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  "Boston PD. But don't tell my lieutenant. I don't want to get stuck babysitting POWs."

  "Smart choice, rookie. OK, what do you need?"

  "G-2 wants me to find a Roberto Bellestri, wounded and captured a few days ago. They think he has the dope on some gun emplacements." I turned so the Seventh Army shoulder patch was visible and hoped he wouldn't ask for orders or identification or the name of the officer who'd sent me on this errand.

  "Wounded bad?"

  "I don't think so. Graze along the ribs. But maybe a bit worse."

  "Well, you're welcome to try the Italian aid station. Badly wounded cases are treated in field hospitals, only the walking wounded are sent here. We've got a bunch of Eyetie medics and doctors. We fixed them up with supplies, so they can take care of their own. Most of the wounded head down here to the beach as soon as they can."

  "Why's that?"

  "They say the Krauts are going to kick our ass off this island, and they want to get away before the Germans take over again. Ain't that somethin'? Except for the locals, that is. You hear about Bradley's order?"

  "I've been a little out of touch," I said, with a fair amount of truth.

  "Just came in," he said, pulling a sheet from his clipboard. "General Bradley's got some smarts. Any Sicilian who surrenders will be immediately paroled and allowed to go home. We released a couple hundred who left laughing and singing."

  "The Vichy French shot at us when we came ashore near Algiers, and we ended up kissing them on both cheeks. The Italians shoot at us here and we let them go home. It's a crazy war."

  "Well, only the Sicilians are cut loose. The other Italians are a close second when it comes to surrender. I never saw so many guys eager to get to North Africa."

  "Odds are they haven't been there before. I have. Where do I find the aid station?"

  "Take this dirt track," he said, pointing up a small rise. "See those palm trees? That's where it's been set up. Good luck."

  "If I find him?"

  "He's yours. I got plenty."

  Three whitewashed stone houses stood along the narrow track, nestled under the shade of tall palms. Behind them were U. S. Army tents and what I guessed were Italian Army tents, some marked with red crosses. Though they were not guarded, no one looked as if he was about to sneak off to fight to the death for Mussolini. The first house held supplies and two orderlies playing cards. The next two were set up as makeshift operating rooms, but no one was on the tables.

  "Can I help you?" The voice from behind startled me. I nearly brought my rifle up as I turned, then I steadied myself.

  "Sorry," I said. He was Italian, and his English was precise, with that faintly British accent of Europeans who learned English from the source. He was drying his hands on a white apron worn over his uniform. He wore khaki breeches with puttees and heavy brown leather boots. His light khaki jacket was almost a dead ringer for the one I had been wearing, only his collar was more pointed and showed the insignia of the 207th Coastal Defense Division, a white patch with a blue triangle. Funny how those little things popped into my mind, things I didn't even know I knew.

  "Are you a doctor?"

  "Yes. Captain Dottore Enrico Sciafani. What can I do for you?" He cocked his head as if it was an invitation for me to introduce myself.

  I let that vague request for rank and name hang in the air. "I'm looking for an Italian soldier who was wounded in the side three days ago. It wasn't too serious, and he may have been brought here. His name is Roberto Bellestri."

  He nodded, as if Americans came calling for their Italian cousins every day. "Names mean very little here. We take care of light wounds and injuries then send the men down to the boats as soon as we can. They are most eager to go. We keep no records ourselves. That is now a matter for your army."

  "Does the wound sound familiar, Doctor?"

  "They all sound familiar, my friend. Where did you get yours?" He removed my helmet and peered at the dirty bandage.

  I felt oddly comforted and at the same time disturbed. Doctor or not, he was supposed to be the enemy prisoner, not the one in charge.

  "I don't remember." I was tired of lying; it felt good to come out and say it. This guy wasn't about to cause me any trouble.

  "It happens, more often than you think. With some wounds, it is better not to remember. When did you last have that dressing changed?"

  "Yesterday, I think."

  "Come, I will give you a new bandage, then you can look for your man."

  I followed him and sat down. It was cool inside, and I let him remove the gauze and clean the wound.

