To Find a Mountain Read online

  I slid a giant, cracked washtub and an old handplow harness in front of the door. Pressing my ear against the wooden door, I struggled to hear any sound, but there was nothing. I knew it would be complete darkness inside. What I didn’t know was what it would do to the piglet, if he survived at all. But then, I thought, wasn’t that true for all of us?

  I walked back through the shed, shutting the main door tightly. Snapping the pigs on their bottoms with my stick, I eventually herded them to the front of the house. Becher was nowhere to be seen.

  Schlemmer emerged from the house with another German soldier. They each had a piece of bread in their hand. Schlemmer looked at me but his face showed no emotion, just a cold, blank stare.

  The other soldier said something in German and Schlemmer’s eyes fell toward the pigs now shuffling around the yard in confusion, grunting their displeasure with the whole situation.

  Becher came from the house. He barked orders to Schlemmer and the other soldier who promptly pulled long knives from their belts. I moved toward the house, then stood next to Becher, watching.

  Schlemmer and the other soldier each got a hold of a pig and slid their knives under the animals’ throats. I wanted to close my eyes but I couldn’t, I wanted to see the Germans kill the pigs that my father and I had raised. I wanted to see these men spill blood on the ground not more than twenty yards from my house.

  The two soldiers moved as one, cutting upward quickly and smoothly. They stepped back as each pig took several tentative steps, swaying as the blood spurted from their severed jugular veins. The pigs sank to their knees and dropped in the dirt, blood pooling around them. As I raised my eyes from the pigs, I looked directly into Schlemmer’s grinning face. His teeth were yellow and his face was flushed.

  “We will eat these, Benedetta,” said Becher. I nodded numbly and went inside the house.

  Chapter Ten

  On the sixth day of my father’s absence a rumor made its way through the village that Bishop Frugazzi was on his way. In the larger province of Frosinone, Father Frugazzi was the highest-ranking clergy. To have a priest of his stature come to our village was an honor, and a cause for celebration.

  He was coming, ostensibly, to meet the Germans as well as to bless the village and pray for our safety as the war raged on all around us.

  By lunchtime, the rumor had grown to fact: the Bishop would indeed be arriving in Casalveri at noon. The rumor was confirmed by Colonel Wolff, who called me to discuss the matter.

  “You’ve heard of the man?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “This is an honor for all of us in Casalveri.”

  He smiled.

  “Your faith is admirable, Benedetta,” he said.

  For some reason, I didn’t think he admired my strong Catholic faith at all, there seemed to be a touch of mockery in his smile.

  “Here is a bottle of wine,” he said, handing it to me. “Please serve it to us at lunch.”

  “To who?” I asked.

  “Don Frugazzi will be coming here for lunch.”

  “Here?” I said.

  “Here. Is there a problem?”

  “No, no,” I said. The fear I had been feeling since the Germans’ arrival was now replaced with a nervous excitement. Without saying another word to Wolff, I rushed to the kitchen and retrieved the best jar of tomatoes I could find, the one with the biggest chunks.

  I immediately set out to make Father Frugazzi the best spaghetti lunch he had ever had. The freshest garlic, onion and olive oil, with chunks of pork all went into the rich sauce. The thickest pasta I could find was boiled. I had never worked so quickly or so efficiently in the kitchen in my life. My hands flew with a speed and precision I didn’t know I possessed.

  The best tablecloth, last used for the wake after my mother’s funeral, went on the table. From a felt-lined wooden box came the few pieces of mismatched fine silverware that we kept, reserved for special occasions.

  While everything cooked, I hurried to Zizi Checcone’s, holding my dress up so I could run as fast as my feet would fly. Iole and Emidio were playing together in the yard. They saw me coming and raced to meet me.

  “Benny, what’s wrong?” Iole asked, her big brown eyes wide with anticipated fright.

  I laughed.

  “Nothing! Just the opposite!”

