Free Fire in the Hills by Donna Jo Napoli

journey.
    Know that I fought well.
    At first I fought for revenge. Because of Papà. Because of how the Nazis shot him down for doing nothing but standing by the side of the road as they passed.
    But then I learned what this war is about. And when I found out, I thought I was losing my mind. This is a war about the most basic things. About freedom. And dignity. Every ugly thing you hear about the Fascists and the Nazis is true. Every ugly thing you’ve ever imagined happens under their guard. And things you’d never ever be able to imagine on your own—they happen, too.
    They say that if they shoot enough of us, they’ll kill the spirits of the rest of us. They’ll triumph. But that’s wrong. All of us who know the truth about this war—we are like the spine of a giant animal, a wild thing that can never be tamed, never be caught in a cage. We will carry that beast forever, to victory. One after the other of us. No matter what.
    But, really, I don’t think the Nazis even believe that shooting us will stop the resistance. They shoot us just to make terror—just to do as much harm as they can before the end. Because they know they will lose in the end. They have to.
    Can you believe I am writing this way? Me, who never even liked school. Now I wish I had paid attention in history lessons.
    Angelo and Emilio, study well at school. Do better than me. There’s a lot to learn.
    Manfreddo, take care of Mamma. But don’t forget to make your own family. I have been lucky. I have loved Volpe Rossa—red fox. I wish you love, too.
    And, Mamma, please know that I fought well. My heart is at peace now, because I know I did my duty as a son and an Italian. I have come to cherish my ideals, conscious that I might have to give everything for them, even my life. This was my decision. I die with the calm of the strong. Know this. You can lift your chin higher now, for you raised me well. Despite all my foolishness before, despite how you worried, I grew up to be good. Don’t cry. And, please, forgive me for the pain that I’ve caused you. And, Mamma, be happy for me. I die like a man.
    I go now to join Papà, the one I have missed so much.
    Â 
    With my last embrace,
    Your Ivano
    Â 
    Manfreddo put down the letter and sat on the floor. Emilio sank onto his lap and circled his arms and legs around him. Angelo stood with his hand on Emilio’s head. They rocked forward and backward, crying.
    Roberto wiped at his tears. “Would you like another bowl?” he asked Teresa.
    She shook her head.
    â€œThen come with me to the barn. You can have my mattress.”
    â€œNo,” said Manfreddo. “She can sleep in our room, and we’ll come out to the barn.”
    And so Teresa went into the other bedroom, and the boys went to the barn.
    They put Emilio on the mattress, and the three older boys pushed together straw and fell into a heap. But soon enough, Emilio crawled in on top of them.
    Roberto’s right arm was wet. Emilio had fallen asleep crying. It was March 22. Ivano had been dead for ten days. He’d never grow up. Or maybe he had. That letter seemed grown up.
    In another month, Roberto would turn fifteen. And in a month Roberto would have been at this farm for half a year. He’d hidden for half a year.
    Ivano was wrong. Not everyone who knew the truth about this war was part of the spine of that giant animal, that noble beast. Roberto knew the truth, and he was doing nothing about it.
    Roberto wanted three things. He wanted to stay safe. He wanted to get home. He wanted this war to end. So far he’d put them in that order of priority. Maybe it was time to rearrange his priorities.
    Like the orphans of Naples. They’d put ending the war in first place.
    Mamma wouldn’t want him to die like Ivano had. Papà wouldn’t want him to, either. Roberto didn’t want to die doing the honorable thing.
    But he no longer wanted to live doing the