To Find a Mountain (21 page)

C
HAPTER FORTY-ONE

A
h, the angel awakens.”

I tried to open my eyes but the brightness blinded me, and a horrible pain shot through my forehead, feeling a hundred times worse than any headache I’d ever had. My eyes watered and I cracked my eyes to slits, just enough to see a rounded pear shape, blurred through my tears, standing at the foot of my bed.

“Papa?”

“Shhh, relax, Benedetta,” my father said. “Don’t try to move; you’ve been through—”

I swung my feet off the bed and tried to rise, but the pain wracked my head again and I felt faint as I drifted, preparing myself for a collision with the cold floor. But Papa’s hands went beneath my arms and he hugged me to him, his rough shirt scratching me through my pajama top. He laid me back on the bed and covered me with a blanket.

“Sleep, Benedetta. You are still not well. When you wake up, you’ll have some soup.”

“The
Germanesí
. . .”

“They are gone. The Americans are here,” he said. And then, as an afterthought, he added, “I am here, too.”

“Iole, Emidio . . .”

“They are fighting with each other as usual.”

“Zizi Checcone.”

“Downstairs cooking.”

I hesitated, wanted to ask but wasn’t sure how much my father knew and how he would feel. He read my mind.

“Dominic is here too.”

I felt a flood of relief.

“Is he . . . ?”

“He’s all right. The wound became infected, but the Americans gave him some medicine and it’s better. When you’ve rested some more, you can see him.”

I pulled the blanket up tighter, holding it underneath my chin.

My father stood, watching me, and just as I was falling asleep I either heard, or dreamed, that he leaned down and whispered in my ear.

“I love you.”

With my eyes closed, I concentrated on relaxing my body, muscle by muscle, nerve by nerve. I started with my feet and then worked my way up, until I was able to finally relax my face, my clenched jaw.

The Germans were gone.

Sleep came to me quickly then, and I dreamed of the night the Germans first arrived. Of the morning when I came down the stairs to see Colonel Wolff and my father at the kitchen table. In the dream, Colonel Wolff saw his own body on the floor, just like it was after Becher shot him. And in the dream, Wolff asked my father what he was doing with a dead German officer in his house.

I woke before my father answered.

The ceiling of the bedroom looked the same to me. Its thin cracks were reassuring to me; they even looked beautiful. Maybe because I realized they were ours again. This house was ours. Our lives were ours.

It was all over now.

And I was alive.

I crossed myself and thanked God again for blessing me.

C
HAPTER FORTY-TWO

T
he flames crackled and sizzled as juice from the pig dripped and splattered onto the thick logs of the bonfire. The people of Casalvieri, 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, that 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 newfound 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 Casalvieri, as well as the Allied soldiers. There was a hearty cheer in response to his words and then people fell to drinking.

Though I would not be eating the pig, nor would Iole and Emidio—I had seen why the pig was fat—it somehow seemed appropriate that the people who had taken so much from Casalvieri, who had caused so much starvation, were now feeding those 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 retelling affected me. Even 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.

C
HAPTER FORTY-THREE

A
merica?” I asked, incredulously.

My father nodded. “America.”

The celebration was winding down; most of the people had gone home to begin their lives again. Someone had passed out small cups of coffee to the remaining celebrants.

“But why?” My heart was pounding and my head started to hurt again. “Things are finally back to normal,” I reasoned. “The Germans are gone. We can plant new crops. Rebuild. Why do you want to leave?”

“Zi Antonio,” my father said.

“Zi Antonio? Your little brother?” I asked. “What does he have to do with this?”

“He is in America. He started his own construction company before the war, remember? Well, before the Germans came here, he wrote me and said he needed a partner, but I told him no.”

“You told him no,” I said.

“But now he sent a letter and said that when the war is over, the American soldiers will come home and start families and build lots and lots of houses,” my father said. “He says life is better there. More food. Jobs. Medicine. It is a better place to raise children.”

I thought about the crops, about the damage to the village, and then the stories of America. About the wealth. About big houses and jobs that pay lots of money.

Reading my mind, my father said, “And look at what we have left. Our crops are ruined; we will be starving for at least two more years. And then what?”

I could think of nothing else to say. Except one thing. What about Dominic?

Again, my father knew what I was thinking.

