Page 15 of The Girl from Sicily

15

DINU, SEPTEMBER 1943

The pistol Dinu had tucked into his trousers and hidden under his shirt chafed at his side as he shifted the heavy sack of grain he was carrying on his back while he hiked across country. The trek from Caltanissetta had been long and difficult – almost nine hours. He and Francu had set out at nightfall, so as not to attract the attention of any carabinieri. Now it was nearly daylight, they’d have to be careful. Villaurora was in Palermo province and transporting wheat over the provincial boundaries was against the law.

To distract himself from the pain the load was causing to his shoulders, Dinu thought about his sister’s upcoming marriage to Gero Bonanno. No one had been more surprised than he when the American had asked Pa for her hand. Pa had thought he was joking at first. But Gero had been adamant. He wanted to marry Lucia, to love and cherish her for the rest of his life. In return, he’d promised to help her family, to make sure they had enough food, and to fund their passage back to the USA when the war was over.

Dinu muttered under his breath; Gero’s actions had taken the wind out of his sails. If only he and Francu had managed to get their grain-smuggling business up and running in time to make it unnecessary for Lucia to marry the American. But Gero had delayed setting up a meeting with don Nofriu so they could sell him their stash of weapons and get paid enough money to buy their first lot of wheat. They would distribute it among friends and relations and not charge black-market prices. It would take them at least a couple of months before they’d save the sum to buy their own mule. The beast of burden would carry as many as five sacks at a time, and it would only be at that stage that they’d make a profit.

The weight of the wheat bore down on Dinu as he trekked along the path. Don Nofriu hadn’t asked him what he planned to do with the money. The godfather had barely acknowledged him during their exchange. Dinu had gone to the town hall on the pretext of a meeting with Gero, who’d taken him through to the boss’s office. Don Nofriu was sitting at a wide oak desk, smoking his habitual cigar. He’d pushed his tortoiseshell glasses up his nose, glanced at the bag of munitions Dinu opened before him, and haggled over a price. It was considerably lower than what Dinu had asked for. But the don had said, ‘A poor man like you isn’t in a position to call the shots,’ and he had a point.

Dinu remembered Lucia telling him she wasn’t in love with Gero, that it would be a marriage of convenience. Under normal circumstances, an American serviceman like Gero wouldn’t be able to marry a local girl until the war was over. Except Gero’s commander, Charles Rinelli, had pulled the right strings. And so, as soon as the necessary paperwork had been completed, Pa would walk her down the aisle.

Smirking to himself, Dinu thought about Giulianu Cardona. The marshal’s nose had been well and truly put out of joint. There was nothing the bastaddu Cardona could do about it – Gero had the backing of don Nofriu, who counted Charles Rinelli among his friends.

Maybe Lucia marrying Gero wasn’t such a bad idea? He’d be part of their family and on account of Gero’s favours, the village boss would surely show greater consideration towards Dinu than he’d done before.

Dinu’s thoughts turned to his parents. His father worked all the hours God sent on their campagna , and his mother had known a much easier life in America. There’d been running water in their Brooklyn apartment. In Villaurora, Ma and the girls had to carry water in pails from the village pump to their house, where it was stored in Ali Baba terracotta jars. Dinu resolved to change his family’s fortunes by becoming as rich as don Nofriu one day. Their poverty would be a thing of the past and maybe they wouldn’t even need to move back to the USA.

Day was breaking and Dinu and Francu would soon be home. But the path they were following was well known to smugglers, so he and his cousin would have to watch out for carabinieri. He put a finger to his lips and motioned to Francu to stop walking. All was quiet, except for the twitter of the cicadas, already chirping in the early-morning heat.

Stealthily, Dinu and Francu moved forwards until they came to a dry riverbed with a rough floor of tiny stones, lined by a bamboo thicket and an olive grove. From there, the track would drop in a long, winding spiral to Villaurora.

