How the World Should Work

Adalasia: First Entry – Sicily, August, 1943

A curious thing happened today.

It’s amazing how different things are now amidst the shelling. The incessant shooting, screaming, and shouting. Hardly a week ago I was making pies for Father’s bakery, whistling cheerful tunes and thinking of boys. My every day seemed filled with that of joy and glee. All of the things that should occupy a young girl’s thoughts.

Yet tonight I find myself coddled in a corner, trembling as I hide in this dusty cellar. My every bone chilled at the sound of the slightest footsteps, constantly fearing I might be discovered. Terrified by images of what horrors will assuredly befall me should it come to pass. Every night, without fail, I pray that the Almighty send these invaders elsewhere; freeing our once-jubilant city from their menacing grasp.

I’m told the town is pivotal to the supply lines. Our block seems to change hands every day: Allies by morning, Axis by night. Its hard to keep up. After the printing press was destroyed, my only connection to the rest of the world trickles through reluctant inquiries to our occupiers. Today I had to feign support for the Reich, asking one of the Nazis, bullying Father for more of his goods if the mainland still stood…or if the Fuhrer’s blitzkrieg had overcome it as it has so many others. Tomorrow, for all I know I’ll be asking the same, but from the US 7th.

There was a shimmer of light amidst the darkness, though. Yesterday, my path crossed upon that of a man unlike any I’ve met, Italian or otherwise. Never in my years have I been struck by such comfort as that which I experienced during our exchange. Usually, the American soldiers offer us chocolate bars, or perhaps a postcard of famous Hollywood actors or the like, to obtain our good graces. This one, however…this one was different.

He must have noticed me as I was in tears, sobbing over this most recent Nazi bombing that took the life of my beloved best friend and neighbor, Rachele. As his unit was clearing debris nearby, he approached me without words, his face glazed by sympathetic tears. He took my hands, as he peered deeply into my eyes. He offered no sweets, nor meaningless trinkets to impress. His embodiment, devoid of desire for the shallow affection men like him tend to seek after rigorous battle. My hands resting in his, he stood there just staring at me for a moment, that, while brief, felt like a lifetime.

Without as much as an introduction, he went on to voice how sorry he was for the pain he could tell I was feeling; that he despised knowing there are people in this world who can cause such atrocities as those that took dear Rachele. That through his time in the war, it felt as if he was trapped; glaring through the same window of helplessness as I find myself gazing though now.

The clear and utter depth of his sincerity rendered me speechless.

Before I could muster a response, this unknown American gently released my hands as he looked somberly to the ground. As if speaking to himself as much as me, he then tearfully described the pain that courses through him after every pull of the trigger. That he cannot help but consider the lives of whom such a mundane motion of the hand can put an end to. A life which belonged to someone else. A life that, through his own regretful actions, he will never have the privilege of learning about. As he finished, his somber gaze slowly lifted to meet my own. The glimmer from his tears created a kind of mirror in his eyes. I recall peering at them, mesmerized, taking notice to the blurred reflection of my own, downtrodden expression.

Before turning to rejoin his unit, he told me that he was grateful for sharing that moment with me. That he had only approached me after sensing my pain – the sadness which binds us all.

He said his name was Adam.

How dearly do I hope our paths cross again.