To Find a Mountain

Chapter Twenty-eight

Becher sat tight-lipped at the head of the table, a soldier on each side of him. Iole, Emidio, myself and Zizi Checcone took up the rest of the table.

Dinner consisted of yet another stew, this time made with a mystery meat that Zizi Checcone guessed was lamb, although she knew of no one in the area who had not butchered and eaten all of their sheep long ago. Bread and wine were also on the table.

Conversation around the dinner table typically consisted of the Germans talking amongst themselves, with the occasional call for more bread or wine. Usually, we sat in silence except for the occasional command to Iole and Emidio to eat what was in front of them, and to eat all of it. Even now, Iole continued to be a bit of a picky eater even though she had to have been ravenous.

Something was wrong with Becher, he seemed even more stern and humorless than usual. Although we couldn’t follow the conversation between he and the soldiers, I could tell he wasn’t happy about something. Things must not be going well on the mountain, I thought to myself.

I went to the pot over the fireplace to scrape any remnants from its sides while Zizi Checcone stepped outside to bring more bread from the oven. That left Iole and Emidio at the table with the Germans.

What happened next shocked me.

“Boy,” Becher said to Emidio. “Bring me the wine.”

Emidio reached up and took the bottle from the table. It was big in his hands and he carried it carefully. Just as he got to Becher, he tripped. Whether it was over the foot of the soldier next to Becher, or whether it was the soldier’s chair, I do not know. But I do know that the wine flew from Emidio’s hand and hit Becher squarely in the chest where it proceeded to flow out over his uniform.

Becher jumped from his chair, reared back and slapped Emidio across the face. My little brother flew backwards and landed on his back.

“Stupid Italian bastard!” Becher shouted. He strode forward to Emidio who was too stunned to start crying. Becher lifted him and started to slap Emidio, left, right, left, right and back again. Emidio’s head snapped with each blow.

I dropped the pot and ran, ready to spring myself upon Becher. Coolly, he dropped Emidio who fell in a heap sobbing, and drew his pistol. I stopped two feet from Becher and the muzzle of his pistol was planted squarely against my forehead.

The door flew open and Zizi Checcone stood, aghast at the scene before her. She quickly crossed the room and scooped Emidio up into her arms. I could see that his nose and mouth were bleeding.

“We are low on ammunition,” he said, a half-smile on his face. “Otherwise I would take great joy in blowing your brains across this house.”

Iole started screaming, and Zizi Checcone went to her, a child in each arm.

“You are very brave when it comes to hurting children,” I said.

“Benedetta,” Zizi Checcone said.

Becher laughed.

“You are very brave also, thinking that Colonel Wolff will protect you, perhaps?” he said.

I said nothing. His pistol was still pressed against my forehead. He pushed harder.

“You are a stupid girl. You have no idea with whom you are dealing.”

“I know.” My voice was steady, my heart racing, blackness threatening to envelop me, but I knew, I could feel the violence within me, the desire to kill.

“Really,” he said, pulling back the hammer of the gun. “Tell me who.”

“An animal who cannot taste enough blood.”

Zizi Checcone, in Italian, told me I was going to get us all killed. When she said that, the blackness receded, and I regained my senses. Becher pulled back his pistol and I knew the blow was coming, but made no move to avoid it. If he succeeded in hurting me, maybe he would leave my brother and sister and Zizi Checcone alone.

When the pistol hit me, I felt a searing pain shoot up the side of my face and my legs went weak. I fell to the hard floor with a thud and closed my eyes. It did not knock me out, but I lay still. When I heard his boot whisper on the floor, I thought I could hear the kick coming, and then it hit me in the stomach, the wind going from inside and I could not breathe. I kept my eyes closed as I gasped for air, a soft moaning sound came from somewhere deep within me. The kick turned me over, away from Becher and the other soldier. I opened one eye and saw Zizi Checcone, Iole and Emidio. I made eye contact with the old woman to let her know I was hurt, but still alive.

“The taste of blood has made me hungry,” Becher said, and then I heard the scrape of his chair as he sat back down. The soldiers and Becher talked low, in German, and I stayed on the floor. Zizi Checcone went up the stairs with Iole and Emidio, and then came back down alone.

She rolled me onto my back and I winced. I felt something trickling down my face and at first I thought it was tears, but Zizi Checcone wiped my face and her hand came away red with blood. She went to the pot over the fireplace and returned with a warm, damp cloth which she used to clean my wound.

“Can you stand?” she whispered. I nodded.

She helped me to my feet and the room spun before me, tilted at a crazy angle. The conversation at the table stopped; I knew they were watching. With a thick arm around me, Zizi Checcone pushed me toward the stairs, but we stopped at the sound of Becher’s voice.

“Benedetta,” he said. “I still don’t have my wine.”

I turned with a monumental effort and he sat there, his empty glass raised toward me. Zizi Checcone let go of me and I stood by myself as she went to the table and retrieved the wine table, then started toward Becher.

“Ah. Ah. No. Benedetta will do it,” Becher said to her.

Zizi Checcone stopped and stood halfway between me and Becher. In Italian, she asked me if I could do it.

I nodded again.

With shooting pains in my head and now running up and down my spine, I walked to Zizi Checcone, then to Becher. The bottle shook in my hand and I slopped wine into his glass, nearly pouring it to overflowing, but I stopped just in time.

I brought the bottle back down and walked to Zizi Checcone. She took the bottle from my hand and helped me to the stairs.

“See?” Becher said. “Even a stupid girl can learn.”