  "This is not so bad," he said. "You have no recollection?"

  "No. And I was hit in the arm too." I rolled up my sleeve and showed him those bandages. He cut them away and shrugged.

  "Superficial. That makes your memory loss more interesting. What were you doing before the injuries were sustained?"

  "I don't know that either. I woke up in a field hospital. I didn't remember anything, not even my name."

  "Which is why you haven't told it to me?"

  "No, it's come back. A lot has come back, but not everything."

  He surveyed me as he studied my injuries. He worked quickly, wrapping my arm in gauze and tape, and putting a smaller dressing on my head, tying it off with a torn strip of white cloth. He was young, under thirty, with thick black hair, a narrow nose, and dark eyes. A small triangular scar marked one cheekbone; other than that, his skin was smooth except for fine lines at the corners of his eyes.

  "Where'd you get your scar?" I asked.

  His hand automatically went to the scar and brushed it faintly.

  "My younger brother. We were sword fighting with sticks and he gave me this. My father stitched me up and then thrashed us both. With the sticks."

  "Your father's a doctor?"

  "Yes, in Palermo," he said, tying off the bandage and standing back to check his work.

  "Is your brother still there?"

  "His submarine never came back from patrol last year."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Ah, yes, so am I." He fingered the scar and sighed. "So am I. Now tell me what do you want with Roberto Bellestri?"

  "I believe he saved my life. I remembered him a while ago, lifting me up and taking me away… from wherever this happened. Some men-Americans-found us, and one of them shot him. That's all I remember."

  "You say your memories have been returning since this happened? When was that?"

  "Three days ago, maybe four."

  "Four days ago, the invasion had not occurred."

  "Yes," I said.

  "Very interesting. You think this Roberto may have some answers for you?"

  "I hope so. I'm looking for him because I don't know what else to do."

  "Why not do nothing? Your memories are likely to return fully, since they have started already."

  "Because I'm not sure of what it was I was doing. And why."

  "You know, my nameless friend, you are the most fortunate of men," he said, laughing as he poured water over his hands and dried them again on his apron. He pulled up a chair and sat next to me. "In some respects."

  "How do you mean, Doctor?"

  "What did the philosopher say? Something about the unexamined life not being worth living? Most men live an unexamined life, and have little interest in truly knowing who they are. Most go through life untested, with no need even to understand what they are capable of. They get up, eat, go to work, eat, make love, sleep, and get up again. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, I do," I said, surprised that I really did.

  "We, though, we have seen war. We know there is more to life than a meaningless cycle of tasks, do we not? We know the day is here to be savored."

  "Yes," I replied, thinking of the placid sea the morning after the paratroopers dropped into it. "Yes."

  "But you have another gift few men receive. You must discover who you are. You are unsure of what you will find. You are about to examine your life, once it is
fully known to you, from the distance of your amnesia."

  "It doesn't seem like much of a gift," I said.

  "No, I doubt if it does. Do you have cigarettes, by any chance?"

  I dug through my pack and found a pack of Luckies. "Here, take them. I don't smoke."

  He lit one and inhaled, leaning back, closing his eyes as he exhaled. "Ah, that is good. American cigarettes, very good. Now, I have some things to tell you."

  "What?"

  "I do not think it likely that the wound to your head caused your amnesia. It certainly gave you a slight concussion, but nothing more. Real damage to the brain would have caused a serious organic amnesia. Your memories would not be returning so rapidly if that were the case."

  "So what caused it?"

  He drew on the cigarette and waited a moment before he answered.

  "It sounds like what is called psychogenic amnesia. There are many references to it in recent literature. Recent meaning before the war. I had studied in Vienna and was starting my psychiatric residency in Rome when I was drafted. This is an area of interest for me."

  "Are you saying I'm crazy?"

  "No, no. It has nothing to do with mental illness, trust me. But personal identity may be lost for emotional or psychological reasons. An event may be too traumatic for the brain to process. So it obliges by not remembering the event. Our minds are quite inventive in this regard. Then, as time passes, the memories return. It is very unusual for such memory loss to last more than a few weeks. It usually comes back suddenly."

