"Ask him why he carries a sawed-off shotgun, like those other guys." I didn't want to say Mafia out loud.
Sciafani spoke to him, and I could tell it wasn't a question. They both laughed.
"It is a lupara, a handmade shotgun. The name means 'wolf-shot'- shepherds carry them to protect their sheep. And it is a good weapon to protect oneself from bandits since it can be hidden."
"Are you a shepherd?" I asked Salvatore, waiting for Sciafani to translate.
"He says he is your shepherd today, and you should get in back and be quiet," Sciafani said, not trying to hide a smirk.
I didn't like it, but there wasn't much choice. Even a donkey pulling a load on a dirt road would be faster than walking cross-country. The cart was jammed full with six tall baskets of olives, each slightly wider at the top, leaving a very narrow space at the bottom.
"In there?" I asked, knowing and not liking the answer.
"In there. It is a good thing you are no taller. There is barely room."
"Yeah, so I noticed." I slithered in between the baskets. With my feet drawn up, they were able to close the rear panel on the cart.
"Hey," I said. "I can see you fine. Anyone who looked could see in here!"
Salvatore thrust in a worn green blanket.
"He says to cover up," Sciafani said, laughing as he picked up something from the front of the cart. I did the best I could as I heard the sound of burlap ripping and the two of them chuckling like schoolboys. Then came the avalanche. Streams of almonds flowed in from the spaces between the baskets.
"Sweet almonds for the Festival of San Calogero! May you be blessed, Billy!"
"Yeah, bless you too," I said, glad I had covered my head with the blanket. I felt the cart creak as they got on it and jolt forward as the poor donkey pulled its heavy load away. I realized I had never heard the name of this village, and I didn't care to learn it.
I could see out through a tiny opening between the front of the cart and a basket, where the almonds hadn't completely filled in. I watched slivers of sky and landscape go by and listened to the slow, methodical clip-clop of the donkey's pace. Sciafani and Salvatore chatted. I dozed. The weight of the almonds was like a heavy blanket, and the sweet nutty smell was pleasant, sending me off to sleep with thoughts of almond cakes tantalizing my appetite.
I awoke to the rumbling sound of powerful engines in the distance. The little cart vibrated as the sound drew closer. I wanted to leap up and look. But I stayed pinned down by bushels of almonds and baskets of olives.
"We are pulling off the road, there is a German column coming up behind us. Do not move," Sciafani said as softly as he could and still be heard.
" Molti tedeschi, " Salvatore said, and that I understood. Many Germans.
I felt the cart shift as Salvatore brought it to a halt off the road. I could tell we were in the shade, and that Salvatore and Sciafani had both gotten off to stretch their legs. Salvatore was talking to the donkey, patting it down, checking the harness. Then came the vehicles. Watching through the small space at the front of the cart, I tried to guess each kind by its engine sound before the vehicle came into view. First, motorcycles. Then trucks of all sizes, with staff cars mixed in. The dust rose up, churned by the never-ending wheels, and blew over us like a desert storm. Sciafani walked by, a handkerchief covering his nose and mouth, cursing into it. I started to sweat, and was tempted to kick my way out of the cart and make a run for it. It was irrational, I knew. The smartest thing was to lie still and wait it out, but I wanted out from under.
A whining, insectlike noise intruded upon the others. The orderly, steady movement of the column changed to a panicky revving of engines. Shouted commands, voices tinged with fear or anger or both raged up and down the road. I saw a truck fly by us, crushing small trees as it charged off the road, looking for a place to hide. The whine increased, and I knew it was the sound of fighter planes, lining up to strafe the convoy. And us, since by now parts of it engulfed our little cart.
Sharp rat-a-tats repeated themselves as the planes-two of them, maybe-sent machine-gun bursts into the column. A faint ripple of half-hearted return fire rose from the road, but two massive explosions smothered it. One was incredibly loud, a sharp thundering blast that nearly lifted the cart up off the ground, likely a hit on an ammunition truck. The other was less contained-a whump that sounded like a truckload of gas cans igniting. The crackling fires, shouted commands, and the moans of the wounded were the only sounds after that. Engines turned over, gears shifted, and the smell of gasoline and burned flesh mingled in the warm air. I heard somebody crying, but no sound of returning fighters.
German soldiers walked through the trees, some calling out names, others laughing with the relief of being alive. It was a nervous kind of laugh, the same in any language: a little too forced and high-pitched, a false joy trying to seal off what has just happened and what could happen in the next minutes, hours, or days. An engine revved high, followed by a crunching sound as a vehicle was pushed off the road. Treads clanked and I knew tanks were going by. If I remembered my briefing correctly, from the Fifteenth Panzer Grenadier Division.
" Oliven? Olive? " A German voice, then two more joined in, asking Salvatore about the baskets. Blurs of khaki passed by and I heard Salvatore and Sciafani protesting to the Germans.
" Mircatu, mircatu, " Sciafani answered. " Mi dispiace, no. "
I figured he'd said that they were meant for the market, and he was apologizing. From the scuffling, I sensed more Germans gathering around. If they searched the cart I was done for. Salvatore and Sciafani would be shot on the spot and I'd be lucky to end up in a POW cage with a cracked skull. I closed my eyes and tried not to move a muscle, feeling the sweat drip over my face.
" Olive siciliane, molto buone, " I heard a German say slowly and proudly, as if he'd mastered a difficult phrase. It didn't sound like a search party. I eased open one eye and saw the barrel of a Schmeisser MP-40 pointed at me. But it was slung over the shoulder of a Kraut who was standing sideways to me. In his hand was a bunch of lire. They wanted to buy the olives. I almost laughed out loud. Minutes ago they'd almost been killed and now they were shopping for roadside treats, lined up like obedient children.
" Olive, no, " Sciafani barked. " Mandorle dolci, si. "
Dolci? Didn't that mean sweet? I didn't know the other word, but I figured it out as soon as Sciafani dug his hands into the loose almonds and began giving each German a double-fisted handful.
" Grazie, danke, " I heard over and over.
" Lire, no, mi amici, " Salvatore said, giving away the almonds to his tedeschi pals.
By the time they were done, the level of almonds was down a fair bit, but the Germans bid friendly Auf Wiedersehens as they climbed onto the last of the tanks. Sciafani had played that one smart. I was glad more Krauts hadn't stopped by or else he would've come up with a fistful of me pretty soon.
"That was close," Sciafani said, after the last of the vehicles had passed.
"Do you mean the Allied strafing or the German soldiers? There's so much to chose from."
"I would say the Germans. They were closer. Do you need to get out for a few moments? It looks safe."
"Yeah, I gotta see a man about a horse. Pull me out, willya?"
They each reached in and grabbed a leg. Almonds poured out with me and I had to grab onto Sciafani to keep from falling as the circulation came back into my legs.
"A horse?" he asked.
"It's an American saying," I explained as I walked to the nearest tree.
" Pisciarsi addosso dalla paura, " Salvatore said, and they both laughed.
"You must not have been too scared if you have that much left," Sciafani said.
"I'm glad you boys are enjoying this," I said as I finished up.