Stefano takes a mouthful. It burns slightly and at the same time instantly dulls some of his worst fears of the man who has handed it to him.
“I wasn’t allowed to drink in the war. My parents thought it weak, my superiors, too. There are many good things to the end of the war, yes?”
It is a redundant question, thinks Stefano. It does not require a response.
“Do you have family waiting?” asks Erich.
“Yes. And you? Do you have others here?”
“I am all that’s left,” Erich says, in a tone that places little significance to such an outcome. “Tell me, Stefano. Did you really fight for Germany?”
“I fought on your side, but then toward the end, your comrades imprisoned me anyway.”
Erich smiles. It is disconcerting to Stefano that the German appears so unaffected. Smiles by Germans were often followed by something cruel.
“We are all on the same side now, are we not?” says Erich. “The side of disarray.”
Erich takes another mouthful, eyes carefully on Stefano, who does not care to respond.
“I heard what they did to people in prisons. Is that where you hurt your hand? Did they torture you?”
“It was from an explosion.”
Erich looks briefly at Stefano’s hand and then his face, studying him and interpreting the truth.
“I am going to sleep,” says Erich, sighing and standing up, perhaps now bored with the mostly unresponsive intruder. “You are welcome to sleep here. I believe I can trust you. We will save this.”
He puts the lid on the bottle.
Stefano remains seated. He is reflecting on the use of the word “we,” as if it were the first of more to come.
“You should go back to bed,” says Erich. He walks slowly from the kitchen, leaving behind the rifle leaning against the wall. “You can trust me also,” he calls out from the other end of the house. “There are no bullets in the rifle. Feel free to check.”
Stefano hears the protest of bedsprings, the rustle of cloth on cloth, and then the stillness. He rises and peers around the stairs toward the end of the house where he can just make out the other man’s shape through the open doorway of his bedroom, then returns to check the rifle. Erich was telling the truth, but he could have bullets elsewhere. Stefano is still wary.
He treads carefully upstairs, nerves still jumbled at the thought of the German lying below, unsure of tricks and the effects of the alcohol that hums inside his head and swirls warmly through his chest. It has been days since Stefano has had a full night’s sleep.
Inside the bedroom upstairs, the boy is still sleeping. Since there is no key in the lock, he shuts the door and slides the rug to lie in front of it, blocking it, alert to the creaks in the house, now that the rain has eased, and one ear trained on the stairs.
But the events of the day prove too much, and several hours before dawn, after his eyes have closed involuntarily, he sinks deeply into sleep.
1936
When Stefano’s cousin came back from a victory in Abyssinia, after Italy successfully suppressed those who were opposing Italian rule, Beppe was altered slightly. Not a great deal, just a little less interested in events at home, as if they were no longer significant. Stefano had started showing an interest in a future academic career, with plans to study languages and literature. On weekends he helped his sister Nina make jewelry, bracelets, earrings, and rings with small colored stones threaded with fine silver or copper wire, twisting the metal into loops and plaiting them into shapes. The bright shiny objects would attract the eyes of the tourists.
Thoughts of joining the military voluntarily, which had been in his mind prior to his cousin’s leaving, had since dissipated once he found a desire to read books, learn, and breathe foreign words that he would practice on the tourists. But with Beppe’s return, and once again craving his company, Stefano found that his enthusiasm to join the military was reinvigorated.
The second day back after a good sleep, Beppe took him out to a bar, even though Stefano, tall for his age, was too young to drink.
Beppe said he was keen to get out of the house; his parents were fighting with him constantly. Enzo wanted to move to the North. He did not like living among “peasants,” as he called them. Stefano’s father was once one of those peasants, but Stefano did not like to say this to his uncle or cousin. Stefano knew that Enzo’s insensitive opinions were not shared by his son. The North was where the money was and where the wealthy continued to prosper. Enzo wanted to sell their house by the sea and head to Florence. There he would buy a business and make real money, he said. When the war was over, Beppe would take over the business, and Serafina expected several grandchildren. The future was clear for them.
Beppe fought with his father about the relevance of war. Over a couple of glasses of wine, Beppe was able to express these thoughts to his intelligent young cousin, whose father had rejected, and mother still rejected, the idea of war and had not openly supported any cause by Mussolini.
“I don’t think this war is right, Stefano. I don’t see any point to it. For a start half the country we are conquering is desert. And there is little of value there. I can’t think why Il Duce is so desperate to retain it that he would risk lives for it. I don’t see what Mussolini sees. I can’t see where it will end. I can’t see us winning. This resurgence by the local people will be the first of many.”
“But, Beppe, you were so keen to leave to fight.”
“I have seen some things, Stefano, that I never thought I would. I don’t know if it is good what we are doing. I don’t think it is good at all. If you could avoid it, I would suggest that you never join. I do not want you to see the things I have.”
“Like what, Cousin?”
“Things, war, comrades dying. Our leaders do not seem to know what they are doing. I feel that many more of our own men will be slaughtered there, and their deaths will count for nothing.”
“I am going to sign up one day.”
“You are not!”
“I have no choice.”
“You have every choice. You have a family to look after. Without you, what will your mother and sisters do?”
Stefano was confused. “But you wanted me to join.”
“Not now that I’ve seen. Not now that my eyes are open.”
Despite what Beppe said, though now with some reservation, Stefano still felt it was his duty to fight. He wanted to do something worthy one day. He felt that he owed his country and those who had already committed to serve.
“What about your studies? You are too smart, Stefano. Not like me whose future was not in books. Do not waste your brain.”
“I can put study on hold. I will take books with me to read.”
“And what if you lose your head? What will you study with then?”
A wave of sadness struck Beppe as he looked at his fresh-faced young cousin who had idolized him. What have I done? I am responsible for this. I have encouraged him. He hoped there would be no war to fight by the time his cousin came of age. Little did he know that there was a greater war to come.
“You need your studies, and people will need you one day.”
Stefano thought it particularly odd that Beppe, who had once teased him about his future career and love of languages, was now encouraging it.
“I will ask to be with you. I want to be at your side, Cousin.”
Beppe nodded with resignation. His young cousin was smart, but he was also stubborn, a family trait. The more any one of them was told not to do something, the more likely they would. He finished his third glass of wine quickly.
He is drinking too fast, thought Stefano. He was always drinking, but it had once been a joyous thing. It was different then.
Several weeks later, Beppe was called away to another campaign, and a year after Stefano was partway through his studies, he would join his battle-hardened cousin in a new fight in Hitler’s war against the Allies.
Stefano loved his studies, but his learning could wait. The future seemed vast.