To Find a Mountain Page 6

  “I hope this will all be over soon,” I said.

  “This is terrible,” Lauretta agreed. “No men! Even the Germans are too occupied, so to speak!”

  We both burst into a fit of laughter.

  “I’ve finally got some nice sized breasts and there’s no one around to notice it!” she said, cupping her breasts, as if appraising diamonds.

  “If our men weren’t fighting the Germans, they’d be fighting over those things,” I said, pointing to her breasts.

  “I need a man to plant a flag between them and claim them as rightfully Italy’s. Our national treasures!”

  We both collapsed laughing again.

  “This war better not last too much longer, Benedetta. Or we’ll be old maids and too late.”

  “I hope we live to be old maids.”

  “I don’t,” Lauretta said. “I’d rather die young, beautiful and the object of some man’s lust than a dried-up old hag.”

  Then we heard the explosions.

  The sound was incredibly loud and we both jumped to our feet. Even though we knew it had to be several miles away, the immediacy of the explosions caught us off guard.

  Gradually, we began to hear the drone of engines. Lauretta and I looked at each other, fear and wonderment on our faces. I looked at the treeline as the sound of the engines got closer. I judged they were too far away for us to make it there in time and as if to support my guesswork, out of the clouds directly in front of us flew an American bomber with three fighter escorts.

  The sound was suddenly so loud that we both clasped our hands over our ears.

  Suddenly, one of the fighters broke from its formation and came straight at us. I could feel the eyes of the pilot upon us, imagined the muzzles of the machine guns located in the plane’s wings pointed right at me, the bullets ready to rip our bodies to shreds.

  We stood frozen in fear as the plane came nearer and nearer.

  Then the plane tipped from side to side.

  “He’s waving!” Lauretta yelled at me and she swung her hand over her head, in a wide sweeping motion, waving back.

  The last thing I saw as the plane rocketed off was a quick glimpse of the American pilot, his leather helmet and goggles stretched tightly over his head as he waved his hand at us.

  And he was smiling.

  Lauretta looked at me and then me at her and without a word, we raced back to Casalveri.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Benedetta, this wine is excellent.”

  Colonel Wolff was seated at the kitchen table. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned at the collar, his cap was off and a letter, along with a bottle of wine and two glasses, sat on the table.

  “Thank you.”

  He caught the look in my eye, heard the unfeeling tone in my voice. Maybe he could even sense the hatred.

  “I know it is hard, Benedetta. But your father is making more of this,” he said, raising his glass, “and drinking more of this in Heaven right now.”

  I said nothing, not wanting to cry again. And it wasn’t even that I wanted to cry out of sadness or pain, as much as it was frustration, not knowing. What was worse: mourning the loss of a parent, or not knowing if you should mourn because you don’t know if that parent is dead?

  Instead, I chose to focus on the sadness, the Lord knew I was familiar with that, and I did it because I didn’t want Wolff to see through my emotions of frustration. He wanted to see a girl in mourning over the loss of her father.

  “Join me.”

  He picked up the remaining glass and poured a small amount of the white wine. I picked up the glass, took it to the hearth where a pot of water sat, and added a healthy amount. When I sat back down, Wolff again raised his glass.

  “Health,” he said.

  “Saluté,” I responded, wanting to throw the wine in his face. How dare he toast me with wine made by the man he ordered to his death. I should bring a knife and ram it into his black heart.

  We sipped, and I felt the wine roll on my tongue as its sweet flavor blossomed briefly then faded into a warmly satisfying afterthought. I said a silent prayer to God that Papa would return and have a chance to taste this wine.

  “Tell me how you make this,” Wolff said.

  He drained his glass with one long pull then refilled it. Once his glass was full, his free hand absentmindedly strayed to the letter where his fingers alternately tapped, caressed and circled the envelope.

  “Well, first of course are the grapes.”

  “Grown around here, I assume?”

  “Yes, in the Abruzzio region, west of here. That’s where the best grapes are. After Papa selects the plumpest, juiciest ones he brings them to the house and puts them in the big wooden tub.”

  Colonel Wolff listened intently as I described the tub, about how it had a giant screw and circular fitted wooden top that when cranked, slowly lowers itself onto the grapes, squashing them. He interrupted to ask questions, clarifying certain points. I told him about when the juice runs out of the tub, it is funneled into a wooden keg where sugar, as well as water and a few secret ingredients are added and then it ferments for a period after which the excess is filtered out.

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  “No, this process is repeated, along with periodic stirring to mingle the flavors, until the wine tastes rich and smooth. Usually the entire process takes several months. Longer, depending on how long you are willing to wait.”

  “It’s so good; very different from the dark beers and ales I drink back in Germany.”

  “Which do you like better?”

  He laughed.

  “Ah, that is simple. I am a German. As much as I like your wine, it will be at best a close second.” He drained yet another glass and promptly refilled it.

  “You see how people are different, Benedetta? As much as we live here among you, we will never be Italian and you will never be German.”

  Thank God, I thought to myself. I would rather be condemned to Hell than to be a German.

  He gestured with his arm in a vague sweeping motion. “We do not belong here.”

  His voice had begun to slur slightly.

