The sun was rising at my back, lighting the far hillside, illuminating figures in tan desert uniforms and rimless helmets scurrying down the stony slopes. German paratroopers. I didn't care. The burden of memories weighed me down, and I wished I'd never recalled a thing. Remembering what Sciafani had said about my being fortunate to be able to examine my life, I spit in the dust.
"Billy," Kaz whispered, "what should we do?"
"Good question."
I eased my head around the boulder we'd hidden behind and looked at the house. The Fiat was puttering toward the road, weighed down by Muschetto and his men. Not far behind was the jeep with Legs at the wheel and Genovese hanging on, fleeing from an encounter with a gang far tougher than theirs. Dust roiled up from the vehicles, leaving a swirling marker showing the direction in which they were headed. I heard soft thumps in the distance and a short whistling sound, then a pair of small explosions near the main road, followed by another salvo. Mortar fire, hurrying the enemy convoy on their way. The Fiat, with the jeep close behind, made it to the road between rounds and faded from view.
"The truck?" Kaz asked.
"We'd never make it to the barn. Besides, the Krauts have zeroed in on the road now."
"Where do you think Banville is?" Kaz asked, squeezing himself small behind the boulders.
"Unless he got out of the barn in the confusion," I said, "he's trapped."
I tried to think it through, figure out what to do next, but everything was mixed up-Genovese and Villard, Harry saving Diana, then Harry at the temple. There were too many memories, too soon, too terrible. I wanted someplace to rest and think, to sit out again under the grape arbor in the cool night air and let the memories come again and again until I could absorb them, until they were no longer razors slicing through my mind. I rested my cheek on the warm, rough, chalky rock and wished the Germans would keep on going, simply march down the road and let us be.
I heard the muffled sound of an engine.
"Look!" Kaz shook my arm. The barn doors had swung open. The truck emerged at top speed and careened toward the road, tires spinning and gravel flying. Banville. He fishtailed, regained control, and flew by the rows of purple cauliflower, heading for the main road. As he slowed to turn, the explosions started again, the mortars leading him and concentrating their fire on the road. Banville couldn't stop in time. He hit the brakes, sending up clouds of dust, but he slid directly into the next rounds, the small truck lifting up and toppling over, the gas tank exploding as it rolled into the ditch at the side of the road. He should've stayed in the barn, he shouldn't have braked, he should have sneaked out on foot. What did it matter? In this war there were enough shoulds and should nots to get any man killed sooner or later.
A scuffling sound, shoes stumbling over stones, came from our rear. I was glad of a reason to look away from the burning wreck. It was Sciafani, peering at us from behind a prickly cactus. I pressed my finger to my lips, then waved him over to us, motioning him to stay low, my palm down to the ground. He'd been at war long enough to understand, and to know that those mortar crews were watching the terrain for any other movement, covering the advance of their pals.
"They let me go," he said. "They gave me this." He handed me a revolver.
"You don't want it?" I asked.
"No, I am done with war."
"Those Germans are not," Kaz said, keeping an eye out at the edge of the boulder.
"No, but one revolver will not do much good against them," Sciafani said sensibly.
"Why did they give it to you?" I asked, wondering at the generosity of the thugs who had held us at gunpoint.
"Muschetto said I might need it to get home. They did not seem to have any argument with me."
"No, they wouldn't, I guess. Listen, I'll help you get home, but I want you to help me too."
"Help you with what?" Sciafani asked.
"Help me find happiness."
"Ah, yes," he said, grinning. "But first we must twice pass through purgatory. Happiness is not too far off my path so, yes, I will show you the way." A burst of machine-gun fire interrupted us. We all ducked, but it wasn't aimed in our direction. Bullets struck the stone house, then played over the barn, then returned to the house. They were making sure there were no more surprises.
Shouts from the orange grove rose up as the machine gun stopped, and Germans slowly advanced from the foot of the hill toward the house. I could pick out German commands and pleading words in Italian as I watched Signor and Signora Ciccolo come into view, prodded by rifles out of their hiding place in the trees. A German officer, waving his pistol, was yelling at the old man, who was shaking his head in denial, clutching at his shirt, then extending his arm in a Fascist salute as he kept moving ahead of soldiers behind him. The officer stopped, turned on Ciccolo, and pointed to the open barn.
Oh Jesus, no, I thought. No, don't let it be true. Was the old man so greedy as to betray us to the Mafia, then betray the Mafia to the Germans, all while trying to keep the truck in the barn secret from both? Ciccolo extended his arms toward the barn and shrugged, as if to say the appearance of the truck was a total surprise to him too; how could he have known?
