Authors: Alan Bricklin
* *
The curtains on the windows of the rear bedroom swayed to and fro
in a morning breeze that was a harbinger of relief from the oppressive heat
that had plagued the city for the last few days. Morning sun flickered across
Larry's eyes, its beams rhythmically interrupted by the blowing curtains, like
some urgent message from a ship's signal lamp, and when he awoke to the bright
staccato light, several seconds passed before he realized where he was.
Throwing off the light sheet that covered him, he stretched out his arms and
legs, feeling muscles knotted by sleep protest meekly, then relax, toned and
ready for the day ahead. Normally, Larry would have immediately swung his legs
over the side of the bed and stood to begin a few minutes of light calisthenics.
Today, however, he was a civilian, and would remain so for the next two weeks,
so, in keeping with his new status, he folded his arms behind his head and lay
in bed enjoying the early morning breeze and the pleasure of not having much in
particular to do.
Giacomo and Pia had left for work, and Paulo was at the
Naval hospital, arriving before seven for early morning rounds with one of the
attending physicians. Larry and Paulo, at their parents' insistence, were
planning to go to dinner together, to one of the nearby, family owned store
front restaurants that seemed to pop up on every street. Pia had tickets with
friends for some show being performed at a local theatre before heading for
Broadway, so she wasn't able to join them. To make up for this, he had promised
to take her to lunch, an opportunity to spend a little time together, just the
two off them. Later he would stroll over to his dad's shop and hang out there
for a while before meeting his sister, and perhaps spend the rest of the
afternoon just wandering the old neighborhood, seeing who was around and
catching up on old friends. But for now, a leisurely breakfast and some time
with his mother, a woman of quiet strength and native intelligence, the kind of
smarts, he thought, that couldn't be acquired in any school.
* *
The evening was warm, but not unpleasantly so, and the fortuitous
conjunction of temperature, clear sky and full moon seemed to most of the
inhabitants of South Philly to be an invitation to amble along the streets of
their neighborhood. It was a summons too enticing to refuse, this working class
promenade, and in twos and threes, sometimes singly, they sauntered along,
groups occasionally coalescing, their ranks swelling, forming new larger groups
then splitting apart like some sort of human chemistry, new molecules heading
off in every direction. Larry and Paulo emerged from Angelo's, having refused a
second round of grappa, on the house of course, to join the evening stroll.
They walked in silence for a while, their bellies full and
their thoughts as aimless as their wandering, before Larry broached the subject
that had become a recurring problem in recent months. "You understand I
can't tell you exactly what it is that I do, but you do know that I sometimes
work behind enemy lines."
"Understood. You don't have to apologize to me."
"But I do need to talk to you about something that
happened. It's been bothering me, and talking to the doctors at my HQ, well,
they're nice but, no offense to your profession, they didn't seem to really
give a damn. The only people I know who will care are the only people who love
me, my family. I can't talk to mom or dad about this, you'll see why. And
Piccola, well, I would have a hard time with her, too. I need to talk to my
brother."
Paulo was apprehensive about what he might hear, but he also
felt gratified that his older brother, someone to whom he always looked up,
desired to unburden himself to him. "Larry, I'm a good listener and you
know I love you."
"The last mission I was assigned was in occupied
France, in preparation for D day. The details aren't important, but what is, is
what I was forced to do by unexpected circumstances. I've killed before, up
close and personal, not some Jerry in your sights at a hundred meters. That's
just the way it often is with the kind of work that I do, and I could live with
that. They were all bad guys, the enemy, and they would have killed me in a
minute without blinking an eye if they had the chance. But I never killed a
child."
Paulo felt a fist of ice grasp his heart, the summation of
the fear that had been growing since Larry started talking. He didn't know what
to say. His brother paused, looking for a reaction. The only thing that Paulo
could do was put his arm on Larry's shoulder, hoping the empathy he felt for
the other's pain would come through, and the initial revulsion he felt would
remain hidden.
