To Find a Mountain

Chapter Six

When I got back home, the house was empty. Iole and Emidio were probably off with Papa, helping him talk to everyone in the village about what to do now that the Germans had taken over. I was sure Papa had his hands full dealing with the questions that were bound to be asked as the shock set in that the village was really no longer ours. On top of that, Papa had to deal with Emidio and Iole; Emidio had a knack for breaking things in other people’s homes.

I went down into the cellar to get a jar of tomatoes to begin making lunch. One of the last things my mother had taught me was how to jar tomatoes. She did it a special way, separating the size of the tomato chunks. She would put the biggest ones in one jar, the medium sized in a different jar and the smallest ones, as well as the smashed pulp, into another jar. Then, depending on the importance of the occasion, she would retrieve the jar to match. The more special the occasion, the bigger the tomato chunks. I don’t know if everyone in my village did it that way, but my mother was adamant that we should.

It was disappointing to see how low our food reserves were. We should have been stockpiling food in anticipation of the Germans’ arrival, but the summer had been a dry one, and the one before that, too. Besides, no one had known with any certainty that the Germans would come. Up until now it had been speculation. But the hard truth was looking us all in the face and now with the men leaving for the mountains, the shelves were only going to get emptier.

I brought the tomatoes upstairs. I had chosen a jar that held the smallest chunks and pieces of pulp in honor of the Germanesí, knowing they wouldn’t realize the significance. I put the jar on the counter next to the eggplant that I had cleaned yesterday, poured olive oil into a cast iron skillet, then placed it over the small fire I had built in the oven. I chopped onion and garlic, then tossed them in. When they were browned, I poured the tomatoes and eggplant in also, stirring them until the flavors were well mixed. The sauce would be hearty and versatile, something I could use with pasta or as a base for stew.

Suddenly, I felt someone’s presence in the room with me, and I turned, startled to see a man standing halfway between the big table and the kitchen. Somehow, he had made no sound entering the house.

He was a German soldier. He had blonde hair and washed out blue eyes that were rimmed with red. His uniform looked a size too big for him, but I guessed that it may have fit him when he joined the army and hung loosely on him now that he had lost weight. Judging by his face, he looked like he had seen some of the worst war has to offer.

His eyes were on my legs, and the look on his face scared me. It reminded me of the time when we used to have an old dog named Fleek. One day, Fleek had managed to catch a bird in the backyard. I was outside doing laundry when he ran up to me, the bird in his mouth struggled, flapping its wings and kicking its feet in the air. Fleek’s old, tired eyes made contact with mine and there was a hungry, wild gleam in them that I had never seen before.

The soldier continued to look at me and I tugged on the bottom of my dress, trying to force it down farther over my thighs, but I knew it wasn’t helping. I had grown so much in the last year that my legs had shot out from under the dress, but we didn’t have the money to buy more material so I could make a new one. Stupid.

My breasts had grown considerably, too. My dress had been made for me when my chest was flat, breasts just slight bumps in the flat pleat. But now they strained against the flimsy fabric, the very tops of each breast barely visible over the hem line.

I should have changed immediately when the Germans arrived, or at least thrown one of Papa’s shirts over the top of my dress. Things were different now, I have to be more careful I told myself. In this outfit, I was an advertisement for something I didn’t want to be.

“Oh! I didn’t hear you come in,” I said, after a struggle to come up with something that would break the silence.

He didn’t answer, but seemed to mumble something under his breath.

I moved to get the platter of bread that sat on the edge of the hearth to keep warm. The soldier followed me with his eyes, not responding. My heart started beating faster. Next to the bread was a knife, designed to cut bread, not men, but it made me feel better to be close to it.

Instead of responding to me, the German looked over his shoulder behind him. My breath caught in my throat, at the slow, sureness of the movement. He was considering something that he didn’t want the rest of the men, probably the two officers especially, to know about.

I picked up the bread knife and started cutting slices off the thick loaf. I put several on a plate and turned to him, the plate in one hand, the knife in the other, pointed directly at him.

