As he sits and tells his story Maria becomes more animated, running her hands through the hair at the back of his neck and kissing him on the cheek. Between sentences he kisses her back, on the lips, both of them wary of the open door and Maria’s mother in the kitchen. By the time he gets to the punch-line, the Judas spaniel, Maria is wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. Paolo has a way with words, and the story has grown in the retelling. She kisses him again, and he knows his lateness is forgiven.
After more and increasingly passionate kisses they are disturbed by Maria’s mother, who has the decency to cough a warning to them on her way up the hall. She finds them, as she expected, sitting primly at opposite ends of the settee. She asks what Maria has been laughing at, and Paolo tells his story again, embellishing even further. Maria’s mother laughs, but says it is disgusting that old men should be fighting over a story in the newspaper.
“But they weren’t,” Paolo explains. “They were arguing over a woman – some girl they both dated and lost over fifty years ago!”
“Ridiculous!” say the women, and Paolo has to agree. But when he looks at Maria in her blue polka-dot dress and high heels, her shining eyes and smiling face, he feels his heart skip a beat, and he feels a connection with the two old men that he hadn’t felt before.
© David Smith (2012)
UNSUNG HEROES
April 1946
A trio of men aged between 25 and 55 were seen loitering on the corner of Dimona and Benjamin Chaiken.
The younger man walked past, as though not interested in the other two seated on a bench, or the dog, sniffing around behind them. He walked slowly about a hundred metres past them, stopped suddenly and turned around and walked back. He stopped near them and glanced around before asking both men for a light.
“How about you get your own match?” was the reply.
He looked closely at the two men and said “Were you asked to come here at this time?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“I can' tell you that.”
Ok - just checking. I was the one who asked you both to meet me here, in broad daylight. It's the one place the enemy won't be looking.”
“Hiding in plain sight,” said the older one with the stick, “good move. It's good to meet at last, I'm Jz...”
“Shut up. I don't want to know your name. The less I know about you, the safer you are.”
“Ok. No real names then, that makes sense. But we need code names or numbers.”
“Yes we do. I think English names would be best; more common round here. Call me Bill. You - with the stick - you are John. And you with the pipe, you are David. Are either of you known to the enemy. Will either of you be recognised if a patrol come around and spot us now? David?”
“No. I’ve been a good boy I have!”
“John?”
“Not here in Dimona. I was questioned up north, in Netanya a couple of months ago and held me in a stinking gaol cell for three days. It’s not as though I was involved in anything then, but they are so jumpy they take anyone in for questioning. They took my picture but I doubt if it’s been circulated this far south. If asked, I'm down here visiting my sister in law – which is true, and just passing by walking my dog”
“Ok. Rishon LeZion is the centre of our actions. My brother was killed in Ashdod – shot in cold blood. I don't know if you already know this, but our militias have formed an alliance with Etzel and Stern. We are all one now and we will win, we have to. With all that has happened in Europe in the last ten years, the mayhem and slaughter of the innocents that cannot go un-avenged.”
“What do we do? What can we do to help?”
“As I guess you know from your other contacts, we are planning to strike a major blow against the enemy. They have their headquarters in the biggest Hotel in the Capital.”
“And?” said John.
“We are going to blow it up.”
“Wow. That will set the cat among the pigeons!”
“That's the intention. John, don’t say more than you have to, but you were picked to be here because you have contacts in the mining business don't you?”
“Well, quarrying actually, but yes.”
“So, given say a month, can you ‘liberate’ an amount of explosive and fuses? We are looking for around a couple of hundred kilograms or so with about 10 fuses. I know that's a lot, but over the next three months?”
“Yes, I guess so. There are people at the company who are sympathetic to the cause”
“Do it, and mail to this address each week with updates on progress Just a percentage of success. I don't live there and that is not my name, but I can collect.”
“David, I understand you work at the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“We need you to provide maps of the inside and the outside of the Hotel. Positions of the staircases, elevators, doorways, bedrooms, backstairs, balconies, fire escapes etc. including the cellars. Ok?”
“Ok.”
Mail the plans to this address, with this name. Oh, and by the way, that's not my name or address either.
***
By June the plan was beginning to work. They had met each fortnight, always in a different location. The material required was found, begged, borrowed or stolen.
***
On their third meeting John reported. “I can't get more than 200 kg. The management may check and those of use at the quarry will be on the end of a rope. They are not fussy who they hang.”
“Ok, that was only a target. We can use some homemade to pack around the real stuff.”
***
At the beginning of July, just after sending his last series of plans, David was arrested in the hotel. He had used several disguises, but the security forces were very much on their guard, as several other explosions had occurred in and around the city.
“This will be our last meeting – hopefully. The big bang is set for the 22nd. We need to rescue David or he’s had it. A prison guard is one of our group, so he has two weeks to plan the escape. After the explosion, when they are running around like headless chickens, David won’t be missed.”
