To Find a Mountain

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 power 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.