Giornale de Napoli

Friday September 3, 1943

More Children Disappear

Contributed by Mario Lorenzo, senior staff editor, former shoe clerk at Marino and Sons Shoe Emporium, and corporal in the Royal Italian Army.

Seventeen more children have disappeared since 1 September. The Giornale de Napoli first reported these alarming events on 10 July (also read the previous articles of 23 July; 3 August; 9 August; and 28 August). Every day for the past two and a half months, reports have been filed from all parts of this city as hundreds of children have disappeared from the streets of Napoli. So far, none has left neither a footprint nor a smile. It's as if the earth, itself, has opened and swallowed them all.

Yesterday, this reporter was granted the unique opportunity of interviewing Mussolini, Il Duce, in his secret bunker at an undisclosed location on the Adriatic Sea. (Since Il Duce's safety and security were paramount and always guaranteed by this paper, this reporter remained blindfolded on the eleven-hour journey in order to protect Mussolini's safety.) This reporter was allowed a two minute interview with our president and in response to our problems, here is what our glorious leader said, "We are aware of the situation in Naples, but in light of the tragic world events transpiring at the moment, in light of these would-be Axis crushers, this government is unable to devote any of its resources to this local problem. Return to Naples and tell your citizens to fend for themselves." Then, with a flamboyant wave of his massive left hand, Il Duce waved me a dismissal and devoured his seven-course meal as this reporter waited to be blindfolded and taken back to Napoli. Mussolini asked one of his servants to prepare bread, wine and cheese which sufficed until this reporter returned to Napoli and dined with the staff of the Giornale while preparing this news article.)

Early this morning, this reporter was fortunate enough to buttonhole our ever-evasive mayor Lorenzo dela Penha, who stated for the record, "Please lock your doors and keep them locked. This precaution has always afforded me the utmost safety, security and seclusion and all around you will remain safe. If you have no locks, you may purchase a rebuilt lock from my nephew, Giorgio Villano, at 3218 Villa Rosa Avenue-if he's not there, ask for his son, Emilio. And please mention my name for a special discount." In another statement, the mayor said, "This war will be over soon; it is imperative that we struggle forward in our glorious battle until we victoriously arrive at its ultimate conclusion. In the meanwhile, we must never allow our children to wander out of sight. Our children are our future. Remember Lorenzo dela Penha. And for God's sakes, put the BIG THREE S's in practice: safety, security and seclusion."

On 20 August, this reporter interviewed Father Antonio, who led the congregation at the Holy Sepulture of St. Elizabetta the Mad. Father Antonio said, "This mystery is nothing more our loving but strict Father, punishing the citizens of Naples. God will make you suffer until you repent and follow Him. You must acknowledge God as your Father and Mary as the Mother of God. You must also tithe by dropping your coins in the large green box in the vestibule of the Holy Sepulture of St. Elizabetta the Mad otherwise God will continue to judge you. God's arm is long and his mighty rod is hard. (Father Antonio blushed and sweated visibly as he spoke these words.) The wages of sin is death and destruction and God will eternally damn the souls of those who disobey. Repent, serve God, and God will repay you with kindness." Unfortunately, Father Antonio suffered a stroke and died shortly after making this statement. The Roman Catholic Church, however, has decided to drop the pending charges of grand larceny against him. In a sealed verdict, not to be opened until 2041, the Holy See promised to repay the fifty-six hundred thousand lire missing from the collection box.

Local residents have also responded to the rash of disappearances. Signora Angelina Romano, an unemployed fashion designer and model who is making ends meet for her family of nine sons and six daughters by cleaning mayor della Penha's villa, said, "The English are kidnapping our children and Winston Churchill is selling our babies at his Downing Street Slave Market where they're bought for pennies and carried off by the Scots to the frozen land of Skye.

Others are sold to slave dealers in Turkey, Ethiopia, and Persia-to fill up the lands they've emptied of Jews and Poles and Ukrainians. But God will protect our sons … and even our daughters."

The editors of Giornale de Napoli urge you to notify this paper and the police if you see children along the wharves. Five hundred children have disappeared from the wharves and tomorrow this paper will print a list of the names and addresses of all the children missing since July. Please keep away from the wharves and contact the police if your children are missing.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Monday September 6, 1943 (8:15 a.m.)

Neither Giuseppe nor his mother could afford to buy a newspaper, nor did they believe the gossip about the spirits at the wharves, so on this beautiful spring day in September, Giuseppe went to his parish church, half a mile from the Bay of Napoli. Giuseppe skipped down the path to church as he thought "I want to say an extra rosary for Uncle Sebastiano who was killed in Liberia in northern of Africa while fighting the Bolsheviks in the English war started by the Americans who bombed the Japanese who were diving for pearls in their own harbor."

