To Find a Mountain Page 14

The image of my father’s face the way he looked in the mountains came back to me. There was no way to slow down his aging. One day, he would pass, too, and like now, there would be nothing I could do about it. If only I could raise my hand, shout “Stop!” and have the world put on hold while I went about making adjustments, a little push here, a little help there, and things would be different, things would be right.

  I emptied the rest of the coffee into the sink. It didn’t taste good; there was a sour taste in my mouth.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The weeks dragged on, several months passed and then spring came. The flowers along the edge of town began to show the tips of their white blossoms, throwing a false, hypocritical light of gaiety onto the area.

  Dominic’s letters arrived in the same place every week. The first few were short and to the point, not straying far from the expected ‘how are you?’, ‘I miss you’, ‘it’s lonely up here,’ to even cliché descriptions of the weather. But with each letter, he seemed to become more confident, more willing to express his feelings, as if writing about his emotions seemed to simultaneously make him more aware of them.

  It was hard for me to believe that the young shy boy I’d first met walking up the mountain had managed to transform himself into something of a poet, but it was true. I felt that his words, his willingness to stray beyond the first traditional proclamations of affection for me were symbolic of how he was reaching out to me. Yes, sometimes he did fall into cliché, maybe he was even a bit sappy at times, but behind the words themselves the meaning was genuine, and I felt that honesty; I responded mentally and physically to the beauty of his truth.

  I knew my father would not approve of the letter-writing, he had told me, after all, to stop, but I did not care. No one was being harmed. Besides, I could tell Papa that we were just friends, even though I hoped it wasn’t true.

  I believed in following my heart, and my heart was leading me to Dominic. I answered his letters, his assertions of love, with my own.

  Still, my father and mother always said I had a strong head on my shoulders and it was my head, not my heart, that began to suggest there was something wrong with the letters. Something about the way Dominic began with simple sentences and then switched to more flowery words. Even though I knew the sentiments being expressed were beyond reproach, I began to wonder if the actual words used to express them were his own.

  I went to my father’s room and looked at his bookcase. Not sure of what I was looking for, I scanned the titles on the shelf. There were some textbooks from his schooling so long ago. Father had only made it to the fifth grade before Nonna pulled him out and sent him to work in the fields. There were also a few picture books and a volume of poetry. Nothing seemed to stir my memory.

  It was then that I remembered Luigi Iacobelli.

  Without stopping to consider what I was doing, I walked out of the house and struck out for Luigi’s house. As I walked, I tried to remember what I’d heard. I knew that Signor Iacobelli had once wanted to be a priest, and had attended a prestigious seminary in Rome, but that he had grown tired of the priesthood. There were rumors that he had left the church with abandon, living a decadent lifestyle for several years before returning to Casalveri. He had the largest book collection in town, and people who needed to know something often went to his house to look something up on his bookshelf; in essence he was the town’s library.

  I also knew that many young men went to his house; there was rumored to be a secret bookshelf that even Signora Iacobelli did not know about. There were supposed to be books that had such things in them, scandalous things, things that would get a young boy like Luigi kicked out of the seminary.

  I reached the Iacobelli house and knocked upon the front door. The house was a small, lopsided structure made of stone with a long grape vine winding its way around the walls, like a green snake bringing fresh fruit to its next victim.

  The door opened and Signora Iacobelli smiled at me.

  “Benedetta! Come in, come in. How are you?”

  “Good, Signora. And you?”

  “We’re just fine, just fine. What can I do for you, girl?”

  “Actually, I’m here to see Signor Iacobelli.”

  “Ah, you need to look something up, no?” Without waiting for a reply, she yelled toward the back of the house. “Gigi! You have a visitor.” She turned back to me.

  “I must return to the kitchen, Benedetta…”

  I stood silently in the front entryway and looked at a small oil painting hanging crookedly on the wall. It was a picture of a young girl and a young man standing back-to-back beneath a tree.

  “You like it? I bought it in Rome.”

  I turned to see Signor Iacobelli watching me from the hallway. He was in a wheelchair, a stump where his left leg should have been.

  “It’s nice.”

  “What can I do for you?” he said.

  “I’m looking for a book…”

  “You have come to the right place, follow me.”

  We went back down the hallway, passed the main room of the house, then turned left and went into a small room that was crowded with books from floor to ceiling. The bookshelves covered every wall and they were overflowing. Stacks of books were piled in corners and on tables. It was a mess.

  “Now, what kind of book were you looking for?”

  “A book of letters. Love letters.” I felt myself blush.

  Signor Iacobelli seemed to ponder that for a moment, and eyed me closely.

  “I don’t think I can help you with that one, Benedetta.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Do you not have it, or can you not help me?” I watched him closely and he dropped his gaze.

  “I may have had a book like that at one time…”

  “Did a young man borrow it?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and held his hands out. “So many people borrow books from me, it is hard to keep things straight — as you can see.”

  My heart sank. He was not going to help me. I started to thank him for his time, but then a thought came to me.

