To Find a Mountain (15 page)

C
HAPTER TWENTY-NINE

T
wo days later, with Emidio back to himself and my bruise reduced in size, the edges starting to turn yellow, I went to see Lauretta Fandella. She was working in the kitchen with her mother, cleaning a big black pot, when I knocked on the door.

She opened it and I was shocked by her appearance. Her skin looked pale and dry, like parchment paper, and her hair hung thick and oily, like it hadn’t been washed in the last week or two.

“Benedetta,” she said, a vacant look on her face. “Come in.”

I went inside and Lauretta climbed the stairs, then came back down with a sweater.

“I’m going for a walk, Mama.”

Her mother looked over her shoulder at us but didn’t respond as we left the house.

“How are you, Benedetta?” she asked, and I told her about my trip up the mountain. I hadn’t told Iole or Emidio anything about it, of course, and I didn’t discuss it with Zizi Checcone, though I was certain she knew where I had been. I got the feeling she was scared to even whisper any mention of the men in the mountains. After all, we had Germans under the same roof.

Lauretta was someone in whom I could confide. So I told her about the walk up the mountain with Dominic, the trip to find the parachute, and I told her about the walk to the spring when I lost my temper.

She looked at me appraisingly.

“I’m impressed, Benedetta,” she said. “A little surprised, but still I am impressed. So many Italian women let the men say what they want to them.”

When I thought about the incident with Dominic, I was embarrassed, but the way Lauretta spoke about it, I almost felt a warm resurgence in my heart; I felt proud of what I had done.

I told her about the letter under the rock, as well.

“Dominic Giancarlo. I have heard of him. He is from Roselli, no?”

I nodded, feeling fear rush through me. How did she know of him? Did some of her girlfriends know him? Had they been with him? Did he have a reputation for being with lots of girls? I felt myself flush. I had never thought these kinds of things before.

“Yes, I have heard of him,” Lauretta said.

“What do you know?”

“That many, many girls are in love with him, but he is a
lazzarone
. He likes to be with the men playing cards, drinking wine. Playing around. He dances, he flirts, but his mama is a strict woman and he does not fool around. At least that is what I hear.”

Relief flowed through me. I knew she was telling me the truth, as much of it as she knew, and I was grateful for what she had told me.

“He is that way now, but there will come a time soon when women will be most important to him,” she said. “And when that happens, there will be lots of girls ready for him.”

I felt another emotion surge through me, this one powerful as well and all consuming. It was jealousy. I did not like how it made me feel.

“We will see what kind of man he is,” I said. “When he gets my note and reads it, we will see.”

“I think that you do not have anything to worry about, Benedetta. He
does not sound like a skirt chaser.”

I felt a surge of relief that I tried to hide. We walked past the village and out along the outskirts of town where there was a small park-like setting with some logs chopped down and arranged into sitting areas. We sat next to one another on a log.

A bird flew overhead and somewhere a dog was barking. The booming of the big guns reached us from the mountain.

I turned and looked at Lauretta. Her silence confused me; usually it was tough for me to work a word in edgewise. She looked at the ground, her eyes vacant.

“Lauretta, what is wrong?”

She looked at me, shook her head, then wrapped her arms around herself.

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong.”

“Lauretta, I know you too well.”

She whispered something.

“What?”

“They found out,” she said softly.

The guns stopped booming briefly. In the silence, I tried to figure out what she meant.

“Who?”

“Becher. Schlemmer.”

I went cold inside. The guns started booming again and the wind picked up, a chill in the air.

“What did they find out, Lauretta?”

She looked at the ground a long time before answering. “My father.”

“What about him?” I said.

“They found out about my father. Somehow. They did.”

“That he . . .”

“That he’s a
ribellí
. I think they caught him and a couple other men trying to blow up a truck. I think they killed him,” she said.

“Did they say they did?”

“No, they said they haven’t and . . .”

“And what?” I said.

“And they won’t.”

Suddenly, I knew. I wanted to stop; I didn’t want to ask more questions and I didn’t want Lauretta to tell me. But she did.

“They say they won’t kill him if I let them . . . let them . . . do things to me,” she said. She started crying.

“Have they . . .”

She nodded.

“They all have. All of them.”

A strand of hair fell across her face. I tried to brush it back for her, but she jerked away from me.

“Don’t touch me. I don’t want anyone to touch me. Ever again.”

We sat there.

“I want to die, Benedetta,” she said. “I just want to die.” Her lip trembled then, and she fell into my arms. I hugged her as tightly as I could and never wanted to let go.

C
HAPTER THIRTY

T
he pig was getting fat.

It was amazing what a pig could eat and digest. This pig was gaining weight on coffee grounds, bones, and anything else unfit for human consumption.

I threw him some husks of corn, closed the chicken coop door and latched it, then moved the odds and ends in front of the door to disguise any signs of recent use; so far it had worked. It was a good hiding spot; no one would think that a sagging little structure set so far away from everything else would be housing a farm animal. And as far as I knew, this little guy was the only pig still alive in this part of the country.

Walking back to the house, it seemed that the air was getting colder, and I folded my arms, hugging my ragged sweater tightly to my chest.

In the kitchen, I could smell the menestra that was becoming our nightly meal. Zizi Checcone stood at the hearth and stirred the large pot. I looked inside; it was an even thinner soup than normal. Rations were getting lower every day.

Zizi Checcone saw the look in my eye and shrugged.

“It is not much, but it will warm the stomach,” she said.

I gathered up some bowls as she carried the large pot to the big table. Several soldiers were already seated. Neither Colonel Wolff nor Becher had yet returned from the front. The soldiers were dirty and dazed, tired from fighting; they dug into the weak soup with relish.

Iole placed a small loaf of bread between them.