  “You cannot take people from their home and expect them to adjust. Habits are too well-ingrained. Look at Schlemmer,” Wolff said. “This war has completely destroyed him, and he is still a relatively young man. People can experience different things, they can even grow. But they cannot change. Not in a significant way.”

  His eyes had a far-off look that slowly dissipated as his eyes focused on me.

  “To answer your question,” he said. “I prefer the dark beer of my…homeland.”

  Was there a slight sneer, a faint tinge of disgust at the mention of “homeland?”

  “We Germans are a stubborn people. But you can see that, can’t you?” He smiled. “Take my wife, for example. There’s a proud German, a tribute to her race.” Now there was definite sarcasm there, with a pinch of bitterness thrown in.

  “Yes, she will never change, I am sure of that.” he said, his voice thickening. “Of course, why change something when it’s already perfect, right?”

  He took another deep drink of wine.

  “Always striving, always working toward a pointless goal. Society. She wants to have more than everyone else, be more important, flaunt money more than the people she allows to know her.”

  He shook his head, a slow ponderous movement that seemed to require great effort. I wondered if I looked closely enough at the small veins in his cheeks if I could actually see the wine working its way through them.

  “She’s leaving me, you know. After the war.” He slid the letter out of the envelope and looked at it closely.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Listen to this,” he said, opening the letter and reading from it. “Each and every person has a potential that I believe is pre-determined. It is a barrier. While we have risen together, I feel, sadly, that you, Herrmann, will soon begin your descent. I, on the other hand, am being lifted higher by a p
ower I did not know I had, did not know even existed.”

  He laughed mirthlessly and closed the letter.

  “She goes on to say she’s leaving me for a textile manufacturer.”

  My glass was empty, and I poured a healthy amount into my glass, this time not watering it down.

  “War changes everything,” I said.

  “But that’s just it, Benedetta. From the minute I met her I knew what kind of woman she was,” he said. “I even knew this day would come. I married a thought struggling to be an ideal. Who’s fault is it that I am now forced to watch it fall short?”

  He leaned back in his chair and his eyes bore into me.

  “But you know what’s really funny?”

  I shook my head.

  “She thinks that I’m the one who has fallen short.” He leaned back in his chair and set his glass on the letter. A bead of perspiration trickled down the glass and darkened a circle onto the paper.

  “Have you ever been in love?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Never been a boy who has caught your eye?”

  “I work so hard. I don’t see many.”

  “That is a shame. You are a beautiful girl. You have the kind of beauty that is timeless. Eternal. If I were a young man…”

  I felt a chill run down my spine. I felt his eyes on my breasts, a hungry look on his face. He quickly looked away and his body relaxed. Whatever thought he had, brief as it was, had left.

  “But I am not a young man.” he finished, then proceeded to drink three glasses of wine. On the fourth glass, he tipped his head back to take in the drink, and he fell backward. Colonel Wolff, the chair and the wine all crashed in a heap on the floor. His glass flew out of his hand and landed behind his head, shattering and spilling wine on the floor. As he fell backward, his boot caught the edge of the table and lifted it briefly off the ground, causing the bottle to tip over and roll off the table, shattering on the floor, sending glass in a shower onto the floor.

  He struggled to stand up, his face red from the fall, the humiliation or more likely, both.

  “Are you all right, Colonel Wolff?” I asked, rushing to him, helping him stand up, where he swayed like a sapling blowing in the wind. His arm rested heavily on my shoulder and I put my arm around his waist.

  “You didn’t tell me the wine was this strong!” he said, then burst into laughter.

  “We make it strong, that way we don’t have to drink as much, and it lasts longer,” I said.

  “That’s the second thing tonight that knocked me over,” he said, gesturing toward the letter. He crumpled up the piece of paper, walked over to the fireplace and threw it in among the logs where it shriveled and blackened.

  “Good night,” he said, bowing formally at the waist. “It was a wonderful evening. Love, betrayal, and humor. What more could a young girl ask for?”

  Lots of things, I thought to myself. But instead, I wished him a good night.

  As he trudged toward the stairs, I swept up the glass, the bright pieces twinkling at me. Yet another delicate object smashed by the heavy hands of the Germanesí.

  There was no doubt in my mind now.

  The Germans were going to lose the war.

  Part Two

  Chapter Sixteen

  December, 1944

  The hand clamped tightly over my mouth and I tried to sit up, but was firmly pushed down. My eyes flew open, a dream in which I was running from the Germans, then hiding in the abandoned chicken coop with the pig who was trying to eat me. The dream vanished from my mind with a poof and I half-expected to see the grinning leer of Schlemmer, his eyes watery and mad, the same expression on his face as the one he wore when he killed our pigs in the front yard.

  Instead, I saw the alarmed but always kind eyes of Zizi Checcone.

  “Shhh!” Her brow was furrowed in concentration, willing me to wake up fully. My body relaxed and she slowly took her hand from my mouth. There was a faint taste, or scent, of tomatoes lingering on my lips.

  When she saw that I was alert, she helped me sit up.

  “What? What?” I hissed.

  “You must get dressed quickly,” she whispered.

