Historical Fiction
Date Published: May 1, 2018
Publisher: Warren Publishing
Two young men come of age and fall in love, set against the backdrop of true events in World War II
It’s 1938. Bastian Fisher and Max Amsel meet at an American-Nazi camp, Siegfried. Neither have any idea what to do with their blooming, confusing feelings for one another. Before they can begin to understand, the pair is yanked apart and forced in opposite directions.
Five years later, during the heart of World War II, Bastian’s American army platoon lands in Salerno, Italy. Max is in Nazi-occupied Rome where he has negotiated a plan to hire Jews on as ‘extras’ in a movie—an elaborate ruse to escape the Nazis. Brought together by circumstance and war, Bastian and Max find one another again in Rome.
Exploring the true stories of Camp Siegfried and the making of the film, La Porta del Cielo, The Artist and the Soldier is intense, fast moving, and sheds light on largely untouched stories in American and Italian history.
EXCERPT:
They were in another clearing, this one consisting of five
small boxing rings made of dirt and one large ring of sand. The boys surrounded
the biggest circle, most wearing only their black sig rune shorts, while the
rules were explained. Some of the boys were smaller and thin like Max, but most
were built more like Bastian, thick shouldered and tall. The fights would take
place in the smaller rings first and each winner would fight another winner
until one was championed. Each match only lasted three minutes and the person
who came out still standing—or, if both were standing, was better off— was the
winner. Max hoped he would not be beaten too badly in the first fight, but
badly enough he would not have to move on.
The rings around him filled and the boys jostled one
another. They were having more fun and landing fewer punches than Max expected.
Perhaps this part would not be so bad. The two officers who had explained the
rules walked away together, bored by the lack of blood after three rounds. They
handed their stopwatches over to a couple of the older boys to keep time.
Bastian joined a ring with another boy around his size. They
bounced from foot to foot, throwing a few punches. When there were fifteen
seconds left, Bastian punched the boy in the nose, causing it to bloody and
knowing it would be enough to move him on. The crowd cheered. They stepped out
of the ring and someone threw Bastian’s hand into the air in victory. Max felt
like he would vomit. What would happen if he were placed in the ring with
Bastian?
Bastian winked at Max. He was laughing, enjoying himself.
At the far end of the field, a man in uniform walked toward
them. When he was closer, Bastian saw that it was Hans. He was smiling in a
sick sort of way, as if he knew something they didn’t.
“Doing a little boxing, boys?” he asked, addressing no one
in particular. Hans moved toward Bastian. The boy who’d been holding his arm up
in victory let it drop and stepped away. The three stitches on Hans’s forehead
were almost healed, but the incident at the fence would leave a scar.
Instead of stopping in front of Bastian, Hans moved forward
into the big sand ring. He gestured to Bastian, welcoming him into the pit.
They locked into a dead stare while the other boys shot cautious glances at one
another.
“Come on, Bastian,” Hans said. “Don’t I get a chance to get
back at you for the cheap shot?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bastian said in a
quiet voice. He stood stiffly, not looking at Hans. Max didn’t understand why
Bastian didn’t just fight him. He was bigger than Hans and far stronger. Hans
was built more like himself, not quite grown. Max looked at Bastian in question
and then watched him step into the ring. All around them voices and gasps
exploded like tiny firecrackers through the crowd.
“What? What is happening?” Max asked the young man next to
him.
“Don’t you know?”
“Know what?” asked Max.
“Bastian can’t fight him,” the young man explained.
“We’re not allowed to fight a superior unless we want to get
kicked out. Technically, officers aren’t allowed to challenge campers, but
sometimes it happens anyway.”
“So, he gets kicked out. What’s the big deal?” Max asked,
wishing he could be booted himself.
“You don’t know anything about Bastian, do you? If he got
kicked out—that would be the end of him,” the boy said, shaking his head.
Before Max could ask another question, Hans took his first
swing. Bastian’s arms stayed limp at his side. Max wove his fingers together,
prayer like, and felt his pulse beat steady against his palms. He closed his
eyes and when he opened them again, Bastian was looking at him and smiling, a
small trail of blood already dripping from his nose.
Bastian turned his attention back to the ring and smiled
instead at Hans. It infuriated Hans and he swung again, this time striking
Bastian in the eye.
“Come on, Herr Mandel. You can do better than that,” Bastian
taunted.
Hans hit him again, harder this time, and Bastian’s lip
split open. The blood swelled and dripped onto the sand, congealing the tiny
particles and creating a lump. The pain was blinding, but Bastian forced a
smile, knowing what infuriated Hans the most—the impression that his beating
was doing nothing. With each punch, Bastian heard the crowd suck in their
breath in unison. He knew some of them had never liked him and were enjoying
the show, and that made him smile all the more.
Bastian had learned to take a beating from his father, a
connoisseur of the belt. He knew which belts cut and stung the most, a lesson
Herr Fischer had been taught by his own father. Bastian carried the beatings on
his skin, day to day, as the scars faded but did not disappear.
To take a beating was nothing. Early on, he’d found smiling
angered his father and took some of the joy out of the act for him. And smiling
reminded Bastian that eventually it would be over and he would be on his own
again, in his room, safe.
A kick to the stomach brought Bastian to the ground. He
crouched on all fours like a dog and took two more kicks, the first to his abdomen
and the second to his side. He waited for the next, hoping it would finish him
so he could be done with the show.
A pair of shoes appeared in his vision, but they did not
belong to Hans. He heard a voice, familiar, but it sounded like it was coming
through a thick fog.
“Stop it,” Max screamed, protecting Bastian’s body with his
own.
“So, you’d like a beating too?” Hans said. His face was
slick with sweat and he was enjoying himself more than he thought possible. He
was exorcising every aggression that’d built up over the years against the
young man, against the population at large.
“I just want you to stop,” Max repeated.
“I’ll make you a deal. I get to take three shots at you and
then I’ll be done with him.”
Bastian gripped onto Max to pull himself up. His body was
covered in blood and cuts; his right eye was half-closed so he had only partial
vision.
“Max, go. This is not your fight,” he managed to say. Max
stepped in front of him again, not even covering half of Bastian’s body with
his thin limbs. He spoke to
Hans through clenched teeth. “Take your three shots.”
“No,” Bastian half-whimpered behind him. He was clutching
his side. Trying to concentrate on something other than the pain.
The first swing hit Max so hard, he stumbled backwards into
Bastian, who fell back to the ground with a groan.
“Stand up!” Hans yelled, his voice echoing through the
field. “I still have two more to go.”
Max managed to get to his feet, only to be knocked off them
again with a blow to his jaw. His molars loosened in his mouth and his body
slammed against the sand.
He looked over to Bastian who had succumbed to the pain and
passed out. Max was aware of the crowd of boys knitted around them, covering
them in a blanket of shadow. No one spoke.
Max rolled over onto his side. “Bastian,” he said, hoping he
would wake up. Trusting when this was over, his friend would be okay.
In the distance, he heard the pounding of boots
running––other officers coming too late. Max said Bastian’s name once more
before the final blow came. The kick landed so hard on Max’s face that there
was a flash of hot, bright white light before he passed out and there was
nothing.
About the Author
Angelle holds an MA from Emerson College, and a master’s equivalency in Drama Therapy through the NADTA. She is a registered drama therapist and a PhD student at Lesley University. She works as a Drama Therapist at an Expressive Arts Center in Virginia called A Place To Be. She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband, two delightful dogs, and one fat cat.
Contact Links
Twitter: @angellepetta
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