T/W: War violence


Palermo, June 1943

The month that followed was as brutal as Tomasso had feared. As predicted, they received the drop without incident, arming them with the necessary sticky bombs and artillery to further hamstring the Germans as they floundered on through Sicily. He hadn't seen Ana since that night at Antonio's. For several weeks, he had been camping in a heavily wooded forest of Northern Sicily, training his boys with their Mr. Morton, who had returned to help them prepare tactically for Operation Husky. They were an eager crop of boys, ranging in age from 15-22, and as many of them were runaways, deserters and orphans, they were a spry, wily bunch. He was confident they would do well in their mission.

He had returned to the cave after receiving word that some downed pilots were in the area seeking shelter, with plans to return to the men by the end of the week. He hoped to find a way to see Ana before his return.

Ana's days were now colored with a fresh layer of worry. Her mornings and afternoons were spent volunteering at the hospital, and her nights eavesdropping on surly Germans, mightily working to contain her visceral disgust for the sake of their mission. Although Tomasso had been tucking little notes to her into his communications to the Fantasmi, those communications had now ceased, the danger of interference too great.

She received word periodically about Tomasso and the men, each time bringing a wave of short-lived relief. She never knew if he was alive until a member of their network reported back to Antonio. She couldn't help but scan the grimacing, shell-shocked faces of each new wave of injured men who were hauled into the hospital each day, praying Tomasso had been spared another day. Praying that he always would be.

A sense of danger and doom thickened the air with suffocating persistence. Ana found herself regularly retreating into daydreams about the future, memories of the past. Her mind frequently drifted to Tomasso's parents' annual Christmas parties, a highlight of the town's festive season. She recalled how at the last party before the war, she had haughtily refused Tomasso's offer of a dance, still convinced he was a scoundrel. And yet, she recalled feeling his eyes on her all evening, and how he caught her eye across the room, the glow of the large tree between them, and she blushed in spite of herself as the party guests reverently sang Astro di Ciel (Silent Night) by candlelight. Oh, how she longed to return to those days! How she wished she could dance with him now.

She dared to let her mind wander to the future, to a kitchen full of children topped with mops of dark brown curls like their mother's, with twinkling eyes like their father's. A cherubic baby boy, banging his cup on the high chair, impatiently demanding his dinner. Tomasso, sneaking a kiss on her neck behind her as she feeds him a taste of the sauce from the spoon. It was almost painful indulging in these fantasies when her current reality was so grim, but they made the days easier to bear.

Would they ever see normal, happy days again? Would they be able to feel unbridled joy, even when this war was long in the past? Or would this dark time always linger over their celebrations, their memories haunted by trauma, their hearts forever marked by the scars of war?


Tomasso carefully unwrapped his precious last biscotti from Ana when his ears pricked up at the unmistakable buzzing sound in the distance. He craned his neck to the sky and saw RAF planes headed for Palermo. He quickly said a prayer for Ana, and for Aldo, who was in town at one of the Balillia military camps that children his age were required to attend in the summertime. He swallowed, trying to ignore the pit in his stomach.

He had two men staying in the cave with him right now; one was a downed American pilot, just resting on his way to the next safe house. The other was his school friend Pietro, who had deserted and now needed cover. He had quickly agreed to join the band of partisan fighters, and right now was at the pond down the road, hoping to catch them some fish for dinner. A German officer had made an increasingly frequent habit of stopping by his father's home unannounced, so Tomasso had to be very careful about appearing at the backdoor for food. He was grateful his hiding spot was so well-concealed, and that the well for the farm workers was apart from the house.

He picked up his Bible and laid wearily on his pallet. The next thing he knew, Pietro was shaking him awake.

"Tomasso. Wake up."

The Bible fell from his chest as he sat up. "Wha- what?"

"The town has been bombed."

He blinked groggily, running a hand through his hair. "Aldo?"

Pietro shook his head. "It's Ana. She's hurt."

"Ana? How do you know?" His voice rose in panic.

"Giancarlo. He just came from town. He told me to get word to you that he's going back in at 5:30." Giancarlo was the fisherman in their resistance network who most frequently smuggled Tomasso into town.