  "So I'm only temporarily insane?"

  "Yes," he laughed. "If you define loss of memory as insanity, then yes, you are temporarily insane. Rest assured your sanity will return. Although, as events all around us demonstrate, sanity and awareness are not always to be desired."

  "If there are things I still can't remember…"

  "Then they are likely the most distressing memories. The precipitating event might be any traumatic event you endured. No shortage of those in wartime."

  "Sounds like things are going to get a lot worse before they get better," I said.

  "Yes, when these memories return, you will have to deal with them. I would recommend you talk with a qualified doctor when they do."

  "Maybe I'll come back and see you, Captain Doctor Sciafani," I said as I stood and gathered my gear. "Thanks for the first aid. I'll go look for Roberto now."

  "Sit, sit down. There is no need."

  "You know where he is?"

  "Yes. I am sorry, but he died last night."

  "Why didn't you tell me before?" My voice rose in anger and disbelief.

  "Because I didn't know why you wanted him. And because he was found this morning in bed, his throat cut from ear to ear."

  CHAPTER NINE

  "We buried him right away. The heat, you know." Sciafani stood respectfully at the mound of sandy soil marking the grave of Roberto Bellestri. There were only two other graves.

  "You're sure this is Bellestri?" I asked. The wind drifted gritty dust up from the mound and coated the toes of my boots.

  "Yes. His name was on his identity disk, and his wound was as you described. A bullet grazed his side, breaking two ribs but passing cleanly through. He was in pain, but would have recovered fully."

  "He wanted to go to America. Said he had cousins in Chicago."

  "Every Sicilian has a cousin in New York or Chicago, my friend."

  "A few in Boston as well," I said.

  "Ah, Boston. Excellent hospital facilities there, I understand. Massachusetts General Hospital, do you know it?"

  I thought about that. Images of flashing red lights, blood, and handcuffs raced through my mind.

  "The emergency room, at least. I'm a police officer back home. My name is Billy Boyle, by the way." I extended my hand and he shook it with a firm, sure grip, but he hung on to me as he looked down at the grave.

  "He spoke of you. He said you would help him get to America, that he saved your life. Is that what happened?"

  I pulled my hand away and rubbed my eyes, as if that might focus my memory. "I don't know. He may have. I could've told him I'd help him. Somehow, maybe, I don't know." A small pebble rolled down the side of the pile and bounced against the toe of my boot. Something had passed between Roberto and me, something important, my life and safety for his future. Had I promised him a ticket to the States? Had I lied to him? I kicked at the stone, wondering if I'd ever know, and walked through a stand of prickly cactus into the cooling shade of the palms. Two men, murdered. One was a bum, out for no one but himself. Even so, Rocko hadn't deserved what he got. And Roberto, eager and excited, had survived the invasion and hoped he'd found his ticket to the promised land. Maybe he had saved my life, or maybe that was a line designed to get him in good with the Yanks so he could make it to the States. Maybe he'd lied to me or I'd lied to him.

  Anger pulsed through me and I felt… like myself. Rage felt familiar and close. It felt like desire. For what? Vengeance, justice? No, those words were too fancy. I needed things to be set right, that's all. And it felt like something I knew how to do, although I couldn't have said exactly how.

  I was electric, awake, vibrant now as if everything else before had been someone else's life or dream or nightmare. Was this who I was? A flash of fear and shame swept through me and I let it go. This was better than not knowing, always wondering, merely guessing at who I was. I decided to take myself as I found me. I was dog tired, hot and dusty, but I was here, savoring the day, and that was enough.

  Sciafani stopped at the first two tents we came to, chatting with bandaged Italian soldiers who laughed and shook his hand. It sounded like he was saying his farewells, and it hit me that, as a Sicilian, he had had his ticket punched. He was a free man, and he knew the island.

  "Captain Doctor Sciafani," I said, mustering all the military courtesy I could, "are you leaving? Going home?"

