To Find a Mountain

Chapter Twelve

In the morning, my father left with the Germans, naturally, for the front. We kissed him good-bye at the front door, Iole and Emidio were in tears as was I. He hugged Signora Checcone, which surprised me, and then he walked out, the tread of a condemned man upon him. Seeing him climb back into the truck made my heart sink like a stone. The only hope I could cling to was that he would somehow manage to escape, somehow manage to find a mountain.

It had taken me quite awhile to get used to the Germans’ big guns booming at night. They kept me awake until I finally got the best sleep aid of all: complete and total fatigue.

Things started to change, though. Gradually, the explosions began to occur sporadically throughout the day; now it seemed like the big guns were firing nonstop. It didn’t take a military expert to figure out that the Americans were trying even harder to capture Mt. Cassino, to wipe out the enemy that had dug in like a weed and refused to be yanked out. The dark force that had killed so many of their friends and maybe even family.

These mountains were strange to the Americans and the Germans, but had been home to my family for generations. I wondered if the ones who died, if their families would ever see the hard ground upon which their children’s blood was so frequently spilled. I wondered if the families had ever even heard of the region of Frosinone.

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.