"Is she - is she going to be okay?"

"He didn't know anything, just that she's been taken to the makeshift hospital at the gymnasium."

"Makeshift hospital - what -"

"The hospital's been badly hit."


Tomasso knocked the secret knock on Antonio's door. No response. He remembered they changed the knock last time they met to keep neighbors from getting suspicious. He tried again. Clara opened the door, her eyes red and sullen.

"Clara - Ana - is she-" Tomasso's pupils were blown, his expression frantic.

Clara dabbed her eyes, regaining composure and began to speak. "She's badly hurt, Tomas. Wounded in the abdomen. She is in surgery. I don't know much more. I was working at the hospital, but a lot of the supplies are buried. I came back to retrieve some old shirts of Giovanni's - we need more rags."

They had learned last year that Clara and Antonio's brother Giovanni was missing in action and presumed killed. He grimaced at the memory.

"I need to see her...can you help me? I can't have her parents see me there."

She nodded. "We can go together. You wait outside until the coast is clear."


Tomasso stood outside of the bustling chaos of the new field hospital. Men and women were entering in various states of weary hysteria – some hobbling in alone, some carrying the injured, some looking for loved ones. Some cradled injured children, their dirty, bloodied limbs dangling from their arms. Some children were wailing; others were wide-eyed and silent. Their shell-shocked faces would haunt Tomasso for the rest of his life. So many innocent little souls left orphaned, traumatized, wiser to the evils of the world they once knew to be loving and safe. The nurses, most of whom were volunteers, calmly ushered patients to cots, which were still being set up on the fringes.

Clara appeared. "She just came out of surgery. She is stable. Her father was here, but left to search for her mother. She was out during the bombings and has not returned. Ana is awake if you want to see her."

Tomasso swallowed. "Yes. Take me to her, please."

A nurse was tending to Ana, lifting a sip of water to her dry lips, drained of all color. Tears sprung to Tomasso's eyes as he gently took her hand. She brought their joined hands to her lips, kissing him hello.

"Ana...I'm so sorry. How are you? Are you in pain?"

A weak smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "I'm okay. Had better days, perhaps. Bit of a stomachache," she joked, drawing up a pained smile before wincing at him, "I'm so glad to see you, Tomas. But you shouldn't be here."

"I needed to see you."

Her eyes glistened with a profound sadness, an emotion he'd not yet seen. "I've missed you."

He squeezed her hand. "I've missed you too."

"How has training been going?"

He smiled at her. Always focused on the mission. "Really well. The boys are ready."

She nodded sleepily. "Good."

He kissed her on the forehead and smoothed her hair. A small cut was still bleeding on her temple. "You need to sleep. I would stay, but I –"

She shook her head. "No, you can't stay, Tomas. But I'm glad you came. The doctor said I'll be okay," she reported numbly.

"When you're better...I want you to come to my parents' place. You'll be safe there. The restaurant is gone, Clara said."

Her face fell. "They can't find Mama," she said. "But she wasn't at the restaurant, she was at the harbor, buying fish..."

He nodded and squeezed her hand. "I know," he said softly, smoothing her hair with his hand.

"I can't do that to Papa...right now."

"I understand. We can talk about it when you feel better. I'm just so glad you're okay, Ana. I don't know what I would have done –"

She suddenly took his arm and pulled him back to her. "Tomas. There's something else I need to tell you."

He met her eyes, which were filled with tears. He stroked her espresso-colored hair gently, the only thing he knew to do.

"I don't know how to say it, Tomas. It's so terrible...I..."

"It's okay, Ana. Whatever it is. It's okay. Or if you don't want to tell me..."

The tears began to stream freely. "The doctor said I probably won't be able to bear children," she said, the tears flowing so fast.

His heart broke as she wept. "Oh, Ana..."

"You deserve to be with someone who can give you children. I...I want you to find someone else."