Church service was short (perhaps too short, because Father Jorge Montalvo, an Argentine priest sent from Buenos Aires in these hard times, had heard the bombing to the south of the city and cut his homily short-surreptitiously to protect the children-although the only two children present were the altar boys, Giuseppe and Raimando. Fortunately, the remaining elderly parishioners had forgotten their fears at the same time they had forgotten their shoe sizes and their dates of birth.

Father Montalvo mumbled a hasty, "God bless you and keep you and comfort you now and forever, amen," before scurrying from the pulpit to the catacombs where the little bit of his remaining soul living among the dead.

Meanwhile, Giuseppe and his friend, Raimando, slipped out of their altar robes, their emaciated bodies looking more like those of five-year-olds than of boys nearing ten. They kissed the holy crucifix and trudged down the path that led from the Church of Christ the Savior to Viale Della Croce Sacra, where they spotted an elderly blond-haired man, wearing a tattered brown German army uniform, a cap with an ostrich feather, and a pair of highly polished black boots; in his left hand, he carried a blue and green striped cane with a crook carved in the shape of a small gnome. Just as Raimando smiled at the yellow-haired man with the fancifully carved cane, the man lunged at the boys as the man's cap flew off wildly into the wind and the small carved gnome on the handle of his cane burped and wriggled and, like an emerging pupa breaking out of its cocoon, the gnome at the top of the cane awoke from a long sleep, spread its wings and flew off toward the eastern mountains, holding the rest of the cane in its claws.

Giuseppe and Raimando tore down the hill to the wharves toward the safety of their parents' fishermen friends, praying and panting as they raced to the harbor, forgetting for a moment that all the adults who had nurtured them had been killed in the war and that the boys were alone now-alone except for the capless, careless man chasing them down the hill.

At first the boys raced side by side, then Giuseppe took the lead-outdistancing his smaller companion by ten meters. Then Raimando led by a few. Then Raimando slipped and stumbled and as Giuseppe turned to help him, he saw the yellow haired man grab Raimando, wrap him inside his army jacket, twirl around three times and fly off toward the east.

Giuseppe slapped his head with his hand, trying to bring reality back, tying not to believe what he had just seen. One moment his friend and the man dressed as a one of Italy's allies, a German solider, were standing together and the next they both were gone. It was almost as if the yellow haired soldier really was the thing reported to be living in the mountains nearby, the thing that nestled in the dark tunnels that connected the wharves to the mountains in the east. But Giuseppe didn't believe in the thing because he was nine and had given up believing in ghosts and demons at least a year before.

Giuseppe started running until he rounded the last warehouse on the inner harbor and then stopped, waiting for his heart to catch up with his body, waiting for the pain within his soul to end, as he looked at the ships watching the old men unloading fish, feeling cold fresh icicles of pain tingling inside his stomach, hearing the thumping of his heart as it echoed inside his hollow ribcage. He scraped his right hand alongside a splintery board, hand-level high on the corner of the warehouse as he inched his way along the narrow wharf. One splinter was longer than his little finger. The pain one more trial. He stood with his back to the warehouse, biting the splinter, biting, spitting and biting again before pressing his thumb against it and squeezing it out bit by bit. Since the warehouse was less than a foot from the edge of the wharf on the mouth of the gaping bay, Giuseppe had to inch his way along the rotting boards, drag-pressing his left shoulder against the splintery warehouse wall; holding his nose with his right hand, trying not to inhale the putrid smell of fish guts, rotting garbage, and raw sewage that had inundated this narrow cul-de sac; listening to the sound of the tide as it banged the decaying wood beneath him; and praying to all the saints that he wouldn't fall and be dashed against the pier. Giuseppe struggled to survive, but he wanted to scream at the strange man who had chased him-he wanted to scream at whoever or whatever had taken his friend away.

Giuseppe was exhausted with the agony of this never-ending war in a city slowly being starved by his former friends, their allies, the Germans in a land where singing, and playing had been ripped from his soul by the Nazis.

Giuseppe felt the recurrent sharp quick pain that shot from his stomach to his butt and back again. It had been like this for days now and for a brief moment, he almost thought death would be better than living.

Giuseppe knew he was too old to cry, but he wanted so much to cry, he desperately needed to cry. He wanted to sit on his mother's lap and sob like a baby; he wished his dad could hug him-but his dad was dead and his mom needed Giuseppe to be the man of the family and he knew he could never afford to be a boy again-not ever again.

Giuseppe was totally alone now and for the first time in his life, he didn't know what to do. How silly it is to cry, he thought, the fishermen would think I was a stupid girl if I cried. I'm nine and a half years old; I'm a man. I must fear nothing!"

Dozens of boards were missing at the end of the narrow wharf and Giuseppe had to stretch his emaciated legs to reach a solid piece of wood. Toward the end, he had to crawl along the ever-narrowing edge of the pier. Then, barely a centimeter from the end, he felt the wood snapping beneath him and his body sinking into the bay. Using the board like a springboard, however, he jumped from the wharf to the road, taxing his hollowed bones, taking a quick look to see if the yellow-haired soldier man had come back for him, as he jumped-pushed his way to freedom.

