Harry awoke to the roar of a motor turning over. The clock on the wall said three minutes after six. He grabbed his suitcase, threw his jacket over his shoulder and ran in front of the rolling bus. A loud screech, the bus lurched stopping inches from his nose. 

The driver slammed open the bus door and shouted, “Crazy, kid, I could of run you down.”

“Sorry! I’ve got to get to Palermo.”

“Got a ticket?”

Harry dug the ticket from his pocket and waved it.

“Get on. Hurry up. We got to keep on schedule or I get in trouble.”

Harry thanked the driver, handed him the ticket and sidestepped his way down the narrow aisle. His suitcase banged against the leg of an older woman.

“Excuse me, lady.”

“It’s okay, I’m not hurt.”

Harry nodded and continued to the rear of the bus. Luck was with him, the rear bench seat was empty. He slumped down, resting his back against the sidewall and placing his legs along the seat. The bus pulled out of the station passing a sign that read Provincia di Palermo 192 Kilometers. Harry closed his eyes.

Occasional bumps jarred him from his nap. Through half-opened eyes, he caught winks of pine covered mountain slopes, fingers of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and lush plantings of olive trees and grape vines. The bus chugged through Bagheria, and then took a sharp turn onto Via Messina Marine Drive. The road skirted a shifting, gray-blue ocean. A squeak and then a hiss from the brakes signaled arrival at the Palermo station.

Harry sat up. It was after eleven o’clock. The rising sun hung near its apex in the late morning sky. Harry gathered himself and pick up his suitcase. He noticed two uniformed men, nightsticks drawn, hurrying toward the bus.

The driver cried out his window, “I’m only eight minutes off schedule.”

The police officers ignored him and shouted, “All passengers off. Line up! Have your papers ready. Il Duce is coming today.”

Harry’s heart pounded like a piston. He snuck behind the passengers as they lined up beside the bus, quietly inching his way toward the rear of the bus. A large officer with a face like a crinkled brown bag grabbed him and shoved him. His head bounced against the side of the bus.

“Why’d you do that?” Harry screamed.

Crinkle-face jerked Harry’s arm. “Where you think you’re going, kid?”

Ropes of fear tightened around Harry’s chest, his mouth opened, but nothing came out. The officer put his nightstick under Harry’s chin and gave it a shove.

“Ow! Christ that hurts.”

Harry rubbed his neck and said, “I’m an American. I didn’t think I had to line up.”

“Wrong! Where’s your passport, punk?”

“Some guy stole it in Reggio. I need to get a new one, that’s why I’m here.”

“No passport, how do we know you tell the truth? You go to jail, Il Duce’s orders.”

Shouts came from the passenger line. Crinkle-face pinned Harry against the bus with a meat chop hand. Harry spotted a man and woman dragged out of line. A police officer forced them to place their hands up against the side of the bus.

“I heard them whisper against Mussolini,” a passenger told one of the officers.
 
Another man, neatly attired in a black pin striped suit, shouted, “They’re Communists, I know who they are. Yosef and Esther Gramaci, they spoke in my village.”

An officer patted Mr. Gramaci down. Finding nothing, he grunted and punched him in the kidney, his knees buckled. His wife tried to go to his aid but an officer ripped her away. Mr. Gramaci slowly got to his feet and braced himself against bus.

“You next,” he said to Mrs. Gramaci with a smirk. He took his time running his hands over her breasts, up her legs and under her dress. She began to cry; he slapped her across the face. Gramaci raised his arm. Another officer cracked him on the head with his nightstick. Staggering, Gramaci slumped to the ground. Blood seeped down the side of his face into his beard.

An open top army truck skidded to a stop. Two more police officers jumped out with their pistols drawn. A third policeman stood on the back of the truck waving a tommy gun at the bus passengers.  A large touring car pulled up. A man, silver braid on his uniform, stepped from car.

“Put those two and the kid on the truck,” he ordered.

Harry tried to slip from under the meaty hand pressing him against the bus. The officer snagged his arm and snapped a handcuff on his wrist. Pain shot up his arm. He dragged Harry to the back of the truck. Grabbing his shirt and belt, he heaved him onto the truck.

“Hey, kid, no trouble. Understand?”

Harry scrambled to his feet. The guard standing on the back of the truck pointed his tommy gun at Harry and with a quick flip of the gun barrel motioned him to sit on a wooden bench. The guard bent down and caught hold of the loose handcuff and snapped it around a metal pole that ran the length of the truck bed, causing Harry to bend forward as he sat on the rough wooden bench. Harry noticed the Gramacis handcuffed together.  The guard only fastened Mr. Gramaci to the pipe.  Harry heard Mrs. Gramaci crying though her head pressed against Mr. Gramaci's chest.

“Where you taking us?” Gramaci hollered.

There was no answer. The silver-braided officer got into his black touring car and waved the truck driver to follow. The prisoners braced themselves as the truck lunged forward. The wheels spun hotly, as the truck skidded out of the gravel parking lot and onto the road.  They traveled several bumpy kilometers before turning onto a narrow dirt road. In the distance Harry noticed a building that appeared to be from the Middle Ages. It had round towers and was made of gray stone.  A large sign hung from a black iron archway. It read, Provinicia di Palermo Centrale di Polizia.

One of the guards freed Harry and Gramaci from their shackles and ordered the three prisoners off the truck. Mr. and Mrs. Gramaci remained handcuffed to each other. The guard with the tommy gun motioned them toward the headquarters building.  The first guard ran ahead and opened a large wooden door, he directed the prisoners through the door. They entered a damp, musty chamber. A feeling of desperation wrapped around Harry. My God, I’m in dungeon.

A long wooden bench lined one of the walls. The guard steered the Gramacis and Harry to the bench and motioned them to sit. Harry watched the guard leave; he tried appraise his situation. Mr. Gramaci attempted to comfort his wife.

Two men from headquarters, dressed in forest green uniforms with white leather shoulder straps, stomped into the room. One was huge, with full black beard. He reminded Harry of the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk. The giant walked up to Mr. Gramaci and jerked him up. Mrs. Gramaci screamed as she too was wrenched from the bench. Harry’s bladder rumbled, his stomach churned. The big officer hauled the couple through a steel door into another chamber.

The second officer sidled up to Harry. His face was sharp with chiseled features, his physique was thin, but he broadcasted a wiry strength. He took Harry’s arm, pulled him up and whispered in his ear, “Get up, stronzo and don’t give me any trouble or I’ll turn you over to the Bear,” nodding toward the room where the couple was taken. He gripped Harry’s arm and led him from the anteroom into a hallway.

“Where you taking me?”

“You don’t ask questions here. We do!”

Chisel face opened a door, sunlight filtered into the hallway, a relief from the bleak atmosphere of the building. The man who gave orders at the parking lot sat behind a large desk on an elevated platform. He looked tired, his face was deeply seamed, his eyes sunken. The nameplate on the desk read, Nunzio Puzisi Primo Capitano. He wore a dark blue uniform with silver braid around the collar and cuffs, the edges trimmed in scarlet; three silver stars decked his epaulettes. A photograph of an arrogant Benito Mussolini hung on the wall above his head.

The Carabineer captain stared down at Harry through heavy eyes and said, “Boy, what are you doing here? If you are an American, why don’t you have a passport?”