To Find a Mountain Page 9

  Soon, it was necessary to slow down. I realized that, in addition to not paying enough attention walking to the parachute, I was now walking the same path but this time going in the opposite direction, and that it changed everything. All the landmarks were different. The rock piles looked different, the trees stood out at opposite angles. And when I looked back, even that didn’t help.

  With each hill, I stood and scanned the land before me. But with many rises and depressions in the deceptively flat looking field, Papa could easily remain hidden. He had said he would rest and wait, but that if he had the strength, he would follow our line and meet us coming back. Now I was starting to have my doubts. The fear that had been seeping into my stomach now started bubbling, like a pot of water heating to a boil.

  Finally, I began waving my arms at each of these higher outcroppings and at last, I received an answering wave, slightly off to the right of where I was headed. Were they off course or was I?

  Carefully marking my spot with a small pile of sticks, I raced toward the waving arms. I knew Papa would be so happy and so proud. There would be a celebration at the cabin tonight, that was certain. And it was something Dominic and I had found together. There was something I liked about the sound of “together” being used in the same breath as Dominic’s name and mine.

  My feet flew over the rocky ground, hurtling me closer to my father. As I ran, I could hear the sound of voices.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  The voice I heard was speaking German.

  As the chill ran down my spine and my knees became weak, I heard another voice hush the first one. They were waiting for me and they knew I was close.

  I stood riveted to the ground. I had no weapon. No radio. I was a young girl; surely they would not think I was a spy. The questions would certainly come, though. Who was I? Where was my family? What was I doing here?

  And what were the Germans themselves doing here, I wondered. The front was too far away for them to be involved. Were they deserters? Had they run away? Had they been sent to find the parachutes? Or were they the soldiers I’d heard about, that were hunting the ribellí?

  I had to do something. If I ran and they caught me, they might kill me. Better to just turn myself in, show that they were not my enemies, and that I wasn’t theirs. They would understand, certainly.

  I started forward, but then the image of Schlemmer’s face slammed into my mind’s eye. His yellow teeth, his mad dog eyes.

  Instantly, I dropped to the ground and began to half-crawl, half crab walk backward, keeping as out of sight as possible. Because of the uneven terrain, I was able to negotiate my way around the hills, taking care not to silhouette myself against the sky.

  Soon, breathless, I was back to my pile of sticks. With a strength driven by fear, I raced back to the parachute, not sure of what I would find there, and not sure if the Germans would be following me.

  I stumbled several times, scraping both knees and twisting an ankle. Blood from my knees streamed down my shins, but I felt no pain. My hair was sweaty and tangled, it stuck to my face and strands were in my mouth. My chest heaved, my legs burned.

  I must have looked like a crazy woman when I stumbled over the last hill, slid down the bank, and landed almost right on top of my father.

  “Benny!” he said, catching me in my arms. “I just got here! I was panicking!”

  I was completely out of breath, and turned to face the direction in which I had come.

  I pointed, but no sound came up.

  Hurriedly, Dominic and Papa hoisted the bags they had made from torn sections of the parachute onto their shoulders. The makeshift bags were bulging with supplies.

  “What, Benny?” my father asked.

  “Germans,” I finally got out.

  “Brutta bestia,” my father said, scooping me into his arms. “Come,” he said to Dominic.

  We ran from the parachute, my father taking the lead, me in the middle and Dominic bringing up the rear. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to block the pain coming from my legs. I gulped air when Papa stopped to get his bearings or conferred with Dominic on the best way to go.

  We raced in the opposite direction of the Germans, then gradually circled back and headed for the safety of the woods. When I heard my father’s breathing start to labor, I ran alongside him. I lifted the pack from his shoulder and ran ahead. He seemed to want to protest, but couldn’t manage to produce the oxygen required.

  When we reached the woods’ edge, we stood together and looked back. We felt safe, at least for the time being.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The crude fireplace held a small fire; small because although it needed to generate enough heat to cook the food, it also needed to stay small enough to create as little smoke as possible. A screen made of wire mesh and sticks was placed over the top of the chimney to break up what little smoke did escape.

  A pot over the fire held bubbling tomato sauce, a creation that drew much attention from the men assembled in the small room; they were the kind of looks that I thought were reserved for sailors who after months at sea finally laid their eyes on a woman.

  The bread had been baked, not in an oven but in the back corner of the fireplace. It wasn’t scientific, but it was the area of the hearth that most likely enjoyed the most consistent temperatures. From time to time, I turned the bread so it would bake evenly. The loaves were thick, and rich. It was solid bread, the kind no one in the cabin, myself included, had seen in a long time. It drew oohs and aahs from the men when I slid the first loaves out of the hearth.

  It was a meal deserving of the occasion: that of bringing back the goods retrieved from the fallen parachute. By the time the men returned in the evening from their hiding places, myself, Dominic and Papa had the treasure spread out on top of the big table. The haul was impressive. Even after goods had been split up among the men to be distributed to their families in the villages, there was enough left over to last the cabin’s inhabitants for several months, as well as to make a celebration dinner, the job of which fell gladly onto my shoulders.