Giuseppe didn't see anyone and assumed he was safe for the moment, so he continued, even though his chest ached and he was panting like Enzo, his pet dog who had died of starvation shortly after the war began. Giuseppe tasted the warm salty taste of blood in his mouth as he heaved in pain, dreading that his childish fears would return to haunt him. He spit and he noticed his spittle was red and bloody. For a moment, he thought of his namesake, Tio Giuseppe della Menta, his favorite uncle who had died a slow antagonizing death by consumption. Now his own spit was red and filled with blood and he, the namesake, the miniature Tio Giuseppe, feared he, too, might die of consumption. Of all the deaths in the world, I don't want to waste away into nothingness, he thought. Starvation, drowning, even death by the Nazis or the Americans or even the viscous Vikings is better than that.

Giuseppe put his hands on his knees, assumed the familiar position and barfed, but it was dry heaves as usual because he hadn't eaten in five days. This is worse than throwing up, Giuseppe thought, but after the third dry heave, Giuseppe was finally able to stop. An hour later, weak-kneed, exhausted, and ready to walk into the ocean and die, he looked up totally alone and all he saw was the smoke that rose slowly from an abandoned ship tied up at the pier.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tuesday September 7, 1943 (8:23 a.m.)

Corporal Michael Patrick Taylor slogged through the waist-deep mud thinking of nothing but his girlfriend, Suzi, the dark-skinned woman he loved. A foot in front of him, Raphael Johnson, struggled through the slime and muck, inching his way toward the blond-haired, blue-eyed Kraut Germans he despised.

"You know," Raphael joked, "they'll stuff me and mount me if they ever catch me. I bet they never seen a colored man before." He pulled himself up and out of the mud, as he oozed up and down like a dinosaur struggling to escape the La Brea Tar Pits. Once he got out, he sat on a stump, removed his combat boots and wiped them against a tree trunk. Then he stripped off his socks, scraped them clean of mud, and wrung them half dry. As he cleaned up, he thought about his life before the war, when he went skinny dipping in the Patapsco River just outside his family's house in Baltimore. Now, he could almost taste Maryland's semi-salty water as he sniffed the mud dreaming of a river that would wash the dirt from his callused toes and yes, he could hear the gentle tides lapping against the verdant shore.

"Fucking Krauts don't want nothing more than our nuts displayed in their Berlin trophy cases," Michael said.

"Bet mine'd fill a mighty big case," Raphael laughed as he stood up, struggling to reach the few remaining leaves high up on the olive tree. "These boots is sure dirty, wish I had me some rags."

The mortar ripped through Raphael's stomach and tore through his body just as his fingers touched the branch. His small intestines slithered through his back and hung like German sausages from his firm high buttocks before he could pronounce the final sibilant of ragssssssssss.

Mary, Mother of God, Michael thought as he grabbed his buddy, trying to guide his hundred and thirty-five pounds to the ground, praying for as easy a death as possible for the man he loved closer than any of his seven brothers. But Michael knew it was too late-even before the rest of his men collapsed in a heap of blood, spleen parts, liver remnants, and drooping kidneys that drenched the ground around the ancient, gnarled olive trees. Raphael's blood spurted out of his mouth, stomach, side and back, his buttocks arched up as his knees collapsed and his face contorted until his throat constricted into one final short agonizing scream for death.

Michael could almost sense Raphael's soul leaving his body as he pumped-pushed, pumped-pushed, pumped-pushed Raphael's chest, pleading with God to spare his friend's life. Even after seeing, smelling, sensing thousands of deaths-stepping on bodies, sleeping with the dead, and even robbing their warm carcasses, Michael still wasn't willing to accept the fact that this friend-this special friend-was dead.

Michael ripped off his army jacket and wrapped it tightly around Raphael, but as the blood saturated the mud-covered cloth, Michael finally accepted that Raphael was gone forever. His jacket, soaked so red with Raphael's blood that it reminded Michael of Suzi's blood the first time they made love. Michael's mind reeled. A thousand thoughts mingled and co-mingled and fled and all he could see was red, red, lip red. . . as red as Suzi's lips that day they'd first kissed and then she'd performed fellatio all afternoon at the Negro picnic grounds in Chicago, where she'd clumsily tripped over him near the hot dog stand as she was ogling the foot long frankfurters and hoping Michael would pick up on her cues. The rest of the day, in between kisses and other things, they rode the Ferris Wheel twenty-three times, on-again-off, until closing time at a quarter past midnight, and, that day, Michael screwed her for the first, second, third, fourth and fifth times of her life.

