To Find a Mountain (14 page)

C
HAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

L
ate in the afternoon, a visitor came to the house.

Her name was Rosa Zanussi. She lived on the eastern side of Casalvieri; her husband had health problems and her only daughter was fully grown and married, off with a family of her own. She also had a son who had left Casalvieri many years ago and now lived in Naples.

Her husband had contracted polio and now walked with the aid of a walking stick and a cumbersome brace. His left arm was withered, ending prematurely in a stump with two fingers. For better or worse, he was safe during the war. Even the Germans could find no use for him.

Signora Zanussi was a woman who had lived a hard life. Secretly, a lot of the younger women in Casalvieri feared they would end up like her. And the truth was, many, if not most, would. She had probably never been a pretty woman, and the long days of tending crops and caring for her children as well as a crippled husband had all wreaked havoc on her body. She was prematurely old.

Her dress was stitched and restitched many times over. Strands of gray hair hung across her face and remained there, their owner too tired to make the effort to tuck them behind her ear.

“Good morning, Benedetta,” she said, a half-formed smile on her face appearing and departing quickly, as if it knew it would never reach its full potential so just decided to quit ahead of time.

“How are you, Signora Zanussi?”

She looked down and shifted her feet. Her thick ankles were throbbing with varicose veins. “I am fine. God has not told me to join him today, so I will continue doing what I do for another day.”

Finding a response to that proved impossible.

“Benny,” she whispered, leaning close to me and looking around for people eavesdropping. “Do you know you have the only rooster left in Casalvieri?”

“That can’t be!”

“It is true.”

From the folds of her dress her hand emerged, holding four eggs.

“I would like to rent him.”

“What?” The war had proven ghastly, but now it was just getting downright weird.

“Our hen is ready; it is time. Without a rooster, well . . .”

“It is an opportunity not to be missed, no?” I answered.

She nodded emphatically. “She is our last hen, Benedetta. If she doesn’t have chicks soon, who knows if she ever will.”

“Your hen is probably one of the last in Casalvieri, too,” I said.

“I don’t know; I think people are hiding their animals from the Germans, but it isn’t always easy.”

I thought of the pig, a hundred yards away hidden in a secret compartment of the barn.

Signora Zanussi continued. “Who knows when the time will come again? Who knows what will still be alive in the next year?”

We both knew what she really meant.

“Come with me,” I said.

I led her to the pen, where, perched imperiously on one leg, stood our rooster, Gallo.

Seemingly aware of his audience, he fluffed his neck feathers and strutted around the pen. I rolled my eyes at the sight of him. Auditioning for his role, perhaps?

“He senses why we are here,” Signora Zanussi said, laughing.

I entered the pen and scooped him up. He bobbed his head back and forth, seemingly excited about the possibilities of what might lie ahead. For a moment I thought I could feel his heart beating wildly.

Signora Zanussi handed me the eggs and I handed her Gallo.

She stroked his feathers and he jutted his head forward, his neck rising to meet her hand. This was going to be good, he was probably thinking. He looked at me as if to say, “Wish me luck.”

I kicked the door to the pen, and it closed with a solid clang.

“How is Signor Zanussi?” I asked.

“He is in great pain, Benedetta. And it will only get worse; at least that’s what the doctors say.”

“Our hearts go out to him.”

She shrugged again. “We are all going to be in great pain, soon,” she said. “Already the people of Casalvieri are starting to feel the beginning of the long hunger that will come. All food is running low. There is talk that other villages like Roselli and Scatozza may soon have to be evacuated.”

“The Americans?” I said, not attempting to hide the hope in my voice.

“Yes, the Americans are making some advances south of here,” she said. “These other villages, they will come here. They have to. And there is not enough food here for us as it is. What will happen when hundreds of new people start pouring into our town? Where will they get food to eat? Water to drink?”

“They will be even hungrier than us,” I said.

Signora Zanussi’s face was flushed. “Who knows, maybe they will try to take what little we have left.” She shrugged. “You are safe here, Benny, with the Germans. There is always something good in bad, at least. Who in their right mind will try to take something from you? But what about me? I have a man who can barely walk; if hooligans want to rob me, how will I manage to stop them? Throw my empty pots and pans at them?”

She laughed in spite of herself.

“We must somehow try to make it through this together,” I said. “The people of Roselli are no different than the people of Casalvieri. We cannot become each other’s enemies. We have enough enemies as it is.”

“You and I know that, Benny. But will their hungry stomachs know that?”

We were silent then, until I handed her back two of the four eggs.

“No, no . . .” she started.

“Take them. I do not need them all. They . . .” I said, gesturing toward the house, “. . . do not need them, either. Two is plenty for Iole and Emidio and myself. Take two back. Signor Zanussi needs them, too.”

She reluctantly put two of the eggs back in the pocket of her dress.

“Besides,” I said, gesturing toward Gallo, “he may act like a big man, but who knows if he’ll actually get the job done?”

She laughed then and leaned closer.

“We must stay strong, Benedetta.” She wrapped her hand around my hand that was still holding the two eggs. “Eat these for yourself and your brother and sister. You children need them for strength.”

I looked down at her hands; the arthritic knuckles were turning white as she squeezed my hand.

“We will be here long after these
Germanesí
have gone,” she said. “We must be strong enough to rebuild what they destroy. It is the way it has always been.”

She left then, walking away with great effort, Gallo under her arm. His feet were moving, running hard and kicking but getting nowhere.

I knew the feeling.

