The sound of artillery fire faded as we drove. I put it out of my mind because to think too much about what we were doing to the enemy did no good at all. The same kind of bombardment could land on me tomorrow, so it was best not to imagine the results or think too deeply about it. Shrapnel didn't care about the color of the uniform it shredded.
Occasional rifle fire rippled across the landscape, but it was impossible to tell if it was from the side, front, or rear. A few quick pop pop pops and a burst of machine-gun fire here and there-the sounds of tentative skirmishes rather than a full-scale battle. Traffic slowly thinned out, vehicles taking turns or pulling over and stopping to disgorge GIs in fresh uniforms, their clean shirts and full packs marking them as replacements for units chewed up since the landings.
We drove a while through silent, gently rolling farmland, the soil almost black where it had been recently turned. Kaz took a side road, little more than a dirt track, and pulled over. Banville pulled the jeep off the road and into a field of ripe grain. The stalks fell away from us, the wind from the sea carrying the faint smell of salt as it brushed our backs. Banville took a gas can from the back of the jeep and sprinkled gasoline over it, then lit a match and tossed it into the backseat. A soft thurmp and flames burst over the vehicle, shimmering in the hot air, red-yellow brightness quickly dulled by black smoke from burning rubber.
Banville got up front with Kaz and we drove off, leaving the harsh sound of an exploding fuel tank behind, the smell of gas and rubber trailing us. Sciafani looked at me. But I was a stranger here myself. Or maybe not. The burning wreck disappeared as we turned a corner. There was something familiar about Banville and fire. I wondered what it was. Thinking about fire caused a pounding in my chest, so I tried not to dwell on it.
We drove on, the road winding and rising as we passed more farmland. Grain was everywhere, ready to harvest, but farmers were scarce. So were farmhouses, for that matter. We drove through one small village that could've passed for a heap of stones if it wasn't for the blue daisies neatly bordering small vegetable gardens. The houses were squat and square, built from white-gray rock that looked like it had been bleached in the sun for a hundred years. A woman dressed in black, squat and square as her house, fed an outdoor oven from a stack of firewood. The oven, made from the same stone but blackened by smoke, looked like a charred entrance to the underworld.
"She makes the bread di campagna," Sciafani said. "They cook outside to keep the house cool."
"They?" I asked.
"The peasants," he said.
"So I guess your mother cooks inside the house then?"
"It depends upon which house. But never mind about my mother. Tell me where we are going."
"Sorry, Dottore, but all I know is that Kaz can be trusted."
"Is he a relation of yours?"
"No," I said. "He's Polish, I'm Irish."
"You have known each other for a long time?"
"No," I said, "about a year."
"A year? Then he is a staniero to you. As you are to me. A stranger. You cannot know a man well enough to trust him if he is not a relation, or if you have not known him since you were both bambini ." "You wouldn't trust anyone except a blood relation or childhood friend?"
"Why should I?" He looked at me, his dark eyes steady as the truck rumbled over the dirt track.
"Because you have to, when there's no one else. Kaz and I have gone through a lot together, maybe a lifetime in that year."
"Yes, perhaps," he said. "Perhaps. Was the vehicle stolen?"
I was surprised by his sudden shift in conversation, and wondered if his command of English was all it seemed. "It was," I said.
"Then he is a smart friend, at least. He speaks Italian like a Tuscan, but, still, he is smart."
"I think he studied in Florence before the war."
"Ah, yes, that would explain it," Sciafani said, as if bemoaning a sad but inescapable fate.
I lifted the canvas side of the truck and stuck my head out. The ground had changed from gently rolling fields to steeper hills and deep gullies. No entrenchments, supply dumps, or burned buildings marred this landscape. It was oddly quiet, and I realized how accustomed I had become to the sounds of an army at war: the echoes of fighting as well as the rear-area noise of machinery, engines, shovels, shouts, and curses. Here, it was calm and peaceful, and that worried me. Kaz slowed as the road narrowed where a small stone bridge crossed a stream. Beyond the stream he turned onto an even smaller path, lined with lemon trees, their yellow fruit ripening in the sun. On either side were fields of purple cauliflower, their huge heads looking ready for market. Bushy green trees flourished along the streambed. More color surrounded me here than anywhere I had seen before on this island.
"Now you begin to see the real Sicily," Sciafani said.
The truck slowed to a crawl as Kaz turned a corner, halting in front of a stone barn, its double wooden doors swung wide open. An elderly Italian man, wisps of white hair flying out from under his cap, hobbled out, hitching his suspenders up over a worn gray collarless shirt that might once have been as white as his whiskers. He nodded to Kaz, who spoke to him in Italian, with his Tuscan accent.
"He asks if anyone has been here. The old man says no, not since last night, and asks if he brought the American cigarettes," Sciafani said, translating the exchange.
Apparently Kaz had, so the old man motioned him to drive the truck into the barn. As we got out, the old man stopped short when he saw Sciafani in his Italian Army uniform. He pointed at him and spouted off at Kaz, but Sciafani interrupted him. All I understood was siciliano, siciliano, which seemed to do the trick and calmed the fellow down. Sciafani introduced himself, not mentioning his discarded rank.
"Dottore Enrico Sciafani," he said somewhat formally, straightening up as he did so. The old man removed his cap and murmured what sounded like apologies.
" Mi chiamo Filipo Ciccolo, Signore," he added with a bit of a bow as he backpedaled and stuck his cap back on. Kaz handed him four cartons of Lucky Strikes, which he took and hid under a tarpaulin.
"Filipo did not wish to have a Fascist under his roof," Sciafani explained. "I assured him that as a Sicilian neither would I."
It made sense, as far as it went. I had been told that Sicilians were not too fond of Mussolini and his Fascists. But there was something about old Filipo's reaction to Sciafani that interested me. It was as if he acknowledged him, respected him, and maybe feared him. And now, for the first time, I noticed that the truck we'd been riding in didn't have the regular army paint job. No white star, no serial numbers or unit designations were stenciled on it. It wasn't even army green, more of a nondescript tan color. At a distance, covered in dust, it might pass for any small truck in any army.
"It's like my jacket," I said to no one in particular.
"Exactly," Kaz said.
We filed out of the barn, Filipo shutting the double doors behind us. Kaz led us around the back to a house made of the same stone as the barn. It was larger than the ones I'd seen in the village, but still square, with thin slits for windows. A small patch of peas and beans stood outside a side door, surrounded by more of the familiar blue daisies. A grove of orange trees, growing near the stream, shaded the front of the house.