“
Grazie, grazie
,” they said to us, in appreciation for a warm meal, probably the first one they’d had in several weeks. The men were rotated to and from the front, spending a day or two here to rest and recover, then back to the fighting they went. It was quiet now in the house, even with the soldiers here. They were so tired, all they could manage to do was just sleep and eat. After the soldiers finished eating, we sat down and took their places, eating the rest of the soup and bread. Anger began to well up inside me when I saw that there was only one small piece of bread left. There would barely be enough for either Iole or Emidio, but not for both. There was no question that Zizi Checcone and I would go without.

But when Iole and Emidio sat down, Zizi produced three thick slabs of bread and a small square of butter. It had been a long time since we’d seen butter and now it sat there, beautifully golden in color.

“Eat, eat, quickly!” she snapped at us, fearful that the soldiers would return for another cup of wine and see more bread.

Like wolves around a carcass, we ate the bread as quickly as we could, at the same time trying to savor the presence of real butter—a true delicacy in this wasteland of death and hunger.

“How . . . ?” I started to ask, but the old woman shook her head.

Iole and Emidio did not ask from where the surprise had come; they kept their heads down and ate their soup in silence. I noticed the dark circles under their eyes, the wooden movements of their hands as they ate, and I wept inside. Their childhood was being destroyed along with the houses, the crops, and so many lives of the men from the villages. But was nothing worse, nothing harder to replace, than the joy of one’s youth? Houses could be rebuilt, crops could be replanted, but once their innocence, their joy, was gone, I began to doubt if it could ever be replaced.

“Hey, you two,” I said. “After we eat and clean up, I have another surprise for you upstairs.”

Zizi Checcone looked at me questioningly.

We scrubbed the dishes—although it wasn’t too hard to clean the pot in which a watery soup was made—wiped the table, swept the floor, and prepared the stove for a nice warm fire in the morning.

Zizi Checcone brought out needle and thread and began to mend some garments while I took Iole and Emidio upstairs. They bounded up behind me, peppering me with questions: “What’s the surprise? What is it? Do you have a game? Come on, Benedetta, tell us! Tell us!”

I jumped on the bed and they followed, clambering over me. Finally, I set Emidio on my lap, and Iole sat across from us.

“Now, do you two know that I love you very much?” They rolled their eyes and fidgeted, anxious to get to the surprise. “Do you know that ever since Mama passed away, I’ve tried to do my best to take care of you?” They stopped fidgeting at the sound of Mama’s name, and I felt a warmth come into my cheeks. “I just want you to know that all of this will be over one day, maybe even one day soon, and when that happens, Papa will come back and things will go back to the way they used to be. There will be good food on the table and plenty of happy times ahead.”

They nodded that they understood, but I could tell they had their doubts, and I couldn’t blame them; I had doubts, too. The Allies seemed stronger than Germany, but the Germans were committed. And even if the Germans were defeated, what would the Allies do with Italy? Our country was in league with Hitler, and Mussolini was a Fascist. Would we be punished for taking up arms against the Allies, even if for most of us it had been against our will?

I pushed the thoughts from my mind. We would all have to do what it takes to survive. To dwell on what might happen would do nothing more than ensure an ulcer if one lived long enough to suffer. I intended to survive, and I intended for my family to not just survive as well, but to come out of all this in one piece, not like some of these soldiers: nothing more than ghosts living in human shells.

Iole and Emidio were looking at me, and I snapped out of my train of thought.

“Are you done daydreaming, Benedetta?” Iole asked. “Or are you just trying to make up an excuse for why you don’t have a surprise for us?”

“I have a surprise. Let me get it for you.”

From inside the top drawer of my dresser, I pulled a small cloth wrapped up into a tight square. I laid it on the bed, and Iole and Emidio’s eyes were wide with anticipation.

“Here it is,” I said, caressing the soft cloth.

“Open it! Open it!” Emidio said, leaning forward over the bundle like a deer about to drink from a stream.

“There’s nothing in there; she’s playing a trick on us,” Iole said, her eyes riveted to the small package.

“Oh, really?” I said, lifting a corner of the cloth, then another and another and another.

“Then I suppose you won’t be wanting any of this nothing, eh?” I said, lifting the final section of cloth.

They both inhaled sharply.

There, huddling together on the pristine white cloth backdrop, were two incredibly thick, incredibly large squares of American chocolate.

Iole started to reach for a square first.

“Eh, eh, eh!” I said.

She shot her hand back and they both looked at me again.

“Before I give them to you, you have to promise me a couple of things.”

They nodded solemnly.

“You have to promise that you’ll continue to help me and Zizi Checcone around the house.”

“I promise,” they said in unison.

“You have to promise that you’ll never ask me where I got it.”

“I promise.”

“You have to remember that you are young and deserve to have fun, so promise me that every day you’ll play bocci or chase each other or swing on the big tree out back.”

They looked at each other like I had gone crazy. Benedetta ordering them to play? It didn’t seem possible.

“I promise,” they repeated in unison.

“And finally, promise that you’ll give me hugs and kisses before you dig in,” I said. They giggled and showered me with hugs and kisses.

“Enough! Enough! Eat! Enjoy!” I pushed them off and they reached with reverence for their respective squares. As they bit into the sweet candy, I didn’t believe I had ever seen such ecstasy as I saw then in their eyes; they savored the rich chocolate like it was a forbidden desire at last indulged.

As they ate the chocolate, and then licked their fingers, I idly stroked their hair, marveling at the smoothness of their skin, the delicacy of their features. They were growing up fast. Even in the middle of a war without enough food to go around, they were still growing up too fast.

I knew all too well what it was like to have a childhood cut short. If there was a way to prevent it from happening to them, by God, I was going to find it.