  "Yes. What is your rank, may I ask?"

  "Lieutenant, sir. Lieutenant Billy Boyle."

  "Well, yes, Lieutenant Boyle, I am. I have my parole. There is another doctor, from Milano, which is unfortunate for him. He will remain here. There is little to do that will challenge him. And you need not call me captain. I am once again simply a dottore, which is quite enough for me."

  "I guess that makes me your first patient as a civilian," I said, following him into his tent.

  "Yes, Lieutenant Boyle, perhaps it does. I am sorry I will not be able to see you again, as yours is a most interesting case." He began to stuff a few items of clothing into a knapsack, pausing to inspect a shirt that was covered with stains where it wasn't replete with gaping holes. He dropped it to the ground and put on his knapsack. Collecting a canteen of water and his khaki bustina, the soft wool cap the Italians wore, he looked at me as if I were a houseguest who couldn't take a hint.

  "I have a jeep," I said. "I can drive you part of the way."

  "That is very kind, but I do not think so. Not far from here, being with an American will make me a target. Alone and on foot, I can avoid the tedeschi. I know the hills and back roads. Please excuse me."

  He hung the canteen from his shoulder and pulled his bustina on, angling by me sideways to get out of the tent. I couldn't blame him for wanting to steer clear of the Germans. I scurried after him, knowing I needed a local to help me figure things out but also aware that the last one who had helped me had been rewarded with a mouthful of sand for his troubles.

  "Just up to the main road then," I said, feeling like a high-school kid asking to walk a girl home. He nodded his acceptance and I led him to the jeep, cutting across the rocky slope, directly above the tents and enclosures on the beach.

  Below us, landing craft picked up Italian POWs while the lucky Sicilians among them trudged away in the opposite direction, toward their homes. As we sat in the jeep I remembered the odd note I'd been carrying around.

  I gave it to Sciafani. "Does this mean anything to you?" I asked him.

  "'To find happiness, you mu
st twice pass through purgatory,'" he read. "Yes, I have heard this. Why?"

  "It has something to do with where I was when Roberto found me, I think."

  "Then you were some distance away, my friend," Sciafani said. "In Agrigento, perhaps 130 kilometers east of here."

  I started to ask him how he'd reached that conclusion when two jeeps full of MPs raced down the road and braked in front of the tent where I'd been. They were in such a rush they didn't notice the vehicle park or the jeep. The two MPs who'd been eating K rations came out to meet them and they all looked at some papers while one MP pointed up the path I'd taken to the Italian aid station. They took off at a trot, an officer, his hand on the. 45 in his holster, leading the way. The MPs behind him carried Thompsons and carbines.

  "Must be a dangerous war criminal up there," I said as I started the engine, put it in reverse, and backed up the road as quietly as I could. When I was out of their sight I turned hard and floored it, kicking gravel out from the rear tires and praying more reinforcements weren't headed for me.

  "Yes, Lieutenant Boyle, if that is who you really are. Perhaps he is a very dangerous man."

  Sciafani hung on as the jeep bounced over the ruts up to the junction with the main road. I didn't want to lose any time getting away from the MPs, and I wasn't slowing down enough to let him jump out.

  Then I saw the truck blocking the road ahead. They'd sealed it off when they came to look for me. Two guys in nondescript khaki leaned against a Dodge WC-52 Weapons Carrier parked sideways across both lanes. On either side rocks and cacti blocked escape. I slowed and wondered if I could make it out of there on foot. We came closer, and I saw the two men more clearly. They were lounging against the truck as if they were casually waiting for someone who was late for an appointment. One of them was smoking and for a change no guns were pointed at me. It didn't make sense. Then it did. One of the men was Kaz. I pulled to a stop within a few feet of him and couldn't keep myself from smiling. He looked grim, which was unusual. The scar that split his face from the corner of one eye down to his chin didn't tend to make him look cheery, but his usual expression was carefree, or at worst nonchalant. I knew it was a pretense that pleased him, and that the look on his face now was a truer reflection of his heavy heart.