  Emidio was clinging to my dress.

  “Father Frugazzi — the Bishop — is coming to our house for lunch!” I told them.

  They looked at me, not realizing immediately the seriousness of the occasion.

  “Come with me — you can meet him and help serve lunch,” I said. “Papa will be so happy to know how well we took care of the Bishop. This is an important occasion for the Carlessimo family!”

  “This is an important occasion for all of Casalveri!” Zizi Checcone said, emerging from the front door of the house. She began to brush Iole’s hair with her fingers and straighten Emidio’s shirt and collar. She frantically tried to smooth out the wrinkles in my dress.

  We raced back to the house and I sent Iole and Emidio upstairs to change. I tested the pasta to make sure it was right, biting a noodle in half, to see that it felt firm, but not crisp, soft but not soggy. Al dente.

  The sound of voices reached the kitchen, and soon Wolff led Father Frugazzi into the kitchen. The Bishop was a short wide man, balding, with horn-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in black, and was sweating profusely.

  “This is Benedetta Carlessimo,” Wolff said. “She’s taking good care of us.”

  His chubby hand took mine and he kissed it, then kissed both of my cheeks.

  “Ah, Benedetta, the blessed,” he said. “What a beautiful name, and such a beautiful girl!” he said.

  He turned to Wolff.

  “You are lucky to have such a beautiful zoccola.”

  I blushed at the word, which means a woman of ill-repute. I was certain I hadn’t heard right. That the Bishop hadn’t just called me that horrible name. I then busied myself with the food. Iole and Emidio came downstairs and were introduced to the Father. They helped me finish setting the table while Wolff and Father Frugazzi began talking.

  “How goes the…effort, Colonel Wolff?” the Bishop began.

  “Excellent, excellent…”

  “Good…”

  “We are pushing, the Americans are trying to reach us but we throw them back, almost effortlessly,” Wolff said. To me, however, his voice didn’t sound as certain as his words.

  “The big guns…” the Bishop said.

  “Yes, the big guns are too much for them.”

  Father Frugazzi drained his glass and motioned for me to re-fill it, which I did.

  “They will soon give up,” said the Bishop. “They lose too many men.”

  Wolff nodded his head in agreement.

  “I hear about the American losses,” continued Father Frugazzi. “Word from my parishioners is that the southern slope of Mt. Cassino is covered with dead Americans.”

  “Our men are good fighters,” said Wolff.

  I placed the bowl of spaghetti on the table. The Bishop served himself, then pushed the bowl across to Wolff who was clearly not as experienced with pasta. He awkwardly heaped a pile of the pasta onto his plate.

  “And how are your people, Father?” asked Wolff, struggling to wrap noodles around his fork. He watched Father Frugazzi use his spoon to hold the pasta while twirling the fork, but this too was overly difficult for the German.

  “They are good,” the Bishop said, clearly distracted by the food in front of him.

  The Bishop drained his glass again and I refilled it. The bottle was almost empty.

  “They say the Germans treat them well,” the Bishop said.

  “We want it that way, Father. We are not here to hurt anyone.” Wolff paused a moment. “At least not any innocent civilians.”

  “It shows, Colonel Wolff.”

  Father Frugazzi heaped even more pasta onto his plate. “There are shortages of course,” he said. “But that
is to be expected during times of war.”

  “Some things cannot be avoided,” Wolff agreed.

  “Many villages are short on food already. But our people are survivors.”

  “The strong survive.”

  “Those who survive were meant to survive,” the priest said knowingly.

  Just then, Iole retrieved the empty bread basket from the table and was about to pass the Father when he reached out and grasped one of her pigtails. He jerked quickly but firmly and Iole let out a small yelp, like a dog whose tail was just stepped on.

  I whirled and saw tears in Iole’s eyes.

  “More wine!” called the Father, holding up his empty glass. I fought down my anger and emptied the rest of the bottle into his glass. It occurred to me that the Archbishop might be drunk.