“You hope.”
“Don’t forget. It won’t be long belong before we are in charge in this country. The political structure is in place. We will have our homeland.”
***
The bomb was planted in the basement of the hotel, under the wing the offices of the Military Headquarters. Warnings were sent by telephone, including one to the hotel's own switchboard, which the hotel staff ignored, but then hoax bomb warnings were common at the time. No evacuation was ordered. The ensuing explosion caused the collapse of the western half of the southern wing of the hotel.
© Peter Seal (2012)
Note: The attack was carried out on 22 July 1946 by the militant right-wing Zionist underground organisation on the British administrative headquarters which was housed in the King David Hotel in Jerusalem. 91 people of various nationalities were killed and 46 were injured. This was the beginning of the state of Israel.
MADE IN ITALY
The air is heavy with the smell of butchered meat; the dry, rusty iron smell of hanging carcasses and the sharp, copper tang of the slippery wet offal removed from them. Loops of sausages hang from stainless steel hooks strung on a rail mounted just below the ceiling, some glistening and soft like intestines, some dry and dull, the meats inside them salt-cured, smoked and dried, the flesh darkened reddish-brown by spice and pepper and flecked with black freckles of coriander and fennel. The freckles remind me of the liver-spots on the backs of the hands of the two old men by the bench on the opposite side of the road, and the association makes my stomach roil.
I look at the two paper packages on the counter in front of me, one containing delicate slivers of parma ham, the other containing thick slices of blood sausage. I pick them up in my left hand and slip them into the pocket of my jacket, simultaneously sliding a ten lira note from the clip in my trouser pocket with my righ
t. I offer the note to the shopkeeper, who makes a noise in his throat and asks if I have anything smaller. When I tell him no he sighs and turns and opens the till, banging it closed moments later before banging my change down on the counter.
I look through the shop window toward the old men again, and at last see Vincenzo turn the corner. He’s wearing a sharp, tailored suit and expensive looking shoes. He looks cocky and proud and on top of the world. He looks towards the shop front, and for a moment I think he is looking directly at me through the glass. Then he raises his hand to blow somebody a kiss and I think of the girl in the book shop next door where I had been browsing moments earlier. Immediately I regret having gone in her shop at all – If she knows Vincenzo she is more likely to remember the stranger flicking through her displays when the polizia come asking questions. Still, I am a long way from my home district, and there are thousands of men in Napoli of my height and size. I would be foolish to let such a thing worry me unduly.
I have no concerns whatsoever regarding the old men. I have been hanging around the little parade of shops now for almost half an hour and if they have noticed me at all they have shown no outward signs. The butcher too is old enough to know about the workings of this city and the wisdom of silence. Given the way Vincenzo has been squeezing local businesses over the past year the butcher may well even view a change of leadership as a good thing, but either way I think he is unlikely to remember my visit to his shop this morning. “Grazie” I tell him, slipping my change in my pocket, and I walk out of the shop, falling quietly into step behind Vincenzo as he crosses to my side of the street.
The knot in my stomach that has been with me all morning has doubled now. I feel sick with tension. My hand is shaking in my overcoat pocket and the switchblade in my palm feels slick with sweat. I finger the tiny button halfway up the handle and feel the blade flick open and lock into place, then I adjust the knife’s position in my pocket to get a better grip.
Ahead of me Vincenzo turns into a narrow side street. It is little more than an alleyway, lined on both sides with the solid brick sidewalls of back-to-back terraced shops. There are, here and there, dustbins and piles of empty packing crates and cardboard boxes, but other than Vincenzo and myself no people. If Vincenzo knew the number of enemies he has made he would not walk this way, but like many who have come up through the ranks too quickly his arrogance is greater than his common sense. I pick up my pace, coming up behind him with a few quick strides while slipping the knife free of my pocket. Hearing me, Vincenzo turns, his hand reaching instinctively for his own pocket. As I stick the knife deep into his throat and twist I hear a loud explosion and feel a white hot burst of pain in my side. I had anticipated a knife, thinking he would not have time to pull it, but he has fired a gun straight through the material of his suit. I feel blood sticking to my shirt and seeping into the waistband of my chinos, but have no idea how badly I might be hurt. Flooded with adrenalin I feel nothing after the initial blast.
I pull the knife back, feeling light resistance as the blade catches muscle and sinew on the way out. Vincenzo’s head snaps forward then backward again with the momentum, exposing his throat more fully as I thrust the spike in for a second time. This time I push sideways, widening the cut until the two holes I have made meet. Vincenzo’s blood is everywhere; on me, on him, on the wall behind us. It is pulsing from his neck with every beat of his heart, running down between us and pooling beneath our feet. I step back, holding him at arm’s length, watching with a strange sense of detachment as he fumbles for the gun in his pocket. He manages to get it out, but drops it onto the cobbled street. I look into his eyes, seeing shock and confusion there before they grow dull and unfocussed. He shudders and drops to his knees then tips forward to lay face down in a pool of his own blood, his dropped gun lying useless beside him. It is black and tiny, the kind of thing a woman might carry, just the right size for a purse or perhaps the pocket of an expensive suit. For a moment I think about picking it up and then I change my mind: I’m a made man now, I can get a bigger, better gun whenever I want one.
