To Find a Mountain

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 villagers 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.