Carlo’s hands were tied in front of him with a length of wire that bit into his skin, and he was pushed unceremoniously up into the bed. Two soldiers joined them there, the third slammed the tailgate in place, climbed into the cab, and the truck started off.
The other prisoner seemed blissfully unworried. “Carmine Alberti,” he said. “Napoli.”
“Carlo Conte, Montepulciano.”
“If they haven’t shot us by now, it means they won’t. They’ll take us north. To make their bombs. They’ll rough us up a bit—you look like you can take it. We won’t eat much up there, but we’ll get home after the war, you’ll see.”
You’re so confident, Carlo wanted to say, but he only leaned forward a little to keep his backbone from slamming against the metal cab every time the truck went over a bump.
Dirt had gotten between his eye patch and the empty socket; he was able to move his bound hands and wipe some of it away. The tires raised a plume of dust behind them. He watched it balloon and settle, watched the hillsides go past, rows of olive trees, a few hectares of grapes—close to harvest. The famous vendemmia, or bringing in of the grapes, had been a glorious festival in better times, and it pained him to remember those days. It had been hard work, yes, but eased by a sense of togetherness, of receiving a wondrous gift from the earth. Afterward, after the new wine was bottled, there would be celebrations—two days off in a row, music and dancing in Gracciano, then a feast.
No doubt, this far south, the vendemmia would take place a week or two earlier than in the hills near Montepulciano.
After half an hour the roadway changed—paved now—and he could see that they were entering a town or small city. Brown-and-gray stone-and-stucco houses stood close to the side of the road, a few of them pocked with damage from the Allied bombing and strafing. Women walked along with bags dangling from one hand, or a pitcher on their head. One boy went by on a bicycle that looked like it would fall to pieces at the next turn of the pedals.
“Pietramelara,” Carmine said. “I know the place. Had a beautiful sweetheart here at one time.”
Another two minutes and the truck jerked to a stop. “The police station,” Carmine said, and he let out a laugh. “I spent a quiet night here years ago.”
They were pulled roughly down from the back of the truck and shoved inside the building to a cell with two wooden plank beds and a smelly hole in the floor. Their hands were untied, the barred door slammed closed behind them. They sat across from each other. Carmine, Carlo noted, was that rare creature—overweight in wartime. Round body, round face, curly black hair. His thick lips formed themselves naturally into a smile, as if the world amused him, as if even the war amused him. They exchanged stories. Carmine had been a chef by trade in one of Naples’s most famous pizza places—an honored profession there—then he’d been conscripted and become a shipping clerk in Mussolini’s army （“Puzzolini” he called him, from the word puzza, for a bad smell）。 “The stupids. I’m a chef, I could have made them and the troops great pizzas, but the idiots forced me to scratch numbers on papers all day. No wonder they’re losing the war.” He chuckled at the foolishness of it, burped as if he’d just eaten. “Once the clown, Il Duce, disappeared, I said to myself, ‘This is ridiculous, Carmine.’ I walked away, changed into clothes I stole, hitched a ride home, and set off a few days ago, heading north. I have a sweetheart in Rome. I was going to see her. Stupid of me. I thought the Allies would be north of Rome by this point, and I was all excited to get laid. Now—” He threw up his hands, raised his eyebrows, and pinched his cheeks tight in a gesture of resignation. “Now, chissà?” Who knows?
When Carlo told him how he’d been wounded, Carmine said, “Ooh, minchia,” a comment one might make after stepping in a puddle or bumping an elbow on a doorjamb. Ooh, mienke. Oh, shit. The remark wasn’t in any way offensive, just strange, especially at a time when everyone else Carlo had met since leaving southern Sicily had been shocked by his injury, revolted, full of pity. Maybe he didn’t look as terrible as he thought he did. The idea made him feel more hopeful about how Vittoria might react. If he ever made it home to Vittoria.
When Carlo told him about Ariana, Carmine asked for her family name and the exact location of their farm in southern Sicily, as if he planned to go courting her after the war.
A barred window had been cut high up in the concrete wall. After they’d sat on their beds for a long time, talking, the afternoon light softened there. A silent German minder brought them bowls of gruel—no spoons, no crust of bread—and Carmine gulped it down and actually smacked his lips as if it tasted like something other than machine oil. “Andrà tutto bene,” he said. All shall be well. And then he lay himself down sideways on the bed, pressed both palms together beneath his cheek, and was asleep within thirty seconds.