Somewhere in the Stars Page 14

  Later that evening he sat up in bed and turned to Caterina, while she smoked a Lucky Strike, compliments of Uncle Sam, blowing tiny halos of smoke that rose above her head, vanishing into the plaster medallion on the ceiling. The more he had sex with her though, the more he felt a need to get closer to her, and she, in turn, did not chase him out as fast. It was a chance-turned-convenient, business relationship morphing into something else.

  Several weeks later, Nick crept into bed after midnight, while Nathan lay prone in the dark. He noticed the neck of whiskey bottle sticking out of a trash can.

  “Still hanging around with that putana?” Nathan asked.

  “She’s not a whore!”

  “Just joking.”

  “I didn’t ask you to butt in about the girl, so don’t piss me off.”

  “You can’t be serious about her? Who knows how many Germans she’s been with?”

  “Why don’t you just lay off the booze?” Nick sat on his bed and took off his shoes. “She doesn’t mean anything to me, but it’s better than cooping myself up in this room, when we’re off duty.”

  “You see this?” Nathan muttered as he held out a letter. Nick unbuttoned his shirt, while his friend shot up in bed. “There’s only one of my cousins left in Venice. Carlo’s in hiding. The Gestapo arrested the rest of the family.” Nathan wiped his eyes with the sheet. “If he doesn’t escape soon, they’ll cart him off to a concentration camp.”

  “Geez, I’m sorry, Nate.” Nick limped over and sat at the edge of Nathan’s bed.

  “Our troops finally got past the Arno Line …” Nathan punched the mattress. “But they’re stuck at the Gothic! And Carlo is trapped above the line.”

  “Captain Smith says one of Germany’s best field marshals is in command. Not good for your cousin. We’d have a hell of a time getting to him in Venice now.”

  “It eats my heart out. Carlo and I used to exchange postcards, ever since we could write. I’d send him one of the Golden Gate Bridge. He’d send me one of St. Mark’s Square.”

  “How’s he related?”

  “My mother’s brother. He’s a Moretto.”

  “Maybe Caterina knows someone who could help.”

  “Who the hell is Caterina?”

  “The girl I’ve been seeing. In basic Italian, la ragazza. Okay.” Nathan shook his head yes and turned toward the wall.

  The following evening Nick had arranged to meet Caterina in a café facing the Fontana dei Monti. She had a glass of Compari and soda in front of her.

  “Ciao, Caterina.” He sat down without kissing her on both cheeks.

  “Are you embarrassed meeting me here?”

  “I’ve got something important to discuss.”

  “Like a true American, business first.”

  Nick realized he had hurt Caterina by not kissing her in public but kept it to himself. “Nathan is very worried about his cugino in Venice.”

  “Cugino di Nathan è italiano?”

  “Si, but he’s Jewish.”

  “Ma it is no matter. Allora, he is still Italian, yet Nathan fears for his cousin’s life, no?”

  “Si. Can anything be done?”

  “Molto difficile! Ma non è impossible!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is an underground for Italian and foreign Jews in Assisi.”

  “You mean there’s hope. All of my buddy’s family was arrested, except for Carlo.”

  “There are no guarantees, but I know a Franciscan monk in Assisi and …”

  Nick laughed.

  “What, you think it’s funny? This whore knows a priest. I thought you wanted to help your friend.”

  “Mi dispiace, Caterina.” Her eyes dampened. “I am a cretino. Prego, continue.”

  “The monks, nuns and villagers have been hiding Jews and forging identity cards for the past year, even when the Gestapo was in Assisi. They continue to help Jews and other refugees in whatever way they can. But it’s not safe at all for Jews to move around northern Italy.” Nick blinked several times. “I will write to Padre Esposito tonight and post it tomorrow morning.”

  Nick paid the waiter without asking Caterina if she would like to leave. His body language was a sufficient signal to her that he wanted to bed her. She looked at him with piercing eyes but he had misunderstood her, not having realized she was probably more complex than he gave her credit for, with those brilliant, green eyes brimming with wit and passion and not the puttana Nathan made cracks about. He didn’t want to let on that he had feelings for her, not wanting to be Dear Johned again.