  After the men feasted their eyes on the goods, and as the first aroma of my cooking began to make its way through the tiny cabin, the men responded appropriately. From out of shirt pockets and packs came a few ingredients, not enough, but at least something. A small clove of garlic, part of an onion, a rolled-up cloth that inside held a pocket of rich black pepper. One of the men had trapped and killed a fresh rabbit. The tender meat was added to the sauce along with the ingredients. Although not enough for a strong, bursting flavor, the meat and spices would be the delicacy, the hinting of familiar tastes that the men would enjoy. It would be enough.

  A bottle of wine, hidden for many months was brought out, along with nuts and a small brick of cheese that had managed to elude mold. The cards were placed on the table, shuffled and immediately a card game began. An older man pulled out an accordion and proceeded to inspire several men to dance before the fireplace, toasted by their comrades.

  Dominic watched all with a frequent smile, but he seemed somewhat quiet, watching the activities. Several times, I caught him looking at me, whereupon he quickly turned away, pretending not to notice. The cooking duties kept me busy, and I also pretended not to notice his looks.

  Even after I knew the sauce was ready, I let it simmer longer than necessary, to draw out the occasion and let the men enjoy themselves a little bit longer. The accordion played on, the cards kept hitting the table and the wine was still flowing.

  Finally, the accordion player put down his instrument and looked at me questioningly.

  “Bring your plates,” I called.

  The men reached quickly for their battered metal plates and forks.

  “Ah, Heaven awaits,” the first man in line said. I ladled a mound of pasta on his plate, then smothered it with the thick sauce, being sure to include a hunk of meat in his sauce. There would probably be just enough for each man to have a piece. Next to the pasta
I put a thick slice of bread on his plate.

  “Grazie, Signora,” he said.

  All the men filed through, except for Dominic and my father. Dominic approached first.

  “It feels good to cook food you caught yourself, no?” he said, grinning.

  I laughed and checked the bottom of the sauce, there were some extra pieces of meat left, so I ladled a few extra onto Dominic’s plate along with the rich red sauce.

  “Grazie, Benedetta.” he said. Breathing the sauce’s aroma deeply he said, “It takes beauty to create beauty.”

  I blushed and looked away, muttering a thank you.

  My father stepped up as Dominic turned and Papa caught my expression, but his eyes revealed nothing.

  I scraped all of the meat together, many pieces, and ladled them onto my father’s plate. He started to object but I cut him off. “Hush,” I said. “You need strength, Papa. Strength to come home.” I emphasized the last word and he closed his mouth.

  The cabin had gone from loud and boisterous to eerily silent as the men dug into their meals, savoring the rich sauce and hearty bread. It was a meal they remembered from a long time ago, back when they were with their families. Back before the Germans came.

  I sat next to Papa and we ate in silence. He looked at me and shook his head in wonder at the meal.

  “You are a magician, little girl,” he said.

  One by one, the men finished their meals, put their plates down and leaned back, some with their hands clasped across their bellies, others stretched out on their makeshift mattresses. When the last one put down his plate, they turned as one to me and started clapping.

  “Bravissimo!” some of them called out.

  A small bottle of anisette was passed around, and poured into the small metal cups. A bowl of nuts and wild berries followed. It wasn’t much for dessert, but enough to put a sweet taste in the mouth and take the edge off the heavy aftertaste of the sauce and bread.

  After the men cleaned their plates (most of the sauce had been wiped clean already with bread) the card game quickly resumed and the accordion player picked up his instrument once again. But instead of the lively tune he had been belting out, this was a slow song, full of emotion and gentle cadence. Some of the men seemed to be sad, the aftermath of the festive feeling was one of wistfulness for family to be near.

  A heavy, thickset man approached and asked if he could have the honor of cleaning the big black pot used to cook the sauce. I nodded my head in assent and he produced a thick piece of bread and proceeded to wipe the sides of the pot with slow, deliberate strokes. Each stroke produced an oily, rich spread. The man ate with slow ecstasy, winking at me once in the process.

  Dominic slowly made his way across the room and stood before myself and Papa.

  “Signor Carlessimo, would I offend you by asking your daughter if she would like to accompany me on a walk?”

  Papa smiled, but remained silent. I would realize much later what that hesitation meant.

  “Benny, do you want to go for a walk with Dom?”

  I was trying desperately not to blush, feeling the eyes of my father as well as the other men in the cabin upon me.

  “It is a nice night for a walk,” I said.

  “Go. But be careful. Not too far.” He looked back down at the walnuts in his hand, popping more into his mouth, followed by a drink of wine.

  I stood and followed Dominic out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Night breezes stirred the broad leaves of the trees as Dominic and I left the cabin. Crickets sang their songs, unaware that their audience had grown by two. The crisp light of the stars illuminated the night, and complemented by the phosphorescence of the half-moon, made the ground seem to glow.

  Once again, I felt the clumsiness I first experienced on the walk up the mountain. Dominic’s feet seemed to glide over the soft grass and occasional lump of fallen leaves. He made no sound while I clumped along, stumbling a bit, stepping normally only to find a rise of rock that jarred my leg from my ankle to my knee all the way up to my hip and lower back. I hoped Dominic didn’t see every misstep, but I think he did. His eyes seemed to miss nothing. Even in the dark.

