This place is no longer a place, this landscape no longer a landscape. Not a blade of grass
remains, no stalk of wheat, no bush, no hedge of prickly pear. The captain looks
around for the lemon and orange trees Vita used to talk to him about, but he
doesn't see a single tree. Everything is burned. He stumbles in grenade holes,
gets entangled in shrubs of barbed wire. This is where the well should be—but
the wells are all poisoned now, rotting with the bodies of the Scottish
fusiliers killed in the first assault on the hill. Or maybe they were Germans.
Or civilians. There is a smell of ash, of petrol, of death. He must be careful
because the path is strewn with unexploded bombs, lying right in the middle of
the road like big-bellied carcasses. Dozens of empty cartridges, useless rifles.
Rusted bazookas, 88-mm stovepipes, long since abandoned and already overgrown
with weeds. Dead donkeys blown up like balloons. Clusters of bullets like goat
droppings. Bones stripped of flesh stick out of the dirt. The captain covers his
mouth with his handkerchief. No, it can't be. My God, it wasn't supposed to
be this way.
The road to Tufo is cluttered with burned-out vehicles.
Motorbikes trucks cars. Bullets have opened dozens of eyes in the doors, the
wheels are reduced to scrap iron. Heaps of wreckage appear in front of him. As
he gets closer, he realizes they're tanks. He passes them warily, as if they
were a monument to defeat. He's not sure if they are the Churchills they lost
in January or the Tigers the Germans lost the first time they abandoned the
village. He climbs over the wing of a plane—intact, severed clean, the
Luftwaffe symbol still visible. Its cabin lies exploded in the valley below.
Finally he sees a tree: the first—or last. He quickens his step, his soldiers
trudging along behind. It's hot and the sun is already high. What's gotten
into you, Captain? Take it easy. It's an olive tree—completely incinerated,
black as ink. It crumbles in his fingers. The cloud of dust makes his eyes water
despite his Ray-Bans. Or maybe it's the smoke rising off the stones. Those
smoking stones strike him more than anything else he has seen so far. His
thoughts flow uncontrollably. Suddenly he has the feeling of having reached the
place that was destined for him.
On the slope an emaciated old man approaches him. His hair is
crusted with dust, his gaze glassy. He passes the captain as if he were a
phantom. As if he weren't there. The captain is sweating in his uniform, and
wipes his forehead with his palm. His men slow down, start joking around. They're
young, recent arrivals sent to fill in the gaps on the southern front. But he
knows why he's here, and he knows he is late. He should have come earlier, he
really should have. But every now and then he was assailed by fragmented and
involuntary images of memories not his own, vexing somehow, like the residue of
a dream. They harked back to a lost and incomprehensible land populated by
individuals with alien, remote faces, and the fear of having his estrangement
confirmed had kept him far away. In the end, though, he'd come. They had
entered other towns on top of their tanks—and to the sound of applause. But
here the road is blocked, and they arrive on foot. His pockets are full of
gifts, even though he's ashamed of bringing them, for his arrival also brings
dust, destruction, and noise. The smoke clears; a stone wall emerges. So this
was the spot. This, the first house of the village. But it is no longer a house—behind
the wall the ground falls away. "That one came down in January," the
old man mumbles. Or at least that's what the captain thinks he said because he
can't really understand him. The old man studies the captain's uniform, the
stripes on his epaulettes. Only twenty-four and already a captain. But the old
man is not impressed. When the captain holds out a pack of Lucky Strikes, the
old man shrinks away and disappears behind a heap of ruins. Could he be his
grandfather?
Fearless, gripping, at once darkly funny and tender, spanning three continents and numerous lives, Americanah is a richly told story set in today's globalized world.
The story of an American family, middle class in middle America, ordinary in every way but one. But that exception is the beating heart of this extraordinary novel.
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Kenn Nesbitt is new Children's Poet Laureate(Jun 12 2013) Kenn Nesbitt has been named the new Children's Poet Laureate: Consultant in Children's Poetry to the Poetry Foundation, which noted that the two-year position...
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