Amastan

Sicily | 1943

Sticking close to Garret, and blindly following the masked gunman, Rosalie hustled through the darkness. The second masked figure was trailing behind her, instructing her to keep moving every time she’d look back.

Rosalie wanted to know where they were being taken, but considering the fact that these two mysterious people had just killed the man who betrayed their family, and was responsible for Corrado’s death, as well as liberate them from Nadine and Ulrich’s custody, she was willing to venture out on a little faith.

After fifteen minutes of scurrying through a narrow, underground passageway, Rosalie’s face finally felt the faint tickle of sunlight caress her freckles. Keeping her fingers interlocked with Garrets, she was finally pulled from the well of darkness.

The morning warmth filled her body with vigor, and she allowed herself a brief moment to soak it all up. They were out of the main square, hidden within the rolling thickets of Sicily’s rustic countryside. The tunnel they traveled through was ancient, and only known to a select few of Canicatti’s more adventurous citizens.

Echoing footfalls caught her attention, and the petite, masked shooter emerged from the camouflaged tunnel ingeniously built into the landscape.

The taller gunman removed his mask first, revealing shortly -cropped black hair, piercing dark eyes, and russet skin. He immediately began removing his dark-clad uniform and re-dressed himself in a traditional blue and gold tunic, donning a matching blue headdress that covered his neck and chest.

Rosalie had no idea who this man, or what his nationality was. All she could deduce was that he was definitely a long way from home. Garret however, did recognize this man. Although he did not recognize him enough to call the man by his name, he simply recognized his clothing. He was North-African, most likely Moroccan. Garret had seen many men dressed in similar tunics during his brief stint in Casablanca before invading Sicily.

Rosalie quickly turned her attention to the other masked assailant, and just as she was about to prod for more answers, the mask was removed, and she was staring into the eyes of her mother.

“Hi, Rosie.”

“Mom?”

Aida smiled, and tears spilled down her cheeks. Rosalie ran into her embrace and completely broke down all of her walls and barriers. She wept, moaned, sniffled and convulsed from the tidal wave of emotions erupting inside of her.

“Corrado is dead. I…I couldn’t save him,” Rosalie cried into the breast of her mother.

“I know,” Aida replied, rocking her daughter back and forth in her arms, “Your father is making sure his body is preserved for a proper burial. I know you will find it impossible to accept, Rosie, but I need you to promise me that you will try.”

Aida leaned away from her daughter, to make sure that she saw the compliance in Rosalie’s eyes. Which she did after she nodded through her haze of tears and loss.

“Corrado’s death is not, and will never be your fault. Your brother was a hero to our country, and to our nation. He fought against an incredible enemy, and he will forever be remembered for his efforts. War, Rosalie, is responsible. Evil. Hatred. Corrado’s death was out of our hands from the beginning. We must not allow ourselves to dwell on his loss, but to revel in his sacrifice. To continue his fight. To make him proud.”

Rosalie wanted to believe her mother. She wanted to believe that Corrado’s death was out of her hands, but how could she? She was the older sibling, even if only by a couple of minutes. It was her duty to keep him safe. To protect him from succumbing to the same fate as Miceli. She failed, and now she was an only child. Even if she was ever able to accept that Corrado’s death wasn’t her fault, it was a darkness that would be with her for the rest of her life.

Aida stepped in to confront Garret, who was still terribly confused by everything that had just happened, “It appears I owe you a tremendous thank you…”

“Sergeant McLaughlin,” Garret said, trying not to fumble his words while he met Rosalie’s mother for the first time.

“Sergeant McLaughlin. From what Clement and I observed during the looting, to everything we overheard in that church, you are clearly trying to help our daughter, and have proven to be willing to risk your life in her defense. Clement and I thank you.”

Garret nodded, then looked at Rosalie, then back at Aida, “I am sorry about Corrado. I only knew him for a brief time, but he was the most courageous, fearless, devoted young man I have ever met. I am alive today because he was self-less enough to jump into the freezing cold pond I was drowning in and pull me out. I owed my life to him. You should be beyond proud to call him your son. It truly breaks my heart to know that he’s gone. But I promise you, and to your husband, that I will do everything in my power to help you see this through to the end.”

Aida nodded her acceptance of his offer, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, “Thank you, Garret.”

Aida stepped away, and picked up two, olive green backpacks, “This is Amastan. In his dialect, it means protector. He is Berber, and he’s going to be aiding our fight. Now take these, and put them on.”

Rosalie took hers first, and together they quickly slung both of their arms through the shoulder straps.

“We cannot stay here in Canicatti,” Garret said, “Rosalie is wanted by the Americans for the murder of a soldier.”

Aida looked at Rosalie, shocked at the news, “Is this true?”

“It was an accident. He attacked me. I didn’t mean for him to fall.”

“It was an accident,” Garret said, chiming in to defend her honor, “I can vouch for her, and I will vouch for her. In order to do that, we need to get to Mount Etna and finish this.”

“I do not need convincing. This just means we need to slightly alter our plans.”

Aida turned around, and waltzed over to Amastan who was standing guard by the edge of the nearby road, “We need to move now. Radio Clement and tell him we will rendezvous in Pietraperzia.

