Street Boys by Lorenzo Carcaterra Page A

I wish I had thought of it. In the meantime, I don’t suppose you found a radio while you were digging up all these rifles and bombs. The one I got is pretty banged up.”
    “No,” Maldini said, glancing over Connors’s shoulder and watching Vincenzo, Franco, Nunzia and Angela come toward them. “There aren’t any radios in Naples.”
    “I have to get word to my command,” Connors said. “See if I can get some trucks sent down here and get these kids out.”
    Connors pulled out a crinkled pack of cigarettes and offered one to Maldini who shook his head. “I have enough bad habits,” he said.
    “How do you fit into this?” Connors asked. “Or you just somebody else that’s eager to die.”
    “You know me so well and we only just met,” Maldini said with a chuckle. “I was drafted, just like you. Except I didn’t get a uniform with a fancy patch on the sleeve.”
    “You even try to talk them out of it?” Connors asked.
    “I no longer try to tell people what to do or what to believe,” Maldini said.
    “Our decision was made before you got here,” Vincenzo said, standing behind Connors. “And it won’t change, even after you leave.”
    Connors tossed his cigarette into the fire and turned toward the boy. He glanced over at Nunzia and then focused his attention on Vincenzo. He caught the boy staring at the Thunderbird patch on his sleeve. “We need to talk,” Connors said to him. “Just you and me. Quiet and alone.”
    “We can talk here,” Vincenzo said.
    “Yes, we could,” Connors said, “but we’re not.” He grabbed the boy by the arm and lead him away from the fire toward the darkness of the silent castle.
     
    They were in an entryway lit by two hanging torches. Connors was pacing, his boots echoing off the stone steps. Vincenzo stood with his back against the cold wall. “Here’s how it’s going to work,” Connors said. “First thing in the morning, you round these kids up and get them to follow me out of the city. If that doesn’t happen, then you and me got ourselves a serious problem.”
    “What will you do?” Vincenzo asked. “Shoot me if I don’t do as you say?”
    “I just might,” Connors said.
    “This is our fight,” Vincenzo said. “Not yours.”
    “What makes you so sure there’s even going to be a fight?” Connors asked. “That the Nazis are heading back into the city?”
    “Every night their planes dropped leaflets down on us along with the bombs,” Vincenzo said. “Told us that tanks would be coming in after the air raids ended, to destroy what was left of the city.”
    “If that’s true, then it’s all the more reason to get these kids out of here now,” Connors said.
    “Everyone we ever trusted has betrayed us,” Vincenzo said. “Everyone we believed has lied. Your words don’t mean anything to me or to those outside. You’re just another uniform marching through the city.”
    “You got a chance to save those kids,” Connors said. “Instead, you’re going to let them stay here and, if the Nazis do show up, watch them die.”
    “What difference does it make where we die?” Vincenzo asked. “In the city fighting or on the road running?”
    “The Nazis come back in here, they’re not gonna see kids,” Connors said. “They’ll see targets. Treat you no different than they would me.”
    “They’ve treated us in worse ways,” Vincenzo said. “They haven’t killed your family. They haven’t blown up your home. They haven’t burned your city.”
    “I can’t let you or these kids be left here to die,” Connors said. “You have to understand that.”
    “You have no choice, American,” Vincenzo said. “And you have to understand that.”

19
    GRAND BALLROOM, VILLA PIGNATELLI, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943
    Carlo Petroni lit a hand-rolled cigarette, wooden speckles mixed in with stale tobacco, and looked around at the barren ornate ballroom that was often used by the Fascist high command as a place to convene meetings. The villa was