Suddenly, a flash of light like the striking of a match caught Dinu’s eye. He held up his hand to Francu. About thirty metres away, three men had stepped out from behind the bushes and they were dressed in the black uniforms with white piping of the carabinieri.

‘ Medda. ’ Shit.

The police officers fanned out, sunshine glinting off the metal on their rifles and handgun-style submachineguns. An older carabiniere with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves took centre position, flanked by two younger guys. Smiling with clear self-importance, the sergeant came forward and pointed his rifle unwaveringly at Dinu’s chest. The other two carabinieri closed in from both sides, waving with their guns that Dinu and Francu should put their sacks down.

‘Give us a thousand lire as a gift, and we’ll allow you to go,’ the sergeant said, glancing from Dinu to Francu, and back to Dinu again.

‘Never,’ Dinu spat.

‘Show me your documents. If they’re not in order, I’ll make you shit and wipe your asses with them.’ The sergeant’s face turned red with anger, and he narrowed his eyes.

Dinu thrust his chest out, icy fury pounding in his veins. He wouldn’t let himself be arrested, wouldn’t let these godforsaken men rob him of his family’s food. Planning to get beneath the arc of the pointed rifle, he took out his identity card and walked towards the sergeant.

‘Throw it on the ground,’ the sergeant growled, motioning with his rifle.

Dinu did as ordered, keeping his gaze on Francu, five paces to his left. His cousin knew he had a pistol under his shirt, and was trying to distract the sergeant’s attention by waving his arms.

‘The bastinado will knock out some of your peasant insolence.’ The sergeant took a few steps backward and smiled again. ‘Both of you, down on the ground!’

The bastinado was a form of torture that Cardona and his men utilised to keep the villagers in line. They would whip the soles of their feet until they bled. Dinu knew various villauroresi who’d suffered the punishment in the carabinieri barracks, and they’d gone home with their feet so badly injured they’d never walked again.

He wouldn’t let the carabinieri do that to him.

Keeping his gaze fixed on the sergeant, Dinu bent his knee as if he were going to lie down. He put one hand on the ground and the other on his belt so that he could draw the pistol from beneath his shirt. He could see Francu standing proudly, refusing the command, while the submachineguns trembled in the hands of the young guards.

Out of the blue, a falcon swooped down with a zipping sound, causing all three carabinieri to yelp and step back. Giving thanks to God, Dinu took advantage of the distraction to edge in the direction of one of the younger police officers – while Francu crept towards the bamboo thicket. With a grunt, Dinu hit the young carabiniere with his forearm and knocked him to the ground.

‘Run!’ he shouted to Francu.

Francu sped into the bamboo, and Dinu ran for the olive grove. Feeling a quick sense of exultation, he launched his body midair to dive between the two sturdy trees that would shield him and, as he did so, he drew the pistol free from beneath his shirt.

Except, the sergeant had already swung his rifle up and now aimed a lethal shot.

The bullet tore into the flesh at the side of Dinu’s abdomen and his body was racked with pain. He fell like a dead bird between the two trees, then tried to get up, but his legs had gone numb and he couldn’t make them move.

Pistol in hand, he twisted around and stared at the sergeant, who was shaking his rifle in the air in triumph. Dinu’s trousers filled with blood, the liquid warm and sticky. He gritted his teeth and squeezed the trigger of his pistol.

The sergeant’s black cap with its white piping flew in the air as he crumpled to the ground. It was an almost impossible shot with a pistol at that range, but Dinu got the impression his own hand had travelled with the bullet and had smashed it like a sharp blade through the sergeant’s eye.

Deathly silence descended. Even the cicadas stopped their incessant twittering.

Moaning in agony, Dinu rolled into the bushes. He tried to get up again and this time his legs obeyed him. But only one leg sprang forward, while the other dragged behind. His crotch was warm and sticky, his trousers soaked, his vision cloudy.

Then he fell – not to the ground, but into an endless, red-tinted black void of nothingness.