To Find a Mountain

Chapter Thirty-five

In early March, Mt. Cassino fell to the Allies, but only briefly.

When the bombs started falling closer to Casalveri, we knew something was wrong. When the first armored vehicles of the Germanesí roared down the mountain and into town, with the sounds of the bombs not far behind, we knew that the Americans had finally managed to get up the mountain.

Boom-boom, boom-boom, KA-BOOM! Each explosion brought more Germans into town and they struggled to organize themselves. They looked like rats pouring out of a hole that was filling with gasoline. The town was instantly deserted, and for good reason. For months, rumors had floated around that the Germans would massacre the village before leaving, a rumor that was followed immediately by old women crossing themselves with the sign of the Lord, as if the ritual would prevent a few more murders in the midst of an ocean of death and destruction.

As far as I knew, I was the only one looking forward to the fall of Mt. Cassino. The tension for me had been unbearable, I couldn’t stand the thought of the Germans being in my house for one more week, let alone a month or even a year. No matter what kind of horror their retreat would bring, I felt joy at the prospect. Perhaps I would pay for that, but I was prepared to accept the price, come what may.

With a group of German soldiers parked in front of the house, Colonel Wolff finally pulled up in his jeep, and motioned his radio operator to follow him inside. The operator put the mobile radio on the big table, and I bustled about, getting coffee for Wolff and the radioman. He sat down heavily as the operator set about powering up the radio and adjusting the frequency dial.

I set a cup down in front of Wolff and he drank half in one big gulp, seeming not to notice me or the fact that the coffee was hot to the point of scalding. There was a battle for control of Wolff’s emotions: one minute he looked to be in an utter state of panic, the other minute a dull resignation, an acknowledgment of sin.

The radio squawked into life, and Wolff began barking short, guttural sentences in German into the microphone. A man’s voice answered, surrounded by the sound of bombs dropping, rifles firing, and the sound of heavy machinery grinding away.

After listening, Wolff spoke for several minutes, gesturing with his hands to the man on the other end of the radio who could not possibly see them. I gathered that he was giving directions to his troops. When he finished, the radio squawked again and the man asked several more questions, to which Wolff responded with more hand gestures. Finally, the man answered in the affirmative, and Wolff nodded to the operator, who promptly turned the radio off and checked his watch, probably ready for an update at a certain preset time.

Wolff stood up and walked outside, where he spoke to the men waiting for orders. They instantly hopped into their vehicles, and headed back toward the mountain, slowly.

He came back inside, sat in the same chair next to the radio, and leaned back, ran his hand through his thick hair. His eyes fell on me.

“Benedetta, could I please have some more coffee?” he said.

I filled his cup but his eyes were locked on mine.

“Benedetta, what will you do after the war?”

I thought for a moment.

“Starve,” I said.

The radio operator laughed out loud. Wolff smiled, a movement that was weak and weary.

“When the Americans take over,” Wolff started, and the radio operator shot him a look of disapproval. “It will happen one day, Klaus, we will not be here forever.” The operator looked back to the radio and pretended to make some adjustments.

“When they take over, they will bring food, enough to get you to the planting season,” Wolff said. “And you will have crops again, you will have wine, and the men from the mountains will return. You will be all right.”

“You are more optimistic than I. There are stories that the village will be butchered.”

Wolff rolled his eyes.

“Ah, you Italians, you have such active imaginations. That’s why you have so many artists and sculptors. It’s all up here,” he said, tapping the side of his head.

“Yes, I know what you mean,” I answered hotly. “My friend Lauretta had a terrific imagination.”

“Lauretta?”

“The girl that was hung in the square.”

He looked down at the table, visibly stung. He sipped slowly from his coffee cup, measuring his words.

“There’s that Italian fire, too,” he said.

Just then, the radio blared, and the operator hurriedly adjusted the frequency knobs until the voice on the other end, screaming maniacally in German, came in loud and clear.

Wolff shouted into the microphone and the voice instantly became more calm. The two spoke back-and-forth, the operator hung on every word, and slowly a smile spread across his face.

After several minutes, Wolff jumped up and ran outside, barked orders at the few men remaining outside, and then came back into the house. He picked up the microphone and spoke for several more minutes. At last, he nodded to the operator who shut off the radio and stood, stretched and clapped his hands.

Wolff smiled, too, but I got the sense that it was forced.

The operator said something and left. Wolff looked at me and I raised an eyebrow.

“The Americans accidentally dropped bombs on their own men. We were in full retreat, and they wiped themselves out. My men are going back in, killing the survivors. We have reclaimed the mountain. The Mignano Gap and Mt. Cassino are back in the hands of the Wermacht.” There was no smile on his face, no look of triumph.

My heart sank and I turned my back on him, even though I got the sense he may have been just as disappointed as I. So much for Casalveri returning to normal, so much for feeling safe, for being able to go to bed at night knowing that nothing terribly unspeakable will wake you up to the sound of screaming and gunfire.

“It looks like we will be here for a while longer.”

I poked the fire listlessly.

“I’ll make more coffee.”