  Tomorrow, I would go down the mountain, but tonight there was love in my heart.

  I felt torn about going back. I knew that Iole and Emidio needed me. Zizi Checcone would take good care of them, there was no doubt in my mind about that. But they hadn’t been away from myself or Papa for this long ever before. I knew they would be scared and wondering where we were.

  But I wanted to stay with Papa. As ridiculous as it sounded, I felt like I could protect him. The very thought of anyone trying to hurt Papa made my blood boil. It made me want to tear Colonel Wolff apart with my bare hands for sending Papa to the front. The Germanesí would pay one day for this.

  We walked across the small meadow to an opening in the forest. A path wound its way up the side of a steep rise and on the right side we could look down into a shallow valley. Even with the light of the moon, the trees below shielded the ground and left much of the land in the dark. It was a winding trail that took us through thick forest and then out into a brief patch of more mountain meadow. Water was close; I once heard the sound of birds, fish or an animal splashing.

  At first, our conversation was awkward. Although we had been alone together on our first walk up the mountain, that had seemed more like business. The walk to the parachute had seemed like a mission, a task at hand. But this walk, there was no doubt about this walk. This was about pleasure. Just the two of us. I felt my hands get clammy and my heart felt light in my chest. Every few moments it would flutter and I would fight it down, tell myself to relax and be calm. We talked about many things and the more we walked, the more fluid the conversation became, and I opened up to Dominic; something I was never very good at with friends and even family. I told him some of my hopes and dreams, and he told me some of his.

  Without speaking, our hands came together and we walked slowly, breathing in the crisp night air.

  There was something about him, his ease of manner that made me feel comfortable. He felt like a member of my family already, someone I could speak with and trust. It was not a feat easily accomplished as my mother’s philosophy had always been to trust no one, “not even Jesus on the cross,” she had told me once, which shocked me considering her strict Catholic upbringing.

  The way Dominic held himself, his natural humor, his gentle way made me think of Emidio. This was always how I imagined Emidio would be when he got older.

  “Your father is a good man,” Dominic said. “I respect him very much.”

  “He has been through a lot.”

  “He depends on you.”

  “Who else does he have?”

  He looked at me carefully.

  “I know your mother passed away…” he said.

  I flashed back to the conversation we had on the way to the parachute in which Dominic talked about his father leaving the family.

  So I told him.

  I told him about my father coming back looking like a dead man, his eyes red with tears, trying to tell us what had happened, unable to find the words. The priest was with him, and we all prayed together. I didn’t really understand what had happened, but I was old enough to know that my mother wasn’t coming back. Iole and Emidio said that they understood, but for weeks after would ask me and Papa when Mama would be back and if she would have the new baby with her. Every time they asked, Papa would hide his face, the tears rolling down his cheeks. Finally I scolded them, tears in my own eyes. They stopped asking, eventually.

  Once it started, it just kept coming.

  I told him about my mother. Her thick black hair always tied back in a bun. I told him about the arguments she and Papa would have during which they were seemingly angry and about to kill each other, and then they would start laughing and dance around the room. Dominic listened as I told him about Mama’s vignio, a branch selected from the tree out back. It was a wicked
little branch she used when her children did something really bad. Like the time I said I was in love with Guido Angeluzzi, a boy who lived in the same village. Before I knew it, Mama had me across her lap, the vignio leaving white-hot burns across my buttocks.

  I laughed, remembering it.

  “She was the disciplinarian in our house,” I said. “When Papa came home, he never scolded us, he was too glad to see us. So she told us she had to be the one who enforced the rules. And boy, did she ever.”

  “It sounds like she was a strong woman,” Dominic said.

  “Yes. But we all knew that she would tear off her own flesh to feed her children. She pinched pennies, but if we were ever sick, she bought the best medicine, she burned more oil and fed us the thick chicken soup, even if it meant she would go hungry that night.”

  For a moment, I said nothing, transported back in time to when I had my mother. When I could be a little girl and she would make everything all right. She would take care of me. Now, it was different. Now, I did the taking care of.

  “Are you thirsty?” Dominic asked.

  “Yes,” I said, realizing it was true. I had talked for a long time. And, surprisingly, I wasn’t embarrassed, in fact, I felt peaceful.

  “We should get back, too. But let’s get a drink first,” he said. “I know of a sweet creek up ahead that produces the coldest, purest water you’ll ever taste.”

  We walked ahead, this time Dominic stayed very close to me. I got the feeling he wanted to touch me but it was not right. It was too soon, and I didn’t want his sympathy. Although he didn’t realize it, I wanted something much more from him.

  Gradually, I began to hear the sound of gurgling water and we came to a rock formation cut into the side of a hill. In the moonlight, I could see the water glistening against the black rock, could see the wetness of the rock itself, but I saw no pool below.

  Dominic stepped up the rock face and reached high. His hand disappeared over a rock shelf and then his hand came down, cupping a handful of ice cold water. My parched throat and I watched with envy as he drank deeply.