"You weren't the only one who picked out this secluded spot, Kaz," I said as I watched the officer walk into the farmhouse. Other Krauts checked out the barn, and one squad walked up the track to check on the still-burning truck. "It looks like they're settling in."
"They'll be setting up a perimeter soon," he said. "We have to leave."
"Head back to our lines," I said, handing him the revolver. "Someone has to take back word of this position. There's at least a full company of Germans here, and who knows how many others getting into place in these hills. You're elected." I saw Kaz about to protest, but then he nodded, accepting the logic of it.
"You're right." He looked at me a moment, then spoke again. "You remember now, don't you?"
"Everything. Daphne, Diana, and Harry," I said, hesitating over the last name.
"What about Harry?"
"He's dead. I killed him. In the Valley of the Temples."
"Agrigento," Sciafani put in. "It is a large field of temples, all kinds of ruins, right outside the city."
"Are you certain?" Kaz asked me. "How?"
"A grenade. He walked into the explosion. There was a fight with some Italians there, we got separated, and when I tossed a grenade behind a column, Harry stepped right into it. I didn't know he was there. Then-well, I guess I don't remember everything yet-then I blacked out."
Kaz held up his hand. German voices grew louder, in that relaxed, joking tone of soldiers who feel they're on safe ground. I could smell their cigarette smoke. They were headed our way. We eased back, staying low, entering a stand of small, thin trees that bordered the cauliflower field.
"Dottore," I said. "Before we split up, tell us both what the message means." I took out the worn slip of paper. To find happiness, you must twice pass through purgatory.
"It is silly really, not even a joke, but something one tells the turisti in Agrigento. You see, there is a small plaza, the Piazza del Purgatorio, and on that plaza is a church, the Chiesa Purgatorio."
"So you pass through the plaza, and then the church?" Kaz asked.
"Yes. If you take the side door out of the church, it leads you up a flight of steep steps to the Duomo – the cathedral-and within is a small chapel to San Felice, where he is buried. Saint Felice de Nicosia was a Sicilian, made a saint in the last century."
"Where does happiness come in?" I asked.
"Felice means to be happy," Kaz said, the dedicated student of language.
"OK. So our contact is in the cathedral, or the chapel of the cathedral." Seemed logical to me.
"Perhaps," said Sciafani. "Or perhaps that person was there, and is now gone."
"Either way, it's all we've got. I need to finish this mission, if only to find out what happened, and why Harry died. I owe him that much."
"Remember, Billy," Kaz said, with a nervous glance at Sciafani, "the mission is still important. We must have the cooperation of Don Calo and the Sicilian Mafia, especially as we advance into the mountains."
"Yeah, just make sure those American mobsters don't get in the way. When you get back, check around and find out who the hell in AMGOT hired those two goons. And be careful. JAG runs Civil Affairs and Civil Affairs runs AMGOT."
"Do you think there is a link between the charges against you and these mobsters?"
"I don't know what to think, but don't take any chances. And look into a Lieutenant Andrews in the Signals Company that's set up near Capo Soprano. I think he's on Vito's payroll too, just like Rocko was. And see if the name Charlotte comes up. Whoever she is, she's heavily involved."
Kaz nodded his agreement, then spoke to Sciafani.
"Dottore, we are depending upon you to lead Billy where he needs to go. You must not abandon him. If you leave or betray him, I will find you, in Palermo or in your village. Now, or after the war. And I will kill you, do you understand?"
"Certainly. A man would be honored to have such a friend avenge him. To say this does you credit. I will guide your friend, and not because of your threat. I am not a Fascist, and I do not care to watch the tedeschi shoot any more old men." Sciafani appeared proud to have been threatened with death.
Kaz extended his hand, and Sciafani shook it. Then I did, and held on to Kaz for an extra heartbeat, grasping him by the arm. "Stay safe," I said.
"Good advice," he said. "I will follow you with the cavalry, like in your Western movies. I have already gone through purgatory, so perhaps it will be easy for me to find where happiness hides."
He let go of my hand, locked eyes with me for a moment, and left us at a slow trot through the trees until he disappeared in the leafy green.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We walked, cautiously at first, keeping to the bushes and small trees that divided the cultivated fields, blending in with shadows and staying low where the ground rose and fell. Periodically we stopped to listen, swiveling our heads to catch the sounds of booted feet hurrying after us, but all we heard was the chattering and warbling of sparrows and starlings as they flitted among the plants and trees. We walked for hours, avoiding the few workers we saw in the fields and crossing dirt roads only after checking to see that no one was in sight. We walked east, by the sun. As it rose in the blue sky so did the heat. We crossed a stream, and drank from it, lying flat and letting the cool, clear water soak our chests as we gulped it down. We talked, at first in whispers. Then we grew bolder and spoke up, our own voices giving us strength, proving to ourselves that we were not afraid. But by the time the sun was directly above us, we were reduced to grunts and fingers pointing the direction to take, a single word serving where a conversation had earlier. We walked.
The ground changed from rich soil to crumbling, gritty reddish dirt mixed with stone. Dust coated our legs and floated up to choke us. We were higher up now, where there were no streams to drink from, less growth to hide in, and no low-lying gullies to walk along. We followed a trail that left us outlined against the hill that rose in front of us. I turned and saw the landscape below, green folds of cultivated fields and the yellows and browns of weeds and wild growth wilting in the arid heat. Anyone below could as easily see us. But Sciafani had chosen his route well; there was not a single person in sight, as well as no water or shelter from the sun. At that moment, I would have surrendered to a German or Italian patrol for the promise of water. I had to remind myself I could get a bullet just as easily, and that even if I didn't, I'd still be facing murder charges.
I tried to think about other things as I followed Sciafani up the trail. My breath came in big gulps that never seemed to get enough oxygen to my lungs. I kept my eyes on the ground in front of me and thought about home. About birds, actually, and all the things my mom had taught me about them. She had a feeder set up outside her kitchen window, and when I was small it was my job to put out the bird food and pieces of old bread she'd saved. Starlings, like the ones in the field below, were always pecking around the ground and sitting in the tree in our small backyard. She didn't like starlings much, since there were so many of them and they drove away the other birds. She loved cardinals, who always traveled in pairs, the bright red male and the gray female with her flecks of red. I liked them too, the mom and dad cardinals, as they flew in together and nibbled at seeds, then swooped off in unison, an invisible command driving them both. I always wondered how they knew when to fly away, and where they went.