To Find a Mountain Page 11

  I wondered, though, if his return to the front had anything to do with what he had talked about. Was it to get into battle and fight, an attempt to reclaim his spirit for the war? Or was it perhaps to avoid another scene of drunkenness, sorrow, and anti-German sentiment? It was probably a lot harder to get falling down drunk at the front. And a person’s life must be in a whole lot of agony if running away to war is the better option.

  My routine continued. Up early, build a fire in the fireplace, or if no wood was ready, chop enough to keep the stove going for the better part of the day. If bread needed to be baked and if flour was available, a fire would need to be built in the outdoor oven. Depending upon the amount of vegetables that were gathered, the process of scraping them together along with spices would be started, the end results always amounting to a very thin and very weak minestrone.

  Then laundry would need to be taken to the big pot outside, or to the springs a mile away. Cleaned, hung out to dry, then folded. If there was not any laundry, then the house would be cleaned; floors mopped, walls scrubbed, dust wiped away.

  And then it would be time to start thinking of dinner. The search for a piece of meat to make a weak stew would begin. If we were lucky enough to find one, or a German soldier could produce a rabbit or squirrel, it would be thrown in with a few potatoes and any remaining onions from lunch. Despite our efforts, everyone was getting too thin. The most dramatic change was Zizi Checcone; she looked like a different woman, and the change was not altogether bad.

  I knew she wasn’t eating much, and that she gave as much as she could to Iole and Emidio. I told her not to, that we needed her to keep strong, but she would pinch the dwindling roll of fat around her middle and say, “I’ve still got some reserves left. Who ever heard of a fat woman starving to death?”

  Zizi Checcone and I were in the kitchen, slicing bread and setting out plates and cups on the table when Iole bounded in from outside, a thick, folded piece of paper in her hand.

  “I’ve got a secret! I’ve got a secret!” she said, then laughed and danced around the big table. She waved the paper around and smiled, looking at me. Zizi Checcone and I ignored her and continued setting things out for dinner. Iole, however, refused to be ignored.

  “So, Benedetta, who is Dominic Giancarlo?”

  My heart stopped and I whirled on her.

  “Brutta bestia!” I said and chased her around the table, but she was fast, her long legs flashed and the paper was clasped tightly in her hand. I stopped at one end of the table, and she at the other.

  “Give me that, Iole, right now.”

  “Dominic Giancarlo! Dominic Giancarlo!” Iole sang in her high voice, a big smile on her face.

  I chased her around the table some more; I was laughing, but getting angrier with each circle around the table.

  “Benedetta!” Zizi Checcone said sharply. “What is this all about?”

  “Benedetta’s got a boy!” Iole cackled and then she made a break for the stairs, but I chased her at an angle and caught her, then wrestled her to the ground and tore the paper from her hand.

  “He’s not my boy!” I stood, my face flushed.

  Iole rolled and stood, then raced behind Zizi Checcone. “Judging by that letter, that’s not what he thinks!” she said.

  I looked at the paper in my hand. My name was written clearly on the top fold.

  “Do you always read letters addressed to someone else?” I walked toward her, ready to slap her. La mazatta.

  “Iole! Where are your manners? Your mother and father did a better job raising you than that!” The sharpness in Zizi Checcone’s voice wiped the smile off Iole’s face. She looked at the ground and I could see tears start to well up in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Benedetta,” my little sister said. The look on her face threw cold water on my anger.

  “It’s okay.” I said, tousling her hair. “But I’ll remember this when you’re older.” Her head perked up to see if I was serious, and I smiled at her. She smiled back and wiped a tear from her eye.

  “Where did you find it?” I asked.

  “It was underneath a rock along the low stone wall by the barn.”

  I nodded.

  Zizi Checcone spoke. “Iole, help me with the potatoes. Benedetta, go read your letter.” She threw a hand towel over Iole’s shoulder and they both turned to the big pot over the fire as I ran upstairs to the bedroom, clutching the letter against my chest. I closed the door and lay on the bed, Emidio’s teddy bear reading the letter over my shoulder.

  I unfolded the letter and imagined Dominic’s big hands folding the paper neatly, perhaps tucking it in his shirt pocket before getting it to me.

  The letter was written in a large, simple scrawl.

  Dear Benedetta,

  I don’t know why I said what I did. It was not right. It was stupid. I did not mean it. Sometimes I don’t think about what I’m saying.

  It is hard to live up here, and not see people all day. The only time I see anyone is at night, and then we sleep.

  I think about you. All the time. Maybe you do not like me very much, but I like you. I hope you’ll give me another chance. If you want to answer, leave a note under this same rock.

  Dominic

  P.S. Except that it is much prettier, your hand is no different than mine.

  I put the letter down on the bed next to me. Questions flooded my mind. How did he get the letter under the rock? Was someone acting as a messenger for the men in the mountain? Had someone from the village been to the mountain? Or, I shuddered to think, had he brought the note down himself? My heart skipped a beat at the thought: A two-hour walk one way, sneak up to the very house where the German soldiers were resting, all to leave a note for me? It just wasn’t possible. Someone else from the village brought the note; it was the only realistic possibility.

