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All in God's Name
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ISBN13: 9798180485892
Publisher: Independently Published
Pages: 236
Weight: 0.47
Height: 0.59 Width: 5.00 Depth: 8.00
Language: English
Publisher: Independently Published
Pages: 236
Weight: 0.47
Height: 0.59 Width: 5.00 Depth: 8.00
Language: English
Wretched land! Antonio spat, dodging the clouds of dust kicked up by his own boots.
His arms hung heavy, swinging listlessly as he laboured up the narrow track. Sweat gathered at his hairline, hesitating before trickling cold down his temples and stinging his eyes. Grit had settled in the corners of his mouth; panting from the exertion, he tried to clear it with a quick swipe of his tongue.
His arms hung heavy, swinging listlessly as he laboured up the narrow track. Sweat gathered at his hairline, hesitating before trickling cold down his temples and stinging his eyes. Grit had settled in the corners of his mouth; panting from the exertion, he tried to clear it with a quick swipe of his tongue.
Antonio looked toward the approaching hill and rubbed his cheeks, now smeared with salty grime. His skin, pulled taut by the wind, smarted under the rough touch. The path itself seemed to sense his presence, rising up to oppose him and making the climb all the more tortuous.
In the distance, beyond the silver-green shimmer of the olive trees, he glimpsed the red-tiled roofs of Arbusto. He quickened his pace, desperate to reach the village before the sun dipped below the horizon.
He was returning home after ten years. Seven of those had been spent in England, a prisoner of war under Allied guard. Already, he could make out the church bell tower rising from a cluster of bricks scattered haphazardly across the hill, alongside the tall, soot-stained chimney of the quarry. That obelisk stood like a monument to God's last will and testament, drafted by some bumbling notary. Antonio stopped, hands on his hips, pressing his dry lips together against a parching thirst. Framed against the ancient tufa wall, Arbusto looked smaller than he remembered: a tangled knot of red roofs and crumbling stone. He bowed his head like a man who had run out of answers. He had worked in that quarry right up until the day the telegram arrived. It summoned him to Bari, and from there, to East Africa. The ink was faint, but the tone was peremptory, leaving no room for doubt. His first and last names were clearly printed; so was the address. He had been only seventeen. Only Arbusto had been misspelt, written with an extra s. Clutching the grey slip of paper, Antonio had gone to the foreman, hoping against hope that his father's old friend might find a way out of this misfortune. For a fleeting moment, he had even imagined the old man might hide him there among the red bricks until Judgement Day, or tell him not to fear-that the war would be over before it truly began. It was not to be. Don Pasquale, this came for me, Antonio had said, handing over the frayed letter. And what's this, then? the man asked, fumbling to open it from the wrong side.
I've got to go. Bari by the seventh, then onto a ship for Africa, Antonio replied, his voice heavy.
The old man went quiet. He knew the colours of the state well: grey for the draft, yellow for death. He had seen too many of both.
In the distance, beyond the silver-green shimmer of the olive trees, he glimpsed the red-tiled roofs of Arbusto. He quickened his pace, desperate to reach the village before the sun dipped below the horizon.
He was returning home after ten years. Seven of those had been spent in England, a prisoner of war under Allied guard. Already, he could make out the church bell tower rising from a cluster of bricks scattered haphazardly across the hill, alongside the tall, soot-stained chimney of the quarry. That obelisk stood like a monument to God's last will and testament, drafted by some bumbling notary. Antonio stopped, hands on his hips, pressing his dry lips together against a parching thirst. Framed against the ancient tufa wall, Arbusto looked smaller than he remembered: a tangled knot of red roofs and crumbling stone. He bowed his head like a man who had run out of answers. He had worked in that quarry right up until the day the telegram arrived. It summoned him to Bari, and from there, to East Africa. The ink was faint, but the tone was peremptory, leaving no room for doubt. His first and last names were clearly printed; so was the address. He had been only seventeen. Only Arbusto had been misspelt, written with an extra s. Clutching the grey slip of paper, Antonio had gone to the foreman, hoping against hope that his father's old friend might find a way out of this misfortune. For a fleeting moment, he had even imagined the old man might hide him there among the red bricks until Judgement Day, or tell him not to fear-that the war would be over before it truly began. It was not to be. Don Pasquale, this came for me, Antonio had said, handing over the frayed letter. And what's this, then? the man asked, fumbling to open it from the wrong side.
I've got to go. Bari by the seventh, then onto a ship for Africa, Antonio replied, his voice heavy.
The old man went quiet. He knew the colours of the state well: grey for the draft, yellow for death. He had seen too many of both.
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