretend.”
Domenico nodded. They bounced along. Because he couldn’t stop himself, Spinelli pushed his luck a bit and asked the driver, “Miss home?”
He glanced across the seat and thought, for a moment, that—barely out of boyhood, really—the captain might start to cry. “Certo,” he said. “I hope I survive to see my mother again. My father is fighting now in Russia, but I hope to see my mother.”
“You will,” Spinelli told him.
“Sì, sì,” the old man piped up.
“You shouldn’t tell anyone I gave you a ride.”
“Never.”
“I’ll let you off on the outskirts. I know the Allies are close. Everyone knows it. I’m supposed to speak with a tank commander about what to do. Please don’t tell.”
“Never,” Spinelli repeated. “Mai.” But he was thinking: So there are tanks in Ercolano. Loose lips sink ships. Along they went in the darkness, figures appearing here and there at the side of the road, women in long dresses walking along, holding a bucket or balancing a basket on their heads. Once, a man on a bicycle, navigating in darkness.
Just shy of Ercolano, the German pulled to the side of the road. The old man thanked him, Spinelli thanked him. Before Spinelli closed the door, the driver said to him quietly, “Starting tomorrow, don’t show yourself. You’ll be picked up and sent north.”
Spinelli stood there for a second, one hand on the door, looking at the young face. And you and I are supposed to kill each other, he thought. He nodded his thanks, closed the door, bade Domenico Mancini farewell, and started off on the long climb up to the monastery.
How on earth, he wondered as he walked, how on earth are we going to bring the Allied armies into a city like Naples and not lose twenty thousand men in the process?
Thirty-One
From her tearful visit with Rita Rossamadre, Lucia headed straight to Giuseppe’s house. For the start of that walk, east along Via Toledo, the sun was directly behind her, casting a coppery September light that dusted the fronts of the buildings on the south side of the street, turning the windows there into flashes—of hope, it seemed to her—but sending long shadows in front of the people walking on that side. She was very hungry, but food was secondary now.
In the heart of the Materdei, she turned left onto Vico della Calce and climbed up to Giuseppe’s street, and wasn’t surprised to see Uncle Donato sitting outside in his regular chair. She loved that man, loved the way he dealt with his physical limitations, loved the dignity with which he accepted the daily visits of people he didn’t know, people who believed that a man with a hunched back—un gobbo—had been touched by God and so putting a hand on his back brought a blessing (for women it was the opposite: their hunched backs were thought to be bad luck). They came not only to touch him but to seek counsel from him. Sad as it was to see such a brilliant and compassionate spirit imprisoned in a troubled body, Lucia felt, in his presence, something that went beyond the superstition, something like what she’d felt with Rita—a deep goodness, an actual sense of holiness.
Seeing Uncle Donato there didn’t surprise her. What did surprise her was the sight of the limping German, his back to her, walking toward the other end of the street, not half a block from the front of Giuseppe’s building. Reflexively, though he couldn’t see her, she ducked into a doorway and peered after him. She watched him swing his bad leg in an almost circular fashion as he went. He was following her everywhere. Asking people, tracking her—the port, the Archives, now here.
When she felt certain he was gone, Lucia stepped out onto the sidewalk again and approached Uncle Donato. He offered her one of his rare smiles, thin-lipped and sorrowful, as mysterious as the Mona Lisa’s.
“Come stai, bella?”
“All right, Uncle.” She tilted her head toward the end of the street. “Did he speak to you, the German?”
“In his fashion.”
“Was he asking for me?”
“No, bella. He said this, exactly: ‘Queers, Jews, and cripples, we’ll send you all to the work camps.’ And then he spat to one side.”
“Did he upset you?”
“Nothing upsets me, my beautiful one. Half of me resides in the next world. Giuseppe is upstairs, preparing what passes for our dinner. Eat with us. Tell him I’m in no hurry to come inside. Spend time with him alone. I will wait here until you fetch me.”