The Children of Vesuvius

By Bernard Hailperin

This novel is a tribute to the many orphaned children in Naples, Italy who survived the chaos brought about by World War II's bombing of Naples.
It is a tale of two brothers courage, love and compassion for a society desperate to overcome the terror and destruction. Mario cannot speak and is courgeously guided through the underground ruins of the city by his older brother, Tony. Together they embark upon the impossible jouney of survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 11, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462801107

Bernard Hailperin

Bernard David Hailperin was born and raised in New Jersey. He is a graduate of the University of Iowa where he and majored in English, Drama and Creative Writing. During his career, Bernard taught English Literature, Drama and Speech at Parsippany Hills High School in New Jersey. As Director of the Forensics debate program at the high school. in 1982, he was awarded the Coach of the Year Award in Forensics by the University of Pennsylvania. He also received a Presidential Citation from former President Richard Nixon for Excellence in Environmental Protection. Bernard’s teaching career actively involved him as Title 1 Coordinator for New Jersey Public Schools. He successfully published a book on Title 1 programs and was cited by former Congressman, Peter Rodino, in the Congressional Record for his efforts. He has published articles in New Jersey Schoolmaster and several poems in the National Library of Poetry. Bernard has been an evaluator for the Paper Mill Playhouse of New Jersey and has strongly promoted and selected each year’s “Rising Star. Many of the New Jersey “Rising Stars” have gone on to perform on Broadway. Bernard served in Italy during WORLD WAR 11, leaving him with many memories of orphaned children in Naples. He wrote “Children of Vesuvius” because he could not forget what he experienced and the novel is a tribute to those children. When Bernard is not writing, he is sharing his lifetime of travel experiences with senior complexes and nursing homes. . He currently resides in New Jersey with his wife, Sheila, and has a second novel in progress.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Mama mia!

Pulcinella seized his head with his small wooden hands and swayed from side to side. A huge skeleton hovered over him, its arms black with the white bones showing; its fingers extended toward his throat.

Mama mia!

His voice was a high squeak and the audience rocked with laughter. They leaned forward, jostling one another, pushing closer to watch the black mask, to laugh as the large hooked nose pushed its way into trouble. There were many soldiers in the crowd and they overflowed out into Via Roma, mixing with the Italians and the kids who kept jumping up to watch, some climbing up on storefront ledges and some dragging chairs down the alleyway, pushing the chairs into the crowd.

The hot Neapolitan sun had left the tip of Vesuvius several hours past and was now overhead, reaching intimate warm fingers under the clothing, both military, civilian, and under the clothing of those who wore half of each. The fish venders and chestnut criers were watching with sleepy eyes, almost too tired to call their wares. Here and there an older woman would breathe in deeply, plucking the front of her thin housedress, hoping for a brief wind to cool her. But the children were alert. Their dark eyes followed every move that was made on the stage; they advanced or retreated with the wooden clown.

The skeleton had been vanquished by the Pulcinella and was just a dusty heap at the foot of the platform. Now the clown seized a broom that was flying through the air, and he swatted the behind of a fat woman who was walking across the stage. The wires jerked and she went flying through the air as the audience applauded loudly.

Tony Modillani, age fourteen, wearing a grey wool shirt, United States Army olive-drab pants, and heavy, too large army shoes, stood at the fringe of the crowd watching. His black eyes picked into a segment of soldiers standing near a storefront, and he watched one in particular who was lifting a vino bottle to his lips. Occasionally the soldier touched his back pocket with his left hand. Tony turned to his younger brother who was laughing soundlessly; his thin chest was heaving with excitement, but no sound slipped from his lips.

Stay here, Tony said to Mario. Wait for me, okay?

Mario nodded his head, shaking his golden curls, his light blue eyes focused on the stage ahead. With a quick motion, Tony lifted his hands and ran his fingers through Mario’s bright yellow curls; once, twice, he rumpled the smaller boy’s hair. Then he darted off into the crowd.

Hey buffuno! buffuno! The soldier placed the vino bottle at his feet, cupped his heavy hands, and shouted toward the stage. His companions encouraged him with pushes of approval.

Tony was sure that the wallet was in the soldier’s back pocket, and he knew that if he stood behind him, pushing gently with the crowd that was anxious to see, it would be easy. The soldier seemed drunk. The crowd was thick around him, both Italians and soldiers mingled, and all he had to do was to slip two fingers in the pocket. Tony started across the narrow street, watching the soldier who was now waving his hands in the air.

Fatso, you’re drunk! he shouted in a high squeaky voice, trying to imitate the Pulcinella. But Tony’s hand was quick; the soldier didn’t feel a thing and his wallet moved from his back pocket to the other side of the street before he lowered his hands.

Tony thought of taking Mario with him when he took the wallet to Morini’s hallway, but when he approached his brother, he changed his mind. Mario’s pale face was bright with laughter; he kept clapping his small hands together.

When the play is over, Mario, meet me at Anna’s house; don’t be long.

