Fire in the Hills by Donna Jo Napoli Read Free Book Online Page B

Allies would take back the north of Italy from Hitler, and then he’d leave. Only then. He’d go to Venice. But for now, he was where he had to be. He was staying put.
    Tonight shouts came from the house. Roberto was leaning over the half-door of the oxen stable, surprised at how he could pick out the white one from the brindled gray and brown one in the dark. He heard the shouts but didn’t turn around. He reached out and ran his hand down the length of one long horn and up the length of the next. He was careful to keep his arm away from the mucus that dripped almost continually from the ox’s muzzle.
    â€œWe did it.” Ivano’s voice came strong and happy behind Roberto. “We declared war on Germany. Finally. October 13 is the best day of my life.”
    â€œWe’ve been at war with Germany, maybe all along,” said Roberto, turning around.
    â€œNot officially. Yesterday the Americans secured Naples. They’ll take Rome next week. No doubt about it. And I’m going to be part of it.”
    Roberto’s cheeks felt heavy. “What do you mean?”
    â€œI’m joining the partigiani —the resistance fighters. I’ll go behind the enemy lines into occupied Italy. I’ll kill those Nazis. With their own pistol.”
    Their own pistol. So that pistol Ivano had was from a German. Did he get it the same way he got the guns and ammunition that were hidden in the metal trunk? There was a time when Roberto had never seen a real gun. The police in Venice didn’t carry them. But for so long now, guns had surrounded him. Guns and grenades and bombs.
    â€œI’ll go all the way to Venice,” said Ivano.
    Roberto wished he could see Ivano’s eyes in the dark of the barn—the bright wetness of them. He had the eerie sensation of talking to a disembodied voice, the voice of a dead man. “Does your mother know?”
    â€œNo. I won’t tell her. I’ll help with the grapes and the wine. Then I’ll just leave.”
    Roberto wanted to say, Don’t. Don’t do that to your mother. But he knew Ivano by now. There was no point. He turned back to the oxen.
    â€œAll the way to Venice. Your city.” Ivano came up beside him and rested his forearms on the top of the stable half-door. “Come with me.”
    Back into the middle of war.
    Roberto had once planned to join the partigiani . He and Maurizio were going to do it together. Like brothers. Maurizio would have made a terrific big brother. Roberto squeezed his eyes shut for an instant— please please let his real big brother be alive still. Let Sergio be fine.
    â€œYou know you want to. Come on, Roberto.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou have almost as much reason to hate them as I do.” Hate? Roberto felt too tired to even think about hate. Ivano left.
    Roberto lay down on his mattress. The oxen chewed. Their bellies rumbled. Their dung fell with a splash. Hour after hour he listened to them shifting their massive weight.

11
    R OBERTO WOKE TO DAWN AIR, warm from oxen breath. Breakfast was the remains of last night’s bread broken into bowls of warm buffalo milk with sugar. Today they would pick the lightly shriveled grapes, sometimes one by one, and drop them into the handcart.
    Angelo said picking grapes earlier in the season was easy compared to this—you just ripped off the whole bunch, stems and all. He smiled. “It’s worth it, though. The wine from these grapes, ah, it tastes like honey and oranges. It’s spicy. It deserves to be called holy.”
    They picked all day long. Roberto had no time at the end of the day to lie in the grasses. But boys from neighboring farms had come to help, so at least they finished the harvesting. Women Roberto didn’t know joined Rina in spreading out the grapes on straw mats to dry even more.
    After dinner, Ivano and Angelo came into the barn. “Get up,” said Angelo.
    Roberto got up and followed them