To Find a Mountain

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.