The tanks left tracks in the snow. They rolled down the street with no destination, their only goal was to announce their authority. Verona was quiet that morning. No bombs fell and the street woke up peacefully, not shaken awake by a violent tremble. Snow had started to cover the piles of rubble where buildings had fallen. Under the white sheet you couldn’t even tell they had once been someone’s home. Soldiers stopped their marching to smoke German cigarettes. They took off their gloves and rubbed their hands together rapidly, breathing out smoke in a foreign language. In a crumbling alley, a woman lay on a doorstep, stirring out of sleep to beg passersby for food. But there was no food. Meals had become rations, and rations had been cut.
The Bernardi family lived in a small apartment in the middle of the city. The stone walls couldn’t keep the winter out, so Signora Bernardi left the stove on each morning. Even after the soup they would eat for breakfast was hot and bubbling, the stove continued to radiate heat. Milo stood as close as possible, putting his small hands towards the flame and pulling them away before it became unbearable. He imagined storing the warmth in his body, holding it tight as he climbed down the stairs to the cellar. The cellar was where the wine was made, and where it sat until it was sweet and rich enough to be bottled. At 12 years old, Milo was small enough that he didn’t need to crane his neck to prevent the top of his head from scraping the stone ceiling. His brother, Nico, still had a scar on his forehead from when he stood up too quickly once. That day, Milo had wiped blood from Nico’s head with an alcohol soaked cloth, admiring how he didn’t pull away like Milo did when his cuts were cleaned. That’s why Nico was a hero. That’s why he would defeat the Allies.
The morning the city was still, Milo’s mother sent him to crush the grapes. It was his favorite job, much better than pouring the dark liquid into bottles. His father would slap his wrists when he spilled too much, lecturing him on money wasted. Milo’s parents talked about money a lot; how much they had and how much they needed. He heard them talking about it at the kitchen table every night.
The barrel was full of dark purple grapes, Zinfandels that had to be delivered in a truck. Milo’s father would bring the barrels home and the family would gather to admire their prize. Milo used the large wooden beater to crush the grapes. Pressing hard into the barrel so that the skins split open and the soft, liquid insides spilled out. It was repetitive, mindless work. Milo’s thoughts returned to the letter they had received earlier that morning.
A soldier had knocked on the door, a firm rap that announced an unwelcome guest. Signora Bernardi cracked the door open, careful not to let out the warmth from the stove. The soldier greeted her in proper Italian. The sound was unfamiliar in their family’s home, so much harsher than the dialect in which they spoke to one another. The soldier slipped a thin envelope into her hand. Milo had watched from the stairs as his parents opened the letter, holding hands under the kitchen table. Together, they struggled to grasp meaning from the few words that had not been censored in thick black ink. It was the first letter they had received since Nico had gone to fight in the war. Milo once asked his mother “When will Nico come home?” She didn’t know. But she told him that when the war was won, the soldiers would send them a letter that Nico was coming home.
When the grapes had been ground to a pulp, skin floating in sticky juice, Milo twisted on the press, and cranked the handle in endless circles. He smiled to himself, his brother was coming home. When Nico saw the man Milo was becoming, he would have no choice but to shine with pride. Milo was like the grapes; missing his brother had crushed him, but also turned him into something altogether new, something stronger. Before Nico left, he had stood in the street with Milo, showing him how he would aim his gun to shoot down his enemies. They stood side by side, cycling through each position. Milo had been practicing with the other boys in town. He would show Nico how he was ready to be a hero now too. For the first time in many months, Milo felt hope. It fermented in his chest, inflated, and became potent and promising.
That night, Milo woke up to a sound like a wild animal caught in a trap. It was the sound of bombs falling, screeching through the air before exploding on the city. He pulled his thin bedsheets over his head, and prayed for his brother to save him. Downstairs, Signora Bernardi sat at the kitchen table. Dust fell from the ceiling and peppered the letter she held in her trembling hands. She stared at the word framed in black blocks of ink: “deserted.” And she cried because she knew her son was not coming home. Outside the apartment, soldiers and street cats took cover. The tank’s engines churned as they shuddered into motion to retreat. The sky fell on Verona, and though the city tried to stand strong, it could not, and so it was split open.
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