Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

“We’re getting on each other’s nerves.”

“Nick, I thought coming to Assisi might bring back some good memories. You’ve hardly kissed me.”

“We can go outside, if you want.”

“That’s not exactly romantic, but maybe I’ve been kidding myself all along.”

“You’re making up things like your friend, Rachele.”

“You don’t have to rub my face in this.”

“We seem to be going around in circles.”

“I know what’s bugging you. That I’ve been with a lot of men.”

“That’s your life.”

“You don’t know anything. My father was shot right out in the street and by the time I came home I saw his body in the gutter. Flames shooting out of our balcony window.” Caterina eyes filled up wet and reddened. “I tried to reach my father but the mob grabbed me when one of them recognized I was his daughter, another fascista sympathizer to them. They were enraged and knocked me to the ground. Some of the women were going to shear off my hair when several nuns came running out of a nearby church and pulled me away, rushing me off the street.”

“I didn’t know, Caterina.”

“You want to know why I prostituted myself. No, you don’t want to know. But I’ll tell you anyway. I had no money, no way to getting at whatever money my family had left, and worse of all, no one would give me any job.”

“I didn’t know.”

Caterina rose and staggered upstairs in the dark, inching the way back to her cell. Nick heard her door slam but he did not get up. He sensed pain in his leg that was traveling up his body, but it was as much emotional as it was physical. The swallows were flying high and low in erratic patterns looking to pick off some unsuspecting insects. He saw a stray cat with protruding ribs creep low in an area where some water had collected, hoping one of birds would drink after their wild chases. Nick considered throwing a stone to scare the cat off but he didn’t bother. The swallows called out a sharp siflitt and flew out of the cat’s reach. Nick had been away from home so long now, it got to the point that he didn’t care about birds or even operatic characters named after a butterfly. He didn’t even raise his head to see what stars were shining that night.

ARoman winter brought in a surprise dusting of snow outside Nick’s hospital window, where he had been readmitted for his leg wound, the whiteness conjuring up a vision of battle raging on the northern front, along the Gothic Line in the Apennine Mountains stretching somewhere from La Spezia to Pesaro. Sitting at the edge of the bed on his third visit since the summer, he wondered how his former captain and squadron were faring, as the weather turned their tanks into moving iceboxes. The pain in his leg had slowly intensified after Venice, but he refused to let it show in his gait. Nick also had periodic nightmares of his last day with Paul, as he held him dead in his arms, drenched in blood. He sometimes saw Alastar’s bloodied face on the ground. These night pictures seemed more real than that fatal day with his tank crew. He tossed about so much that he must have been wrenching his bad leg.

Captain Monroe’s recent letter mentioned that slight twists of fate brought soldiers closer to death or further removed from it. The tone of the note had a sad quality to it and, though the captain hoped the war would end soon, he continued to fear for his men. After what Nathan and Nick had gone through, he wished them well. Captain Monroe concluded that he never shook off his Virginia accent or his Methodist ways, and maybe they could say a few prayers for the boys in the unit. Nick placed the note in his shirt pocket when the doctor came in.

“Where’s your cane, Corporal Spataro?” He shrugged and the doctor shook his head. “What the hell did you and your pal do with yourselves this past summer? Last month, Sergeant Fein’s seizures came back with a vengeance after stabilizing at the beginning of summer. Now we’ve got to redo the pins in your leg.” The doctor shook his head again. “You two are supposed to be recuperating with your desk jobs, not relapsing.”

“It’s due to complications, that’s all, Captain Randazzo.”

“Great, now you’re doing your own diagnosis.” The doctor shook Nick’s hand and continued holding it. “Just take it easy will you, Nick. And sell that damn scooter.”

One evening Nathan sat on his bed dressed to go out, as Carlo walked in.

“I got tickets to see the army swing band.” Nathan held them up. “Made up of jazz players from different units in Rome.”

“I don’t know, Nathan.”

“Look, I’m feeling better for the first time in a month. Anyway, didn’t you tell me you were a big fan of Benny Goodman and Louis Armstrong?” Nathan got up and put his hand on Carlo’s shoulder. “I don’t know who feels worse. We need a little music in our lives.”

“Okay, I’ll get ready.”

“ Bravo cugino .”

Nathan had picked a concert to put them in the right groove and when they got to a packed auditorium of GIs, he saw Carlo’s eyes light up with enthusiasm for life that he had not seen in his cousin since the first day they met in Assisi. The music set lasted straight up for one hour, hitting every emotional chord in their psyche.

As they scatted to the tune of Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” on the way back to their room, they passed by a tiny shop cut into a wall that still had its yellowed lights on. There was a restored oil painting visible from the street that caught Carlo’s attention and he entered the shop. The owner kept working at his bench. He noticed a painting of a young, voluptuous woman gathering olives in her apron, the Basilica of St. Francis rising on a hill in the background. Nathan couldn’t resist and slipped into the shop, looking over Carlo’s shoulder.

“Looks like Isabella!” Carlo commented.

“Ah, your imagination is running away with you.” Nathan laughed. “Are you stuck on Caterina’s friend?”

“We just like to talk together, that’s all.”

“Who are you kidding? I wish I was half as intimate with Rachele.”

“There are other issues.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I have other things on my mind.”

“I know. That’s why I wanted you to listen to some swing. Andiamo, Carlo.”

The following evening Carlo challenged Nathan to find the best pizza in Trastevere. They were having a good time drinking decent, white table wine from one of the neighboring hills, until Carlo had to go the bathroom. He passed by the oven, the flames from the wood traveling across its brick ceiling, an image that lit up all the rumors about the concentration camps. By the time he got back, Nathan could see him frowning as he sat down.

“What happened? Couldn’t find the bagno .” Nathan laughed nervously.

“I found it all right. Here comes the pizza. Mangia, cugino .”

They found the pizza to be perfect, a good corniche, slightly burnt on the edge, the right balance of mozzarella, San Marzano tomatoes and basil. Nathan tried to bury himself in his enjoyment of this simple preparation and hoped that Carlo would rid himself of the demons in his mind, his leg pumping the floor so hard that Nathan could feel it vibrate under his feet.

“I’m joining the Jewish Brigade.”

“You ought to think this over before you take a plunge.”

“I don’t want to be filled with guilt anymore.”

“Don’t you think this stuff is on my mind too? It will eat you alive, if you’re not careful.”

They finished the meal quickly. On the way home, they discussed the change in the weather but there were other things on Nathan’s mind. He ruminated about his cousin as they trudged through the dark, but in the end Carlo would have to find his own way. He wondered if Nick and Caterina were happy together and what was really going on between Carlo and Isabella. And he thought his cousin was just going along for the ride to Assisi keeping him company. All of a sudden a downpour drenched them, as they ran the few remaining streets to the room.