To Find a Mountain

Chapter Forty-two

The flames crackled and sizzled as juice from the pig dripped and splattered onto the thick logs of the bonfire. The people of Casalveri, as well as a few American and British soldiers, were assembled in the village square.

American flour had been turned into hundreds of loaves of thick, delicious bread. Barrels of wine, hidden in cellars throughout the occupation, had been brought out, along with the pig. The pig that had never seen the light of day, who had wandered around in a daze upon being freed then diagnosed as irreparably damaged by confinement, was being roasted in celebration of the village’s new found freedom.

I had yet to see Dominic; I knew he would go to his home in Roselli to check on his mother and his brothers, then he would come for me. My palms were sweaty and I paced around the crowd, not relaxed, keeping my mind occupied with the job of exchanging hugs and kisses, caught up in the excitement of a second chance.

My father stood in the center of the crowd, in charge of roasting the pig and saying a few words. He raised his glass of wine and toasted the people of Casalveri, as well as the Allied soldiers. There was a hearty cheer in response to his words and then people fell to drinking. I would not be eating the pig, nor would Iole and Emidio. I had seen why the pig was fat. Somehow, it seemed appropriate, the people who had taken so much from Casalveri, who had caused so much starvation, now, in turn, in their own way, were feeding the same people.

“Benedetta.”

I turned and there was Dominic. He looked taller, thinner than I remembered him, his eyes blue and teeth white. He smiled at me. My goodness, he was handsome.

He rushed to me and I threw my arms around him. We hugged and hugged until he winced, and then I pulled back.

“I’m sorry!” I said.

“It’s all right. It is healing.”

He put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me seriously.

“How are you? I heard what you did,” he said. “You know you are a hero?”

“Have some more wine, you’re not talking any sense anyway.”

He smiled, a tired smile, an old smile on a face too young to be wearing it. He took me in his arms again, and we stood there for many minutes, long enough to have a small crowd gather around us, singing.

We moved toward the small fountain that stood at the center of town and sat on its edge. Dominic told me about his hike up the mountain, about how he passed out several times, only to get up and put one foot in front of the other until he collapsed at the cabin and the men brought him inside, made a bandage and slowly nursed him back to health.

“Did you tell them the truth?”

He shook his head.

“Only your father.”

I waited.

“I think he wanted to kill me. But he helped me get better, took me for walks, made broth to help me get my strength back, and cleaned my wound to prevent infection,” he said. “I figured if he wanted to kill me, he wasn’t doing a very good job.”

I saw Papa going through the crowd, talking, shaking hands, toasting. God had truly blessed me with him.

When Dominic was done filling in the details of his recovery, I told him about Becher and Wolff, and the hand grenade. I was surprised at how much the re-telling affected me. After telling Papa and others, it was still hard for me to get through. When I was in my room resting, I heard someone downstairs talking about Becher being blown to bits. They found one of his legs on the roof of the house.

Now, I finished telling Dominic the story and he shook his head.

“You are amazing, Benedetta. No wonder I love you so much.”

I blushed at the word, and then blushed more when my father approached.

“Just the two people I want to talk to,” he said.