Read To Find a Mountain Online

Authors: Dani Amore

To Find a Mountain (12 page)

C
HAPTER TWENTY-THREE

N
ight breezes stirred the broad leaves of the trees as Dominic and I left the cabin. Crickets sang their songs, unaware that their audience had grown by two. The crisp light of the stars illuminated the night and, complemented by the phosphorescence of the half-moon, made the ground seem to glow.

Once again, I felt the clumsiness I first experienced on the walk up the mountain. Dominic’s feet seemed to glide over the soft grass and occasional lump of fallen leaves. He made no sound while I clumped along, stumbling a bit, stepping normally only to find a rise of rock that jarred my leg from my ankle to my knee all the way up to my hip and lower back. I hoped Dominic didn’t see every misstep, but I think he did. His eyes seemed to miss nothing. Even in the dark.

Tomorrow, I would go down the mountain, but tonight there was love in my heart.

I felt torn about going back. I knew that Iole and Emidio needed me. Zizi Checcone would take good care of them; there was no doubt in my mind about that. But they hadn’t been away from Papa or me for this long ever before. I knew they would be scared and wondering where we were.

But I wanted to stay with Papa. As ridiculous as it sounded, I felt like I could protect him. The very thought of anyone trying to hurt Papa made my blood boil. I wanted to tear Colonel Wolff apart with my bare hands for sending Papa to the front. The
Germanesí
would pay one day for this.

We walked across the small meadow to an opening in the forest. A path wound its way up the side of a steep rise, and on the right side we could look down into a shallow valley. Even with the light of the moon, the trees below shielded the ground and left much of the land in the dark. It was a winding trail that took us through thick forest and then out into a brief patch of more mountain meadow. Water was close; I once heard the sound of a fish splashing.

At first, our conversation was awkward. Although we had been alone together on our first walk up the mountain, that had seemed more like business. And the walk to the parachute had seemed like a mission, a task at hand. But this walk—there was no doubt about this walk. This was about pleasure. Just the two of us. My hands were clammy and my heart felt light in my chest. Every few moments it would flutter and I would fight it down, tell myself to relax and be calm. We talked about many things, and the more we walked, the more fluid the conversation became, and I opened up to Dominic, something I was never very good at with friends and even family. I told him some of my hopes and dreams, and he told me some of his.

Without speaking, our hands came together and we walked slowly, breathing in the crisp night air.

There was something about him, his ease, that made me feel comfortable. He felt like a member of my family already, someone I could speak with and trust. This was not a feat easily accomplished, as my mother’s philosophy had always been to trust no one—“not even Jesus on the cross,” she had told me once, which had shocked me.

The way Dominic held himself—his natural humor, his gentle way—made me think of Emidio. This was always how I imagined Emidio would be when he got older.

“Your father is a good man,” Dominic said. “I respect him very much.”

“He has been through a lot.”

“He depends on you.”

“Who else does he have?”

He looked at me carefully. “I know your mother passed away . . .” he said.

I thought of our conversation on the way to the parachute, in which Dominic talked about his father leaving the family.

So I told him.

I told him about my father coming back looking like a dead man, his eyes red with tears, trying to tell us what had happened, unable to find the words. The priest was with him, and we all prayed together. I didn’t really understand what had happened, but I was old enough to know that my mother wasn’t coming back. Iole and Emidio said that they understood, but for weeks after would ask Papa and me when Mama would be back and if she would have the new baby with her. Every time they asked, Papa would hide his face, the tears rolling down his cheeks. Finally I scolded them, tears in my own eyes. They stopped asking, eventually.

As I talked, the emotions just kept coming.

I told him about my mother. Her thick black hair always tied back in a bun. I told him about the arguments she and Papa would have, during which they were seemingly angry and about to kill each other, and then they would start laughing and dance around the room. Dominic listened as I told him about Mama’s
vignio
, a branch selected from the tree out back. It was a wicked little branch she used when her children did something really bad. Like the time I said I was in love with Guido Angeluzzi, a boy who lived in the same village. Before I knew it, Mama had me across her lap, the
vignio
leaving white-hot burns across my buttocks.

