To Find a Mountain Page 5

  It was after lunch, a meager one consisting of thin minestrone and dry, crumbling bread, that I walked and tried to shake the image my father had left with me; roads strewn with dead bodies being torn apart by wild dogs. It made me wonder if Papa did manage to find a mountain, would he really be safe even there?

  When I got back home, I put on a happy face that felt like it had no right being there, like wearing a colorful dress to a funeral.

  In the kitchen, Iole was helping Zizi Checcone peel acorns. Iole squealed with delight when she saw me and she ran to me, her pigtails flying.

  “Benny! You’re just in time to help us!”

  Zizi Checcone smiled and patted Iole on the head.

  “Your little sister here sure knows her way around the kitchen, Benedetta,” Zizi Checcone said.

  “Really? It’s a side of her I believe I’ve yet to see,” I said, giving Iole a playful pinch on the arm.

  “Very funny,” Iole said, sticking out her tongue at me. I made a grab to catch it between my fingers but she sucked it back in.

  “What are you doing with all these acorns?” I asked. “Trying to starve out the squirrels?”

  “Making bread,” Iole said, like she had some great secret she was dying for me to ask about.

  As I watched, Zizi Checcone painstakingly cracked open an acorn and pulled the small portion of “meat” from its shell. She gave the thumbnail-sized chunk of it to Iole who then placed it on a chopping board. Iole took a small tenderizing hammer with a milled face and pounded the acorn meat until it was pulverized into something resembling a miniature pancake.

  “It’s an old recipe, Benny, and a terrible one at that,” Zizi Checcone explained. “But the word is that food shortages are getting worse everywhere. We’ve got to start finding ways to conserve the food that we do have. These acorns will make a bread that is impossible to eat — unless you are starving. Even then it won’t taste good but it will keep you alive.” Like so many Italian women, Zizi Checcone tended to think the worst was going to happen. It was something my mother had shied away from doing, she had always been by nature a happy, positive person. But now, with the war raging, I didn’t think it was such a bad thing to think the worst. The worst would probably turn out to be reality.

  The small pile of crushed acorn in Iole’s mixing bowl did little to convince me that bread would actually come out of all this.

  “What’s next?” I asked.

  “We add salt and a little bit of olive oil, and then we bake it.”

  “Tell her about the dandelions!” Iole beamed.

  “Dandelions?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Emidio is getting more acorns, and all the dandelions he can find,” Iole informed me.

  “What will you do with the dandelions, Zizi Checcone?”

  “The leaves have some nutrients; not much but some. Again, terrible if you’ve got plenty of food on the table, close to edible if you’re starving. Some people even use them to make a crude wine.”

  “Maybe we’ll all get drunk and not even notice that we’re starving,” Iole offered.

  I laughed at Iole, then smiled at Zizi Checcone’s ingenuity.

  “I know, Benedetta,” she said. “Not a dish the great chefs in Naples would serve to their worst customer, but it can help us survive.”

  “Let me help…” I said.

  Zizi Checcone pointed to a small burlap bag. Inside was a considerable cache of fresh dandelions. I immediately set to work, pulling the roots off of each plant, followed by the stem and flower if it had any. Once I had a sizable amount of leaves, I threw them into a small pan of oil, garlic and a little bit of water. They were to be sautéed.

  The back door opened and Emidio walked in with another burlap bag over his shoulders. He held out his hand.

  “Look what I found everyone!” he exclaimed.

  It was a hand grenade.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The bread oven looked more like a small shed. It had about as much room as a tiny closet. The fire pit was underneath, and above it, several racks for the bread. It was made of stone and sealed with clay. I once tried to estimate how many loaves of bread had been made in this oven, but found the task impossible. For starters, I didn’t know how old the oven was; it had been here before either my mother or father had been born.

  I opened the oven door and pulled out the wooden rack upon which four loaves of bread sat, their golden crusts still glowing over the red embers below. The scent of fresh baked bread washed over me; it was the best smell in the world and made bearable the sometimes mundane task of making bread, baking it, retrieving it from the oven and starting the whole process the very next day.

  The advertisement was deceptive. I knew this batch, made of a mixture of Zizi Checcone’s acorn surprise with more traditional ingredients smelled like good bread, but tasted more like burlap. I would have to use the opposite of the expression used by so many mothers to get children to eat food that tasted good, but looked bad: Iole! Emidio! Eat it! It’s not how it tastes, it’s how it looks!” I had joked that if we didn’t eat the bread, we could use it to scrub the pots after dinner.

  I was almost glad to eat this kind of bread, because it meant most of the Germans were eating it, too. And I felt there was some justice there, not much, but a little bit. They too would understand the challenge of the moment: to stretch the ingredients as far as they could go while preserving the food’s ability to sustain. The first thing to suffer? Taste. Who cared what it tasted like as long as it filled the belly?

  Becher had told me earlier in the day that a convoy from the front would be returning, carrying the dead, the wounded and what remained of the living. When I saw the trucks pull up, the living and the wounded looked dead, their eyes staring off, oblivious to the fact that the truck had stopped. Sometimes the driver would have to tell them, gently at first, to get out, but some of them needed to be shouted at. And then they would jump, startled, as if their brains were still back on the bloody slope of Mt. Cassino.