Suzi had said she was eighteen and even though she looked younger, Michael didn't give a flying damn-not then, at least. He was grown, nineteen and freshly drafted into the U.S. Army's Seventh Negro Platoon; he wasn't about to get married or even have a steady girl-until he discovered that Suzi was pregnant with his baby-until the birth of his son-until Suzi and his son's death by a drunken white driver out for a night of carousing. Then, although it was too late, he cared about everything and everyone; he never wanted to see another innocent child or woman killed like that again.

But now that Raphael was dead, and Suzie and his son were gone, the only thing Michael could think about was taking out as many of the kraut-eating Germans as he could, with my bare hands, he thought, with my God damn bare hands.

Looking down as he idly wiped his bloody fingers onto the wet earth, he realized his boots were untied, so he scrunched down into the moist bloody earth still saturated with Raphael's blood, sliding his arm and head down his long legs to lace up, just as a hundred bullets sped over his head, dinging against his helmet, nicking the top of his left ear.

Michael was enraged now, insane with uncontrollable anger, as mad as a God damned dog - as his grandpa said each time he remembered the Klansmen who'd castrated his father, hung him upside down from a tree and roasted him alive. Grandpa had instilled those memories of the fearless yellow-haired white men deep within Michael's soul. And now that Michael had witnessed the murder of his best friend by these same Aryan blond hairs, his anger spewed out of him in an unending stream of hopelessness.

Out of ammunition, Michael fixed his bayonet and charged twenty yards straight ahead through a barrage of bullets into a thicket hiding a half dozen German soldiers. Poking out their eyes, stuffing the steel into their flaccid bodies, shoving his bayonet deep into their ears, their guts, their bladders, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing until there was nothing left but a mutilated mangle of blood and gore, Michael howled like the white men must have howled when they killed his great-grandfather a hundred years before. HOWLLLLLLLLLLL.

Then Michael fell on their corpses and banged his fists into their mangled flesh, beating and pounding until their bones crunched and there was nothing left but muck and mush, regretting the day he was born, regretting he had been unable to save Suzi and his son, wishing he could have done something good for someone-somewhere- anywhere-any time-even for a second-before he, himself, was killed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tuesday, September 7, 1943 (8:40 a.m.)

Michael hadn't killed all the Krauts: Gordon Goehrung wasn't quite dead. Goehrung was dying quickly, though, he knew that much-but he was damned if he was going to die without taking the colored GI along with him. Gordon's right hand was pinned to the ground-the last piece of German dog flesh Michael had bayoneted before collapsing onto the pile of lacerated carcasses. Painstakingly, Gordon inched his left hand down his mangled bleeding thigh into his utility belt reaching for the last of his hand grenades. He flicked at the top, inching the pin up higher and higher, heiling Hitler that he'd live long enough to blow the American to kingdom come.

Michael felt as if he was being stomped on, as if someone was kicking him in the groin, as if he was being beaten into the fleshy earth. Something flashed in his mind-some incident-a memory of something that had happened ages in the past. Michael felt his feet being blow off, his right arm being severed at the shoulder as he was hurled through the air until he was wedged by his feet upside down in an olive tree as the flames from the hand grenade caught the tree on fire and roasted him alive.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Wednesday September 8, 1943 (9:09 a.m.)

Giuseppe was sure he'd just seen an apparition: a thing about three feet tall with long spindly triangular feet, a pudgy purple body and oval-shaped fuchsia eyes. It wore an amber colored cap with pink and tangerine feathers jutting out of the back left-hand side, a lime green shirt, vermilion pants, one ragged taupe sock, one ripped maroon, and lavender shoes with pigtail points where the toes should have been. Then the thing motioned Giuseppe to follow.

Giuseppe finished tying his shoe and bravely swaggered toward it.

"Hey," Giuseppe said, "who…what are you?"

"I'm an elf," the apparition replied, "and I'm here to help you. Follow me quickly. We don't have much time!"

The fire from the burning ship had already spread to the abandoned warehouses and the wharf was beginning to smolder. The distant gunfire grew louder and, from a different source, flames broke out to the south of the city. The retreating Germans were torching everything as they fled Naples; soon the entire city would be engulfed in flames and Giuseppe would be alone, smoldering somewhere in the middle.

Giuseppe thought the Americans were advancing, but he didn't know for sure. He had starved under German control and now he worried about another set of invaders, about how they would treat him. Should he wait here like the rest of the children, should he wait for the liberation that might or might not come, or should he follow this tiny thing-this silly apparition-this elf manlike thing?

Giuseppe thought quickly. The Americans were entering Naples, but how much of the city would be left by the time the Germans withdrew? How many of his friends would starve or burn before the war ended?

"I have a friend," Giuseppe spurted out, "Can he come too?"

"Fernando Bustamente?" the elf asked.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"He's safe-he's already with us; he's the boy who send us to get you."

Engulfing two more warehouses, the fire lapped up the walls of the building closest to them, barely twenty feet away, nearly consuming boy and elf.

"Hurry," the elf said, "this is your last chance."

Giuseppe needed no more invitations. He jumped away from the fire and landed in the arms of the tiny creature.