He cupped her face and brushed the tears from her eyes. "Ana, no. Don't worry about that right now. I don't need any children. You are the only one I want. I only care about you getting better. But – I'm so sorry." He knew she wanted children; it was the duty of every Italian woman to bear as many children as she could. Mussolini had even decreed it in the early thirties as part of his resolve to strengthen Italy. Ana was a doting aunt to her nieces and nephews, and he knew one day she longed for children of her own.

"It's all too much, Tomas. How will we ever be whole again?"

He didn't know how to respond, so instead he offered her his heart. "Ana...I love you."

The tears began to flow again. "I love you too...but I –"

"No, no buts. We will come through this, together. You will get better. And when this is all over, we will build a new life, somewhere, together. We are near the end, I feel it."

She nodded and attempted a brave smile. He kissed her, this time on the lips. "Sleep well, my love. I'll come see you again as soon as I'm able."


Palermo, 1988

"Of course, this was not to come to pass. They did have a child," he smiled at Tony. "But it did take some time. It was a big surprise when you came along."

"She called me her little 'dono di Dio' - her gift from God. I never knew why I was an only child." Tony quickly brushed the tears away from his eyes, but he was surprised to see that Angela was crying too. He took her hand and laced his fingers through hers.

"This story...it's just beautiful, Antonio. And so heartbreaking. I'm sorry for everything you endured," she said solemnly. Antonio handed her a handkerchief.

"Thank you," he said with a stoic nod. "Your father and I knew from Morton that Operation Husky was imminent. The Allies successfully landed in July 9, 1943 –"

"General Patton," Tony said to Angela.

"Si, Generalissimo Patton – and the Germans retreated hastily just before that time. The partisans were ready, and were successful in hindering their retreat to the main peninsula. It was very similar to D-Day, although it seems forgotten by comparison; the paratroopers landed first, and then the amphibious vehicles came ashore. The Americans - who had been bombing us since January - received a hero's welcome. The propaganda campaign worked, and Sicilians now felt strongly that the end of fascism was the key to their liberation. The townspeople and farmers all helped the American soldiers orient themselves. They helped hide them, find secret routes where they would be undetected. And of course, they alerted them where the Germans were.

He pursed his lips; his face colored with a pained expression as he continued. "As they retreated, the partisan fighters - your father, Paolo, Mr. Morton and their men – were able to further slow their progress by blowing up supply lines and retreating trucks both prior to and during the operation. And of course, they killed any German soldiers in their path."

"My God," Angela said. "What a nightmare. Your father was truly a hero, Tony."

"Your father, and your mother too. She was critical to our operations. But it wasn't a perfect success. One of your father's troops - five young boys, aged 14 and 15 - were caught by the Germans and executed. Dug their own graves. Lined up and shot in the back, like dogs. Your father witnessed all of it, unbeknownst to the Germans. He was helpless to stop it; he was alone and outnumbered. Of all the atrocities we had experienced, I think this incident weighed on him the most. He felt completely responsible."

"And my mother, I guess she improved?"

"Your mother got better, and her mother - your grandmother - was found, badly injured at the harbor; her legs were crushed under the rubble. Her parents moved to the Northern Sicilian countryside, which was safer, where Ana's sister lived with her family. Ana insisted on staying behind to help. She moved in with Clara and myself."

"After the Germans retreated North, your father returned to Palermo to coordinate liberation efforts with the Americans. They knew your father as one of the partisan leaders in the area. Your mother continued her work at the hospital, and at night opened up the front of the cafe, which was still in tact, along with the kitchen, once they put a tarp over it, and we would drink wine among the rubble with the Americans. It was through them that he began thinking about immigrating to America. So many of the American troops they sent to Sicily were Italian-Americans, who still had family in Italy. They spoke of their pride in their homeland, but how America was a land of greater opportunity, freedom of thought."

Antonio sipped his wine and said grimly, "After the hell we had just endured, I can hardly blame your father for wanting to leave. He never quite felt settled here. He had bigger dreams."

His eyes misty, he took one more slow, sip of his wine, and said, "No one will ever know everything they did toward the success of this operation, but it would have been a much bloodier, drawn-out battle if not for the courage of these men and women."