  It had been several weeks since my father left for the front and now I desperately hoped he would return, despite his hope to escape to a mountain. I wanted to see him, to hold him, to know that he was alive and well, it had been too long to go without him; Iole and Emidio were asking more and more questions about what he was doing. It was tiresome to have to lie to them day in and day out during a time like this, when we needed each other the most.

  Back in the house, I poured the last of the espresso from the small copper-lined pot next to the hearth. It was weak and watery; I had used just enough of the beans to get a hint of the flavor and not much more. Sitting at the table, thoughts of the war went through my mind. Images of the barren fields, homes empty except for the women and children, Italian men dying on the front in a war they wanted nothing to do with. It was too much to comprehend. The life of the village before the war had been hard. And not just for me because of the loss of my mother. Many families hated it in the mountains; dreamed of going to Naples, Rome or north to the wealthier cities. It was a life from which to escape, not to enjoy. But now, everyone longed for that previous life, it was like a youth that had ended abruptly, even for the oldest men and women of Casalveri.

  And for what was all this suffering and death? The Germans would not win the war, I had watched Wolff and Becher listen to their precious radio late at night, and hang their heads afterward. They did not look like triumphant generals of a conquering army. They looked like parents hovering around the deathbed of their child.

  No, the Germans would not win. They would simply return to their country and all they would succeed in doing here was to destroy families, villages and temporarily, a way of life. But like weeds, everything would grow back eventually. The Germans would no more be remembered than a bad storm that knocked down some trees.

  At least, I hoped that would be the case.

  The sound of a rumbling engine drew closer and I set down my cup, then moved to the window next to the front door.
Slowly, a truck came into view and somehow I knew my father was not on it. It stopped in front of the house and Wolff swung down clumsily from the front passenger seat, his bulk not permitting him to move gracefully. He did not look back at his men in the truck, but came directly to the house.

  A few men jumped out from the back of the truck bed. They walked silently away in different directions, averting their gazes. I recognized most of them, had served them bread, but for some reason they did not wish to look me in the eye.

  “Benedetta, come sit with me,” Wolff said.

  Wolff put his arm around my shoulders and led me back into the house. He sat me down at the table and I knew what was coming.

  “There’s only one way to say these things.”

  I started crying, the first tears pooling at the edge of my eyes and then dropping slowly down my cheek.

  “Your father is dead.”

  The words struck like hammers on hollow wood inside my head. They were words I had heard before, told by my father. Except that time, it was about my mother.

  I burst into tears and sobbed unashamedly.

  “No!”

  “Benedetta, he and another man were in a jeep, going back to the front to get more wounded. There was an explosion…” he held his hands out as if to say there was nothing he could do. “There is no doubt.”

  It answered all of the questions but one, and I knew then that it was a question I had to ask.

  “Did you find his…did you see him?” I asked.

  He pulled a bundle from a bag at his feet and I recoiled, imaging body parts inside. Seeing my father’s hand or foot would be too much, I started to scream.

  “No! No! Benedetta, calm down,” he said, and quickly pulled an article of clothing from the bag.

  “Is this your father’s?” he said.

  It was Papa’s shirt, covered in blood and nearly torn to shreds, but still recognizable.

  “We found it along with other…parts. There was no way he could have survived, Benny. They both died quickly and painlessly. I’m sorry.”

  I ripped the shirt from Wolff’s grip and hugged it to my chest. Anger ignited inside my chest at the sound of the apology.

  “Sorry? Sorry? You are not sorry!” I yelled and jumped to my feet. The chair flew backwards and toppled over, followed by a loud crash.

  “We are not people to you! You think of us as mules!” I said. My face was hot with fury. “When one of us dies, all it means to you is that another precious German will live to fight another day!”

  Wolff looked at me coolly, almost appraisingly.

  I raced up the stairs and flung myself on my bed, still hugging my father’s shirt. I don’t know how long it was that I cried, but when I finally stopped, it was dark and the house was silent once again.

  How long would I have to wait before I found out for certain that my father was dead?

  The wind picked up outside, small pebbles bounced off the side of the house. If Papa had orchestrated the accident, the explosion, would he really have left his shirt? Or was that part of the plan? Did the men who escaped to the mountains ever try to fake their deaths? I’d never heard of such a thing. Papa was a slow, steady man, not given to great dreams or revolutionary ideas. He was a good man, but a conventional one. I did not see him planning something so elaborate and dangerous.

  Hours later, almost with no conscious decision made, I walked back downstairs into the kitchen. My feet were heavy, and I felt like I was floating above myself, seeing the top my head, my slow shuffle.

  I opened a far cabinet and reached in the back behind many plates and glasses. My hands closed around an object and I walked back into the middle of the room.

  The hand grenade felt heavy in my hands.

  When Emidio had come in the back door we were all in shock, but I had decided to keep it, why I don’t know. We didn’t have any guns in the house, and a kitchen knife was only so useful. It seemed like the right thing to do; after all, hand grenades were for wars.