"Exhale slowly and softly," the elf said, "exhale exactly like me."

They exhaled together slowly as time and place evaporated into the quiet nothingness of the dark moonless night and Giuseppe closed his eyes, praying that all his emptiness would end.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Wednesday September 8, 1943 (9:14 a.m.)

When Giuseppe opened his eyes, he was in a magnificent cavern glowing in natural light even though the roof of the chamber was a hundred feet high and Giuseppe could see neither the beginning nor the end of the cavern. He looked in all directions and saw tunnels leading in as many directions as the stars.

"My name's Hazor," the elf said, "This is my home-your home, too, until you decide to leave. I'm here to help you. You're hungry, let's eat."

"I am not hungry!" Giuseppe said from impulse, remembering it was imperative to let his four younger brothers eat first, even though his stomach churned six degrees from Sunday.

"Nonsense, you haven't eaten in five days. Come with me."

Giuseppe wondered how Hazor knew so much about him. How old am I? Giuseppe thought, wishing he could test the elf's knowledge. Where do I live? What's my favorite color? What's my favorite pasta? Who's my closest friend?

"Eat and stop being so silly," Hazor said as he took Giuseppe by the hand and led him into a room with countless tables filled with food. "Eat," Hazor said as he helped seat Giuseppe at a table heaped high with bowls of manicotti.

"My favorite. How, did you know?" Giuseppe asked.

"Nine and a half, Piazza Dela Fortuna-9-C, green, manicotti and Fernando, of course."

"What?"

"The answers to your questions: your age, address, favorite color, favorite pasta and closest friend. I'm your personal elf. I was assigned to serve you the day you were born.

"Assigned to me? How can a person be assigned to serve another? That's slavery. That's what I'm fighting against." Giuseppe puffed himself up slightly larger than Field Marshall Montgomery after defeating the Afrika Korps at the Battle of El Alamein.

"I'm an elf; elves aren't human, but we've been around for fifty-seven million years. We evolved from the gods and the angels, but it's a long story-perhaps the Ruler of the Elves will share it with you some day."

"The Ruler of the Elves? Who is he?" Giuseppe spat out his words so quickly that he nearly choked on his manicotti.

"Slow down…you've eaten enough. You need to get some rest. Besides, I'll tell you about the Ruler tomorrow, after you've rested. Here, let me help you clean up and get to bed."

Hazor led Giuseppe to the baths, helped him undress, and waited for him with a fresh hot towel when he was done.

"Here, put these on," Hazor said as he handed Giuseppe a pair of clean silk pajamas exactly the right size. "I've prepared a private suite for us this evening, but you may want to join your friends in the community dorm tomorrow. They have lots of fun there-telling stories and playing games-but it's up to you where you want to sleep and," Hazor grinned and for the first time Giuseppe noticed how cute he was, "you don't have to make up your mind until later." Hazor blinked his eyes twice and the room darkened. Giuseppe fell asleep the second it did.

The next day or the next week (he wasn't sure which-since he hadn't slept so well since Naples was an all-Italian town and the Germans lived North of the Alps where they belonged and Americans and English were just words he'd heard on the piazza).

Giuseppe awoke to what seemed like sunrise coming through the walls of the cave.

That's impossible, Giuseppe thought, the sun doesn't rise in a cave.

"Anything is possible with the Ruler," Hazor said, "anything."

There you go again, reading my mind, Giuseppe fumed to himself; I just wish you'd tell me about your Ruler?

"You'll meet him today," Hazor said. "Let's go to breakfast, your friends are waiting for you."

Giuseppe walked down a short hallway and turned to his right. There, standing a few meters away were some of the city's missing children-his friends Fernando, Teresa, Arturo, Lorenzo, Mauricio, Donato, Carlo, Paolo, Giuditta, Daniel, Bernando, Lucia, Enrico, Catherina, Maria, Lillana, Giovanni, Francesco, Anita, Sylvia, and Editta.

The lost children hugged Giuseppe as Hazor moved out of their way and then the elves and children all started talking at once.

"Each of us was assigned to serve and protect a child," Hazor said as he was joined by Malichor, an ancient elf with no teeth and six pounds of hair, "The brand-new Ruler of the Elves is bringing more and more elves and children here each day."

"Brand new Ruler?"

"Yes," Hazor said. "The new Ruler of the Elves arrived last night. Rulers come and go, but elves live forever. We just change our chemical balance each time we're assigned a new child."

"We're like recycled tin cans!" Malichor added.

"Tin, for the war effort," a twenty-two-inch-tall elf chimed in.

"I'm assigned to you until you no longer need me or want me. Then I'll go back into the stock pot, get unglued, renewed, and become some new child's guardian."

I can't handle this, Giuseppe thought, I don't believe in elves.

"You're not the one who has to believe in us," Hazor said, "we believe in you, we've believed in you long before humankind existed."