Larry started walking again, his throat dry and his tongue
moistening equally dry lips. "I was setting charges on...on something that
had to be destroyed. It was critical. Hundreds of GIs would die if I failed. No
one expected that the wife and children of the German officer in charge would
be visiting. It wasn't exactly the front lines, but didn't they realize there
was a war going on? Shit. Who except the most arrogant could send women and
children to visit men while they're fighting a fucking war?
"I was turning to go and there was this kid wearing a
Hitler Youth uniform, couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. He looks
at me, then at the satchel charges. 'That's a bomb,' he says, 'I'm going to get
my father.' I started to say something in German, but he spun around, about to
bolt, so I had to grab him. He was kicking and trying to scream for help, while
I was holding him with one arm and trying to muzzle him with my other hand.
Strong for a kid. I knew I couldn't keep him immobilized and quiet for long,
not unless I stayed where I was and sat on him. No tape or anything else to tie
him up with. Two others who came with me were too far away, waiting at the
perimeter, to be of any help. He had almost wriggled free when I realized what
I would have to do."
"Larry, you don't have to..."
"Yes, I do. Basically, I suffocated him. Shit, Paulo.
Let me call a spade a spade. I killed a little kid. Then, I puked my guts out.
My soul, Paulo, that's what it cost me. My soul and the life of a child for the
lives of a hundred soldiers. Was it a fair trade?"
They had walked for several blocks and paused on the corner
of Tenth and Dickinson in front of Little Sicily, a café and neighborhood
landmark since before Larry was born. Paulo turned so he could face his brother
and took hold of his arm above the elbow. "That kid, that Nazi, cause
that's what he was regardless of his age, a Nazi..."
A loud, basso voice interrupted. "Hey, it's the
Sabatini boys. How youse doing? The whole neighborhood's proud of you." A
short, chubby, middle-aged man with thinning black hair parted almost dead
center approached them. "In spite of all the bragging your old man does."
He chuckled, a big smile on his face. It was Frankie Meola, a generally
good-natured fixture in the area around the Italian market, a man who worked
for the Mafia; doing what, nobody seemed to know, but his connection was
unquestioned. He could be seen from time to time bending over and talking
through the window to someone in the back seat of a large sedan that pulled up
to the curb, and Frankie would occasionally go missing for a few days or a
week, and when he returned he always seemed to be flush with cash. The signs were
unmistakable, and he was therefore always treated with respect, as well as a
measure of discrete avoidance.
Larry had to hide his disappointment at once again being
interrupted before he was able to fully confess and exorcise the self-declared
sin that gnawed at his insides. Larry turned towards Frankie, hand outstretched
in greeting. They shook, Larry noticing the soft flesh of the other's hand, but
also aware of the inordinate strength in those pudgy five fingers as they held
him in a firm grasp. Paulo turned toward them, his back to the street and
waited to pay his respects, while Frankie continued the handshake as he spoke
to Larry. Frankie noticed the car careening around the corner a second before
Larry saw it, and pushed Larry backwards, trying to make a dash for the
entrance of the restaurant. Larry was caught off balance and tumbled to the
pavement, while his brother looked on, not sure what was happening. Frankie and
Larry knew exactly what was about to transpire, but Larry's shouted warning to Paulo
was drowned out by the discordant din of the fusillade of bullets let loose by
the occupants of the speeding car. Automatic and pistol fire erupted, the
muzzle flashes tracking around the corner like orderly fireworks visible to
Larry as he lay on his back, trying to roll and get to his brother. Frankie
Meola crashed to the ground in a heap, the back of his expensive knit shirt
riddled with bullet holes and the back of his head exhibiting an unnatural
contour, pieces of it having been blown away. Larry reached Paulo, who was flat
on the ground, just as the hail of gunfire ceased and the sound of the car's
revving engine receded down Dickinson Street. He prayed that he had heard his
warning, ducking in time to avoid the barrage of lead from the Mafia assassination,
but as soon as he put his hand on Paulo's back he knew that he was hit. The
warm, sticky fluid he felt on his hand was blood, the feel of it sadly familiar
to Larry. He rolled him over, life not gone from the body, but the empty eyes
already far away, and the rapid, shallow respirations formed small bubbles of
blood and spittle that burst almost as soon as they were formed. Larry knew
that his brother was beyond hope; he simply held onto him, cried, and in
between the tears spoke to him of his love. He hoped for some word, some
remembrance for the family, some final pithy statement that could be passed
down the generations -
mark these words well, they were the last ever spoken
by your great uncle Paulo Sabatini.
