to fend for themselves.
“We need to search the station,” Kaz said, without much enthusiasm.
I was too tired to come up with anything else, so we held our suitcases over our heads, protection against the hot embers floating down from the burning city. We followed the tracks, working our way around a smoking crater, looking for the northbound platform. The smoke made it hard to see, and I tripped on a sign that had fallen from its post. In red letters, the word Nord stood out. North.
“We’re here,” I said, kicking at the sign, a laugh escaping my throat as I looked around at the collapsed walls and burning timbers.
“Look,” Kaz said, pointing to a figure stumbling through the wreckage in our direction. He wore a worker’s rough boots and a blue coat. His eyes were wide, darting everywhere, stunned and frightened. His hair was singed, his face black with soot. He held a hand up to shield his eyes from the bright light of the sparking flames, and stared at us, studying our faces, trying to fathom what had happened to his world and what we were doing in it. He blinked, a glimmer of awareness returning.
“Per l’amore di Dio, ha due sigarette? Per l’amore di Dio! ” Two cigarettes, for the love of God.
“No,” Kaz said. “ Sono troppo cari. Spiacente.” Kaz gave the response Hamilton had fed us, and added his apologies. We each took an arm and let him lead us, hoping he knew where he was going, and that our train was still in one piece. With shuffling, stumbling steps, he took us down a siding, where three freight cars stood undamaged. A storehouse a few yards off was burning, and next to it a flatbed truck lay on its side, oily black smoke roiling from the tires. He pointed to the middle car and fumbled with a set of keys. The smoke made it hard to see, and we all coughed as it got into our eyes and throats.
Finally, he got the right key and unlocked the padlock that secured the latch on the sliding door. He pulled it back, the metal screeching in protest. As the door opened, we all turned as another sound came from behind us. Footsteps.
A figure slowly emerged out of the inky smoke, his face blackened and bloody. One arm hung limp at his side, wisps of smoke curling up from the torn fabric.
“La santa madre di Dio,” our guide said, imploring the holy mother of God.
“Aiutame,” the man croaked, asking for help. Kaz stepped toward him, supporting him by his good arm, reassuring him in Italian as he brushed the dirt and dust from the man’s uniform, which was almost unrecognizable. Almost, until we saw the dark-gray uniform jacket and black collar tabs. One of Mussolini’s RSI officers, part of the Fascist army that had rallied around the deposed dictator.
“Fascista,” the railway man said with venom, the appearance of the RSI officer snapping him out of his shock. The officer gave him a quizzical look, as if he couldn’t understand the man’s insolence, his defiance of authority. His eyes flickered and squinted, trying to focus and take in the scene before him: the open railcar door, two priests, the keys, the curse. I watched his eyes as he assembled the pieces of the puzzle, working through the fog of pain, smoke, and surprise. Maybe he was a security officer on duty, or maybe he was passing through and got caught in the air raid. But it didn’t matter. He was on to us, all of us, and he wasn’t on our side.
His hand went to the leather holster at his belt, but Kaz still had a grip on his good arm. He twisted it behind his back with a savage thrust, and the officer gasped as Kaz threw him to the ground, then fell on him, trying to keep his hand from getting to the pistol. The officer slammed his injured arm at Kaz, loosening his grip. In a second, the Beretta was in his hand, his face contorted in pain from using his bloodied arm. I gave that arm a kick, and he screamed, his mouth round and his eyes wide with animal fear and pain. The pistol was still in his hand, and I dropped on it, pinning his good arm to the ground. Kaz was next to me, and his hands grasped the officer’s neck, choking him, desperate to silence the threat. The guy was strong and his legs thrashed, shiny black leather boots pinwheeling behind us. His neck bulged as he gasped for air, and I wondered if Kaz was strong enough to do the job.
I wrenched the pistol from the guy’s hand and hit him with the butt. Hard, twice. His legs stopped moving and he went limp, his face still showing the rage he’d fought us with. It was the last emotion he’d ever show. Kaz rose from the body, clenching and unclenching his hands.
“There couldn’t be a witness,” I said, tossing the pistol on the ground.
“No,” Kaz said, shaking his head as he brushed himself off. “He would have gotten us all killed.”
Our guide felt no need to justify what had been done. He spat on the body and dragged it by the heels to the burning truck, leaving the RSI officer crumpled on the ground, an obvious victim of the bombs. He trotted back, full of energy now, motioning for us to climb in, impatient to get away. The car was packed with supplies, crates of food, barrels of wine-a month of feasts. He led us down a narrow passage to the back of the car and pushed against the rear wall. There was a click, and the wooden slates moved, enough for them to slide sideways and allow Kaz and me to squeeze inside. The door closed and we were in total darkness. We heard the railcar door shut and the latch lock in place. Then nothing.
I lit a match and we surveyed the space. A couple of blankets. Space enough for the two of us to sit on the floor facing each other. Not much else to see.
“I wonder if this compartment opens from inside,” Kaz said.
“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out,” I said. Engine sounds drew closer, and I could feel the vibration coming up from the tracks. A thump announced that a locomotive had hooked up with the cars, and seconds later we lurched forward.
“Rome, next stop,” Kaz said, trying a bit hard to be the life of the party.
“We had to do it,” I said.
“Yes. There was no alternative.”
I should have felt bad. I’d helped kill a wounded man. I’d been shot at, bombed, and I’d sent a poor soul on his way with ersatz last rites. But the only thing I really felt was tired. Bone tired from too little sleep. Tired of disguises, lies, and the kind of war where bashing an injured man in the head was the only logical thing to do. I fell asleep against the rough wood planks, but not before a tiny voice in my head, a dream perhaps, told me that my body might rest, but my soul would be grievously tired for a long, long time.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The train finally came to rest hours later, the brakes taking so long that I thought we had stopped until that final little jolt pushed me forward against the rough wood wall. I must have slept, because bits of light were filtering in between the slats, barely enough to let me make out Kaz slumped opposite me.
“Tell the porter to bring coffee,” Kaz said, grunting as he tried to sit up.
“I will, as long as he isn’t wearing a German uniform,” I said. Muffled voices sounded outside as the door to the railcar slid open. Footsteps thumped closer, followed by a sharp rap on the false wall. It opened, and a workman in a blue coverall held his finger to his lips. I followed him out, clutching my suitcase and blinking my eyes against the morning light. Waiting outside the boxcar was a well-dressed gent in a black topcoat and shined shoes. He was at odds with the workers who stood at a distance, ready to unload the train, but they seemed to wait patiently for him. He touched his snap-brim fedora and inclined his head as we jumped down, giving us a little salute.
“Fathers Boyle and Dalakis, I take it,” he said, his English accent sounding polished, but with a hint of Cockney underneath. “Welcome to the Vatican. My name is John May.”
“I’m Boyle,” I said, shaking his hand. He had lively eyes that watched us and everything else at the same time. His bushy eyebrows stood above high cheekbones, and he reminded me of some smart hoodlums I’d known back in Boston, the confident way he oversaw this smuggling operation. “We’re in Vatican City? Neutral ground?”
“Indeed. Since you came through that wall.” He pointed to the iron door that was shut tight in the wall behind us. We were between the train and the railway station, and as I looked up, the dome of Saint Peter’s loomed high beyond the station. “You’re both a bit worse for wear, aren’t you?”
We were. Soot and dried blood covered our black cassocks, probably not the usual attire within these walls. May had a hurried conversation with the workmen as he took off his topcoat. He gave it to me, and another coat, considerably more worn, appeared for Kaz.
