I wandered to the rear door to check for an exit. Another row of houses backed against this one, a wide alley separating them. Plenty of room to run. A wash bucket on the stoop caught my eye. Water had splashed onto the stone and hadn't dried yet. Patane must've put it out here as we knocked on the door. In the bucket, floating in sudsy water, were white handkerchiefs, spotted with blood. I thought about the white handkerchiefs in the funeral procession, and wondered if he'd be able to clean these. And if he'd paint his door black, or drape it in cloth.
A wave of sadness passed over me. This village was awash in death, an everyday occurrence. Not from the war, but from a lifetime of killing labor and poverty. This was what my family had left Ireland to escape. This was what Sciafani couldn't escape, even with his position and education. The life of suffering of the peasant. It had descended upon him as he walked into the village, apologizing for the smell. It is better when it rains.
Sciafani and Patane came into the kitchen, shutting the door behind them. Patane looked to the dottore, hope battling with fear in his eyes. Sciafani shook his head gravely as he put his hands on the old man's shoulders and spoke to him, softly, gently, masking the harsh words with an apologetic tone.
Tubercolosi was all I could make out. It was enough. Patane nodded, receiving the news he knew was coming with as much dignity as he could. His eyes welled with tears, but he did not give in to the emotions playing across his face. Sciafani dug into his pocket and pulled out the other fifty-lira AMGOT note. Patane refused, but Sciafani pressed it into his hand, nodding his head in the direction of the bedroom. It wasn't much. Four bits, but that would buy some good food for Patane's wife. He took it.
I waited while they spoke more in Italian. Patane pulled a bowl from under a counter and gave us each an orange. He smiled at me as he said something I didn't understand. I shook his hand and felt it tremble in mine. I could tell he was proud to be able to give his company something, and probably right now, with the war about to appear on his doorstep, a couple of oranges were one helluva gift. I felt the handkerchief as I stuffed the orange into my pocket, and for the first time realized that it could mean something for the people of Sicily as well as for the GIs who might have to fight their way through this town. If the Mafia boss could keep enough Italians out of it, villages like this might not be caught up in heavy fighting.
I thought about Signora Patane. She had a right to die in her own bed without artillery shells and machine guns all around her. She should have a nice funeral, with the chanting priest and small children leading her to the grave. Signor Patane should come home and smell the herbs his wife had collected for him, sit in their kitchen, and remember all the meals they had shared there. None of that could happen if tanks rolled through here, if bombers dropped their loads on Italian soldiers barricaded in houses, their polished furniture thrown up against doors and windows to protect them.
"Let's go," I said.
"Yes," Sciafani agreed. "There is nothing I can do here." It looked as if the thought pained him, or maybe it was memories. Having said goodbye to Signor Patane, he squeezed through the narrow doorway as quickly as he could and stood in the street, letting the sun wash over him. There was nothing he could do, about the dying woman or the ghosts of his own past.
CHAPTER SIXEEN
We passed the cemetery in the rear of the churchyard as we walked out of town. The funeral was over, the little group of mourners clustered under the shade of a beech tree. The tears and wailing were past; sadness had given way to quiet talk and closeness. Some wandered among the markers. One woman led a little girl, pointing to a grave, telling the story of her family. I couldn't hear her words, but I knew the gestures. Here is your great-grandfather. Here is your poor cousin, only a baby.
"How long will it be for Signora Patane?" I asked Sciafani.
"Difficult to say. Too long at the end. I pray she can die in peace."
I was about to protest that Italy was not at peace, but I understood what he meant. Their young men had been taken away to war, but the people of this village knew little of the outside world. If life was hard, it was also tranquil. Unless and until the armies decided to fight over this piece of land. Could it be important? It was on a back road through the mountains. Ahead of us was an intersection with a wider road. Good place for a pillbox. The church didn't have much of a tower, but it still would make a fair observation post. Put a couple of machine guns at the stone bridge we crossed, snipers in a few houses, and in no time we'd be calling in artillery coordinates.
As if in echo of my thoughts, the drone of engines drifted from the south. Four, no five, twin-engine planes, maybe a thousand feet up. I shielded my eyes from the sun and tried to make them out. One trailed smoke.
"German," I said, as soon as I saw the black crosses. "Probably coming back from a run at the beaches." They turned in a wide arc, passing over us, headed northeast.
"There is some good news," Sciafani said. "I wanted to wait until we had left the house to explain."
"OK, tell me."
Sciafani looked a bit more relaxed as we put our backs to the village. He glanced at the now distant aircraft, and I was relieved his mind was focused on more current concerns.
"Signor Patane was most grateful and asked if we needed transportation. His nephew is leaving for the market at Agrigento with a load of olives. He is waiting for us there, at the main road." Sciafani pointed to a skinny kid next to a cart painted every color in the book and then some.
"You didn't tell him we were going there, did you?"
"No, no, no," Sciafani said, shaking his finger. "I told him we would be glad to accept a ride to Favara, which is on the way. It is better than walking."
"Yeah," I said doubtfully. "But what if we're stopped? I stick out like a sore thumb in this uniform. At least if we walk we can stay off the main roads."
"That is a problem for you, yes. But not for me, since I am now a civilian. So, we will hide you."With that, he was off at a trot, waving to the kid and jabbering in Italian.
The two-wheeled cart was painted with flowers and hearts and every damn thing under the sun. It wasn't that big, and was crammed with baskets filled with olives. The donkey that pulled the cart stank. The kid wore a cloth cap with a dark vest over a collarless shirt. A sawed-off shotgun hung by a leather strap from his shoulder.
"Billy Boyle, this is Salvatore Patane." Sciafani spoke our names slowly so we could each understand. We shook hands. I eyed the shotgun.