  I folded the letter and placed it in the small pocket at the front of my dress. This required a response. An immediate response.

  I went to the small desk in the corner of the room and found a piece of paper. A half-chewed, stubby pencil showed itself from the back corner of the desk’s drawer. A bird landed on the window sill and cocked an eye at me. I looked back, wondering if it was going to tell me something, but then it flapped its wings and disappeared.

  I put the pencil to the paper, but hesitated. I read over his letter again. He had been cautious. I did not want to say too much, but still needed to get the message across.

  With my forehead resting in my left hand, I scratched out a message quickly. I wanted this to be from the heart. I read it over, satisfied with what I had written. I used the eraser to change a word here and there, but for the most part it conveyed what I felt.

  I folded the paper back up again, then put it next to Dominic’s letter in the front pocket of my dress.

  “Iole,” I called, going down the stairs. She appeared in an instant, welcoming the chance to avoid doing any more work in the kitchen.

  “Come with me.”

  We walked outside, behind the house, to the dilapidated barn. A low rock wall separated the barn from the empty field next to it. It was dark stone that had been here a long time, and was maybe part of a foundation for a building that had long since disappeared. The rocks were in neat rows, all of different shapes and sizes.

  “Show me where you found the note,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Just show me.”

  “Are you answering him?”

  “Iole, asking questions will just get you into trouble.”

  She was quiet for a moment, and we walked farther up the wall toward the forest beyond. “I’m certain it’s right here.”

  Iole walked directly up to a section of the wall, hesitated, then moved a little bit past it. “Or was it here?” she said with a sly smile.

  Quick as a cat, I had her ear between my thumb and forefinger. Although the pressure was slight, she started squirming in anticipation.

  “Try to remember. Try a little harder,” I sai
d, squeezing a bit more.

  “There! There!” she said, pointing to a section of the wall that was no more than three feet from where we were standing. I followed her finger and saw the one rock that was jutting out, fresh moss exposed to the sunlight.

  “That rock there?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Benedetta. Don’t worry, he’ll find it.”

  I shot a sharp look at her and she moved a couple of steps away from me, toward the house.

  “Go back to the house, and tell no one of this spot, or you’ll be in so much pain, you’ll wish the Germans were interrogating you!”

  She ran back toward the house and I picked up the rock, placed my note in the empty space, then put the rock back on top of it, and left the rock tilted slightly out of line with the rest of the wall. Enough for Dominic to notice, but not so much that anyone else would without looking closely.

  I stood and looked at the distance from the rock wall to the edge of the pine forest. Although I still believed that someone else brought the note for Dominic, that he wouldn’t be foolish enough to risk coming down the mountain by himself just to give me a note, I did notice that the forests’ edge was less than thirty yards form the stone wall. If Dominic had come, he could’ve walked down the path, skirted the village by keeping under cover of the woods, made it to the stone wall, then gone back the way he came.

  I hoped, for his sake, that wasn’t the case. I didn’t want anyone risking their life to give me a love letter. In fact, I was almost angry at him for taking such a risk, for putting me ahead of himself, I did not want to be responsible for anyone’s death; there had been far too much of it already.

  But when I walked back to the house, some strange things happened. My legs suddenly felt lighter. There was a bounce in my step. And on my face was a big, happy smile.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Late in the afternoon, a visitor came to the house.

  Her name was Rosa Zanussi. She lived on the eastern side of Casalveri; her husband had health problems and her only daughter was fully grown and married, off with a family of her own. She also had a son who had left Casalveri many years ago and now lived in Naples.

  Her husband had contracted polio and now walked with the aid of a walking stick and a cumbersome brace. His left arm was withered, ending prematurely in a stump with two fingers. For better or worse, he was safe during the war, even the Germans could find no use for him.

  Signora Zanussi was a woman who had lived a hard life, secretly a lot of the younger women in Casalveri feared they would end up like her. And the truth was, many if not most would. She had probably never been a pretty woman, and the long days of growing crops and caring for her children as well as a crippled husband, had all wreaked havoc on her body. She was prematurely old.

  Her dress was stitched and re-stitched many times over. Strands of gray hair hung across her face and remained there, their owner too tired to make the effort to tuck them behind her ear.

  “Good morning, Benedetta,” she said, a half-formed smile appeared on her face that departed quickly, as if it knew it would never reach its full potential so just decided to quit ahead of time.

  “How are you, Signora Zanussi?”

  She looked down and shifted her feet. Her thick ankles were throbbing with varicose veins.

  “I am fine. God has not told me to join him today; so I will continue doing what I do for another day.”

  Finding a response to that proved impossible.

  “Benny,” she whispered, leaning close to me and looking around for people eavesdropping. “Do you know you have the only rooster left in Casalveri?”

  “That can’t be!”

  “It is true.”

  From the folds of her dress her hand emerged holding four eggs.

  “I would like to rent him.”

  “What?” The war had proven to be ghastly, but now it was just getting downright weird.

