Street Boys by Lorenzo Carcaterra Read Free Book Online Page A

the edge of the tank, goggles loose around his neck. He found the ride down the coastline, dotted with farmlands and vineyards, a peaceful one and a welcome break from the toils of war. His troops seemed equally invigorated, each soldier eager to complete his mission in Naples and head home for some promised relief. He wondered what they would find back in Germany. Would their cities and towns be as battered as those they had crushed in Italy? Would their people be as withered and beaten down, as weary as the Italians he encountered, who seemed to have surrendered their very souls to a lost cause? No one, Von Klaus believed, could comprehend the cost of war more than a military man, and no one bore its damaging effects more than an innocent civilian. He was relieved it would all soon be at an end.
    He caught the movement behind the large bush out of a corner of his eye.
    Von Klaus tapped one hand on the inside lid of the tank and reached for his revolver with the other. The machine-gun unit shifted under him, moving slowly to its right, the bush in its target sites. “Draw him out,” Von Klaus said in a calm voice.
    Six machine-gun rounds pelted at the dirt around the bush, kicking up small armies of dust and rocks. Within seconds, two small, thin arms were raised up, barely visible beyond the lush leaves of the bush. “Hold fire,” Von Klaus ordered.
    Von Klaus watched as a barefoot boy in shorts and a dirty white T-shirt stepped out from behind the bush and walked toward his tank, arms still raised. The boy stopped at the edge of a dirt patch, his round face looking up at the colonel. Von Klaus stared down at the boy, momentarily flashing on an image of his own son, and hoped his child would never have to endure such conditions. “How old are you?” Von Klaus asked him. He spoke in a fluent Italian he had quickly mastered during a year spent as a student in Florence.
    “Seven,” the boy answered. He spoke without either hesitation or fear.
    “And what were you doing back there?” Von Klaus asked.
    “Hiding,” the boy said.
    The soldiers surrounding him erupted into chuckles and laughter. Von Klaus looked around at his men and then back to the boy. “You’re not very good at it,” he said.
    The boy nodded and wiped at the sweat forming along his upper lip with the front of his shoulder, his arms still held high. “Are you a soldier in the Italian army?” Von Klaus asked him.
    “No, signor,” the boy said. “I’m too young to be a soldier.”
    “Then you’re too young for me to take as prisoner,” Von Klaus said. “So bring your arms to rest.”
    The boy did as he was told, his eyes darting around at the soldiers next to him, rifles by their side. “My brother Marco was a soldier,” the boy said, looking back at Von Klaus. “He was in the war in Africa, fighting the English. He was killed there.”
    “Who looks after you?” Von Klaus asked.
    The boy hesitated, reluctant to reply. He stared at Von Klaus and shook his head. “I don’t need anyone,” he said.
    “Your leader would be proud of you,” Von Klaus said, his voice soft and sad. “If he were still in charge. Have you heard the news? About Mussolini?”
    “Is he dead?” the boy asked.
    “Not yet, but it won’t be much longer,” Von Klaus said. “He’s signed over his command to the Fascist Grand Council. He’s no longer in power. And you no longer need to fight.”
    “Are you going to kill me?” the boy asked, the first hint of fear etched in his voice.
    “What’s your name?” Von Klaus asked.
    “Massimo,” the boy said.
    “Why would you ask such a question, Massimo?”
    “You’re a Nazi,” Massimo said, his lower lip starting to tremble. “And Nazis killed my mother and father.”
    Von Klaus shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to kill you, Massimo. But I am going to give you an order and I expect it to be followed.”
    “What kind of an order?”
    “I want you to go up deeper into the hills,”