Beneath a Scarlet Sky

“Yes, of course, mon général,” Pino said.

Leyers unlocked the valise and engrossed himself in his work. Pino drove in silence, glancing at the rearview mirror and arguing with himself. When the general had complimented him, he’d swelled with pride. But now he was wondering why. Leyers was a Nazi, a slave driver, a master builder of war. How could Pino feel pride when the compliment had come from someone like that? He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. And yet he had, and it bothered him.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Milan, however, Pino had decided to feel proud of how much he’d learned driving General Leyers for little more than half a day. His uncle wouldn’t believe it. He’d actually talked to Mussolini and Claretta Petacci! How many spies in Italy could say that?

Pino took the route Hannibal had followed with his war elephants and got them to Piazzale Loreto in record time. He took the roundabout, seeing Mr. Beltramini at his post out in front of the fruit and vegetable stand where he was helping an older woman. Pino wanted to wave as he went by, but when he tried to take a right, a German lorry cut him off. They almost crashed. He was able to swerve the staff car out of the way in the nick of time.

He couldn’t believe the driver had done that. Hadn’t they seen—?

The flags. He’d forgotten to put up the general’s flags upon entering Milan. He’d have to make another loop around the rotary. As he did, he saw Carletto walking on the sidewalk toward one of his favorite cafés.

Pino sped up, made the turn onto Viale Abruzzi without incident, and was soon parked at the telephone exchange, which was heavily guarded. The heavy Nazi presence puzzled him at first, until he thought that he who controlled the telephone exchange controlled communication.

“I have three hours of work to do here,” General Leyers said. “You do not have to wait. No one would dare touch the car here. Be back at seventeen hundred hours.”

“Oui, mon général,” Pino said, and opened the rear door.



He waited until Leyers was inside, and then headed back toward Piazzale Loreto and Beltramini’s Fresh Fruits and Vegetables. In less than a block, he’d endured enough vile looks to realize he’d be smart to take off the swastika armband and stick it in his back pocket.

That made things better. People barely gave him a glance. He was in uniform, and he wasn’t SS or Wehrmacht. That was all they would care about.

He broke into a trot. He could see Mr. Beltramini, right there up ahead, putting grapes in a sack. But he really wanted to see Carletto. It had been four months, and he had so much to tell his old friend.

Pino cut across the street in front of German lorries traveling in a convoy, and took a right. Scanning the sidewalk ahead, he found Carletto sitting with his back to him.

Pino broke into a grin, walked up, and saw Carletto was reading. He pulled back a chair and sat down, saying, “Hope you’re not waiting for an elegant young lady.”

Carletto looked up. At first his friend looked wearier and more scarred than Pino remembered even in late April. But then Carletto recognized him and cried out, “Oh my God, Pino! I thought you were dead!”

He jumped up and hugged Pino fiercely. Then he pushed Pino back to look at him with misty eyes. “I really did.”

“Who said I was dead?”

“Someone told Papa you were guarding the Modena train station when a bomb hit. They said part of your head was taken off! I was devastated.”

“No, no!” Pino said. “That was the guy with me. I almost lost these.”

He showed him the bandaged hand and wiggled the reattached fingers.

Carletto clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. “Just knowing you are alive,” he said. “I think I’m happier than I’ve ever been!”

“Good to be back from the dead.” Pino smiled. “You ordered?”

“Just espresso,” Carletto said, taking his seat again.

“Let’s eat,” Pino said. “I got paid before I left the hospital, so it’s on me.”

That made his old friend even happier, and they ordered melon balls wrapped in prosciutto, salami, bread, garlic-infused olive oil, and a cold tomato soup that was perfect in the stifling heat. As they waited for their meal to arrive, Pino caught up on the last four months of Carletto’s life.

Because of Mr. Beltramini’s contacts outside the city, his fruit and vegetable stand continued to prosper. It was one of the few places in the city that had a reliable flow of produce, and it often sold out before closing. Carletto’s mother was another story.

“Some days are better than others, but she’s weak all the time,” Carletto said. Pino could see the strain on him. “She got real sick last month. Pneumonia. Papa was heartbroken, thinking she was going, but somehow she rallied and beat it.”

“That’s good,” Pino said as the waiter started setting plates on the table. His eyes drifted past Carletto, back toward the fruit stand. Between gaps in the German lorry convoy, he caught glimpses of Mr. Beltramini serving a customer.

“So, is that the new Fascist uniform, Pino?” Carletto asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

Pino started chewing the inside of his cheek. He’d been so ashamed of enlisting in the German army, he’d never told his friend about the Organization Todt.

Carletto went on. “And why were you in Modena? Everyone I know is headed north.”

“It’s complicated,” Pino said, wanting to change the subject.

“What’s that mean?” his friend asked, eating one of the melon balls.

“Can you keep a secret?” Pino said.

“What are best friends for?”

“Right,” Pino said, then leaned forward and whispered. “This morning, Carletto. Not two hours ago. I talked to Mussolini and Claretta Petacci.”

Carletto sat back skeptically. “You’re making that up.”

“No, I am not. I swear.”

A car honked on the rotary.

A bicyclist carrying a messenger bag shot by them, so close to their table Pino swore he was going to hit Carletto, who jerked to one side to avoid him.

“Idiot!” Carletto said, twisting around in his chair. “He’s riding on the sidewalk against traffic. He’s going to hurt someone!”

Seeing the bicyclist from the rear now, Pino noticed a patch of red sticking up from beneath his dark shirt, right at the neckline. He wove through and around pedestrians crowding the sidewalk as three more lorries in the long German convoy began to make the slow turn onto congested Viale Abruzzi. The bicyclist tugged the messenger bag off his shoulder. With his left hand on the handlebar and his right holding the bag’s strap, he curved the bike onto Viale Abruzzi and came right up behind one of the lorries.

Pino realized what was about to happen, jumped up, and yelled, “No!”

Mark Sullivan's books