“That’s why I didn’t want you two to fall in love,” Papa said.

Dominic looked at his feet.

“Too late,” I said.

Now it was Dominic’s turn to blush. My father watched him slowly turn red, then spoke.

“Dominic, I have nothing against you. I think you are a fine young man, and I know that you would treat my daughter with respect.”

He clamped his hand over Dominic’s.

“But I do not want to leave anyone behind.” His eyes clouded over and I knew he was thinking about my mother. “Benedetta is coming with us to America and I will not hear of anything else.”

“When?” I asked.

My father shrugged. “When the war is over everywhere. And the Americans go back to their country. Then we will go.”

My father turned to Dominic. “If you can make it to America,” he said, “I would be honored for you to call on Benedetta.”

Dominic looked at me. His eyes were watering. “Yes, I will.”

My father left us then.

“You will come to America, Dominic?” I asked.

“I will come to America, Benedetta.”

“Do you swear you will?”

“I swear to God I will.”

I hugged Dominic, clinging to him. I whispered in his ear that if he didn’t keep his promise I would come back and bring him to America myself.

“Enough of this serious talk,” my father called to us. “Let’s get drunk.”

C
HAPTER FORTY-FOUR

W
e passed through the fog on our way down the mountain. The old bus alternately chugged and braked, smoking and squeaking until the orange glow of Naples came into view, the sunlight sparkling on the Mediterranean just beyond.

It was the first time I had ever been to Naples, but there would be no wandering through the shops and restaurants of the biggest city I had ever been to. The bus would take us directly to the harbor where a ship sat docked, waiting to take us to the Land of Opportunity.

The good-byes in Casalvieri took nearly a week to complete. We were invited to dinners put together by groups of families; my father at one time or another had helped everyone in Casalvieri, and it was important to pay our respects to everyone, lest we insult a single person.

It had been almost a year since the Germans left. The war was over now, Japan had surrendered, and the Americans were returning to their country, ready to start families and build houses. Lots and lots of houses.

Our land and home were sold. We were officially a family without a country until we landed in America and found a place to live, a place to call our own.

I had said my good-byes to Dominic. The bond between the two of us was eternal; I knew that deep in my heart. His vows of love and mine were genuine; our fates were sealed together now, even if our physical selves were divided by an ocean.

Dominic would stay with his three brothers and mother to help them plant the new crops and get things in order, then he would come with his younger brother to America. If they did well, they would send for the mother and brother.

The bus took us directly to the harbor where the huge ship, called the
Volcania
, waited patiently.

A man offered to take our luggage, but we refused, finding a seat on the deck and tucking the small trunks beneath our legs. Our valuables and the money from the sale of the house and land were neatly sewn into a leather satchel that circled my father’s waist.

It would remain there until we reached Zi Antonio’s.

Zizi Checcone, dressed in a flowery print dress instead of her usual black, her hair pulled back neatly behind her head, sat next to my father. It had come as no surprise when Papa told me they were going to get married before leaving for America. I had known they were falling in love. I thought about my mother and I knew she would be happy for Papa.

Their wedding had been a village celebration, a chance to reaffirm life
and a new beginning for them, as well as for Casalvieri.

The last of the passengers boarded the ship, and the sailors cast off the huge ropes holding us to shore. We pushed out into the harbor with a thunderous blast from the ship’s horn and applause from the hundreds of people who had come to see off their loved ones.

I looked behind me, where Papa and Zizi Checcone sat next to one another, Iole and Emidio on their laps, wide-eyed and excited. They were smiling at me. The strong breeze pulled back Iole’s long hair and she raised her hands out as if she were going to fly. Emidio hugged Zizi Checcone harder, his face buried in her bosom.

Thick black smoke billowed from the ship’s stacks, and we seemed to merely creep out of the harbor, despite the mighty rumbling of the engines beneath our feet. I leaned over the side, my fingers gripping the white metal railing as I looked into the water below, trying to get a feel for the actual speed of the ship.

The water was dark—black, really—and it caressed the rusty hull of the ship, tiny bubbles of froth fizzing before being swept under thick waves.

I heard the sound of the water, felt the wind on my face, and watched as the dark waters swirled behind us, their peaks and troughs briefly marking our passage before reshaping into the flat calm that erased history with silent ease.