Into the Burning Dawn: Heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical fiction set in Italy by Natalie Meg Evans

Author:Natalie Meg Evans [Evans, Natalie Meg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781838886042
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2020-09-21T22:00:00+00:00

28

It was very dark, the moon as thin as a fingernail paring. Fabrizio gave his torch to Marco because he needed both hands to wheel his motorbike across Piazza del Mercato. But once at the seafront, on a broad esplanade lined with villas and hotels, it was easier to see where they were going. Lighthouse beams cut across a choppy bay filled with shipping. Giving the lie to the Marchesa’s claim that they were here to view the harbour, Fabrizio announced he would ride on ahead to make sure everything was ready. ‘Marco, take care of the ladies.’

On ahead where? Imogen caught Fabrizio’s sleeve, but after warning them not to dawdle, he detached himself and kick-started his bike. ‘See you shortly,’ he yelled over the noise.

The Marchesa walked away, following the direction Fabrizio had taken, and because Marco kept pace and had the torch, Imogen had no choice but to go with them. The trams had stopped for the night but the docks were by no means deserted. Fishing quays were busy with night boats unloading as others put out to sea. The clang of mast bells mixed with the rasp of water against wooden jetties. More than once they were accosted by drunks and bands of emaciated boys, begging for spare change. The Marchesa flung curses rather than coins, calling the boys ‘Scugnizzi!’

It was the word the German military policeman had used for Beppe. Imogen asked what it meant.

‘Street trash, parasites.’ The Marchesa yelled at a straggle of lads padding behind them, ‘Get lost. Your parents don’t want you. Your mothers are whores.’

Imogen flinched. ‘The authorities ought to find a way of schooling and feeding them. Isn’t that something for Stella Nuova?’

The Marchesa spat in contempt. ‘No point. They’re as much a part of Naples as the flies.’

A small figure ran past them, then trotted backwards in front of them. ‘Sigarett-uh, sigarett-uh,’ he chanted.

‘I know you,’ Imogen cried. ‘You’re Beppe. You stole my papers.’

The child grinned, hands on hips. ‘I make you run, Signora, and the Tedeschi! Like this…’ He imitated a ridiculous goose step.

Imogen sprinted forward and caught him. ‘Like this? You little – ouch!’ The boy mounted her as if he were a monkey. He wrapped his legs around her and used his teeth to pull her hat down over her face, wrenching out hairgrips. He smelled dreadful. Fishy, cigarette-scented. Her gorgeous new coat! He’d got her buttons undone. She cried, ‘Get off!’

He slid to the ground and danced away with his hands behind his back. ‘Sigarett-uh, good price. Best quality, hurry and buy, Signor-uh, before stocks run out.’

‘Get lost, you little shit-eater.’ The Marchesa hurled one of her shoes, heel first. It got the child on the forehead. Beppe squealed in pain.

‘Don’t!’ Imogen protested, picking up the shoe. When the Marchesa extended her stockinged foot as if she expected the shoe to be put back on for her, Imogen lobbed it a distance away, saying coldly, ‘I don’t believe I’m your maid.’

‘You’re an insolent bitch.’ The Marchesa commanded Beppe to fetch the shoe but he ran off, cursing in indecipherable dialect.

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