The small, blond boy didn’t turn his head. He was watching a huge fish crawl up behind the unsuspecting Pulcinella, its jaws agape, the body coming closer. As the fish seemed to measure the clown, jaws opening wider, Mario’s lips formed the words, Pulcinella, Pulcinella, and then suddenly he found himself trying to shout, his muscles straining, face red, his arms jerking forward, Pulcinella! Pulcinella!

Tony was the only one who knew because he was watching Mario’s face, and he seized his brother’s arm.

What’s the matter, Mario? It’s only a play. Don’t be frightened. Look, look at what Pulcinella is doing!

The clown had gripped the fish’s mouth tightly, shutting it, and the fish was flipping about the stage. Although Mario’s hands still trembled, the anxiety had been eased from his face, and Tony thought it would be possible for him to leave now. He felt again for the wallet in his pocket and repeated, Mario, meet me at Anna’s house when the show is over.

This time his brother heard him, and he nodded his head in agreement. Tony was off through the crowd, recognizing friends, but moving too quickly for any of them to follow or attempt to speak to him. He walked three blocks south on Via Roma, watching for the MPs, but the streets weren’t crowded here; most of the people were at the Pulcinella show. It was very hot, and he wiped his forehead with his olive drab handkerchief and walked faster toward Morini’s hallway. When he did any black-market business in this area, it was usually transacted in Morini’s hallway. The house was in the heart of a small but busy alley; fruit venders, fish peddlers, and low-hanging wash added to the confusion. And it was easy to lose yourself among the milling crowds, to mingle with the soldiers who leaned against the walls of the buildings, smoking or drinking from vino bottles, waiting for the pimps or to sell cigarettes or just waiting. Enzio Morini was Tony’s friend; he often bought the black-market cigarettes from Tony and resold them to those who would not descend into the dingy alley. He allowed several of the boys he could trust to do business in his hallway, and as he had no fear of the MPs, sometimes the boys would come upstairs to his apartment to resell the newly-bought American cigarettes.

Tony liked to enter the dark hallway; you could hide in the shadows and never be noticed. It wasn’t off-limits and Tony always felt the quiet here, which is different from the pushing and noise of the street. Sometimes, when Mario was tired and it was too early to go home, he rested in Morini’s hallway, sitting on the cool floor, shutting out the sounds of the street.

Tony reached the alley; it was as busy as always. A small figure in a torn yellow shirt stood at the entrance. He had a thin, tight face, with brown wispy hair that curved low over his forehead. A soldier wearing an American uniform walked slowly past him, a cigarette dangling carelessly from his lips.

Hey Joe! Wanna piece of ass?

Tony laughed; it was little Nickie who was pimping for his cousin Julie. This was his corner; the other kids respected his place. His house had received a direct hit and Nickie was the only live one dragged from the wreckage. He lost two brothers, a sister, and his father and mother.

The soldier had stopped; he was talking to the boy. He kept shaking his head. But after Nickie said something to him, gesturing breasts and hips with his small hands, they walked away together up the alley. A sale, thought Tony, and he wondered if Julie had syphilis. He waited until Nickie was a distance from him before he moved up the alley.

Morini’s hallway was a relief from the heat of the street. And as he stood in the dim light, he could feel the dampness of the walls. The wallet was of black leather; he emptied it on the stone ledge that stood below the one dusty window. There were pictures of two girls; American, thought Tony, as they stood in front of a large automobile, and they wore neat dresses. There was a picture of two older people—the mother and father—thought Tony; he didn’t want to look further. The money was the important thing. An American five-dollar bill and thirty-dollars worth of Italian lira was what Tony pocketed. It was Mario’s lucky hair that enabled him to make this grab, and Tony thought that if he had rubbed his brother’s hair longer, there would have been more money. He knew that the wallet would have to be thrown into the sea on his way to Anna’s house; it couldn’t be left in Morini’s hallway.

As he returned to the entrance of the alleyway, he noticed that Nickie was back in his spot, watching for the soldiers. The five-dollar bill in American money was important to Tony and he felt very happy.

Hey, Nickie. How’s your fat whore cousin Julie? he shouted as he passed. Nickie made believe that he didn’t see or hear Tony; he turned his back. A group of soldiers were approaching and he watched them closely.

Hey, Nickie. Is fat Julie sick with you know what?

The soldiers passed, but Nickie did not speak to them. He turned to Tony and with a quick gesture, he made the hand-across-the-arm sign, pumping his left arm vigorously. F—you, F—you, the motions repeated, again and again. Tony felt the wallet in his pocket; to hell with Nickie, he shouldn’t wait. There was still time to get caught. The smaller boy’s attention was now attracted toward a dark soldier wearing the uniform of the French Goum troops.