  “Why?” I said, louder than I intended, and was shushed again, but I barely noticed as I searched frantically for my shoes.

  “You’re going to the mountain.”

  “What mountain?” I asked stupidly.

  Zizi Checcone rolled her eyes and looked toward the Heavens.

  She shook her head and then pulled a dress over my head. I pushed my arms through the sleeves automatically. It had been a long time since someone had dressed me like this.

  “Why?” I tried again.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “All I know is that you are to go tonight.”

  I put on a heavy sweater over the top of my dress, then tied my hair back behind my head.

  “Don’t ask questions and speak only when spoken to,” she said. “You are to walk quickly to the south end of the village, past the church and past the Marciani house. Go to the right side of the road where the footpath starts near the big yellow boulder. Do you know where that is?”

  I nodded. By now, my brain was fully awake, and I began to wonder if this had anything to do with Papa.

  “Do you know where that is, Benedetta?” Zizi Checcone asked. I then realized that it was too dark for her to see me nodding yes.

  “I know where it is.”

  “A man will meet you once you start walking up the path. Do what he says — he is risking his life to come and get you.”

  “Did Papa send him? Does this mean he is alive?” Hope blossomed in my chest.

  “Hush, child! I said I don’t know anything.”

  I buttoned the sweater and stood up. “What if the Germans see I’m gone?”

  “Colonel Wolff said he would not be back for several days. So you should be safe. If he comes back early, we’ll say you’re at a neighboring village, helping a cousin who is sick.”

  That made sense to me.

  “Be just as careful when you come back,” she said, grabbing me by the shoulders and hugging me. Then she shooed me toward the stairs.

  My mouth felt dry and my heart pounded walking down the stairs to the front door as I adjusted to the shock of being awakened from a dead sleep to sneaking out of the house in order to climb a mountain. My mouth felt tinny and dry. I stopped at the hearth and took a quick drink of water and then I was out the door and into the cool still of the night.

  I walked quickly at first, but then slowed down realizing that I should look as casual as a girl my age could walking around in the dark at two o’clock in the morning. I doubted there were any Germans out and about at this time of night, but who knew for sure?

  The stars were out and a gentle breeze blew. The booming of the guns was going strong.

  I made way around the village, walking on the outer paths where soldiers returning from the front would not be traveling. My heart started to slow down as my feet fell into an easy rhythm, and I wished that I had stopped to go to the bathroom before I left. A vision came into my mind of me and my guide being caught by the Germans because I had to stop and pee.

  The path narrowed and soon the Marciani house came into view, a low stone structure with a red tiled roof. I passed it quickly as a dog started to bark and then soon I was beyond it. The path wound its way through trees and thick brush. After several minutes, I realized that I must have missed the entrance to the mountain path marked by the big yellow rock. I backtracked, and soon found it. I stood at the path, uncertain. Where was I going? Would I find my father alive or would I have final proof that he was dead? The path into the woods was dark and intimidating, I couldn’t see more than a few feet into it.

  There was only one way to find out, and I plunged into the darkness of the path. It was a dirt path with large stones sunken deeply and erratically, the kind that make you stub your toe and twist an ankle.

  The path rose quickly, and I frequently reache
d out to branches for support, as well as to help pull myself up after a rock tripped me up. Soon, though, I fell into an awkward rhythm and my eyes adjusted to the darkness, allowing me to see the more well-worn parts of the path with signs of recent use and I wasn’t stumbling so much. I was even able to pick out small clumps of fresh dirt that signaled the recent presence of a boot of some sort.

  As I passed a particularly thick stand of trees a dark shadow silently emerged and stepped in front of me. It was a man, tall and slender with a black cap on his head that cast a shadow over his face. I froze, hoping to hear a kind voice.

  “Benedetta Carlessimo?” he asked softly.

  “Yes.” My voice sounded small and weak in the darkness of the forest.

  “Follow me. It will take two hours. Be as quiet as possible.” His voice was so low I couldn’t get any feeling for who he was or if I knew him.

  With that, he started walking.

  We climbed steadily for almost an hour, the trail leveled off at times but always returned to a steep incline that left my thighs burning and my calf muscles aching.

  He looked back occasionally, to make sure I was still coming, and once in awhile paused while I caught my breath. Never once did I hear him even slightly huff with exertion.

  At one point, I asked him if my father had sent him. He responded by shushing me. The walk was torture; I focused on his back, following him like a heifer follows the lead bull through the meadow. When he went right, I went right, when he stepped over something, I stepped over it.

  When I thought I could climb no more and was going to pass out, collapse and roll back down the mountain, my guide suddenly froze in his tracks.

  I was so intent on the ground, on putting one foot in front of the other that I ran into him. My head butted him in the middle of his back and he let out a small “oof.” He regained his footing, turned and grabbed my arm. I tensed, watching as he strained to listen to the darkness ahead and I did the same. I heard nothing.

  With a grip on my arm that I was certain would leave a bruise, he yanked me off the path into the thick woods just off the trail. He pushed me to the ground then got down on his belly and crawled in between and partially under a thick stand of brush, making virtually no noise in the process. He moved slightly to his left and motioned for me to do the same.