together, maybe a lifetime in that year.”
“Yes, perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps.Was the vehicle stolen?”
I was surprised by his sudden shift in conversation, and wondered if his command of English was all it seemed. “It was,” I said.
“Then he is a smart friend, at least. He speaks Italian like a Tuscan, but, still, he is smart.”
“I think he studied in Florence before the war.”
“Ah, yes, that would explain it,” Sciafani said, as if bemoaning a sad but inescapable fate.
I lifted the canvas side of the truck and stuck my head out. The ground had changed from gently rolling fields to steeper hills and deep gullies. No entrenchments, supply dumps, or burned buildings marred this landscape. It was oddly quiet, and I realized how accustomed I had become to the sounds of an army at war: the echoes of fighting as well as the rear-area noise of machinery, engines, shovels, shouts, and curses. Here, it was calm and peaceful, and that worried me. Kaz slowed as the road narrowed where a small stone bridge crossed a stream. Beyond the stream he turned onto an even smaller path, lined with lemon trees, their yellow fruit ripening in the sun. On either side were fields of purple cauliflower, their huge heads looking ready for market. Bushy green trees flourished along the streambed. More color surrounded me here than anywhere I had seen before on this island.
“Now you begin to see the real Sicily,” Sciafani said.
The truck slowed to a crawl as Kaz turned a corner, halting in front of a stone barn, its double wooden doors swung wide open. An elderly Italian man, wisps of white hair flying out from under his cap, hobbled out, hitching his suspenders up over a worn gray collarless shirt that might once have been as white as his whiskers. He nodded to Kaz, who spoke to him in Italian, with his Tuscan accent.
“He asks if anyone has been here. The old man says no, not since last night, and asks if he brought the American cigarettes,” Sciafani said, translating the exchange.
Apparently Kaz had, so the old man motioned him to drive the truck into the barn. As we got out, the old man stopped short when he saw Sciafani in his Italian Army uniform. He pointed at him and spouted off at Kaz, but Sciafani interrupted him. All I understood was siciliano, siciliano, which seemed to do the trick and calmed the fellow down. Sciafani introduced himself, not mentioning his discarded rank.
“Dottore Enrico Sciafani,” he said somewhat formally, straightening up as he did so. The old man removed his cap and murmured what sounded like apologies.
“ Mi chiamo Filipo Ciccolo, Signore,” he added with a bit of a bow as he backpedaled and stuck his cap back on. Kaz handed him four cartons of Lucky Strikes, which he took and hid under a tarpaulin.
“Filipo did not wish to have a Fascist under his roof,” Sciafani explained. “I assured him that as a Sicilian neither would I.”
It made sense, as far as it went. I had been told that Sicilians were not too fond of Mussolini and his Fascists. But there was something about old Filipo’s reaction to Sciafani that interested me. It was as if he acknowledged him, respected him, and maybe feared him. And now, for the first time, I noticed that the truck we’d been riding in didn’t have the regular army paint job. No white star, no serial numbers or unit designations were stenciled on it. It wasn’t even army green, more of a nondescript tan color. At a distance, covered in dust, it might pass for any small truck in any army.
“It’s like my jacket,” I said to no one in particular.
“Exactly,” Kaz said.
We filed out of the barn, Filipo shutting the double doors behind us. Kaz led us around the back to a house made of the same stone as the barn. It was larger than the ones I’d seen in the village, but still square, with thin slits for windows. A small patch of peas and beans stood outside a side door, surrounded by more of the familiar blue daisies. A grove of
“Yes, perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps.Was the vehicle stolen?”
I was surprised by his sudden shift in conversation, and wondered if his command of English was all it seemed. “It was,” I said.
“Then he is a smart friend, at least. He speaks Italian like a Tuscan, but, still, he is smart.”
“I think he studied in Florence before the war.”
“Ah, yes, that would explain it,” Sciafani said, as if bemoaning a sad but inescapable fate.
I lifted the canvas side of the truck and stuck my head out. The ground had changed from gently rolling fields to steeper hills and deep gullies. No entrenchments, supply dumps, or burned buildings marred this landscape. It was oddly quiet, and I realized how accustomed I had become to the sounds of an army at war: the echoes of fighting as well as the rear-area noise of machinery, engines, shovels, shouts, and curses. Here, it was calm and peaceful, and that worried me. Kaz slowed as the road narrowed where a small stone bridge crossed a stream. Beyond the stream he turned onto an even smaller path, lined with lemon trees, their yellow fruit ripening in the sun. On either side were fields of purple cauliflower, their huge heads looking ready for market. Bushy green trees flourished along the streambed. More color surrounded me here than anywhere I had seen before on this island.
“Now you begin to see the real Sicily,” Sciafani said.
The truck slowed to a crawl as Kaz turned a corner, halting in front of a stone barn, its double wooden doors swung wide open. An elderly Italian man, wisps of white hair flying out from under his cap, hobbled out, hitching his suspenders up over a worn gray collarless shirt that might once have been as white as his whiskers. He nodded to Kaz, who spoke to him in Italian, with his Tuscan accent.
“He asks if anyone has been here. The old man says no, not since last night, and asks if he brought the American cigarettes,” Sciafani said, translating the exchange.
Apparently Kaz had, so the old man motioned him to drive the truck into the barn. As we got out, the old man stopped short when he saw Sciafani in his Italian Army uniform. He pointed at him and spouted off at Kaz, but Sciafani interrupted him. All I understood was siciliano, siciliano, which seemed to do the trick and calmed the fellow down. Sciafani introduced himself, not mentioning his discarded rank.
“Dottore Enrico Sciafani,” he said somewhat formally, straightening up as he did so. The old man removed his cap and murmured what sounded like apologies.
“ Mi chiamo Filipo Ciccolo, Signore,” he added with a bit of a bow as he backpedaled and stuck his cap back on. Kaz handed him four cartons of Lucky Strikes, which he took and hid under a tarpaulin.
“Filipo did not wish to have a Fascist under his roof,” Sciafani explained. “I assured him that as a Sicilian neither would I.”
It made sense, as far as it went. I had been told that Sicilians were not too fond of Mussolini and his Fascists. But there was something about old Filipo’s reaction to Sciafani that interested me. It was as if he acknowledged him, respected him, and maybe feared him. And now, for the first time, I noticed that the truck we’d been riding in didn’t have the regular army paint job. No white star, no serial numbers or unit designations were stenciled on it. It wasn’t even army green, more of a nondescript tan color. At a distance, covered in dust, it might pass for any small truck in any army.
“It’s like my jacket,” I said to no one in particular.
“Exactly,” Kaz said.
We filed out of the barn, Filipo shutting the double doors behind us. Kaz led us around the back to a house made of the same stone as the barn. It was larger than the ones I’d seen in the village, but still square, with thin slits for windows. A small patch of peas and beans stood outside a side door, surrounded by more of the familiar blue daisies. A grove of
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