I laughed, remembering it.

“She was the disciplinarian in our house,” I said. “When Papa came home, he never scolded us; he was too glad to see us. So she told us she had to be the one who enforced the rules. And boy, did she ever.”

“It sounds like she was a strong woman,” Dominic said.

“Yes. But we all knew that she would tear off her own flesh to feed her children. She pinched pennies, but if we were ever sick, she bought the best medicine, she burned more oil and fed us the thick soup, even if it meant she would go hungry that night.”

For a moment, I said nothing, transported back in time to when I had my mother. When I could be a little girl and she would make everything all right. She would take care of me. Now, it was different. Now, I did the taking care of.

“Are you thirsty?” Dominic asked.

“Yes,” I said, realizing it was true. I had talked for a long time. And, surprisingly, I wasn’t embarrassed. In fact, I felt peaceful.

“We should get back, too. But let’s get a drink first,” he said. “I know of a sweet creek up ahead that produces the coldest, purest water you’ll ever taste.”

We walked ahead, and this time Dominic stayed very close to me. I got the feeling he wanted to touch me, but it was not right. It was too soon, and although he didn’t realize it, I wanted something much more from him.

Gradually, I began to hear the sound of gurgling water and we came to a rock formation cut into the side of a hill. In the moonlight, I could see the water glistening against the black rock, could see the wetness of the rock itself, but I saw no pool below.

Dominic stepped up the rock face and reached high. His hand disappeared over a rock shelf and then his hand came down, cupping
a handful of ice-cold water. My parched throat and I watched with envy as he drank deeply.

He looked at me and we both realized with awkwardness that this could be a little tricky. I loved the idea of him putting his arms around me and lifting me up high, but somehow I didn’t think Papa would approve. Especially considering that my dress was too small and if he lifted me too high, well, I didn’t want him to see anything he shouldn’t.

We looked around for some sort of crude cup, maybe a thick piece of bark I could shape into a drinking glass, but nothing presented itself.

“Scoop some for me,” I said.

He looked at me strangely and then stretched once again. I heard his hand leave the water above, a gentle splashing sound.

Dominic brought his hand down and I guided it to my mouth. I held it close and drank deeply. He was right; it was delicious water, pure and cold.

I straightened up and he was looking at me as though shocked.

“You drank from my hand,” he said. I saw something in his eyes I did not like.

Anger rose up inside me.

I grabbed his hand and opened it, for him to see. Then I held out my hand opened, next to his.

“Look. How is your hand different from mine?” I asked. He looked down. His hand was much bigger than mine, but we both had calluses, deep lines. Signs of hard work.

When he looked back up, his eyes were lowered, his face flushed.

“I saw the look in your eyes,” I said, the anger coming in waves. “Who do you think you are, passing judgment on me? At a time like this, you worry what kind of girl I am?”

I turned on my heel and made my way back to the cabin. He didn’t walk with me, but stayed behind, watching.

The next morning, I asked Papa to find someone else to take me down the mountain.

P
ART THREE

C
HAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

C
asalvieri at dawn. Sleepy stone walls reflected the soft orange glow of the early morning sun. I made my way through the narrow streets, feeling like I had been gone for years instead of days. Everything seemed smaller and distant, like an old photograph found in a new book.

I passed homes with no signs of life, no men leaving to work the fields, no children up to help with chores. There were no chores because there were no animals left. No crops to tend. Casalvieri itself was now a casualty of the war.

At my house, Zizi Checcone was busy in the kitchen, peeling vegetables and boiling water. I’d never met anyone who boiled as much water as Zizi Checcone.

“Benedetta,” she cried softly, hugging me to her ample bosom. She put a finger to her lips and gestured with her chin toward the next room, then pulled me into the small pantry and leaned close with her lips against my ear.

“Wolff got back last night. He asked about you, but I said you weren’t feeling well and were upstairs.”

I nodded to let her know I understood.

We walked back to the kitchen and I started to help her with the vegetables.