He hoped for some final forgiveness
from his brother for the sin that he had confessed. But Paulo simply lay there,
immobile and silent except for the rasping breaths, until they too ceased and
he died in his brother's arms on a South Philadelphia street, on a not
unpleasant summer night.
* *
An ache filled the collective hearts of the family and a pall
settled on the whole neighborhood. The local Mafia chieftain paid his
condolences, expressed his rage and indignation that such a thing could happen,
and vowed swift revenge. Giacomo's blood was near boiling and he believed that
if he had the perpetrators in hand, it would be his greatest joy to skin them
alive, flaying each of them as he had done to goats and cows during his years
in the leather business. Aletta let him vent, knowing that to try to dam up
such a torrent would come to no good, and in short time he realized that his
greatest joy was not retribution, but rather what had been taken from him, one
of his children, and no amount of killing, no vendetta could ever replace him.
Tears followed the anger, and when the family held him and his wife close, and
gently spoke of time, and prayers, and fond memories and all of the other
platitudes that one says upon the death of a loved one, they nodded in
acceptance, but each knew in their heart that they would bear an open wound for
the rest of their lives.
For Larry, his brother's death was like a jagged claw that
ripped at him from every angle, sundering mind and body alike. Not only was the
loss the greatest he had yet endured, but his own demons remained un-expunged,
and the guilt he felt for being concerned about his own misfortune in losing
what he thought was the one hope he had for redemption, plagued his soul even
more. He thought about going to a priest, but he had been away from the church
for many years, and besides, he thought they would be incapable of
understanding the choices involved.
Days passed. Days of darkness and grief as the family clung
to each other, physically close, yet each alone in their own torment. When the
time came for Larry to return to Europe and the war, there welled up new waves
of emotion, beating in disorganized patterns like ocean currents colliding. For
his parents there seemed to be ominous portents and signs everywhere as they
divined tragedy from everyday minor events. The loss of both sons would be too
much for them to live with. Pia appeared calm, but Larry could read the signs.
Easily distracted, short tempered with him, an absent-minded indifference to
her appearance, all spoke of her fear for Larry as well as her mourning for
Paulo. As for Larry, his furlough had provided neither rest nor rejuvenation,
and he departed with a physical and mental fatigue that was profound.
Giacomo borrowed a friend's car and insisted on driving
Larry to the Naval base. His mother and Pia came along, sitting silently in the
back seat during the short ride that seemed longer than it was because of an
awkwardness in their closeness, a feeling that heretofore had been unknown in
the Sabatini family. At dockside warm hugs and assurances of a safe return were
spoken with animation. But they all knew it was forced, as if by actors at a
local theatre group, and however good the performance, when it was over, and
they drifted off to home, they would return to their own personal thoughts. And
for the Sabatinis, to a one, the paramount thought was, "What shall we do
if we loose both our boys?"
As the ship was maneuvered out of its birth, the family
stayed on the dock, wanting to keep their son and brother in view as long as
possible to make sure the image was securely imprinted in their minds, for it
might have to last a lifetime. When the bow swung around to starboard and the
vessel eased into the river, Larry gave them a final wave and, leaving his
duffel where it lay, made his way forward and sat down on a winch housing on
the fore deck to await the open sea. Ahead lay his war, a passion play of death
and destruction on a very personal scale. Inside he could hear the distant howl
of the murdering beast he feared he might become. Would he ever be free? Behind
him, his home and family, a sanctuary violated, forever changed. When they
reached the open ocean the spray doused his body, but the fever inside burned
on.