Giuseppe's boy brain had become as addlepated as his ancient Tia Rosa unable debate. Instead he focused on the Ruler. "Tell me about the Ruler of the Elves;" Giuseppe pleaded, "tell me about the ruler."

"He's our benefactor," Hazor said. "He protects us and provides everything we need. We pray for his guidance every day. Sometimes, he lets us rescue children like you, but he does the difficult jobs himself. Our former ruler tried to rescue you and sent his gnome to fetch me to help, but you ran away and then the fire broke out. I barely had time to get there before you were burned crisper than the biscotti at Sergio's downtown bakery."

"I see," Giuseppe said. "I thought you brought me here on your own. I didn't realize it was a concerted effort by a society of elves and your Ruler of the Elves-a man named, er … what is his name?"

"Today, his name is Michael Taylor," Hazor said, "but we just call him the Ruler of the Elves."

Realizing that the elves wouldn't tell him anything else, Giuseppe decided to ask the children. "How'd you find this place," he asked his friend Mauricio "and who fixes your meals?"

"He gives us everything," Mauricio said.

"But-why? Is he Italian? Is he Catholic? Where'd he come from?"

The prayer bell clanged before Mauricio could answer and the elves and children scurried into the chapel. One by one they fell to their knees and prayed for the safety of their ruler. Then they stood and sang an anthem.


   Elves and children together
     To your will, we do concede
     To cast away our sin and greed
     Trusting you in times of need
     As you help us to succeed.

   Elves only
     To do your work as you decreed
     Finding children to help and feed
     Moving forward, we proceed
     To complete each elf's eternal deed.

   Children only
     And now, Elf Ruler, hear our plead
     Help us learn to write and read
     With the greatest utmost speed
     As we learn this helpful creed.

Giuseppe hung toward the back of the room. He didn't feel right singing praise to a stupid man he'd never met and he worried about owing his allegiance to anyone except the Holy Catholic Church, the Blessed Mother, and God.

The congregation stood as the interior lights faded into nothingness. In the blackness Giuseppe could feel the moisture seeping from the walls; he could smell the moss-moldy scent of the cavern; he could feel the rocky floor pressing hard against his cold bare feet; and he wondered why he had ever believed that Hazor would help him. Perhaps I should just have stayed on the burning wharf. Perhaps death would have been better than serving an unknown god. Giuseppe wondered if this was a German trap, a gas chamber like he'd read about, a place to turn young children into liquid, to pound them into asphalt, or to sell them the American leader FDAR and ship them off to American to work as slave laborers in the cotton fields, or to force them to unionize and work as busboys in Italian-American restaurants at the stinky end of Manhattan next to the Chinese settlements there.

Suddenly, as if the cave had become Dresden during the height of the firebombing, the cavern erupted in light.

When it died down, the Ruler sat on a golden throne at the front of the chapel. Giuseppe gasped. The Ruler was a Negro-darker than pitch. How could such a thing be a ruler? Giuseppe thought. How could such a monster rule over us?

"Thank you for coming today," the Ruler of the Elves said. "Times are dangerous for all of us. The Nazis are destroying everything. They've destroyed factories, highways and tunnels. They've burned churches, houses, and the ships in the harbor. They've killed, looted, raped and plundered, but as long as you trust me, you will never die."

Kapoya, one of the youngest female elves (and a lesser elf at that) grinned from hat feather to earring, trying to remind the Ruler the children would ultimately die, but that the elves would live forever. Luckily, Malichor, who held a position of high responsibility, silenced her by placing his hand gently over her mouth and Kapoya's shrill piping sounds went unheard in the vastness of the chapel.

Meanwhile, the children could hear the bombs crashing against the outer walls of their sanctuary reverberating against the rocks. They could smell the smoky fires raging above them. They could sense their doom.

Then, without warning, the lights went out as nigger shades of smoke filled the chamber and, as the temperature soared, the children crawled along the rough rocky floor of the cave. A large boy, a head taller than the rest, ran-fell-tripped over a diminutive six-year-old girl, crushing her head, spilling her brains like egg yokes onto the cave floor. Three boys slipped on the gooey mass as dozens of children trampled them into slimy pieces of three-day-old spaghetti and minuscule meatballs. Jaws and gums bled as teeth were knocked out and children bit their tongues in half. Carlos slipped on Anna's hair and fell into a wet pool of something he was to terrified to identify. Benito held himself flat against a wall, certain that he'd be safe from the ever-rushing maelstrom around him, certain, if he could only stand perfectly still. Just then the cave walls buckled and the ceiling collapsed, crushing his skull, mashing his chest into the ground, pulverizing him into nothing more than an x-ray of himself. Ernesto, Paulo, and Julio raced like frightened cats from a pack of dogs. Ernesto escaped to the right, bolting into an abandoned tunnel. Paulo veered to the left, trying desperately to escape the thing behind him. Julio didn't have time to turn to the right or to the left; he just ran like a deranged monster into the darkness of the never-ending night.

