To Find a Mountain

Chapter Thirty-six

The ax blade severed the rooster’s head with one clean stroke. Blood spurted onto the wood chopping block and I stepped back as he took off running, speeding around in tight circles. At last, he reversed direction, stood uncertainly swaying, then collapsed onto his side.

The decision had not been easy, and it was not made by me alone. Zizi Checcone had brought it up.

“It is time,” she had said, gesturing toward the hen house, now empty except for the gigolo.

“Time for what?”

“Your little brother and sister need protein. No one has rented Gallo for some time, probably because eggs are too precious at this point, even if it means more hens down the road. Everyone is living in the present. We must, too.”

I walked to the bottom of the stairs.

“Emidio! Come here!”

Zizi Checcone watched me from the kitchen. Emidio bounded down the stairs, full of energy, laughing. I scooped him up into my arms and looked at his face closely. There were dark circles under them, and I noticed red in the corners. I pulled his lips apart and looked at his teeth. I set him down and pulled his sleeves up, and looked at his skin. There were several bruises on each arm.

“Where did you get these?” I asked, my temper rising.

“From chores.”

“What chores gave you these?”

“Gathering wood, helping with the laundry.”

“Go back upstairs.”

He raced up the stairs and without a word I walked out of the house to the barn where I got the small hatchet.

Emidio had never bruised that easily before, Zizi Checcone was right, something had to be done.

The rooster was happy to see me, figuring that I was either going to feed him or set him up on another romantic outing with one of his girlfriends. He strutted before me, full of bravado and self-confidence.

“You finished your life in style, rooster,” I said. “That’s more than a lot of us might be able to say.”

Now I stood with his dead body in my hand. I hung him high in the barn, where no animal could get to him. In the morning, I would pluck him and boil him, then give the heart and liver to Iole and Emidio. They would no doubt complain, but they would eat the protein rich parts or have them stuffed down their throats. They needed their strength, it’s when you are young that your brain needs fat and protein for development; I would not let the Germanesí create any permanent damage to my little brother and sister.

I went back into the house where Zizi Checcone motioned me to follow her. We walked back outside and around to the back of the house. She turned to me, and her black eyes were blazing.

“Here, take this to the pig.” She handed me a large bucket with a towel over it. “If things continue, we are going to need to slaughter him in secret, and eat him ourselves, none for them,” she said, gesturing toward the house with a look of contempt on her face.

“What’s in it?” I said. The pail was heavy. I couldn’t think of any scraps we had that would weigh so much.

“Look once you get into the shed. Not before then,” she said. “When you do, remember, war changes everything. We have to survive first. Now, go, and don’t stop and talk to anyone.”

She walked quickly back toward the house and I went to the small shed. Once inside, I set the pail down and went to the back, moved all of the objects away from the wall, then brought the bucket back over.

I lifted the towel.

A severed hand sat on top. I jumped back, stifling a scream. My stomach surged and I felt vomit rise in the back of my throat, but I forced it down. A foul odor rose from the bucket and I moved farther away from it, then made the sign of the cross over my chest.

“Jesus Mary and Joseph,” I whispered. Where did Zizi Checcone get this? I stepped forward and looked inside the bucket. Underneath the hand, I could see other hands, parts of a foot, maybe even a section of leg. And then the answer came to my mind. Of course, Zizi Checcone was very close with Signora Ingrelli, who was in charge of the makeshift hospital that had been set up in her home. Signora Ingrelli must have given these amputated limbs to her, probably because Zizi Checcone told her about the pig.

Were they crazy? Did they really think we would eat a pig that had been fed on the body parts of German soldiers?

The more important question was, now what? I couldn’t just leave the bucket sitting here. I couldn’t take it back to the kitchen and discuss what to do with its contents.

That’s why she wanted me to wait until I was in the barn to look inside the bucket. Behind the house, I could have refused, and then she would have been left with this gruesome picnic basket. But now that I had it in here, I was stuck. It was very crafty of her, and I admit I felt a grudging admiration for her. But now, I knew there was only one option, one thing left to do.

Feed the pig.

I opened the secret door and the pig scurried to the back corner. It stunk in the confined space, what with the close quarters and no fresh air.

He was also getting rather fat.

I stepped into the center of the small space, held the bucket as far away from me as possible, then turned it over. Hands, feet, ankles and maybe even chunks of leg and arm plopped onto the dirt floor. I looked back in the bucket and a big toe was stuck in the middle of a splotch of blood. I could see the long toenail, slightly yellow at the outer edge. There was dirt underneath the toenail, and dirt was caked in the folds of skin at the knuckle.

I shook the pail harder, but it didn’t move. Looking around, I found a stick and pried the toe loose. It fell on top of the pile before bouncing off and rolling to the side.

I hurriedly stepped back and closed the door. Chills ran down my back and I again felt the urge to vomit. I pushed the old tub and the plowing harness back in front of the door. Along with some odd scraps of leather as well as a few pieces of old lumber, the catch-all pile provided a good disguise for the secret door. I was careful once again to leave no trace of my presence. As I started to leave, I heard the sound of the pig grunting, and I knew he was eating. I didn’t want to picture the scene; fingers and toes disappearing into the pig’s mouth, but I couldn’t help it. I knew one thing for certain. Never, under any circumstances, would I eat any part of this pig, no matter how hungry I became.

The bucket would need to be cleaned; I went to the well and rinsed it out, but I absolutely would not scrub it, Signora Ingrelli could do that. I had done enough already.