Street Boys Read Free

troops into the firestorm of battle.
    He had spent the night sleeping under an old cot topped by a soiled mattress in a deserted apartment off Via Toledo, waiting out the bombing attacks that greeted Naples each night. His mother had sent him out earlier in the day in search of black market bread, which arrived nightly, carted in by flatbed trucks and sold in the darkness of quiet alleys. The war had stripped Neapolitans of even the most basic necessities, and they were forced to dole out small ransoms for what had once been inexpensive staples.
    The trucks had been late.
    They usually drove into the alleys at nine, but were delayed by mines and German checkpoints. The boy waited on a long, quiet line until nearly midnight for the round loaf that would serve as that day’s meal for his mother and two sisters. The air-raid alarms sounded seconds after the boy paid for the bread. He dropped his lira into the hands of a black marketer he had come to know, nodded and turned to leave. “Don’t go home, Vincenzo,” the man whispered from the emptiness of the dark truck.
    “My mother’s waiting for this,” Vincenzo said. “My sisters haven’t eaten all day.”
    “Forget about tonight,” the man said. “Let them have their bread in the morning.”
    “I’m not worried about the bombs,” Vincenzo said. “I’ve run through them before.”
    “It’s not the bombs you need to be concerned about,” the man said. “It’s the thieves who wait to steal the bread you buy. They haven’t eaten all day, either. And they never pay for what goes in their mouths.”
    Vincenzo stared at the man, not sure whether to trust his own instincts or the word of a seller who profited from the hunger of his own people. “I’m not afraid,” Vincenzo said, looking around him at the now empty alley.
    “Nor are you foolish,” the man said. “Find a warm place and wait out the night. You can make your run in the morning. Feed your family a good meal then. It’s a better choice than arriving home with empty hands.”
    The first of the bombs fell in the piazza off the alley, sending debris and dust flying into the night air, the area now lit with flames. The truck’s engine kicked over and the man stood away from Vincenzo and let the cover drop over the back of the truck. “Save yourself,” the man said as he disappeared from view. “And the bread, too.”
     
    Vincenzo waited until dawn before he braved the run back home.
    He turned the final corner and skidded to a stop. He stood across from where his house had once been and stared at the crumpled mass of pink stucco, cement and wood. He dropped the bread and fell to his knees, head bowed, hands spread down the length of his face. He began to moan, moving back and forth in painful rhythms of agony, his body lifeless, his muscles weak. He lowered his head to the top of his knees and shook with rage and remorse. He didn’t need to look, didn’t need to search through rubble to find what he already knew to be true—they were dead.
    His mother, who had born the weight of the war with stoic strength and love, was gone from his life. His younger sister, always quick to tease him and who loved to hear him laugh, lay crushed under the weight of stones that had once kept her safe. His older sister, who sang and rocked him to sleep when he was a toddler, reached out to her mother one final time before the bomb tore apart their lives.
    Vincenzo lifted his head, his face rich with tears and sorrow, and looked to the sky, searching through morning mist for the faces he loved. He let out a series of loud screams, his hands held tight, pounding at the ground around him. No one heard. No one saw. No one came. He was a lost boy now, adrift without a home or a family to fill it. He was a victim of the war, joining the ranks of so many Italians who had been stripped of all they held close to their hearts. He was still only a child, but now he would be forced to set aside such thoughts, to think and