But as each child fell or was pushed or was trampled, the elves hoisted it up and brought it to the ruler.

"What am I to do?" The Ruler screamed as he remembered the carcass of his dead friend Raphael, "they're crushed and lifeless. Take them away! Take them away."

The elves, however, continued to carry more dead and dying children to their ruler. Piling them higher and higher, they placed the children at his feet until the pile reached his left eyebrow. Now he was trapped in the center of the carnage, in the midst of the madness of the dead and dying children, covered with their blood, wondering why he was there, wondering what he could do to help them.

"Put this on," Malichor said as he handed the Ruler a golden ring. "You're the Ruler of the Elves for a reason, just like all the other rulers-you're here for a reason."

For a long moment, the Ruler stood in shock. So many things had happened to him in the past twenty-four hours that he was afraid he'd never be able to escape. He looked around, smelling the carnage, sensing the children's fear, then he put on the ring.

"What's going on?" Giuseppe asked as he woke from his nightmare, his left hand lying beside him, his ear hanging by a thread.

The Ruler lifted Giuseppe from the top of the pile and placed him on the floor. Then the Ruler pressed the severed ear gently onto Giuseppe's head, reattached it, and resurrected the dead boy.

One by one, the Ruler touched the dead and dying-children. One by one, they came back to life.

The shelling continued day and night for fifty-seven hours. The walls continued to shake, and the children continued dying, but each time one fell, the ruler picked him up, and restored him to life.

For the first time, Michael Taylor, the Ruler of the Elves, felt an inner sense of peace as he began to put together the shattered pieces of his life.

An elf fell and the Ruler hurried over to help, but before he could reach the tiny thing, the elf lifted himself back to his feet.

"Elves never die," Faladador said, "We live forever…unlike you," he muttered under his breath…unlike you."

The bombs and shells continued to fall, followed by massive cave-ins, and a constant cycle of death, resurrection, disintegration and restoration.

The fires raged so hot that it took most of the water in the cave to quench them and by the time the last one died out, the water had risen so high that everyone was forced to swim for his life.

Meanwhile, the pounding continued as bombs burst on top the cave, falling into the water, crushing the rock beneath them, causing a vacuum that sucked like a maelstrom leaving the cavern as dry as the armpits of the dead, leaving the children and elves floundering on the slippery cavern floor, screaming for help.

Above, the Germans waited for reinforcements as the Americans moved up from the south. It was only a matter of time before the two sides would wage a major battle above the cavern. But like the man he was, Michael Taylor knew his mission: he must protect the children.

Calling for a dozen elf volunteers, he said, "Follow me…I have a plan." And within moments, he was out of the cave with the elves following as the boys and girls screamed and the last flickering light fled from the cave, leaving them in terror and in dread.

The Ruler raced with his elves to the top of the mountain eager to reconnoiter.

To their left, further than a human ear could hear, they saw the American tanks, jeeps and troops heading up the road that lead from the south.

To their right they saw the Germans, digging deeper and deeper into the mountaintop-into the roof of the children's cave. Michael knew this was where the elves and children would make their final stand against the Germans before the Americans attacked. The American bombs would destroy the cavern when the Germans fought back and the children would be buried alive.

As the Ruler walked further away from the entrance to the cave, he realized his power was controlled by the ring. Without the cave, the ring would be worthless. He also noticed the ring was pulsing slower and slower now, as if its powers were dying. Unless he did something immediately, the children would be killed and he would be powerless to help.

In the distance, the Ruler heard the Americans on the attack as they struggled up the rocky cliffs. Hundreds of bodies littered the ground and the machines and the carcasses of the men were mangled into the earth in heaps of smoldering blackness. The children and younger elves huddled together in a sticky mass of fear and sweat, praying for their mutual survival. The cave's ceiling thinned as the light from the battlefield grew brighter and the smell of eternal death filled their noses and seeped into their souls. If the Ruler was unable to defeat the Germans and if the cavern was destroyed, they knew they'd all be doomed.

"Follow me," the Ruler said, as he continued crawling toward the Germans wriggling his tight butt through the grassy knolls of the mountains. Years of military training had taught him how to persevere-how to reach his objective-and how to obtain it. Yard by yard, he slid up and down the slimy pathways-sloshing through the sheep dung, breathing in the fetid smell of decayed humus and rotted straw, sensing he had a limited amount of time to defeat the Germans or to force them to leave before the Americans began to pulverize his children, his elves, his mountain.

