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August 1943

Private Carrara sat at his desk, translating his final document of the day. It was nothing more than a request for supplies, his third in a row. But it was standard procedure to translate every intercepted message, no matter how innocuous it might appear. The intelligence group would pick through it next, looking for possible secret messages contained within.

Roy was one of six translators assigned to this unit. Two were female. All were fluent in Italian. They shared an office, their desks arranged in pairs, facing each other. Across from Roy sat Lester Moore, a beaver who had been born and raised in Minnesota.

Roy glanced up from his work. “Lester,” he said. The beaver showed no sign of hearing his name. He was squinting through his thick glasses at a communiqué that he held in one paw and busily chewing a pencil held in the other.

“Lester…” Still no response. “Les!”

Moore looked up at the use of his nickname. “Aww, come on, Roy! You know how I hate being called…”

“You’re doing it again.”

The beaver looked at the splintered writing implement in his paw and spat a piece of wood into the trash can they shared. “Sorry, Roy. You know it’s just a habit with me.”

“You’re driving me nuts. What happened to that box of toothpicks I got for you?”

“Pshaw! Those are long gone.”

“Well, cut it out with the pencils already. That’s just disgusting.”

“Sure, Roy.” Moore changed the subject. “Hey, you want to go into town with me when we’re done here?”

The bear sighed, “I don’t think so, Lester.”

“Come on. You haven’t done anything fun in over two weeks.”

It was true. Ever since Roy learned of Marco’s death, he’d spent his days working and his evenings grieving. Then, after lights-out, Roy would quietly cry himself to sleep in his bunk. He turned down Colonel Palmer’s offer of a few extra days leave. The rest of the unit knew that Roy lost a close friend in the Sicilian invasion, but none of them suspected just how close he and Marco had been.

Lester tried again. “We can grab a bite at that little restaurant. I want to swing through the market and see if I can find some oranges. Maybe we’ll meet some sweet Italian dolls there, eh? We can take ‘em out for a drink…” The beaver winked. He made a circle with his left thumb and forefinger and thrusted the chewed pencil in and out between them. “Maybe we’ll get lucky…”

Roy smiled. The big rodent could be annoying at times, but he was the closest thing Roy had to a real friend here. “Lester, you’ve never gotten ‘lucky’ in your entire life and if your dick looks as bad as that chewed-up stub of a pencil, I can understand why.”

The beaver brushed away the insult and fired back one of his own, “Carrara, I’ve gotten lucky plenty of times. It’s your ‘little pencil’ that isn’t getting any action. Mine is genuine hardwood.”

“Alright, Lester. I’ll go along with you. But only because if you somehow manage to get lucky, I want to be witness to such a rare event.” With that, Roy turned his attention back to translating the Italian supply requisition.

• + +

Roy and Lester stepped out of the tiny restaurant. Maria, the matronly owner and cook, waved to them from the doorway. “Grazie, grazie,” she called after the Americans.

The males waved back and turned in the direction of the market. The beaver let out a loud, long belch. “Man, those stuffed artichokes were amazing! Maria there is the best!”

“My mama is the best,” corrected Roy.

“If she’s better than Maria, ask her if she’ll adopt me the next time you write home. Because if she won’t, I’ve got to start looking for an Italian wife right now.”

The open-air market was crowded this evening. Here, vendors sold local produce, cheese, bread, colorful clothing, and hand-made trinkets of all kinds. Lester was haggling with an old woman over the price of a bag of oranges when Roy heard a voice behind him, “American! American!”

The bear turned to face a withered old hound of an unidentifiable breed. “American soldier, you buy?” The dog gestured to an array of figurines carved from wood that surrounded him under his little tent.

“Spiacente, ma no grazie,” Roy replied.

“No Italian. Greek,” said the old fellow, tapping his chest. “You like? You buy?” he said in broken English.

Roy shook his head. “No thank you,” he tried in English this time.

“For you,” the old male held up a carved feral elephant.

Roy inspected the figurine. The workmanship was exquisite. “You carved this?” he asked the hound, first pointing at the elderly dog, then making a carving motion with his paws.

The old fellow nodded emphatically, “Yes! I make. You like?” He produced two more carvings in the same style: a rhino and a giraffe.

Roy pulled his wallet from his pocket. He held the elephant near the other two that the vendor still held in his paws. Roy made a circular motion, encompassing all three. “All of them,” he said, “how much?”

“What the hell are you doing, Carrara?” Lester stepped up beside Roy with his bag of fruit. “Are you seriously buying this junk?”

“Lester, I’m busy here and it isn’t junk. Aren’t you supposed to be looking for an Italian wife?” Roy pointed to a pair of young and obviously local girls selling bread just a few stalls farther down the street. “Why don’t you go introduce yourself to those ladies? I’ll join you in a minute.”

The beaver squinted through his glasses in the direction that Roy indicated and licked his lips. “If you aren’t there in five minutes, I’m keeping both of them for myself.” Moore ambled off leaving Roy to finish dickering over the price of the figurines.

As the bear turned his attention back to the vendor, something at the back of the tent caught his eye. It was a box of some sort, ornately carved and outfitted with bright brass hinges. “What is that?” he asked the vendor.

The hound’s face lit up. “Special. Special for you,” he said as he turned and retrieved the box from the table. He lifted the lid to reveal a set of chess pieces carved from black and white marble. “I make. Many…” the old Greek paused, searching for the word, “…moonth? You like?”

The pieces were a slight variation on the classic Staunton design. Roy lifted a knight from the box. It felt good in his paw and the marble gave it an excellent weight. Roy looked up to see the vendor gazing at him with hopeful anticipation. The bear nodded, “Yes, I like,” he said. He pointed to the chess set and the three wood animals. “All. How much?”

The old male asked for less than Roy expected and far less than the bear felt all the merchandise was worth. The hound practically wept with joy when Roy nodded in agreement without negotiating. The vendor carefully wrapped the wooden figures in some old propaganda leaflets and tied up the parcel with some string. Before he handed over the goods, he embraced his customer tightly and gave Roy a kiss on the cheek.

As Roy tucked the chess set under his arm, he heard Lester’s familiar voice coming from behind him, “Holy smokes, Roy! Why don’t you just buy the old guy out?”

“What are you doing back here already, Lester? I thought you were going to score those two girls for us.”

The beaver steered Roy back the way they had come and away from the young females. “I’ll tell you, buddy, I was making the moves. I had them right in my paw!”

“But?”

“But then their dad showed up and threatened to knock my teeth out.” Lester rapidly changed the subject, “Hey, what’s in the box?”

“Chess set.”

“No shit! You play?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell me you play,” Roy said skeptically.

“Bear, I am going to give you a schooling in the fine art of chess.”

Roy laughed for the first time in weeks. “Lester, you’ve got a better chance of getting your dick wet than you have of beating me in chess. And that means no chance at all.”

The two males traded friendly insults all the way back to their base.