Tony moved quickly out on Via Roma again and headed toward the sea. He could throw the wallet into the water; it would never be found and the police would give up the search after a time. The main street was very crowded with soldiers of every uniform. Tony wondered why so many troops were stationed in Naples when the fighting was so far north. He once bought black-market cigarettes from a wounded Canadian soldier who was staying at a rest camp, but he had a reason for being here. Near the San Carlo Opera House, Tony saw several Italian soldiers wearing their green uniforms and black, shiny boots. He slowed his walk to watch two of them approach an American major who was passing in the opposite direction. They slowed their pace and saluted very carefully, with a slight bow, as their hands came forward. The major smiled, saluted carefully, and greeted them with a good morning—spoken in Italian. Tony always loved to watch the exchange of salutes between the Italian soldiers and Allied officers; it was as though they all fought the war together, from the beginning; as though you could always say, The British, American, and Italian troops drove the Germans back across the Arno River. Whenever Tony felt this way, he wished that he wore a uniform.

At the turn of the Strada Santa Lucia, he recognized Luigi Viola and the blind Peppino who were going to beg in front of the American Red Cross. Luigi lost his left leg in one of the bombings of the city and Peppino was hit by grenade fragments during the final battles for the city. Tony knew them well because they were from his former street on Via Tarsa. And now that the maimed from those blocks were very close, Mario was a part of them, and Tony watching over Mario was accepted as a friend. Luigi wore his familiar torn, brown shirt, long navy pants rolled and held up by a black string, and a white sailor’s hat stuck on the back of his head. He was swinging forward quickly on his crutches, and the thin Peppino held his left arm stump hooked into Luigi’s crutch. They greeted their friend and moved rapidly up Via Roma. But Tony knew why they hurried: many beggars from all over the city gathered at the Red Cross at this hour, and the two boys wanted to be among the early ones. There was one who was called Dante by an English sergeant and the name remained. He lost both legs and one eye and in front of the Red Cross. He got most of the attention and money. Tony knew why Luigi and Peppino hurried: they had been doing poorly the past few weeks.

The littered harbor was directly ahead of him; he could see where the hulks of ships still rested, turned on their sides in the shallow water. A salvage crew was working near one boat that was almost flat on its side. Just a slight grey roundness could be seen over the water line. Tony’s second cousin, Michele, worked on a salvage crew in the harbor, but the men were too far away for him to recognize if his cousin worked with that group. It was good though that they were so far offshore and no one was around him to watch the wallet being thrown into the sea. He approached the stone railing, at the edge, leaned far forward, and with a quick motion, threw the black wallet—with everything in it except the money—out over the water. He heard the light splash and watched its oblong form drifting out away from the shore toward the direction of Vesuvius; it would become waterlogged and sink. Fingering the money in his pocket, he turned his back on the Mediterranean, walked in the direction of the park toward Anna’s house, and thought about Mario. He hoped that his brother was there now; he didn’t want Mario to wander about the city alone. There were too many thieves who would want to steal his brother’s new leather combat boots.

Anna was turning the big wooden spoon in the mass of spaghetti that was tangled in a large black pot. The heavy, warm odor permeated the small almost-bare room; the cheese and garlic mixture filtered into the corners and united with those similar odors of the day before. Mario watched Anna. He was always a little afraid of his cousin; she spoke in a loud voice, swinging her arms through the air, and if you were standing near her, she hit you when she spoke. The boy sitting opposite her watched Anna’s bright, ruddy face; her hair was so black—not like his—and every day she combed it a different way. Today it was combed low over her face, almost covering one eye; from where he was sitting, it looked as if her hair was going to fall into the pot of spaghetti.

"Ah, Marie, Marie!

Quanta suonne ca perdo pe’ te!

Famm’ addurmi"—

She was singing that Neapolitan street song again; it was her favorite and she sang it in a loud voice. I could have been an opera singer, she once said, and Mario remembered that Tony had laughed. He didn’t think that Anna could be an opera singer, but he didn’t understand it when Tony said, Yes, Anna. You and Gigli in La Boheme, and his brother had laughed again.

He was very lonesome for Tony now; he stood up and walked to the window.

Hey, Mario. What’s the matter? You hungry?

He shook his head no.

You watching for Tony to come. He’ll be here soon; he told me that you were coming for spaghetti today. He’ll be here, Mario. Sit down and wait.

Two American soldiers were standing in front of the house, as Mario could see them from the window. He wondered if they were looking for Anna, or maybe they were drunk!

What’s the matter, Mario?

Anna walked to the window and stood alongside of the boy looking out into the garbage-littered alley. One of the soldiers was pointing to the house, and Mario looked quickly at Anna to see if she recognized them; but she looked puzzled. The soldiers approached the door and knocked loudly.

Hey, Anna honey. Open up; it’s Georgio.

As Anna moved quietly from the window toward the door, Mario wanted Tony to be there. He was sure that the soldiers were drunk and it was only Tony who could talk to them; he could make them laugh so that they wouldn’t cause trouble.

Anna had opened the door; the two soldiers entered the room and looked around. Mario watched Anna’s face. She didn’t seem frightened, but he was sure that she didn’t know them. One of the soldiers was very tall with dark hair; a small white scar ran along the side of his jaw. And the other was short and chunky; his overseas cap was pulled low over his forehead, almost touching his reddish brows. The pockets of both