C
HAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

B
echer sat tight-lipped at the head of the table, a soldier on each side of him. Iole, Emidio, Zizi Checcone, and I took up the rest of the table.

Dinner consisted of yet another stew, this time made with meat that Zizi Checcone guessed was lamb, although she knew of no one in the area who had not butchered and eaten all of their sheep long ago. Bread and wine were also on the table.

Conversation around the dinner table typically consisted of the Germans talking among themselves, with the occasional call for more bread or wine. Usually, we sat in silence except for the occasional command to Iole and Emidio to eat what was in front of them, and to eat all of it. Even now, Iole continued to be a bit of a picky eater, though she had to have been ravenous.

Something was wrong with Becher. He seemed even more stern and humorless than usual. Although we couldn’t follow the conversation between him and the soldiers, I could tell he wasn’t happy about something.
Things must not be going well on the mountain
, I thought to myself.

I went to the pot over the fireplace to scrape any remnants from its sides while Zizi Checcone stepped outside to bring more bread from the oven. That left Iole and Emidio at the table with the Germans.

What happened next shocked me.

“Boy,” Becher said to Emidio. “Bring me the wine.”

Emidio reached up and took the bottle from the table. It was big in his hands and he carried it carefully. Just as he got to Becher, he tripped. Whether it was over the foot of the soldier next to Becher, or whether it was the soldier’s chair, I do not know. But I do know that the wine flew from Emidio’s hand and hit Becher squarely in the chest, where it proceeded to flow out over his uniform.

Becher jumped from his chair, reared back, and slapped Emidio across the face. My little brother flew backward and landed on his back.

“Stupid Italian bastard!” Becher shouted. He strode forward to Emidio, who was too stunned to start crying, lifted him to his feet by his shirt, and started slapping him—left, right, left, right, and back again. Emidio’s head snapped with each blow.

I dropped the pot and ran to spring myself upon Becher. Coolly, he dropped Emidio, who fell in a heap sobbing, and drew his pistol. I stopped in front of Becher and he placed the muzzle of his pistol squarely against my forehead.

The door flew open and Zizi Checcone stood aghast at the scene before her. She quickly crossed the room and scooped Emidio up into her arms. I could see that his nose and mouth were bleeding.

“We are low on ammunition,” he said, a half smile on his face. “Otherwise I would take great joy in blowing your brains across this house.”

Iole started screaming, and Zizi Checcone went to her, scooped her up, and stood with a child in each arm.

“You are very brave when it comes to hurting children,” I said.

“Benedetta,” Zizi Checcone said.

Becher laughed. “You are very brave also, thinking that Colonel Wolff will protect you, perhaps?”

I said nothing. His pistol was still pressed against my forehead. He pushed harder.

“You are a stupid girl. You have no idea with whom you are dealing.”

“I know.” My voice was steady, my heart racing, blackness threatening to envelop me, but I knew, I could feel the violence within me, the desire to kill.

“Really,” he said, pulling back the hammer of the gun. “Tell me who.”

“An animal who cannot taste enough blood.”

Zizi Checcone told me I was going to get us all killed. When she said that, the blackness receded, and I regained my senses. Becher pulled back his pistol and I knew he was going to strike me with it, but made no move to avoid the blow. If he succeeded in hurting me, maybe he would leave my brother and sister and Zizi Checcone alone.

When the pistol hit me, I felt a searing pain in the side of my face and the room whirled wildly, then crashed to a stop as the floor slammed up to meet me. It did not knock me out, but I lay still. When I heard his boot whisper on the floor, I thought I could hear the kick coming, and then it hit me in the stomach, the wind going from inside, and I could not breathe. I kept my eyes closed as I gasped for air, a soft moaning sound coming from somewhere deep within me. The kick turned me over, away from Becher and the other soldiers. I opened one eye and saw Zizi Checcone, Iole, and Emidio. I made eye contact with the old woman to let her know I was hurt, but still alive.

“The taste of blood has made me hungry,” Becher said, and then I heard the scrape of his chair as he sat back down. The soldiers and Becher talked low, in German, and I stayed on the floor. Zizi Checcone went up the stairs with Iole and Emidio, and then came back down alone.

She rolled me onto my back and I winced. I felt something trickling down my face and at first I thought it was tears, but Zizi Checcone wiped it and her hand came away red with blood. She went to the pot over the fireplace and returned with a warm, damp cloth, which she used to clean my wound.

“Can you stand?” she whispered. I nodded.

She helped me to my feet and again the room spun around me, tilted at a crazy angle. The conversation at the table stopped; I knew they were watching. With a thick arm around me, Zizi Checcone pushed me toward the stairs, but we stopped at the sound of Becher’s voice.

“Benedetta,” he said. “I still don’t have my wine.”

I turned with a monumental effort. He sat there, his empty glass raised toward me. Zizi Checcone let go of me and I stood by myself as she went and retrieved a full bottle of wine, then started toward Becher.

“Ah. Ah. No. Benedetta will do it.”

Zizi Checcone stopped and stood halfway between Becher and me. In a whisper, she asked me if I could do it.

I nodded again.

With shooting pains in my head and now running up and down my spine, I walked to Zizi Checcone, then to Becher. The bottle shook in my hand and I slopped wine into his glass, nearly pouring it to overflowing, but I stopped just in time.

I brought the bottle back down and walked to Zizi Checcone. She took the bottle from my hand and helped me to the stairs.

“See?” Becher said. “Even a stupid girl can learn.”