To Find a Mountain

Chapter Thirty-seven

In the evening, a cool rain began to fall. It was one of those early spring rains that reminded everyone summer was still a way off, and that the cool, remaining chill of winter would take its own sweet time in exiting.

My father’s thick wool jacket kept me warm, a wide-brimmed hat made sure the rain didn’t get down the back of my neck. I had taken to walking in the evenings, after the meals were cooked, the dishes cleaned, the laundry drying by the fireplace. The pretense of going for a walk had just been a ruse to check the rock wall for notes from Dominic, but I had begun to look forward to getting out of the house, breathing in fresh air and looking at the stars.

The work was always too much, and left me exhausted, but I found that I slept better after a walk, so I guess it all evened out in the end.

The grass was wet, so I stepped carefully, not wanting the water to drench my socks too quickly. Out of the house, I turned right, walked past the barn toward the woods, stopped at the same spot along the rock wall where the words of love had been placed for me, to fill my heart and my life with this new, strange thing.

Dominic had not answered my last letter. I worried that it had been too sharp, too cutting, but then again, I felt that he deserved it. If he didn’t feel the confidence to write to me in his own words; well, that was no excuse. Cracked slabs of concrete do not make a proper foundation, nor do false words. He needed to learn that, or nothing of any kind of permanence could be built between the two of us. Nothing that could stand the test of time and endure life’s harsher elements.

The stone was loose, a faded yellow splash of color struggled to peek around its oppressor. I lifted the rock and looked over my shoulder. No one was near. I opened the paper quickly, then held it tightly against my chest to make sure the rain didn’t obliterate the message before I could read it. It was a short, terse message.

Benedetta,

Meet me in the Varano barn tonight. The words will be my own.

Love,

Dominic

I quickly read it again, as if I didn’t understand all the complexities of the message. As if the two short sentences were simply too much to comprehend.

But really, I was just stalling.

It was an effort to sort out my emotions, which were primarily dominated by fear. The fear and a fair amount of excitement hit me at once. Fear of the Germans. Fear of my father. Fear of the unknown. And on a certain level, fear of Dominic. Of seeing him again.

I was scared that Dominic might tell me he didn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore, that I was too much for him, had too much of a temper. Of course, he probably would have just said that in the letter.

But I was excited, too. Other than our time together in the mountains, we had fallen in love through our letters, and I knew things might be different in person as things are sometimes easier to say in writing, compared to face-to-face.

He was taking a risk trying to see me in person. More of a risk in fact than walking up and down the mountain. If he were caught here, the penalty would be severe and immediate. And if we were discovered, the penalty for him would be much greater than for me. He would be sent immediately to the front, and from the sounds of the fighting, he would not last long. On the other hand, nothing would happen to me, other than a stern reprimand from Zizi Checcone and a tired look of disappointment from Colonel Wolff.

The Varano barn: a sagging, dilapidated structure pushed all the way back to the forest’s edge at the base of the mountain. It was the perfect place for Dominic; he could come down the mountain at night, slip from the forest into the back of the barn unnoticed. And at the first sign of trouble, he could be back in the safety of the woods in seconds. It was a good choice.

Was it a good choice for me to go to see him, though? To be with him in secret? It was much more than just hiding love letters beneath a rock. This was a big step.

I had never been in love before, had never agreed to meet secretly with a boy of whom I knew my father did not approve, although I did not know the reasons behind that disapproval.

My feet remained rooted to the ground. My knees bent, as if to step forward, but my feet were not yet ready to cooperate. A hundred possibilities of what would happen went through my mind; all of them bad. What can I say? That’s the way my mind worked. Imagine the worst.

With monumental effort, I turned myself around, and faced the direction in which the Varano barn lay. I glanced to the left, that was the way home. I made my decision, and promptly walked confidently in the direction of the Varano barn.

I walked quickly, checking frequently to make sure I wasn’t being followed. My imagination ran wild; everywhere there were Germans, or worse, old women from the village who would see and tell my father that his daughter was secretly meeting a boy of whom he did not approve. I’m not sure who I would rather have been caught by.

Within minutes, the barn came into sight. It was even more run-down than I remembered; it had been some time since I’d seen it. Its rafters were sagging, the door sat crookedly on its hinges, and the window frames were stripped of any paint; the barn was mostly stone, and it seemed to be cracking everywhere.

I walked briskly past it, down a steep grade, then cut across a shallow field to the edge of the woods. From behind a tree, I watched for any movement in or around the barn. I saw nothing. Something rustled in the undergrowth behind me, but it faded away slowly. Probably a chipmunk.

Scanning the area around the barn and the houses farther away, I saw no movement, no sign that anyone had followed me. But it was dark, and I had no way of knowing for sure. This was a gamble, in every sense. Although I felt melodramatic in thinking it, there was no getting around the fact that what I was doing now would most likely change my life forever.

Mustering up as much courage as possible, I made my way slowly along the treeline, keeping the barn in the periphery of my vision, while I kept my eyes scanning the surrounding homes and fields. Again, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I reached the back of the barn. I looked at the crumbling back wall, covered with vines and smelling of decaying timber.

There was no sign of Dominic.

Wishing not to use the enormous front doors, I moved along the side until I found a half-door, probably used for livestock. I ducked underneath and was inside, the musty smell of old hay washed over me; not entirely unpleasant. In fact, with the cold rain coming down harder every minute outside, the barn was cozy in a way.

“Dominic?” I whispered softly, scanning the darkness. Slowly I began to make my way around, feeling with each foot before setting it down. I stepped on something soft and squishy, chills went down my spine. A soft squeaking sound called from a corner. Field mice, most likely.

Suddenly, a hand clamped across my mouth.