How long will it take us to get there?”

“About forty minutes,” Amastan said in a thickly-settled Arabic accent.

“What about on foot,” Aida asked.

“With our party…No less than eight hours.”

“Shit,” Aida said as she stepped away to allow Amastan to radio Clement with the change in plans, and to think.

“I will go and find us a car,” Amastan said.

“No,” Aida blurted, “It’s too dangerous for us to travel via vehicle. It will draw too much attention.

Stalling for a moment, as she weighed her decision, Rosalie offered up a suggestion of her own, “We should bike there then. It will cut our walking time down by more than half, and we will be able to dodge any approaching vehicles by veering off into the woods along the road. And we’re not going to Pietraperzia. We’re going to Caltanissetta. To The Church of Saint Agatha.”

Aida slowly shook her head as her daughter’s plan only somewhat made sense.

“I agree,” Garret said, “We will be able to move efficiently while remaining silent.”

“It’s not a bad plan. But where are we going to find four bicycles? And why Saint Agatha’s church?”

Rosalie stepped out into the street, and studied her surroundings until she realized where she was, “It’s the next clue. Corrado figured out your music sheet,” she said as she returned to Aida’s side, “There’s an old lot. Not too far from here. It’s attached to an old bicycle repair shop that closed down in 1937. Over the years it's turned into a hangout spot for kids to sneak alcohol and smoke tobacco. It’s also where I got all of the parts to build my bicycles. If we’re going to find four of them, it will be there.”

Aida marveled at the formidable woman standing in front of her. She hated herself for leaving her children behind, and she would never forgive herself for starting a chain-reaction that led to Corrado’s death.

“I’m sorry we left you, Rosalie. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. We should never have sent that violin home. With no one we could trust, we wrote you both a note, stuffed it inside the violin, and shipped it home. We never thought the Germans would intercept our communications. But they did, and we were both captured, and imprisoned after leaving the post office. Luckily, the violin made it out before the mail room was ransacked. Amastan here, freed us from the German’s prison camp in Casablanca, and charted us a boat back to Sicily. His Berber connection is deeper than I ever could imagine, and their religion is somehow linked to the geological, volcanic network of Mount Etna. Now tell me about this music sheet. What are you talking about?”

“The music sheet that father wrote, using Corrado’s song, and a coded alphabet he and I created to share secrets without Corrado knowing. We deciphered the message, and it revealed a location. The Church of Saint Agatha.”

“Rosie, I know nothing about any music sheet.”

“What? We found it hidden inside of the violin. The violin you and father sent us. How did you now know? The music sheet was hand-written by father.”

“Clement never told me about any music sheet.”

Roalie and Garret shared a look of distress as they tried to wrap their heads around this every changing mystery.

“During the days leading up to our departure for Casablanca,” Aida continued, “your father’s actions became increasingly concerning. His nerves were out of control, he couldn’t sleep, and he was constantly afraid. Fear is a trait your father rarely ever expressed after he returned home from France during the first world war, so to see him so terrified made me realize the gravity of what he was dealing with, and what we were all about to deal with. The morning we left, Clement stopped by Mr. Bova’s repair shop. When he returned home, he had a leather violin case wrapped in brown paper. He told me that Mr. Bova had smuggled crucial information regarding the discovery of an unknown mineral deposit beneath the soil around Mount Etna. Your father stressed the importance of not allowing the Germans to mine the area. If they did, then the world as we know it would end.”

“That’s a pretty vague, and tremendous theory,” Garret said.

“What’s so important about the soil? What lies beneath the mountain that’s worth starting a war over? What did Corrado really die for?” Rosalie asked, as her fury charged within her soul.

“I don’t know, Rosie. Clement would not tell me anymore than what I have told you. It seems he was playing his cards a lot closer to his chest than I expected. I can’t blame him for that considering we were both imprisoned, and tortured for information about the location of the violin, and you and your brother’s whereabouts.”

“We need to move. There is a convoy approaching from the east. The town is getting ready to wake up,” Amastan said.

Aida nodded, and yanked her 1911 from her waistband. She then pulled up her pant leg, and removed a Beretta 1935 pistol from a shin holster, and handed it to Garret. Only having one available weapon left, she felt more comfortable with it being in the hands of a trained soldier, rather than her seventeen year old daughter who was still broken from the loss of her brother. A weapon in her hands, in her state, would be more dangerous than helpful.

“Amastan, tell Clement to meet us in Caltanissetta in two hours,” Aida said, “Alright, Rosalie. You’re in charge. We’ll follow you.”

Rosalie looked to Garret for reassurance, which she immediately received with a wide smile and comforting eyes. Aida noticed the exchange, yet kept her thoughts to herself. This was not the place, nor time to deal with a blooming romance, if that was even what was happening. Rosalie did just lose her only remaining brother, and Garret was the only one who has been with her, protecting her during her interactions with the Nazi hunters. It was probably nothing. She hoped it was nothing. She knew what this mission was going to demand, and she feared having to witness her daughter endure more loss.

All of that would have to be dealt with later. Right now, they had only one thing to do.

Get to the bike shop.