The officer didn't buy it. He raised his pistol and shot him twice in the chest. Ciccolo collapsed as if his legs had turned to jelly, sprawled with his knees up in the air, the rest of him laid out slackly in a way that said dead, dead, dead. His wife shrieked and fell to the ground, her hands lifting his head to her bosom, as the officer holstered his pistol and walked by her. The other soldiers ignored her, and soon she was left alone with her dead husband, his blood soaking into the ground at the edge of his peaceful orange grove. Many bad things, Vito, many bad things.
"You weren't the only one who picked out this secluded spot, Kaz," I said as I watched the officer walk into the farmhouse. Other Krauts checked out the barn, and one squad walked up the track to check on the still-burning truck. "It looks like they're settling in."
"They'll be setting up a perimeter soon," he said. "We have to leave."
"Head back to our lines," I said, handing him the revolver. "Someone has to take back word of this position. There's at least a full company of Germans here, and who knows how many others getting into place in these hills. You're elected." I saw Kaz about to protest, but then he nodded, accepting the logic of it.
"You're right." He looked at me a moment, then spoke again. "You remember now, don't you?"
"Everything. Daphne, Diana, and Harry," I said, hesitating over the last name.
"What about Harry?"
"He's dead. I killed him. In the Valley of the Temples."
"Agrigento," Sciafani put in. "It is a large field of temples, all kinds of ruins, right outside the city."
"Are you certain?" Kaz asked me. "How?"
"A grenade. He walked into the explosion. There was a fight with some Italians there, we got separated, and when I tossed a grenade behind a column, Harry stepped right into it. I didn't know he was there. Then-well, I guess I don't remember everything yet-then I blacked out."
Kaz held up his hand. German voices grew louder, in that relaxed, joking tone of soldiers who feel they're on safe ground. I could smell their cigarette smoke. They were headed our way. We eased back, staying low, entering a stand of small, thin trees that bordered the cauliflower field.
"Dottore," I said. "Before we split up, tell us both what the message means." I took out the worn slip of paper. To find happiness, you must twice pass through purgatory.
"It is silly really, not even a joke, but something one tells the turisti in Agrigento. You see, there is a small plaza, the Piazza del Purgatorio, and on that plaza is a church, the Chiesa Purgatorio."
"So you pass through the plaza, and then the church?" Kaz asked.
"Yes. If you take the side door out of the church, it leads you up a flight of steep steps to the Duomo – the cathedral-and within is a small chapel to San Felice, where he is buried. Saint Felice de Nicosia was a Sicilian, made a saint in the last century."
"Where does happiness come in?" I asked.
"Felice means to be happy," Kaz said, the dedicated student of language.
"OK. So our contact is in the cathedral, or the chapel of the cathedral." Seemed logical to me.
"Perhaps," said Sciafani. "Or perhaps that person was there, and is now gone."
"Either way, it's all we've got. I need to finish this mission, if only to find out what happened, and why Harry died. I owe him that much."
"Remember, Billy," Kaz said, with a nervous glance at Sciafani, "the mission is still important. We must have the cooperation of Don Calo and the Sicilian Mafia, especially as we advance into the mountains."
"Yeah, just make sure those American mobsters don't get in the way. When you get back, check around and find out who the hell in AMGOT hired those two goons. And be careful. JAG runs Civil Affairs and Civil Affairs runs AMGOT."
"Do you think there is a link between the charges against you and these mobsters?"
"I don't know what to think, but don't take any chances. And look into a Lieutenant Andrews in the Signals Company that's set up near Capo Soprano. I think he's on Vito's payroll too, just like Rocko was. And see if the name Charlotte comes up. Whoever she is, she's heavily involved."
Kaz nodded his agreement, then spoke to Sciafani.
"Dottore, we are depending upon you to lead Billy where he needs to go. You must not abandon him. If you leave or betray him, I will find you, in Palermo or in your village. Now, or after the war. And I will kill you, do you understand?"
"Certainly. A man would be honored to have such a friend avenge him. To say this does you credit. I will guide your friend, and not because of your threat. I am not a Fascist, and I do not care to watch the tedeschi shoot any more old men." Sciafani appeared proud to have been threatened with death.
Kaz extended his hand, and Sciafani shook it. Then I did, and held on to Kaz for an extra heartbeat, grasping him by the arm. "Stay safe," I said.
"Good advice," he said. "I will follow you with the cavalry, like in your Western movies. I have already gone through purgatory, so perhaps it will be easy for me to find where happiness hides."
He let go of my hand, locked eyes with me for a moment, and left us at a slow trot through the trees until he disappeared in the leafy green.