Two old men walked into the park, identically dressed in black suits, vests, and collarless shirts. They stopped to look at us, their eyes wide in surprise, whether at my uniform or simply our general appearance, I couldn't tell. The worn suit of the Ciccolos' missing son hung like tattered rags on Sciafani's thin frame. His once white shirt was filthy now with stains of dried blood across his chest. I didn't know if the men knew I was an American, or cared. They scurried away, turning a corner and disappearing up narrow stone steps.
"This way," Sciafani said, pointing to a plaque that read VIA ATE-NEA. It was a wide street, running straight into the center of town, large buildings with ornate facades on either side. Several of them were bombed out. The debris spilled out into the street, where only a lane wide enough for a single vehicle had been cleared. We walked quickly, not wanting to linger or attract attention by running. A window opened above us, and a frowning gray-haired woman looked down at us and slowly shook her head, as if she found the sight of us in her city pitiful. I felt eyes on us from all around-windows, doorways, alleyways, and rooftops. I shivered in the heat.
"There's no traffic, no one up and going to work," I said. I glanced at my wristwatch. Just past seven. "Is it Sunday?"
"No. I think word has spread. They know the Americans are coming."
The eerie silence was broken by the growl of an engine echoing off the buildings. We eased back into a doorway, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. I heard the vehicle turn onto Via Atenea as the sound grew louder. A stream of shouts in Italian and the hard thuds of boots hitting pavement followed the squealing of ancient brakes. I chanced a quick glance from the doorway. The truck started up, coming toward us with men still in the open back. MVSN.
"Fascists," I said to Sciafani. "It looks like they're going to drop men off at the other end and search the entire street."
"Those old men must have informed," Sciafani said. He put his hand on the doorknob to try to open it. As he did, the knob turned slowly and the door creaked open. The gray-haired lady who had looked at us so sadly from the window grabbed me by the sleeve, the strength of her grip a surprise.
" Entri rapidamente." She pulled me in and Sciafani followed. She put a finger to her lips and shut the door slowly, holding the latch so it wouldn't make a noise.
" Bastardi di fascista," she whispered, cocking her head toward the street. Then she gave a wheezy little laugh, and her cheeks flushed red.
She liked this game.
"Bastards," I said, pointing too. She laughed some more. The truck rumbled by and boots echoed on the empty street. She beckoned us to follow her to the rear of the apartment, and we ended up in her kitchen.
"Chicago?" she asked me.
"No. Boston," I said, slow and clear. She shook her head and fired off some Italian to Sciafani.
"Her brother lives in Chicago. She wanted to know if you know him," Sciafani translated.
I shook my head. She shrugged and opened a low wooden door that led out to steep, narrow steps in an alleyway. We nodded our thanks and she laughed again, shooing us out like troublesome neighborhood kids. I pulled the Beretta and kept my back against the wall as we edged up the stairs. The stone was cool against my palm, but soft, worn down by centuries of Sicilian hands.
"Is the church far?" I asked Sciafani.
"No. We must turn soon and that will take us into the Piazza del Purgatorio and the chiesa. We go into the church, out the side entrance, then up stairs much like these. They will take us to the Duomo."
"The cathedral, where happiness awaits."
"Let us hope so, my friend."
Explosions sounded in the distance as we climbed the stairs. Soft, muffled sounds, thump, thump, thump, followed by ripples of small arms fire. At the top of the steps, I looked back between two buildings and saw plumes of black smoke billowing up from the direction of the harbor. Rangers at work.
Sciafani led us down a narrow street and up another set of stone steps between two buildings. Wash was hung out to dry on lines strung overhead and from balconies, the clothing limp in the hot early-morning stillness. On the next street, we saw a line of old women, their black shawls pulled tight over their shoulders, bowed heads and stooped shoulders leaning toward the piazza ahead of us. A large church on our right dominated a tiny square. Its great wooden doors were open, swallowing the tiny stream of worshippers.
"Welcome to purgatory," Sciafani said. "La Chiesa del Purgatorio."
The bell in the church tower began to ring, as if to announce our arrival. Two American fighter planes zoomed low over the town, the roar of their engines drowning out the bells for a moment, disappearing over rooftops as the bell tolled its last few rings. No one looked up. As I scanned the ornate facade of the church, I wondered why I didn't remember it. Harry and I must have come through here with Nick. Built from blocks of light brown stone, it was decorated with white marble pillars and statues on either side. The bell tower ran up the left side, giving it an oddly unbalanced look. Why didn't I remember it? I looked around the piazza, suddenly nervous. A nun came from a side street and hurried ahead of us; I nearly jumped a foot.
"Are you all right, Billy?"
"Yeah, I think so," I said. "I don't remember this, and I think I should."
"Some memories take longer than others to return. Things that remind you of that incident may be the most difficult memories to recover."
I stopped to lean against the corner of a building and watch the church entrance. I didn't like this. I felt light-headed and dizzy. I wanted to slump down and close my eyes. Instead I kept them on Sciafani. Was he the one making me nervous?
"What happened to your parents?" I asked. The words came out without my thinking about them.
"What? Why do you want to know that now, even if it was any of your business?"
I licked my lips and looked around again. My mouth was dry and I could feel my heart pounding. Something wasn't right and I had no idea what, so I had to work at the one wrong thing I knew about, and that was Sciafani's story.
"You told me all about your family in Palermo, and lectured me on how you could only trust family, those closest to you. Then it comes out that your real parents were killed and you were adopted, but you don't want to say anything more about it. Seems strange to me. What are you hiding?"
If he had told me to go to hell or called me crazy or even socked me on the jaw, I would've known things were on the up-and-up. Those were all normal reactions to some guy sticking his nose too far into your private business. Sciafani didn't do any of those things. He stared at me with wide, startled eyes, like he'd been hit with a two-by-four.
He blinked a few times and looked away.
"Come," he said. "We have to pass through the church and leave purgatory behind."
I had no choice but to follow.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Our footsteps were loud on the stone floor, echoing down the narrow dark interior of the church. Solitary women on their knees fed their rosaries through their fingers like soldiers feeding ammo through a machine gun. Intent on their prayers, they didn't look up as we passed. We didn't belong here, and they ignored us with profound indifference. I had stopped at the entrance to dip my fingers into the holy water and make the sign of the cross. I wasn't exactly a Holy Joe, but I knew what was expected of a good Irish boy in any Catholic church. Sciafani had walked right by.
You would have taken him for a bum fresh from a couple of days riding the rails and the dagger stuck through his belt gave him a look made more menacing by his dark features and black-whiskered face. My uniform wasn't much cleaner, and the Beretta in my waistband probably didn't give me a peaceful churchgoing appearance either. I was sure Sister Mary Margaret would give me a tongue-lashing whenever I saw her next for going to church not only dirty but armed, no less.