To Find a Mountain

Chapter Thirty-one

Two days later, the next note came.

I was in the habit of stopping by the low stone wall several times a day, more than I’d like to admit, but it was true; there was a lightness in my stomach, a tightening of my throat when I came close to where the loose rock was. When there was nothing underneath it, I felt a mixture of sadness and relief. A lack of love sometimes makes life simpler.

But on a crisp morning when the dew was still on the grass and the sun was just beginning to make its presence felt and layering warmth on my back, I saw the white of paper peeking out from beneath the chosen stone.

I checked over my shoulder and scanned the surrounding field as well as along the edge of the forest. No one was around; the Germans were still sleeping, and Iole, Emidio and Zizi Checcone had walked to the other side of town where a friend of Zizi Checcone supposedly had some extra zucchini with which she was willing to part.

I had told them I was going to stay at the house and get breakfast started, and that I also needed to go out back to the bread oven to make sure the sealing clay was still affixed around the door, but I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone. Iole certainly had an idea what was going on, and Zizi Checcone probably did, too. She didn’t miss much.

I lifted the rock and picked up the letter underneath, but then I saw a second note underneath the first.

The first letter was already smooth, but heavily wrinkled with small grease spots along one side. Dominic had resorted to using bits of wrap from something as a substitute for paper. “Benedetta” was written across the top in the same loopy scrawl as his first letter.

I unfolded it, and imagined that I could smell the smokiness of the cabin, the men cramped into that tiny space, the smell of cards on the table and weak coffee brewing over the fire.

It started off simply.

Benedetta,

Your letter made me happy. Thank you for forgiving me. We were with each other for a short time, but my feelings are strong. Not a day, not an hour, not a minute goes by that I do not think of you.

I am not good with words, but I feel that nightingales whisper your name, and the chambers of my heart resonate with their song.

I miss you.

Dominic

P.S. To answer your question, I bring the notes myself.

The last line hit me like a sledgehammer. Foolishly, I looked to the trees, half-expecting to see him there, waving at me, smiling. I would rush into his arms and we would fall together to the forest floor, in each other’s arms, kissing. But that could not be; he would not remain here during the day, it was too dangerous. He would walk down the path at night, leave the note, then walk back up the mountain. At night, in the mountains, the land reverts back to the Italians.

“I bring the notes myself.” I read it again, horrified and warmed at the same time. This man, this young man, was risking his life to communicate with me, to express his feelings. No one had ever done anything like that for me before. Sure, there had been flirtatious young men, but theirs was meaningless chatter; all talk to impress other young men. They made up lies and inflated their chests, but they were still boys. Dominic. Now Dominic was different.

The words themselves even reminded me of him; simple, to the point, saying a lot with a little. Relief came over me in waves, he was not frightened off by my losing my temper with him at the spring. He was a man who could handle a strong woman; that was good.

I picked up the second letter; my name was on the front, too, but in a different handwriting. I recognized the penmanship: it was my father’s.

Dearest Benedetta,

I love you with all my heart, I know you know that. I want nothing but the best for you. I know Dominic is bringing letters to you. I had him bring this one. I trust this young man, I know he didn’t read it. He is a good boy. But I do not want you to get involved with him. I will tell you later why. Please respond to him that you are not interested, or I will do it myself.

I am sorry, Benedetta. But that is how it must be.

Give my love to Iole and Emidio.

Your Papa

Like Dominic’s, I read the letter again. Why would Papa want me to stop talking to Dominic, especially if he thinks he’s a good boy? I was not too young; lots of girls my age were starting to develop friendships with boys. There was nothing wrong with what I was doing. And why was he being so mysterious about why? Why would he tell me later?

I crumpled both notes into the front pocket of my dress and headed back for the house. This was too much. I was being torn between my father and the man I now knew I was in love with.

Nothing was ever easy. I had allowed myself a simple dream, one in which Dominic and I were married after the war, our families joining us in celebration, and then we would start a family. I momentarily forgot, impossible as it seemed, the war around us. I had thought there would be nothing standing in our way. And now this, a letter of disapproval from my father, a man who loved and cared about everyone. How could this be?

I stormed toward the house, seething with frustration. As I got closer, I heard screams and crying. Running now with images leaping to my mind of Iole and Emidio being shot or stabbed, I came upon the house and now could tell that the crying was coming from Zizi Checcone. I rounded the corner and Iole and Emidio, ashen face, were in Zizi Checcone’s arms, as she sobbed uncontrollably.

“What? What is it?” I cried.

Iole and Emidio jumped out of her arms and ran to mine.

“We couldn’t see,” Iole said. “Someone…”

Zizi Checcone walked slowly toward me, tears streaming down her face.

“Someone what?” I said.

“It is your friend, Lauretta,” Zizi Checcone said.

“What happened to Lauretta?” I said, my heart skipping a beat. Zizi Checcone’s face was red as tears continued to pour.

“The Germans…”

“What are they doing to her? Where is she?” I said. I could hear my voice rising to panic.

Zizi Checcone opened her great wide arms and started to hug me.

“They have hung her.”