  “My brother will be so disappointed,” I said.

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes, Emidio has a crush on a little girl, and he asked me to write her a love letter. I had heard that you might have a book of these things.”

  “But Emidio is so young!” the old man said.

  “A young romantic,” I corrected.

  He laughed heartily and clapped his hands together.

  “Ah, yes, I was young myself once, and in love. I was in love so many, many, many times.” He chucked deliciously and seemed lost in thought for a moment, a guilty, pleasurable smile on his face.

  At last, he faced me. “Now, what I said Benedetta, was that I may have had such a book. That is true. I did have one at one time. But the men in the mountains, they need to write letters home to their girls, and some of them came and got it from me.”

  I knew then that I had my answer, but I could not stop now.

  “However,” he said quietly, looking over my shoulder to make sure Signora Iacobelli was not listening. “For some of my more, how shall we say, radical works of literature, I do have copies, just in case the original gets…appropriated. Wait here.”

  He pushed himself into a small closet in the corner of the room and lifted something. I heard wood scraping, Signor Iacobelli grunted as he lifted a heavy object, then rummaged around. After much effort, he replaced the object, then closed the closet door.

  When he came out, there were beads of perspiration on his forehead.

  “Here we are. But be careful with it, it is my last copy.”

  I glanced down quickly. Letters of Love.

  “Thank you. Emidio will be so happy.”

  I raced home and went directly to my room. I read the first few pages and nothing struck me, but on the fourth page I recognized this passage:

  “nightingales whisper your name, and the chambers of my heart resonate with their s
ong.”

  As I read on, more and more of the words were the same words Dominic had used in his letters. I was not seized by an insane fury, after all, I still felt that the emotion he was expressing was genuine and it was not uncommon for men to look for help in writing flowery letters. Still, I started to get warm, as a slow anger rose within me. I thought of Lauretta, so much wiser in the way of young men than myself, she probably would have not been surprised by something like this. She probably would shrug her shoulders and say, “that’s what men do.”

  But I was different, I had not expected something like this, as obvious as it now seemed to me.

  I got out a piece of paper and a pen, scribbled a short note and walked out to the rock wall. I lifted the stone, hesitated, then opened my letter again to read it.

  Dominic,

  Your last letter was so warm and heartfelt, I know you love me so much to say these words straight from your heart. You have no idea how it makes me feel to know that a man of your honesty and integrity loves me.

  In fact, I don’t think I can go on writing, so instead of trying to put anything down, why don’t you turn to page 46 of your book for the rest of my letter.

  Love,

  Benedetta

  I slipped the note under the rock and pushed it back into the wall.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  In early March, Mt. Cassino fell to the Allies, but only briefly.

  When the bombs started falling closer to Casalveri, we knew something was wrong. When the first armored vehicles of the Germanesí roared down the mountain and into town, with the sounds of the bombs not far behind, we knew that the Americans had finally managed to get up the mountain.

  Boom-boom, boom-boom, KA-BOOM! Each explosion brought more Germans into town and they struggled to organize themselves. They looked like rats pouring out of a hole that was filling with gasoline. The town was instantly deserted, and for good reason. For months, rumors had floated around that the Germans would massacre the village before leaving, a rumor that was followed immediately by old women crossing themselves with the sign of the Lord, as if the ritual would prevent a few more murders in the midst of an ocean of death and destruction.

  As far as I knew, I was the only one looking forward to the fall of Mt. Cassino. The tension for me had been unbearable, I couldn’t stand the thought of the Germans being in my house for one more week, let alone a month or even a year. No matter what kind of horror their retreat would bring, I felt joy at the prospect. Perhaps I would pay for that, but I was prepared to accept the price, come what may.

  With a group of German soldiers parked in front of the house, Colonel Wolff finally pulled up in his jeep, and motioned his radio operator to follow him inside. The operator put the mobile radio on the big table, and I bustled about, getting coffee for Wolff and the radioman. He sat down heavily as the operator set about powering up the radio and adjusting the frequency dial.

  I set a cup down in front of Wolff and he drank half in one big gulp, seeming not to notice me or the fact that the coffee was hot to the point of scalding. There was a battle for control of Wolff’s emotions: one minute he looked to be in an utter state of panic, the other minute a dull resignation, an acknowledgment of sin.

  The radio squawked into life, and Wolff began barking short, guttural sentences in German into the microphone. A man’s voice answered, surrounded by the sound of bombs dropping, rifles firing, and the sound of heavy machinery grinding away.

  After listening, Wolff spoke for several minutes, gesturing with his hands to the man on the other end of the radio who could not possibly see them. I gathered that he was giving directions to his troops. When he finished, the radio squawked again and the man asked several more questions, to which Wolff responded with more hand gestures. Finally, the man answered in the affirmative, and Wolff nodded to the operator, who promptly turned the radio off and checked his watch, probably ready for an update at a certain preset time.

  Wolff stood up and walked outside, where he spoke to the men waiting for orders. They instantly hopped into their vehicles, and headed back toward the mountain, slowly.