"Half of you go this way and half go there," he said, feeling more like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz than like a corporal leading a charge. Then, like a troop of flying monkeys, the elves descended on the Germans. First, Teribelidel pelted a half dozen officers with stones, knocking them off their feet as they tottered precariously in front of him. Then, Flopitur hoisted a tree branch, bashing out a teen-aged corporal's brains. Meanwhile, the other elves pelted the Germans with sheep dung, spent cartridges, helmets ripped from the heads of dying soldiers, batteries pulled from jeeps, lug nuts, tire irons, a glass eye from a dead soldier, a partial set of dentures, coffee pots, utility knives, and elfin shoes. The Germans struggled, trying to lift themselves off the ground, trying to scramble to freedom, but the elves were indomitable. And Michael, as their ruler, took total command, realizing for the first time that that was the reason he had wanted to become a soldier. Now he knew that the focus of his mission wasn't to save the world for democracy, it was to protect the sanctuary of the children of Naples, to save them from the slaughtering Germans by rescuing them in this elfin battle.

The Americans were less than a half mile away now-approaching like a skyful of mosquitoes descending in the late afternoon light. They rode up from the dirt road; the Ruler could hear the sound of the engines. Just then, Ringotti and Amabella ran toward the Ruler. "The Germans have cases of ammunition stored behind those rocks," Ringotti said. "If we can place a charge there, we'll blow the Germans to Siberia."

"Let's not do that to the Allies," he said, as he thought about the hard battles the Russians had fought. "But let's blow the Krauts somewhere-as long as we don't blow away the cavern in the process."

Amabella fondled a box of matches in her pocket and started crawling toward the Germans. Unfortunately, she was only two feet seven and the Ruler realized he'd have to find a faster way so he stormed to the back of the German fortress. Immediately the Germans started firing into his hips, face, liver, kidneys, and stomach, but he continued forward-impervious to pain. He knew he must complete his mission: the battle for Naples would end here and he knew he, Michael Taylor was the only man capable of doing it.

He stood less than twenty feet away from the Germans as he struck a match and in less time than it takes a flea's heart to beat, the Germans and their ammunition and the top of the mountain were blown to hell.

He stood unscathed, however. When he looked around him, he realized the Americans were climbing up what was left of the rubble. He knew he had to flee before they reached him but for the first time, he realized he had died and that any contact with the living army allies might cause them to die, as well since he was merely a ghost, a spirit-and as such-he lived in his own new world-away from his former companions. He couldn't ever approach them, he knew that, but he wondered why he could touch the elves and the children. He couldn't find an explanation, and everything seemed and now all he wanted to do was to slip away, to go back to his family and merge into the darkness of the night.

A gaping hole erupted, volcano-like in front of him and for an instant, he wondered what to do. Then, he and the elves were tossed ten feet into the air before hitting the ground and sliding into the darkest recesses of the cavern as the mountain closed around them until the firing and burning ceased forever.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thursday, September 9, 1943 (10:17 a.m.)

The next morning, the Ruler ascended the throne for the final time, "We must stay inside the cave and rely on each other for protection, I know how difficult this is because I've lost many friends in this war. You were babies when this war began and by the time it's over you may be old enough to fight. I won't prepare you for that, though. I won't make you think of war or fighting ever again. What I will do is what all the Rulers of the Elves have always done. I'll protect you and feed you-and I'll give you a safe place to play and enjoy your childhood.

"I opened a new cavern today and it's filled with toy trucks and balls…for the girls." The boys moaned. "And dolls and teacups…for the boys." The girls and boys moaned, not knowing what a black man would or would know about the needs of white Italian children.

"I'm only joking with you, "Michael said, "I love to see you smile." And the children smiled along with the elves. Even Giuseppe started to smile, wondering how such an ugly black thing could be so kind.

"And later this evening, we're going to enjoy a celebration in honor of our victory over the Germans…but now I raise my cup to the Elves for their courage in battle!

Michael left the chapel as the children rushed toward him. Enrico jumped on Michael's back and wrapped his arms around the ruler's neck.

"Hold me too," Lucia screamed.

"Carry me, carry me," another dozen voices screeched in unison.

"Walk with me," Hazor said to the Ruler in a whisper that only he and Giuseppe could hear. "It's time to make plans. You won't be with us much longer."

Michael looked stunned. Giuseppe got the impression that Michael thought he was going to be the Ruler of the Elves forever.

"Only elves live forever," Hazor said. "The souls of men and children belong to God. Neither your body nor your soul can remain here forever."

"So, it's going to be soon." Michael said, as he played with three young children vying to ride on him like a bucking bronco.

"Yes," Hazor said…"soon."

Unseen by the Ruler , Thapadorn, Califernia and Belimina slipped silently back into the elfin pot to be stewed, unglued, and born again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thursday September 9, 1943 (11:00 a.m.)

After his spirit left the world of the elves and rescued children, Michael spent eternity with Suzi, their son, and Michael's granddad, who wondered why it had taken him so long to join them and why he'd hung around the mud and muck on the earth so long. "Welcome home son," granddad said, "Welcome home."

"Let's try for one hundred and one," Suzie said as she made love to her husband, the Ruler of her life, "let's try for one hundred and two, one hundred and three, one hundred and four…"

The End

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