Free Street Boys by Lorenzo Carcaterra

eyes glancing up toward the ridge where the firefight had taken place.
    “Does your dog understand Italian?” the boy in the back asked.
    “That’s
all
he understands,” Connors said.
    The boy in the back smiled at the dog and snapped his fingers. “
Scendi jou
,” he said in as firm a voice as he could muster. “
E siedati!
”
    The bullmastiff lowered his paws, stepped back from the jeep and sat on the dirt, his mouth open, large tongue dangling. Connors looked at the dog and then back to the boy.
    “It’s good to know he listens to
somebody
,” he said. “Tell you his name if I knew it. But I can tell you mine. It’s Connors.”
    “I am Dante,” the boy in the back said. “The boy next to me is Claudio. And the two in front are Gaspare and Pepe.”
    “How many are there in this group of yours?” Connors asked.
    “About two hundred,” Dante said, stepping down from the jeep. “Maybe two hundred and fifty.”
    “All boys?”
    “A few girls, but not many,” Gaspare said. “Just the ones without any family.”
    “Any American soldiers down there?” Connors asked, leaning against the side of the jeep, his helmet off and resting on the hood.
    “You’re the first one any of us have seen,” Dante said.
    “What about Italian resistance?” Connors said. “Any of them with you?”
    “No,” Dante said. “They left before the evacuation.”
    “Are we your prisoners now?” Claudio said, speaking for the first time. He was the youngest, his brown hair touched with streaks of blond, looking nervous and ill at ease in the rear of the jeep.
    “Why don’t we say that for the time being we’re working together,” Connors said. “At least until we see how everything in Naples plays out. Just me, the dog and the four of you.”
    “What is it you want us to do?” Dante asked with a hint of suspicion.
    “It’s not anything that’s going to get you into trouble,” Connors said. “If I’m anywhere in this, it’s on your side. Understand?”
    “
Si
,” Dante said, nodding along with the three other boys.
    “Good,” Connors said, throwing off his pack and wedging it in the back of the jeep between Dante and Claudio. He tapped the younger boy on the knee. “You’re going to have to ride on your friend’s lap,” he told him. “We need to make room for the dog. The same goes for the two of you in front.”
    Connors waited for the boys to shift seats and then snapped his fingers and watched as the mastiff hoisted himself into the back. “His breath is horrible,” Claudio said, cupping a hand in front of his face. “He smells like old feet.”
    “He’s not the cleanest duck in the pond,” Connors said, jumping behind the steering wheel. “But he’s good company and he smells trouble long before it hits.”
    “What do you call him?” Claudio asked, moving his hand from his face to the top of the mastiff’s head.
    “I only knew one Italian name before I ran into you guys,” Connors said, shifting into reverse and moving back toward the road. “And that’s Benito. So that’s who he is. At least to me.”
    “You named him after Il Duce?” Gaspare said, his olive eyes flushed wide. “In Naples that could get you killed.”
    “We’re not in Naples,” Connors said. “Yet.”
    “You still haven’t said what you want us to do,” Pepe said, partly hidden under Gaspare’s weight.
    “Benito understands you a lot better than he does me,” Connors said. “Be great if one of you could tell him to stop pissing in the jeep.”

14
    16TH PANZER DIVISION, SEVENTY-FIVE MILES OUTSIDE OF NAPLES. SEPTEMBER 26, 1943
    The four Mark IV tanks were lined up, gun turrets facing the front of the large pink stucco house. German soldiers, armed with machine guns and flame throwers, approached the house from the rear, trampling over grapevines and fig leaves. Von Klaus stood in front of his tank, staring out at what had once been lush gardens and fertile fields. He marveled at the design of the