  He came back inside, sat in the same chair next to the radio, and leaned back, ran his hand through his thick hair. His eyes fell on me.

  “Benedetta, could I please have some more coffee?” he said.

  I filled his cup but his eyes were locked on mine.

  “Benedetta, what will you do after the war?”

  I thought for a moment.

  “Starve,” I said.

  The radio operator laughed out loud. Wolff smiled, a movement that was weak and weary.

  “When the Americans take over,” Wolff started, and the radio operator shot him a look of disapproval. “It will happen one day, Klaus, we will not be here forever.” The operator looked back to the radio and pretended to make some adjustments.

  “When they take over, they will bring food, enough to get you to the planting season,” Wolff said. “And you will have crops again, you will have wine, and the men from the mountains will return. You will be all right.”

  “You are more optimistic than I. There are stories that the village will be butchered.”

  Wolff rolled his eyes.

  “Ah, you Italians, you have such active imaginations. That’s why you have so many artists and sculptors. It’s all up here,” he said, tapping the side of his head.

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” I answered hotly. “My friend Lauretta had a terrific imagination.”

  “Lauretta?”

  “The girl that was hung in the square.”

  He looked down at the table, visibly stung. He sipped slowly from his coffee cup, measuring his words.

  “There’s that Italian fire, too,” he said.

  Just then, the radio blared, and the operator hurriedly adjusted the frequency knobs until the voice on the other end, screaming maniacally in German, came in loud and clear.

  Wolff shouted into the microphone and the voice instantly became more calm. The two spoke back-and-forth, the operator hung on every word, and slowly a smile spread across his face.

  After several minutes, Wolff jumped up and ran outside, barked orders at the few men remaining outside, and then came back into the house. He picked up the microphone and spoke for several more minutes. At last, he nodded to the operator who shut off the radio and stood, stretched and clapped his hands.

  Wolff smiled, too, but I got the sense that it was forced.

  The operator said something and left. Wolff looked at me and I raised an eyebrow.

  “The Americans accidentally dropped bombs on their own men. We were in full retreat, and they wiped themselves out. My men are going back in, killing the survivors. We have reclaimed the mountain. The Mignano Gap and Mt. Cassino are back in the hands of the Wermacht.” There was no smile on his face, no look of triumph.

  My heart sank and I turned my back on him, even though I got the sense he may have been just as disappointed as I. So much for Casalveri returning to normal, so much for feeling safe, for being able to go to bed at night knowing that nothing terribly unspeakable will wake you up to the sound of screaming and gunfire.

  “It looks like we will be here for a while longer.”

  I poked the fire listlessly.

  “I’ll make more coffee.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The ax blade severed the rooster’s head with one clean stroke. Blood spurted onto the wood chopping block and I stepped back as he took off running, speeding around in tight circles. At last, he reversed direction, stood uncertainly swaying, then collapsed onto his side.

  The decision had not been easy, and it was not made by me alone. Zizi Checcone had brought it up.

  “It is time,” she had said, gesturing toward the hen house, now empty except for the gigolo.

  “Time for what?”

  “Your little brother and sister need protein. No one has rented Gallo for some time, probably because eggs are too precious at this point, even if it me
ans more hens down the road. Everyone is living in the present. We must, too.”

  I walked to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Emidio! Come here!”

  Zizi Checcone watched me from the kitchen. Emidio bounded down the stairs, full of energy, laughing. I scooped him up into my arms and looked at his face closely. There were dark circles under them, and I noticed red in the corners. I pulled his lips apart and looked at his teeth. I set him down and pulled his sleeves up, and looked at his skin. There were several bruises on each arm.

  “Where did you get these?” I asked, my temper rising.

  “From chores.”

  “What chores gave you these?”

  “Gathering wood, helping with the laundry.”

  “Go back upstairs.”

  He raced up the stairs and without a word I walked out of the house to the barn where I got the small hatchet.

  Emidio had never bruised that easily before, Zizi Checcone was right, something had to be done.

  The rooster was happy to see me, figuring that I was either going to feed him or set him up on another romantic outing with one of his girlfriends. He strutted before me, full of bravado and self-confidence.

  “You finished your life in style, rooster,” I said. “That’s more than a lot of us might be able to say.”

  Now I stood with his dead body in my hand. I hung him high in the barn, where no animal could get to him. In the morning, I would pluck him and boil him, then give the heart and liver to Iole and Emidio. They would no doubt complain, but they would eat the protein rich parts or have them stuffed down their throats. They needed their strength, it’s when you are young that your brain needs fat and protein for development; I would not let the Germanesí create any permanent damage to my little brother and sister.

  I went back into the house where Zizi Checcone motioned me to follow her. We walked back outside and around to the back of the house. She turned to me, and her black eyes were blazing.

  “Here, take this to the pig.” She handed me a large bucket with a towel over it. “If things continue, we are going to need to slaughter him in secret, and eat him ourselves, none for them,” she said, gesturing toward the house with a look of contempt on her face.