  As I finished filling his glass, his arm snaked around me and pulled me closer to him.

  “Ah, Colonel Wolff, you have picked a fine place for your headquarters. All the comforts of home, no?” he said, shooting Wolff a sly wink.

  Wolff did not smile. His eye caught mine and he sent me a message.

  “Benedetta,” the Colonel said. “Start cleaning the dishes. The Father and I will go outside for a cigar.”

  I jerked myself away from the Bishop. “He could use the fresh air,” I said to Wolff. “Maybe he will remember his manners.”

  Everyone became silent in the house. And then the Bishop laughed out loud at me.

  Wolff led him out the door and Iole came to me. Her eyes were now dry as she looked at me.

  “I’m sorry, Benny,” she said. “But it hurt.”

  I grabbed her by her shoulders and brought her to my chest, then pushed her back and looked into her eyes.

  “You have nothing — absolutely nothing to be sorry for,” I said.

  I hugged her again, and idly wondered if during the war, nothing would remain sacred.

  Not even God.

  Chapter Eleven

  Several more days passed with no word from or of my father.

  The nights, of course, were the toughest; four, maybe five hours of sleep each night were all I could manage.

  The days had already begun to fall into a routine. I got out of bed with the first hint of light, I was usually awake anyway, and went down to the kitchen, where Zizi Checcone was already starting to prepare food for the day.

  I heard one soldier talking about the shortages of meat, gasoline and other items related to the war, but the Germans seemed to have plenty of flour readily available. If their vehicles ran out of gas, at least they’d have plenty of bread to eat while they walked. We usually started by making the bread dough, then I would go outside, build the fire, come back inside, get the loaves, then take them back out to the oven. There, I put them inside on racks, then closed the big doors and sealed them with clay.

  Zizi Checcone would typically go back to her house after the initial morning work was done, when I would move onto the day’s laundry. Sometimes I brought water from the well in a huge pot and built a fire in the firepit out front. Other times, I would carry the bundles to some springs about a half mile from the house. There, I would scrub the clothes and pound them gently with rocks until they were clean. It was hard, dull work that kept my hands occupied and let my mind drift.

  I thought about everything while I worked; mostly my mother and father, the early times when we were all together, and the house was loud with laughter and love. Things had not returned to normal, they never would, I knew that. But one day I hoped we would, as a family, learn how to laugh again.

  When I got home, my father was standing in front of the house, next to a truck, talking to the driver. Even from a distance I could tell that he had lost much weight; as I got closer, I could see the lines on his face looked deeper, and the folds of skin seemed to hang more loosely.

  I hurried to meet him and he turned to me, but then I froze. My father’s clothes were covered with blood. My heart jumped into my throat, and I looked for bandages, waiting for him to fall into my arms. Instead, he picked me up and hugged me with all his strength. Looking over his shoulders, I saw the explanation.

  The truck bed was literally awash with blood. Dried rivers of red made their way to pools of blood in the back of the truck. The sidewalls of the truck bed were streaked with splashes of dried blood, slowly turning black.

  I closed my eyes at the sight, disgusted but at the same time gloriously happy that the blood was not my father’s.

  “Benny.”

  Tears were streaming down my face.

  “Benny.”

  Papa pulled me away from him and I felt his thumbs on my cheeks, wiping away the tears.

  “What does a man have to do around here to get a cup of coffee?” he asked.

  I laughed as he set me down, then took his hand and led him inside the house.

  He sat heavily at the table, a deep sigh escaping his lips. Inside, he looked smaller and more pale. I poured him a cup of coffee.

  “I’m going to get Emidio and Iole,” I said.

  “No,” my father said. “Wait.”

  He pushed a chair away from the table with his foot and indicated that I should sit.

  “Tell me what is happening here,” he said.

