"Yes," I replied, thinking of the placid sea the morning after the paratroopers dropped into it. "Yes."
"But you have another gift few men receive. You must discover who you are. You are unsure of what you will find. You are about to examine your life, once it is fully known to you, from the distance of your amnesia."
"It doesn't seem like much of a gift," I said.
"No, I doubt if it does. Do you have cigarettes, by any chance?"
I dug through my pack and found a pack of Luckies. "Here, take them. I don't smoke."
He lit one and inhaled, leaning back, closing his eyes as he exhaled. "Ah, that is good. American cigarettes, very good. Now, I have some things to tell you."
"What?"
"I do not think it likely that the wound to your head caused your amnesia. It certainly gave you a slight concussion, but nothing more. Real damage to the brain would have caused a serious organic amnesia. Your memories would not be returning so rapidly if that were the case."
"So what caused it?"
He drew on the cigarette and waited a moment before he answered.
"It sounds like what is called psychogenic amnesia. There are many references to it in recent literature. Recent meaning before the war. I had studied in Vienna and was starting my psychiatric residency in Rome when I was drafted. This is an area of interest for me."
"Are you saying I'm crazy?"
"No, no. It has nothing to do with mental illness, trust me. But personal identity may be lost for emotional or psychological reasons. An event may be too traumatic for the brain to process. So it obliges by not remembering the event. Our minds are quite inventive in this regard. Then, as time passes, the memories return. It is very unusual for such memory loss to last more than a few weeks. It usually comes back suddenly."
"So I'm only temporarily insane?"
"Yes," he laughed. "If you define loss of memory as insanity, then yes, you are temporarily insane. Rest assured your sanity will return. Although, as events all around us demonstrate, sanity and awareness are not always to be desired."
"If there are things I still can't remember…"
"Then they are likely the most distressing memories. The precipitating event might be any traumatic event you endured. No shortage of those in wartime."
"Sounds like things are going to get a lot worse before they get better," I said.
"Yes, when these memories return, you will have to deal with them. I would recommend you talk with a qualified doctor when they do."
"Maybe I'll come back and see you, Captain Doctor Sciafani," I said as I stood and gathered my gear. "Thanks for the first aid. I'll go look for Roberto now."
"Sit, sit down. There is no need."
"You know where he is?"
"Yes. I am sorry, but he died last night."
"Why didn't you tell me before?" My voice rose in anger and disbelief.
"Because I didn't know why you wanted him. And because he was found this morning in bed, his throat cut from ear to ear."
CHAPTER NINE
"We buried him right away. The heat, you know." Sciafani stood respectfully at the mound of sandy soil marking the grave of Roberto Bellestri. There were only two other graves.
"You're sure this is Bellestri?" I asked. The wind drifted gritty dust up from the mound and coated the toes of my boots.
"Yes. His name was on his identity disk, and his wound was as you described. A bullet grazed his side, breaking two ribs but passing cleanly through. He was in pain, but would have recovered fully."
"He wanted to go to America. Said he had cousins in Chicago."
"Every Sicilian has a cousin in New York or Chicago, my friend."
"A few in Boston as well," I said.
"Ah, Boston. Excellent hospital facilities there, I understand. Massachusetts General Hospital, do you know it?"
I thought about that. Images of flashing red lights, blood, and handcuffs raced through my mind.
"The emergency room, at least. I'm a police officer back home. My name is Billy Boyle, by the way." I extended my hand and he shook it with a firm, sure grip, but he hung on to me as he looked down at the grave.
"He spoke of you. He said you would help him get to America, that he saved your life. Is that what happened?"
I pulled my hand away and rubbed my eyes, as if that might focus my memory. "I don't know. He may have. I could've told him I'd help him. Somehow, maybe, I don't know." A small pebble rolled down the side of the pile and bounced against the toe of my boot. Something had passed between Roberto and me, something important, my life and safety for his future. Had I promised him a ticket to the States? Had I lied to him? I kicked at the stone, wondering if I'd ever know, and walked through a stand of prickly cactus into the cooling shade of the palms. Two men, murdered. One was a bum, out for no one but himself. Even so, Rocko hadn't deserved what he got. And Roberto, eager and excited, had survived the invasion and hoped he'd found his ticket to the promised land. Maybe he had saved my life, or maybe that was a line designed to get him in good with the Yanks so he could make it to the States. Maybe he'd lied to me or I'd lied to him.
Anger pulsed through me and I felt… like myself. Rage felt familiar and close. It felt like desire. For what? Vengeance, justice? No, those words were too fancy. I needed things to be set right, that's all. And it felt like something I knew how to do, although I couldn't have said exactly how.
I was electric, awake, vibrant now as if everything else before had been someone else's life or dream or nightmare. Was this who I was? A flash of fear and shame swept through me and I let it go. This was better than not knowing, always wondering, merely guessing at who I was. I decided to take myself as I found me. I was dog tired, hot and dusty, but I was here, savoring the day, and that was enough.
Sciafani stopped at the first two tents we came to, chatting with bandaged Italian soldiers who laughed and shook his hand. It sounded like he was saying his farewells, and it hit me that, as a Sicilian, he had had his ticket punched. He was a free man, and he knew the island.
"Captain Doctor Sciafani," I said, mustering all the military courtesy I could, "are you leaving? Going home?"
"Yes. What is your rank, may I ask?"
"Lieutenant, sir. Lieutenant Billy Boyle."
"Well, yes, Lieutenant Boyle, I am. I have my parole. There is another doctor, from Milano, which is unfortunate for him. He will remain here. There is little to do that will challenge him. And you need not call me captain. I am once again simply a dottore, which is quite enough for me."
"I guess that makes me your first patient as a civilian," I said, following him into his tent.
"Yes, Lieutenant Boyle, perhaps it does. I am sorry I will not be able to see you again, as yours is a most interesting case." He began to stuff a few items of clothing into a knapsack, pausing to inspect a shirt that was covered with stains where it wasn't replete with gaping holes. He dropped it to the ground and put on his knapsack. Collecting a canteen of water and his khaki bustina, the soft wool cap the Italians wore, he looked at me as if I were a houseguest who couldn't take a hint.
"I have a jeep," I said. "I can drive you part of the way."
"That is very kind, but I do not think so. Not far from here, being with an American will make me a target. Alone and on foot, I can avoid the tedeschi. I know the hills and back roads. Please excuse me."
He hung the canteen from his shoulder and pulled his bustina on, angling by me sideways to get out of the tent. I couldn't blame him for wanting to steer clear of the Germans. I scurried after him, knowing I needed a local to help me figure things out but also aware that the last one who had helped me had been rewarded with a mouthful of sand for his troubles.
"Just up to the main road then," I said, feeling like a high-school kid asking to walk a girl home. He nodded his acceptance and I led him to the jeep, cutting across the rocky slope, directly above the tents and enclosures on the beach.