Tony swept tears from his eyes hastily. "And you."

Wordlessly, Antonio nodded as he unfurled a letter, dropping a wallet-sized photo out of the folds. He handed the photo to Tony and slipped his reading glasses on.

Tony and Angela looked at the photo. It was a dark haired, bright-eyed baby holding a rattle, smiling a megawatt smile under two plump little cheeks. "Tony, it's you," Angela said quietly. She knew those eyes anywhere.

Antonio cleared his throat. "It's in Italian, so I'll translate for you."

My dear Antonio,

Ana has given birth to a son. A true miracle. We named him Anthony Morton, after our dearest friend and our brave Englishman. He has the happiest spirit - his eyes are lively, excited to know the world. Ana is over the moon. My prayer is that he never knows a world as dark as the one we left.

We are well here; I was just promoted at work and am overseeing a fleet of trucks now. The best route in Brooklyn. Ana is so in love with our darling boy. Motherhood suits her, as we all knew it would. We have found a wonderful community of Italians here. The Rossinis, who you may recall has family in Sicily, live in our building and have become like family to us.

We hope you and Lucia are settling into newlywed life. I hope your frescoes take you to America someday. We cannot afford the flight home right now, but someday we will show Anthony our homeland, and introduce him to his namesake - our brother in life. Ana has also written to Clara, but please give her our love from us both.

All our love,

Tomas and Ana

"Antonio – I can't believe this is the first I'm hearing of any of this. Why didn't my father tell me this story? Here I was, thinking he was a simple garbageman his whole life. He always said they left after the war. But I...I also never asked him about that time."

"Many of us never talk about the war, Tony. It was a very hard time. We – were forced to do things – we weren't proud of. I'm sure he didn't want to burden you with it."

"I never knew my mother was hurt."

"You have to understand, this is something we lived through, but none of us sought out to be heroes. We just wanted to protect our people. To bring the bombing, the fighting, the terrible way we were living to an end. To get our country back. We did whatever we needed to do to do that. There are many, many untold stories from the war. Many ordinary men who lived quiet lives, who you'd never know were heroes."

"Like you," Tony said softly. Antonio nodded ever so slightly. "And after the war...you got married?"

"Si, my wife Maria. She's visiting family in the North right now. I became very busy restoring the frescoes all over Italy. And eventually, my travels did take me around the world. We met once before, Tony. Coney Island, 1958. You were about six years old. We ate dinner and walked the boardwalk. You were terrified to ride the ferris wheel, but I–"

"You convinced me. Yeah! I remember that. Wow,"

"It was the last time I saw your mother, or your father. But we wrote letters until your father died. I was so fond of them both."

Tony nodded. "Antonio...I can't tell you what a gift this has been to me, to learn more about my parents. Thank you...thank you so much," Tony stood, and hugged Antonio in a strong embrace. He gave Tony his card.

"Please keep in touch. I would love to hear from you."

Tony nodded. "I wish I'd known you sooner, Antonio; you can count on it."


Operation Mincemeat was the decoy operation that the Allies successfully used to trick Germany into thinking they were going to land at Sardinia/Corsica using a cadaver disguised as a British officer, carrying forged documents. It was floated to the Spanish coastline, where a fisherman found it, and as expected, "Neutral" Spain shared the documents with the Germans before returning the body to the British. It's a fascinating, painstakingly detailed operation and paved the way for a successful landing with Operation Husky. "The Teds" was Italian slang for Nazis. Italian civilian casualties of the bombings in World War II have been neglected in historiography; over 60,000 civilians perished. newsroom/conflict/75th-anniversary-allied-invasion-sicily/

A/N: I did the best I could with my research on this chapter (and so enjoyed learning about this period), but I'm quite positive I didn't get it exactly right, and in some cases there really was not as much information on life in Sicily as there is on the war in mainland Europe. I badly wish I could have done it justice, but I hope I at least painted a somewhat accurate picture of a sliver of the hell these Sicilians went through during the war. The research was so spartan that it did make me wonder, how many heroic stories are buried in this time? Please feel free to message if you see any egregious inaccuracies!