  I told him how my days had fallen into a routine, and what that routine was. He nodded as I spoke, sipping his coffee. I then told him about the visit from the Bishop, leaving out the part about how Father Frugazzi had made Iole cry, and how he had put his arm around me.

  Papa’s face beamed with pride as I described how the Bishop had dined in our house, at the very same table he was now sitting at. He seemed particularly happy when I described the meal I had made, and how much the holy man had enjoyed it.

  “Good. Good,” he said.

  He asked if there was anything else he should know and I said that there wasn’t. He asked if the Germans were treating me well and I said yes.

  I realized I’d forgotten about the pigs, so I told him that they had been slaughtered, then, whispering, told him about how I had hidden the piglet in the indoor chicken coop and that we were secretly feeding him with the few scraps I could manage to sneak out to him.

  Papa laughed. “That’s my Benedetta. You’re just like your mother.”

  We both paused briefly at the mention of her.

  The smile from father’s face disappeared and I decided to change the subject.

  “How are you doing, Papa?”

  He looked at me, a strange look of anger taking away the sadness in his eyes. Papa stood and walked into the other rooms of the house before returning to the table.

  “I am going to try to escape the front, Benny,” he said.

  “What…how…?”

  “It is too dangerous. If I don’t do something now…” he shrugged his shoulders.

  “But they won’t let you…”

  “I can die trying or I can just die,” he said.

  I said nothing. I felt dizzy.

  “The Germans do not consider us people,” Papa said. “We are not human. In their eyes we are lower beings. A step above monkeys. A step below them. They make us do the most dangerous jobs. Hauling artillery and explosives on our backs through rough terrain.”

  His voice turned bitterly angry. I reached across the table and took his hands, looking quickly around the room. He lowered his voice.

  “The Americans are trying to make it up Mt. Cassino,” he said. “You can hear the guns booming from here, can’t you?”

  I nodded yes.

  “But the Germans, they have the big guns above the only pass, the Mignano Gap,” Papa said. “The Americans are committing suicide every night. In the morning, they send us out to strip anything of value off the dead Americans. Two days ago, an Italian was shot by a wounded American.”

  He shook his head and I refilled his coffee cup.

  “There are dogs everywhere on that side of the mountain,” Papa said. “There isn’t enough food on that side either, where the Americans are. The vill
agers are caught in the middle, so their dogs run free. They are feasting on the Americans, tearing flesh from the corpses that haven’t had time to rot.”

  I shuddered at the image.

  “Listen to me, Benny,” father said, taking my hands in his. “Before you get Emidio and Iole, remember, I am going to try to get away from there. Away from them. You must be strong, stronger than ever Benny. I’m counting on you.”

  He sat back in his chair, the dark circles under his eyes making him look even more exhausted.

  I left him sitting there, looking into his cup of coffee, the weight of the war resting heavily on his sloping shoulders.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the morning, my father left with the Germans, naturally, for the front. We kissed him good-bye at the front door, Iole and Emidio were in tears as was I. He hugged Signora Checcone, which surprised me, and then he walked out, the tread of a condemned man upon him. Seeing him climb back into the truck made my heart sink like a stone. The only hope I could cling to was that he would somehow manage to escape, somehow manage to find a mountain.

  It had taken me quite awhile to get used to the Germans’ big guns booming at night. They kept me awake until I finally got the best sleep aid of all: complete and total fatigue.

  Things started to change, though. Gradually, the explosions began to occur sporadically throughout the day; now it seemed like the big guns were firing nonstop. It didn’t take a military expert to figure out that the Americans were trying even harder to capture Mt. Cassino, to wipe out the enemy that had dug in like a weed and refused to be yanked out. The dark force that had killed so many of their friends and maybe even family.

  These mountains were strange to the Americans and the Germans, but had been home to my family for generations. I wondered if the ones who died, if their families would ever see the hard ground upon which their children’s blood was so frequently spilled. I wondered if the families had ever even heard of the region of Frosinone.