  As they crossed the street, Nick spotted the outline of the Colosseum, looming at the end of Via dei Serpenti. No matter how many times he ran across these ancient landmarks, a time travel aura set in, causing him to lose himself along the short walk to her apartment, Caterina several steps ahead. Things went along perfunctorily right up to her last words to him that evening: “Your time is up, so you can leave,” as Caterina pulled a robe around her tightly.

  Nick knew that Caterina was still angry with him and placed the liras under a lace runner. As he descended the wide, white marble stairs, he could hear faint sobbing emanating from her room. He had behaved badly, even if their relationship was conditioned by the war. Nick had to remind himself that Caterina had feelings. He picked up his pace by putting more pressure on the cane, wanting to get back to Nathan as fast as he could. He remembered to glide the motor scooter out of the alley and then raced away on his Paperino at full throttle, as if he were being shelled by high explosive ordinances out of nowhere, the booming sound in his head real enough that he kept shaking it, scooting over streets that had now become familiar to him.

  A week later, Nick thudded his cane coming into their room waving a letter. Nathan threw the newspaper down on a pile that had been building up. He pulled up a chair beside his friend and gave him the lowdown.

  “I just translated this from the Italian. It seems Padre Esposito has a plan to save Carlo but there are many risks. The Franciscan monk has a lot of contacts throughout the region, including the partigiani.” Nick could see his friend synthesizing. “Nate, let’s go to Assisi.”

  “I’ll clear everything with Captain Smith tomorrow morning. Convince him I need R&R.” Nathan tapped his head. “I’m sure Doc Bradley would back me up, considering my last seizure.”

  “What about me?”

  “He’s my cousin. I’ll go it alone.”

  “Like hell you will.”

  “Suit yourself, but there’s no need for the both us to wind up dead if things go wrong.”

  “We’re supposed to stick together. Isn’t that right, Nate?”

  “All right. You can tag along to Assisi. Hasn’t your leg been acting up lately? I hear you wincing in pain when you think I’m asleep.”

  Nick banged his cane on the floor. “By the way, Caterina insists that she go too.”

  “That dame you sneak off in the evening with? What does she have to do with this?”

  “She’s the one who got us the contact. Besides, it’ll look better for me if we include her.”

  “Is there something else going on?”

  “Who said it’s something special. Just accommodating her, that’s all.”

  “All right, all right. We’ll bring what’s her name along.”

  “It’s Caterina.” Nathan turned in for the night and fell asleep but Nick tossed around in bed. His body ached and he didn’t know if it was from his wound or something else. At least Carlo was safe for now. But what about getting across the Gothic Line. Nick mused whether or not he was getting sweet on a whore. If that were the case, Nate would put his two cents in, something he could bet on.

  Nathan convinced Captain Smith that he and Nick needed to go on leave, the pain of their old wounds resurfacing. The captain granted them a seven-day leave but warned them about coming back on time. They had a cappuccino at a dingy bar near Caterina’s apartment and then sped off on their Paperini with Nathan in the lead and Nick with his
ragazza wrapped around his waist. They headed north through the region of Lazio and followed a path of destruction left by the retreating German army, villages burnt out, planted fields despoiled and farmhouses in ruins. Nick spotted vegetables rotting, when there was a shortage of food, and the farm equipment, rusted and twisted, strewn about with no one to fix it. They witnessed long lines of refugees dragging themselves south to Rome, the expressions on their faces are what got to Nick—children whose expressions, once bright with the joy of discovery, now blank with fear, their mothers weeping silently not to make the bambini more jittery, and the men, young and old, with eyes bleary from their predicament. The thing that fortified Nick was his mission to save Carlo, one he hoped was not a fool’s journey come Giufà.