“No,” she said. “Go upstairs and wake up your brother and sister. They’ll be happy to see you.”

“Have they behaved?”

“Like angels. Now that you’re back, I’m sure they’ll start to act like little devils. They get more of your attention that way.”

I laughed and ran up the stairs. I cracked the door, saw the lump of each of their bodies in their beds. Iole was on her side, her mouth open, drool on the pillow. Emidio, as usual, was completely on top of his blanket, his head at the foot of the bed, his feet on his pillow. In his arms he clutched a worn teddy bear.

I felt a surge of pride, the kind that Papa must feel. I was their big sister, but had assumed the role of mother, and now I was feeling the emotions that a mother must feel.

I climbed onto Emidio’s bed and he stirred slightly. I reached down and tickled the sole of his foot, which he immediately retracted under the pillow. He flopped his head on the other side and this time I grabbed his big toe, then slowly applied pressure. His eyes scrunched at the discomfort; he tried to pull his leg back but this time I was prepared and had a good grip.

“Ah!” he yelled, his eyes snapping open. I let go of his big toe and he looked at me, his eyes bleary, confused at first, and then he laid his head back down. I could see him focus, see the anger pool, then rise up in a wave.


Bestia
!
” he yelled, and lunged at me. We nearly toppled off his bed, and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Iole start to sit up, but then I was thrown down with surprising force onto Emidio’s bed. He started to get a good grip on my hair, but then I flipped him over my shoulder and pounced on him, pinning him down with ease. I flicked his ears, something he could never tolerate.

“I hate that!” he said.

“Really?”

Flick. Flick.

Iole came bounding off her bed and jumped into my arms, her hug taking my breath away. I smelled her face and hair; the mustiness of the pillow and her morning breath mingled into the sweetest, most innocent smell in the world.

“I’m not done with her!” yelled Emidio, and he jumped over Iole, knocking her with his knees, and barreled into me with his square little head.

“Hey, you got me!” Iole snarled, and leapt on top of him. I followed, and pretty soon we were all giggling and laughing, squirming, and then we fell off the bed onto the floor.

“When did you get back?” Iole asked after we quieted down.

“This morning.”

“Where were you? Drinking wine somewhere with the
ribellí,
I bet,” Emidio said, a little smile on his face, inviting the attack, which he soon got.

“Get off of me!” he yelled.

“Your mouth is awfully fresh for a little boy,” I said.

“You haven’t heard the worst of it,” Iole said with a sideways glance at her younger brother.

“He can’t be any worse than you were,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“I was not fresh!” Iole said.

“Ayee yah! You were awful!” I said. When she looked hurt, I tackled her and started tickling her tummy.

After I stopped, she looked at me.

“You sure are in a good mood. Did something nice happen to you while you were gone?”

I wanted to tell them. Wanted them to know that I had been led to believe Papa was dead and then found out he wasn’t. I wanted them to realize how lucky they were, that they still had the greatest father in the world and that after we all got through this war alive and in one piece, the three of us would need to protect him, take care of him for as long as we could.

Instead I told them to get dressed, that playtime was over and it was time to get some work done.

“That’s all you care about: work, work, work,” Emidio complained as he pulled on his shirt and pants.

“Yeah, and you’re lucky that’s all I care about. Otherwise you’d be hungry with no clothes to wear, no warm bed to sleep in,” I said. “I know other children who would trade places with you in a minute.”

He looked embarrassed.

“And don’t you ever forget it,” I added unnecessarily.

As I watched him get dressed, a shadow fell over my shoulder and I turned, startled, to see Colonel Wolff in the doorway.

In the short time since I’d last seen him, he’d deteriorated rapidly. He looked like a man who was losing more than just a war.

“Benedetta,” he said. His uniform was rumpled, his face was dirty, and he slouched. A far cry from the man who had sat ramrod straight in his chair that first morning the Germans arrived. “Come with me.” He turned and started down the stairs, not waiting to see if I would follow.

“See if Zizi Checcone needs help,” I said to Iole and Emidio.

And then I followed Wolff.

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