His eyes were like rough hands on my breasts, then they moved down to my legs and thighs. He was fondling and caressing my entire body without actually touching me.

I could see his nostrils widening and narrowing as his breath came faster. There was sweat on his forehead. Suddenly, he looked down at a slight suggestion of movement and my eyes followed his to a bulge in his pants that seemed to be growing.

For the first time since he’d entered the room, he looked at my face. He smiled, his lips revealing yellow, stained teeth, and when I saw the gleam in his eyes and I felt like that bird that had been in Fleek’s mouth, kicking and flapping but getting nowhere, no chance of escape.

I backed tighter against the counter and he came closer. He was almost within arm’s length and I could see that his eyes were even more bloodshot than I had first noticed.

“Don’t…” I started.

He laughed, a mean, hungry laugh. I got the feeling he was a man who would enjoy fighting a woman.

Suddenly, the scrape of the house’s main door sounded, and the German froze. Heavy bootfalls crossed the threshold and Colonel Wolff came through the entry way. He stopped when he saw us, and his eyes went from the soldier then back to me where they lingered, then softened and I knew that he had recognized my fear.

The German reached past me and I involuntarily flinched. But his hand grasped the bread on the counter and he tore off a chunk, then held it up to Wolff as way of explanation.

Wolff looked at me, then back to the German. I eased away and stood as still as I could, but my knees were trembling.

Colonel Wolff said something to the soldier in German, and I heard the name Schlemmer. The soldier, Schlemmer I assumed was his name, held up the bread again and pointed at me. Wolff responded angrily and I could tell he didn’t believe whatever story Schlemmer was giving him.

With a final bark from Wolff, Schlemmer strode quickly from the room, never looking back at me.

Wolff walked over to the counter and got a piece of bread for himself, and poured a small cup of wine, then gestured for me to sit with him.

His Italian was broken and not my dialect, but I could understand him.

“My men are tired,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders. “But that is no excuse.”

He sipped his wine and looked out the window.

I again, failingly, tried to cover my thighs with the hem of my dress.

“They have seen too much death. They have been pushed too hard. And they are too young. Not as young as you, but still too young.”

“He was going to hurt me,” I said.

Wolff shook his head.

“No. Do not worry. My men will not touch you. I promise that to you, and I have promised that also to your father. We do not wish to harm anyone here, nor do we want anyone here to try to harm us.”

“But they are a long way from home, a long way from their girlfriends…” I said, trying to explain and understand at the same time what had just happened.

“That’s true, but that is not the reason for…” he waved vaguely at the part of the kitchen where Schlemmer had approached me.

“Schlemmer is a good boy,” he said. “He was close with another boy. That boy had his head caved in by an American’s shovel. Split the skull from the top all the way down to the neck.”

I remembered the way Schlemmer had looked at me.

“He hasn’t been the same since. He is scared. It just depends on what he chooses to do with that fear. It can make him grow stronger or it can destroy him.”

Or it can destroy me, I thought.

“This bread is very good,” he said.

I tried to smile, but my face felt tight.

He pushed his chair back and stood, stretching and grimacing as he did so. I picked up his empty cup and took it to the counter.

“Are you going to the front?” I didn’t so much want to hear an answer, I was more scared of being alone again, despite what Wolff had promised to me and my father.

“Soon. Soon enough.”

He made his way to the doorway and then looked back at me. I let my eyes fall to the floor, noting the rough hewn wood, the flaws, the knots. So old, so much use.

“It gets drafty in here, no?” Wolff asked, gesturing around the kitchen.

“No, not…” I started but then saw his look.

“Well, yes, yes, it can get breezy, what with the strong winds and the cracks in the rock,” I said.

He nodded at me.

“Perhaps a shirt with sleeves…” he said.

I nodded my head.

“I think I will be much more comfortable in something like that,” I said. He looked at me and a tired smile came to his face, and then he left.