  They found the road that took them east through landlocked Umbria, weaving right and left around its green hills. Some of the olive groves and vineyards survived and Nick wondered what it would be like cruising around here when there wasn’t a war. He felt exhilarated and disenchanted at the same time with Caterina hanging on and never easing her grip. He guessed that she might also harbor mixed emotions, a term Nick thought was phony, but for now he didn’t have much choice on how things played out. He maneuvered the scooter over the dirt road in a trance, trying to unscramble why this beautiful girl had been caught up in prostitution.

  They finally found the road leading up to Assisi, situated on a slope with Mount Subasio as a backdrop. As they entered the town’s Porta San Pietro at dusk, the bells for vespers chimed from the Basilica San Francesco d’Assisi, echoed by the campanile of the other churches. A group of turtledoves on a tile roof fluttered off and, as Nick glanced up, he managed to catch sight of the distinctive, black chevron on white, under the tail of the last one in the flock. As they swerved down the streets and alleys of Assisi, the rosy tint of the stone houses was still visible. They stopped at the Piazza Santa Chiara to get directions for San Damiano, where St. Francis had his first encounter with Christ. The monastery was around 1.5 kilometers south of Assisi, going through Porta Nuova.

  In a short time they vroomed their way past olive trees, lining the approach to the chiesa, where Padre Alessandro Esposito greeted them under an arch of the medieval stone church that had an adjoining monastery. He wore the brown robes of a Franciscan, tied with a knotted cord, and leather sandals. They followed the monk into the refectory, where a long dining table was set up for la cena. It was already past the designated hour for supper at the monastery, so they would be dining with Padre Esposito alone. As soon as they sat down, a monk came out of the kitchen and placed the food on the table.

  “Ah, this is Brother Ginepro. He doesn’t speak English but nevertheless he is capable of guiding you around the monastery. È vero, Fra’ Ginepro tu sei la guida?” The brother smiled in recognition, revealing several missing teeth. The guests returned the smile before he left the room to retrieve the rest of the food. On first glance, Nick was not able to distinguish whether Fra’ Ginepro was simple or simple-minded, but either way, he sensed that the padre was fond of him.

  “Besides Brother Ginepro and myself, there are only two other monks left in the monastery to care for the garden and the fruit orchard. I sent all the others away on a mission to help the disgraziati in the city of Terni. The city, just 56 kilometers south of here, was terribly bombed. Whatever comfort the Franciscans provide for these refugees will be appreciated. Assisi has been most fortunate being designated a holy town, spared the devastation that I’m sure you have seen all over our beautiful country.”

  After the food had been brought out, they passed plates around that had little meat but plenty of olives, some cheese, pane antico and red wine. Nick noticed that the wine was watery, disappointed that it didn’t measure up to Umbrian standards, but in deference to Padre Esposito, he bragged about wine of this region. Nathan paid no attention to the wine and ate quickly, anxious to get to point of their visit. Caterina kept her eyes lowered the whole time, picking at the olives. When they finished the meal, the Padre got their attention.

  “Let me get to the heart of the matter, miei amici in Cristo. Your cousin, Carlo, is in great danger. When Mussolini was in control, it was easier to protect Italian Jews. In reality, the Germans never trusted the Italians, who many times interceded for their own countrymen, even if they were Jewish. The Gestapo and the OVRA, the fascista secret police, knew there were countless Italian Jews who were never reported.”

  “Father Esposito, what does this mean for Carlo?” Nathan interrupted.

  “Your cousin must get out of Venice as soon as possible. If the SS or Gestapo find him, no Italian in authority will be able to intercede.”

  “But Padre Esposito, how can we get Carlo out with the war raging up north?” Nick asked.

  “I’ll get to that momentarily. In the past, when it was safer for our Jewish refugees to travel, they could escape to Switzerland with forged identity cards, or as things worsened, through our own Italian underground by way of Assisi, Perugia, Florence and Genoa, sneaking them onto a neutral ship leaving the country. After the fighting intensified throughout northern Italy, we decided to hide Jewish refugees, paesani or foreigners, right here in town. With help from my printer friend in town, we can replicate new identity cards for Carlo and one of you.”

  “When do I go, Padre?” Nathan asked.

