“Why don’t you stand it up?” George Hitler asked.
“Well, hell, how’re we gonna barbecue them chickens when they get here?”
George didn’t know what to make of this answer. Anna thought it was a joke. Maybe not.
Arnold had never been in such a crowd before. Fourth of July was out at the big ball field, not jammed into this kind of smaller space. His father had lifted him up, then lowered him back down. Amidst all the legs and bosoms and belts of the day, this was what he heard:
. . . here to stand together against any nigga students attempting to enroll . . .
“He said ‘nigger,’” said Arnold. But his parents didn’t hear him.
. . . not against the Negro. We think the Negroes are making great strides in improving their race and commend them for it, as long as they . . .
. . . chalkboards, typing tables, bus passes to cover their fare to Fort Worth, what the hell more they want?
. . . be like them “integrated” niggers sitting in separate rooms, sitting alone in the cafeteria after the white students finish their meal? We don’t want to do that to our niggers. . . .
“He said ‘nigger.’ Why can’t I say ‘nigger’?”
“Different people talk differently. We don’t say ‘nigger’ in this family,” George said. “We say ‘Negro.’”
We got nothin against em, but they’re being used. . . .
That NAACP may be an organization for the nigger people, but three-quarters of it is white. . . .
And Comminist!
“Daddy, what’s NAACP?”
“National Alliance for Advancing Colored People.”
Serendipitous correction from the crowd: National Association for the Agitation of Colored People is what it stands for! The National Association for the Agitation of Colored People.
“Daddy, what’s agitation?”
. . . the goddamn NAACP forcin these colored folks down here to do this. They . . .
“It’s when you stir things up and make trouble.”
“Trouble like now?”
Arnold and his parents made their way through the crowd, past the effigy hanging on the flagpole—a straw-stuffed child, head and hands painted black, overalls spattered with red paint—and under a second, similar puppet hanging by the neck from the front-door cornice. “Eeny, meeny, miny, mo,” Arnold chanted to himself. “Catch a nigger by the toe.” He was registered to begin first grade the following Monday.
His father had lifted him up under the armpits and put him down. This was his first real memory, and amidst all the legs and bosoms and belts of the day, those were the words he heard.
Two
And what did his father remember? From this sultry August day, George Hitler drifted back to a cold, wet spring morning in the Po valley, eleven years before. Morale down, way down—not like here. How much more mud, more German bullets and bombs? The war was not going to be settled here in Italy—it was Eisenhower up in Europe that would do it, him and the Russians. Why should anyone take risks now? Just be careful and get through.
In the current clamor, George heard the voices of his army buddies taking it all out on the “Niggers of the 92nd,” the black infantry unit, segregated since the Civil War, sent to hold the Serchio valley at the western end of the line. “Eleanor’s Own Royal Rifles” they were called, supposedly given the newest, best equipment, while the rest of the Fifth Army made do. Every time they were cold or wet, they imagined Eleanor Roosevelt’s special socks on warm black feet—and cussed up a storm. Every time someone was late for roll call or showed any dumbness or superstition or lack of discipline, he was showered with racist epithets. Just like now.
George wondered if the 92nd was so stupid and superstitious after all. Why should they be risking their necks to come back to this kind of stuff? If he was a second-class citizen, he sure wouldn’t fight. The 92nd probably thought they were being led into suicidal situations on purpose. Maybe they were! Hell, he’d have hidden like they did.
Then George remembered April 25th of ’45. The whole night, brilliant moonlight, towns burning up and down the hills, the Germans losing it. Big fight over the 92nd, driving into Ferrara. The company spread out, no Germans in sight, lots of corpses in the streets, Krauts, civilians, maybe partisans. Buildings smoldering. Jump out of the jeep at the Piazza Mercato in front of the cathedral, then down via Mazzini. Out a window—was it from there, or the next building over?—shots, bullets ricocheting off the concrete, hit on the thigh, no wound. He sneaks low, unhooks a grenade, pulls the pin, lobs it hook shot through the window, and makes for the shelter of the lamp post across the street.
KABOOM!
Then, rifles at the ready, he and Charlie Higgins break down a door with a Jewish star into maybe an old synagogue, looks like a storeroom. On the floor near the blown-out window, covered in orange pulp, a young woman is moaning, her blond hair swimming in blood under a dark blue kerchief. He runs over, wipes her face with her apron, inspects the head wound, applies pressure. “Charlie, help me get her out from under this mess.” The GIs take her under each arm and try to drag her out from under a pile of shattered pumpkins. One foot seems stuck, so with a huge pull, they free her—without her lower left leg, which stays there, boot protruding, under the pile of pumpkins. Her left thigh is spattering blood from two large arteries.
“Oh my God!” Charlie cries. George cuts the straps off her apron.
“Give her water, Charlie, and compress the head wound. Keep her head low. I’m gonna tourniquet this.”
He begins to lift her skirt, but she resists like crazy, as if he were going to rape her.
George looked over at his wife holding her cane in one hand and his son in the other.
GRITS GUTS GUNPOWDER GRITS GUTS GUNPOWDER GRITS GUTS GUNPOWDER, the crowd was chanting.
The truth of the matter—he had never told her—was that he had thought . . . of something. Charlie restrained her while he pushed up her coat and dress, tied up her thigh, stopping the blood flow, twisted the tourniquet—not too much—was she comfortable? Her thigh, the thigh of a young woman considered one of the most beautiful in town, her thigh, with no underwear in this clothing-short time. Cool hand on warm flesh, her blond pubic hair. Even in a pool of blood, even with Charlie there, this young, lonely, cold, wet, muddy young George from Texas felt his heart jump to his throat and his penis rise. He had never told her.
And she, Anna Giardini, had never told him that just four days earlier, she had been raped—gang-banged by four German teenagers wanting to get some in before getting the hell out. She looked like a German Mädchen—the blond Mädchen of their pinup dreams—why not? She had put up a fierce struggle.
George sent Charlie to find transport. Anna calmed down, beyond fatigue, partly from trusting this boy so intent on caring for her but mostly from blood loss and its attendant faintness. Before she lost consciousness, she was able to tell him that the Ospidale Sant’Anna was up on the Corso della Giovecca, only three blocks away. That was her name, too—Anna, she said. Too impatient to wait for an ambulance that might never come, George picked up her limp body and carried her through the streets to the crowded emergency room.
After bringing her out of shock with IV fluids, they sent her on to the bigger Nuovo Ospidale on the east side of town, where George was able to visit her during