Thinking of the gun reminds me of my own wound, and I move my hand to my side to check the damage. It is then I realise I’m standing in my own pool of blood and feel the cold wind biting into the exit wound in my back. It is much larger than the entry wound, and feels ragged when I explore it with my fingers. Suddenly I become aware of an intense pain, like something with sharp teeth is chewing its way out of my stomach. I hear a cry and look up, see the two old men from earlier peering round the corner. I turn away from them, intending to run, but my legs have stopped working. I pitch forward, the cobbles rushing up to meet me before everything fades to black.
© David Smith (2012)
APPARITION
Richard took the film out of the canister. Although this was the digital age, he hadn’t yet succumbed to a digital camera, still preferring film which he developed himself. There wasn’t anything quite like watching the pictures appear slowly onto the photo paper. Every time Richard did it he felt it was a small piece of magic.
The film had been hanging around for quite some time. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t developed it, just this gut feeling the time wasn’t right. Black and white was his favourite, it seemed to define images far better, showed every line, every shade, and in fact everything looked very sharp next to colour.
He thought about the images that he’d taken. The two old men that he had photographed wouldn’t be there anymore, he smiled, remembering that the one who was sitting looked intense, as if really listening to the old man with the pipe. The dog was a hoot, kept disappearing, and he never did get a shot of his head. Still, black and white dog on black and white photo fitted very well. The Peroni advert had been pure luck; despite the fact that the ad was fairly old, it seemed to fit the photo well.
Richard had been travelling around Italy taking rural and urban shots of people in black and white for an idea he had for an art show. He was trying to capture the real Italians, their daily life, and in black and white they looked so much sharper.
He pulled the film out of the canister and went through each process slowly. As each shot was exposed and appeared on the paper he got quite excited; pure magic.
For some reason exposure nineteen was the last one, he seemed to have stopped there despite having several frames left available. He tried to remember why; it seemed like an awful waste. Still this was the shot he was most looking forward to seeing.
***
The two old men slowly appeared on the paper, along with the dog, whose head was hidden yet again. Just as he was about to take the paper out of the solution, a third figure started to appear, at first very faintly then becoming more clear.
Richard gasped and sat down on the floor with a bump, the hairs on his arms stood up and a cold shiver ran down his spine. Standing up very slowly, he felt quite giddy. He took a second look at the photograph. Clearer than the two men in the back of the photograph was the uncanny image of a young man with a remarkable resemblance to his brother, Alexander.
He took a magnifying glass and studied the face carefully. It was the exact image of Alexander, but that was completely impossible. Alexander had been dead for over a year, and this shot had been taken about six weeks ago.
The young man was walking along the pavement, looking straight into the camera lens with his hand up to his mouth. There was no real expression, except in the eyes, almost as if to say, I recognize you.
Richard tried to think why Alexander should be in the photo. He remembered the day he took the shots and there had only been the two old men and funny dog in the vicinity. Alexander had been dead for over a year. Funnily enough, Alexander had been living in Italy quite close to the area. Richard wondered if that was why he was drawn to the area for his photo shoot.
Alexander had been walking along the pavement, had broken into a run and, for a reason only known to Alexander, he had run into the path of a lorry. He had been killed instantly.
> Even now Richard had no idea why. Maybe there wasn’t a reason just bad luck. His brother had been the life and soul of the party, the one with everything to live for. He’d been in Italy with his girlfriend, working hard and playing harder. He’d said it was the best place in the world. Richard couldn’t completely agree with him on that but he had never lived there so he couldn’t really comment.
***
Holding the photograph up the image was still there. He left the darkroom and went into the kitchen to find his wife, Polly. He would ask for her opinion on the photograph, maybe she could come up with a plausible explanation.
“Polly, come look at this, what you think?” he asked as Polly looked up from the kitchen table and the book she had been absorbed in.
“Oh nice shot, Richard, and Alexander is in it too. Where did you dig this one up from, the archives?” she replied looking at the picture very closely.
“No, it’s the one I took in Italy – what – six weeks ago” he said.
“Never, that’s not possible Alexander……” Her reply stopped mid sentence; she was lost for words, completely stunned. Richard took the photograph back off her.
“I know, I don’t understand, it’s not as if I was developing anything else. How could he possibly be in this photo?” He was really confused.
Polly snatched it back and looked at it again more closely. “Richard, it’s starting to fade, Alexander doesn’t look nearly clear enough now,” she said, showing Richard the photo again.
Richard studied it with Polly and as quickly as Alexander had become clear on the photo originally, so he faded again.