  “Wait a minute, Nate,” Nick said. “You can’t go. If they find out you’re an American Jew, you’re a dead man, and besides, you can barely speak Italian.”

  “I know enough. You are only here because I said you could tag along.”

  “Basta! Let me at least go over the plan first,” Padre Esposito insisted. Nick pressed his palms together as if praying, while Nathan sat rigid. “The safest way to Venice now is by sea, not by land. I have a friend, Giuliano the fisherman, who is a partigiano from Ancona, a city east of here, on the coast of Le Marche.” Padre raised his hands up as if he were blessing something. “He is un uomo di fiducia, a man of trust.” Padre put his hands down. “He can navigate all the way up through the inlets and coves around Venice. He’s in communication with other partigiani there. One of you must go disguised as a Franciscan monk. Brother Ginepro will show you how to wear the robes. Next, the town printer will make a perfect identity card for one of you. No one will detect it as fake. We have never lost a Jewish refugee here. He’ll duplicate another identity card for Carlo. I’ll gather a monk’s robe and sandals for him as well. My friend is also expert at making various city seals and official rubber stamps. All you’ll have to do is trim a photo of Carlo and stamp it in the correct manner. The printer will show the proper technique when he’s done.”

  “Padre Esposito, we haven’t settled the problem. Who’s going up north?” Caterina interjected with a wrinkled brow.

  The monk remained silent, twisting his cord belt, and walked over to the hanging crucifix and prayed awhile. Then he turned and faced the table, his hands still folded.

  “Nick is right. If he is caught, he has a better chance to survive. We don’t need any more Jews dying.” The monk unfolded his hands and extended his arm towards the oversized dark oak door.

  “But Father, Nick doesn’t move as fast as I can. You see he has a cane.”

  “Nate, you’re stepping over the line,” Nick snapped back.

  “Basta, gentlemen.” He motioned toward the garden. “Prego, let’s go into the cloister and walk off the meal. I must show you our lovely roses.”

  As they entered the garden Caterina pleaded: “Mi scusi, Padre. I am not feeling well. Buonanotte.” Nick looked at Nathan inquisitively and the Padre called for Brother Ginepro who waited in the shadows.

  “Prende la signorina alla sua cella, per favore.”

  Caterina trailed the monk out of the garden and Nick’s eyes followed her as she left, noting her lovely profile, lit up by a full moon, passing by each semicircle stone arch balanced on top of the columns. Brother Ginepro held a lantern and continued up the steep stone stairs with Caterina i
n tow. He guided her past many doors made of holm oak until they reached the cell prepared for her. The brother bowed his head before leaving.

  Still lingering in the garden, Nick complimented the friar on the variety of beautiful roses, saying he preferred the more visible, white ones. The sweet fragrance of the roses reminded him of Caterina’s perfume. Padre Esposito’s eyes drooped, so Nick suggested they retire to their rooms. They walked up the stairs with Brother Ginepro lighting the way through the darkness. When they reached the top floor, Padre made a left turn to a nearby cell, his “Buonanotte” echoing off the stone walls. Brother Ginepro brought his guests to the end of the hall, stopping at the last two cells and opening each door for them. Then the brother extinguished the lantern, disappearing into the dark. Within a few minutes, Nick left his cell and knocked on Nathan’s door.

  Nathan cracked the door halfway. “Nick?”

  “What’s with the cane business in front of Caterina?”

  “Forget it. I didn’t want you going instead of me.”

  “Where’s Caterina anyway?”

  “Beats me. She must be in another wing.”

  “Yeah, that figures—monastery.”

  Nathan rolled his eyes. “Come on, buddy. Don’t get yourself all worked up. You’ll get to see her soon enough.” Nathan winked and Nick let out a laugh.

  “Pipe down, Nick. This isn’t North Beach.”

  Two hooded monks suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs in a dark yellow haze, each one carrying a candle that illuminated their faces as they glided left on the corridor, chanting “Pax et bonum.”

  “Step inside for a minute.” Nick entered the dimly lit cell. “I gotta say something.” Nathan hesitated.

  “Spit it out, Nate.”