  “Our hen is ready; it is time. Without a rooster to impregnate her, well…”

  “It is an opportunity not to be missed, no?” I answered.

  She nodded emphatically, shrugging her shoulders and cocking her head to the side.

  “She is our last hen, Benedetta. If she doesn’t have chicks soon, who knows if she ever will.”

  “Your hen is probably one of the last in Casalveri, too,” I said.

  “I don’t know, I think people are hiding their animals from the Germans, but it isn’t always easy.”

  I thought of the pig, fifty yards away hidden in a secret compartment of the barn.

  Signora Zanussi continued. “Who knows when the time will come again? Who knows what will still be alive in the next year. “

  We both knew what she really meant.

  “Come with me,” I said.

  I led her to the back of the house where our chicken pen was located. There, in the dirt of the pen, perched imperiously on one leg, stood our rooster, Gallo.

  Seemingly aware of his audience, he fluffed his neck feathers and strutted around the pen. I rolled my eyes at the sight of him. Auditioning for his role, perhaps?

  “He senses why we are here,” Mrs. Zanussi said, laughing.

  I entered the pen and scooped him up. He bobbed his head back and forth, seemingly excited about the possibilities of what might lay ahead. For a minute I thought I could feel his heart beating wildly.

  Mrs. Zanussi handed me the eggs and I handed her Gallo.

  She stroked his feathers and he jutted his head forward, his neck rising to meet her hand. This was going to be good, he was probably thinking. He looked at me as if to say, “Wish me luck.”

  I kicked the door to the pen, it closed with a solid clang.

  “How is Signor Zanussi?” I said.

  “He is in great pain, Benedetta. And it will only get worse; at least that’s what the doctors say.”

  “Our hearts go out to him.”

  She shrugged her shoulders again.

  “We are all going to be in great pain, soon,” she said. “Already the people of Casalveri are starting to feel the beginning of the long hunger that will come. All food is running low. There is talk that other villages like Roselli and Scatozza may soon have to be evacuated.”

  “The Americans?” I said, not attempting to hide the hope in my voice.

  “Yes, the Americans are making some advances south of here,” she said. “These other villages, they will come here, they have to. And there is not enough food here for us as it is; what will happen when hundreds of new people start pouring into our town? Where will they get food to eat? Water to drink?”

  “They will be even hungrier than us,” I said.

  Mrs. Zanussi’s face was flushed.

  “Who knows, maybe they will try to take what little we have left.” She shrugged her shoulders. “You are safe here, Benny, with the Germans. There is always something good in bad, at least. Who in their right mind will try to take something from you? But what about me? I have a man who can barely walk; if hooligans want to rob me how will I manage to stop them? Throw my empty pots and pans at them?”

  She laughed in spite of herself.

  “We must somehow try to make it through this together,” I said. “The people of Roselli are no different than the people of Casalveri. We cannot become each other’s enemies. We have enough enemies as it is.”

  “You and I know that, Benny. But will their hungry stomachs know that?”

  We were silent then until I handed her back two of the four eggs.

  “No, no…” she started.

  “Take them. I do not need them all. They…” I said, gesturing toward the house, “…do not need them either. Two is plenty for Iole and Emidio and myself. Take two back. Mr. Zanussi needs them, too.”

  She reluctantly put two of the eggs back in the pocket of her dress.

  “Besides,” I said, gesturing toward Gallo. “He may act like a big man, but who knows if he’ll actually get the
job done?”

  She laughed then and leaned closer.

  “We must stay strong, Benedetta.” She wrapped her hand around my hand that was still holding the two eggs. “Eat these for yourself and your brother and sister. You children need them for strength.”

  I looked down at her hands; the arthritic knuckles were turning white as she squeezed my hand.

  “We will be here long after these Germanesí have gone,” she said. “We must be strong enough to rebuild what they destroy. It is the way it has always been.”

  She left then, walking away with great effort, Gallo under her arm. His feet were moving, running hard and kicking but getting nowhere.

  I knew the feeling.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Becher sat tight-lipped at the head of the table, a soldier on each side of him. Iole, Emidio, myself and Zizi Checcone took up the rest of the table.

  Dinner consisted of yet another stew, this time made with a mystery meat that Zizi Checcone guessed was lamb, although she knew of no one in the area who had not butchered and eaten all of their sheep long ago. Bread and wine were also on the table.

  Conversation around the dinner table typically consisted of the Germans talking amongst themselves, with the occasional call for more bread or wine. Usually, we sat in silence except for the occasional command to Iole and Emidio to eat what was in front of them, and to eat all of it. Even now, Iole continued to be a bit of a picky eater even though she had to have been ravenous.

  Something was wrong with Becher, he seemed even more stern and humorless than usual. Although we couldn’t follow the conversation between he and the soldiers, I could tell he wasn’t happy about something. Things must not be going well on the mountain, I thought to myself.

  I went to the pot over the fireplace to scrape any remnants from its sides while Zizi Checcone stepped outside to bring more bread from the oven. That left Iole and Emidio at the table with the Germans.