Petros’s ribs and shoulders, but he hardly knew it. He gave back as many blows as he’d gotten. Hitting fast and furiously, he bloodied Stavros’s nose. Stavros returned the favor.
Petros hardly noticed when the shouts died away and the dog barked more ravenously than before.
A stranger snatched him up by the neck and grabbed Stavros as well, separating them roughly. “Stop it,” he told them. “We’re at war already! Don’t fight among yourselves.”
Petros stopped fighting right away, not because the stranger scolded but because he stank. His matted hair and beard clung to his head like a scarf of sheep’s wool. His face and body were dirty and sunburned, his nose and shoulders blistered and scabbed over. He wore only the ragged remains of his trousers.
His feet were wrapped in rags. Bloody rags.
After one long look at him, Petros and Stravros both struggled to escape. “Quit!” the stranger shouted, so hard his voice failed and the rest of what he said came out in a whisper. “Stavros, Petros, stop it.”
Petros was frightened into struggling even harder. The stranger stood firm, holding Petros in place with only a grip on his shirt collar.
Stavros froze, still gripped about the neck. “Lambros? Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me.” The stranger let go of them. “Don’t you recognize your own brother?”
Petros stared. Could this filthy, wrecked creature be the same Lambros whose daring assaults on the Italian army were so dramatic that word of his courage reached the village? Whose adventures were told and retold on the verandas? Only nineteen and already he was a hero.
“Lambros.” Petros was sickened to see the cuts on his hands, the torn nails. How could this happen to him?
Stavros said, “Your feet, Lambros. Where are your boots?”
“Gone.” Lambros didn’t wait but limped forward a few steps. “It’s enough to know for now. Let’s go home.”
Stavros moved to put his arm about Lambros’s waist, to be his crutch. Lambros stopped him, saying, “Don’t come so close. I’m covered with lice. Walk with me, but keep your distance.”
The boys followed Lambros.
Petros snatched up the spilled marbles. His glass marblewas now among them. As for the rest, there remained just enough evening light to tell them apart.
He stuffed his own marbles into his pouch, glad for the moment to himself. The vision that was Lambros had shaken him. He dropped Stavros’s marbles into his pocket and hurried to catch up.
Elia pointed to Lambros’s swollen hands and asked, “What happened to you?”
“Little enough,” Lambros said as Petros joined them, “considering all that might have happened.”
“Where’s the rest of your company?” Panayoti asked.
“On their way home, the lucky ones. Has no one else returned from the north?”
“No one yet,” Panayoti replied.
“Then you must all go home now and give warning,” Lambros said, his voice rising like an alarm. “Tell your families the Germans are near.”
“They’ve been coming for nearly a month,” Petros said. “Even the Italians aren’t expecting them.”
“Go tell your father now,” Lambros yelled, in a voice sharp with the pain of his feet and hands.
Petros ran, but not because news of the Germans was frightening or even important. His legs had wanted to carry him away since he’d laid eyes on Lambros. Only the fact that the other boys had not run made him stay.
Petros ran, his own heartbeat loud in his ears. With Elia, he raced through the gathering darkness, Fifi close behind them.
chapter 6
Petros and Elia ran recklessly, tripping over rocks, with only the pale moonlight to guide them. By the time they pelted alongside the rock wall of Petros’s home, both had scraped knees and palms.
When Elia veered off, Petros headed straight for his own gate, a little farther along the road. Panting, he hurried first to the veranda. His father could ordinarily be found there at this hour, smoking a cigarette and