to England, to finish up there.’ His voice was calm. But his hand once more had begun the monotonous pawing at his forehead, fingers digging into his scalp in that combing motion which seemed to be a chronic nervous tic. ‘Would you tell me about it?’ Juliana asked, as he returned to the bathroom and his shaving. As he shaved and, after that, took a long hot shower, Joe Cinnadella told her a little; nothing like the sort of account she would have liked to hear. His two older brothers had served in the Ethiopian campaign, while he, at thirteen had been in a Fascist youth organization in Milan, his home town. Later, his brothers had joined a crack artillery battery, that of Major Ricardo Pardi, and when World War Two began, Joe had been able to join them. They had fought under Graziani. Their equipment, especially their tanks, had been dreadful. The British had shot them down, even senior officers, like rabbits. Doors of the tanks had to be held shut with sandbags during battle, to keep them from flying open. Major Pardi, however, had reclaimed discarded artillery shells, polished and greased them, and fired them; his battery had halted General Wavell’ s great desperate tank advanced in ‘43. ‘Are your brothers still alive?’ Juliana asked. His brothers had been killed in ‘44, strangled with wire by British commandos, the Long Range Desert Group which had operated behind Axis lines and which had become especially fanatic during the last phases of the war when it was clear that the Allies could not win. ‘How do you feel about the British now?’ she asked haltingly. Joe said, ‘I’d like to see them do to England what they did in Africa.’ His tone was flat. ‘But it’s been — eighteen years,’ Juliana said. ‘I know the British especially did terrible things. But — ‘ ‘They talk about the things the Nazis did to the Jews,’ Joe said. ‘The British have done worse. In the Battle of London.’ He became silent. ‘Those fire weapons, phosphorus and oil; I saw a few of the German troops, afterward. Boat after boat burned to a cinder. Those pipes under the water — turned the sea to fire. And on civilian populations, by those mass fire-bombing raids that Churchill thought were going to save the war at the last moment. Those terror attacks on Hamburg and Essen and — ‘ ‘Let’s not talk about it,’ Juliana said. In the kitchen, she started cooking bacon; she turned on the small white plastic Emerson radio which Frank had given her on her birthday. ‘I’ll fix you something to eat.’ She dialed, trying to find some light, pleasant music. ‘Look at this,’ Joe said. In the living room, he sat on the bed, his small suitcase beside him; he had opened it and brought out a ragged, bent book which showed signs of much handling. He grinned at Juliana. ‘Come here. You know what somebody says? This man — ‘ He indicated the book. ‘This is very funny. Sit down.’ He took hold of her arm, drew her down beside him. ‘I want to read to you. Suppose they had won. What would it be like? We don’t have to worry; this man has done all the thinking for us.’ Opening the book, Joe began turning pages slowly. ‘The British Empire would control all Europe. All the Mediterranean. No Italy at all. No Germany, either. Bobbiesand those funny little soldiers
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