  But right now, I wasn’t thinking about self-preservation, I was thinking about revenge. An eye for an eye. A father for a father. A handful of filthy Germanesí for one good man. It would be so simple. After the soldiers were fast asleep, I could just walk to their door, open it a crack, and roll the grenade in.

  I hefted the instrument of death in my hand. Amazing that such force could all be contained in such a small object. Just like a bullet. I looked at my hand, so thin and so weak compared to this…this thing. Muscle, tendon, and bone. They were nothing compared to explosives, gunpowder and bullets.

  Suddenly, I felt my soul, my consciousness, float back down and come back into my body. When it happened, reasons came with it.

  Now, I didn’t want to kill anyone.

  Germans dying in the Carlessimo house would mean many people in Casalveri dying also. A grenade like this could set off many other explosions and reactions that would probably kill many more people than this initial blast. Plus, like so many of the Italian men and women in the rugged farming countryside, hope that somewhere my father was still alive refused to die.

  I put the grenade back in the cupboard. Iole, Emidio and Zizi Checcone would be returning soon.

  There was food to be made and laundry to be washed.

  I got to work.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When there was a knock on the door and I opened it, a flood of warmth swept through me when I saw that it was Lauretta. She didn’t say anything at first, just hugged me hard.

  I desperately did not want to cry, but I couldn’t stop myself. When Lauretta was hugging me, although I felt ashamed at displaying so much emotion, it felt good to be patted on the back and to have my hair stroked by Lauretta’s big, callused hand.

  After a pause, she spoke. “Benedetta, we are very sorry to hear about your father.”

  Before I could answer, Iole and Emidio raced down the stairs and gave Lauretta hugs.

  Lauretta caught my eye and an exchange was made. The little ones had not been told about Papa, and would not be told until I heard from the men in the mountains that Papa had not been seen. Only then would I be truly convinced that he was dead.

  “Are these two good little helpers, Benny?” Lauretta asked.

  Iole and Emidio looked at me, devilish smiles on their faces, daring me to answer in the negative.

  “When they want to be,” I said, raising my eyebrows at them as if to say ‘care to disagree?’

  She looked around the house, and I assured her that we were alone for the moment. Colonel Wolff had left in the morning before I could speak to him. I had to accept the act as a sign that I would not be punished for my outburst. I was not sure how I would handle facing him again. I would apologize if I had to. I needed to take care of my family now. The Germans could be ruthless and usually were, so I saw no good in putting ourselves in any more danger. There was plenty to go around for everyone.

  Zizi Checcone opened the door behind me.

  “Lauretta Fandella! How are you?”

  “We are doing well, Signora Checcone.”

  “How are your parents?”

  “Mother is busy, but we are managing to make ends meet.”

  “Good, good,” said Zizi Checcone.

  “Benny,” Lauretta began. “Can you go for a walk with me?”

  I started to say no, thinking of the bread that still needed to be baked as well as the laundry to be washed, but before I could reply, Zizi Checcone answered for me.”

  “Go Benedetta. Walk with your friend.”

  “But there is bread to be baked…” I started to say.

  “I have been baking bread all my life, I think I can do it one more time without your help,” Zizi Checcone said. “Go, you need to get out and talk to someone your own age before you go crazy here.”

  “Thank you, Signora Checcone.” Iole and Emidio stood looking at me, silently asking if they could come along, too. I gave them each a squeeze. “You two be good while I’m gone.” I just couldn
’t stand keeping things from them much longer, and Lauretta would be someone I could speak openly with.

  “I’ll be back in an hour or two,” I said.

  Zizi Checcone nodded and put her arms around my brother and sister, leading them back into the house. Lauretta and I began walking, silently at first, out of town, an unspoken agreement to head for a large outcropping near the peak of the mountain just outside Casalveri. It was a favorite place for the young people of the village to go; many families, before the war, went there for picnics. Now, it was all but abandoned.

  It took us almost a half hour to get there, and on the way, I asked Lauretta if she had heard anything about her father, and if he had joined a band of ribellí.

  “I’m not allowed to talk about it,” Lauretta said firmly. “But I can tell you that he is keeping busy in the mountains.”

  “Has he heard anything about my father?”

  Lauretta looked at me.

  “I was wondering if you had considered that possibility,” she said.

  “That Papa didn’t die?” I said.

  “A lot of men have disappeared from the front,” Lauretta said. “The Germans assume most of them died, but probably suspect some ran away. But we know the truth; that many of them end up in the mountains, where it is awful, but safe.”

  I was silent, still imploring her to answer my question.

  “We have not gotten word from the ribellí for several days now,” Lauretta said. “Hopefully we will again soon. I will ask about your father, Benedetta.”

  “Thank you.”

  We had made it to the top of the peak, where a small clearing had been made well back from the treeline. There was a cool breeze up here, and from the viewpoint, everything, including Casalveri, looked deceptively peaceful. A hawk slowly cruised below us, hunting its prey.

  We sprawled out on the green grass, facing each other.