To Find a Mountain (8 page)

P
ART TWO

C
HAPTER SIXTEEN

December 1944

T
he hand was clamped tightly over my mouth, tearing me from a dream in which I had run from the Germans and was now hiding in the abandoned chicken coop with the pig, which was trying to eat me. I tried to sit up, but was firmly pushed down. My eyes flew open and I half-expected to see before me the grinning leer of Schlemmer, his eyes watery and mad, wearing the same expression he wore when he killed our pigs in the front yard.

Instead, I saw the alarmed but always kind eyes of Zizi Checcone.

“Shhh!” Her brow was furrowed in concentration, willing me to wake up fully. My body relaxed and she slowly took her hand from my mouth. There was a faint taste, or scent, of tomatoes lingering on my lips.

When she saw that I was alert, she helped me sit up.

“What? What?” I said.

“You must get dressed quickly,” she whispered.

“Why?” I said, louder than I intended, and was shushed again, but I barely noticed as I searched frantically for my shoes.

“You’re going to the mountain.”

“What mountain?” I asked stupidly.

Zizi Checcone rolled her eyes toward the heavens, then pulled a dress over my head. I pushed my arms through the sleeves automatically. It had been a long time since someone had dressed me like this.

“Why?” I tried again.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “All I know is that you are to go tonight.”

I pulled a heavy sweater over my dress, then tied my hair back behind my head.

“Don’t ask questions and speak only when spoken to,” she said. “You are to walk quickly to the south end of the village, past the church and past the Marciani house. Go to the right side of the road where the footpath starts near the big yellow boulder. Do you know where that is?”

I nodded. By now, my brain was fully awake, and I began to wonder if this had anything to do with Papa.

“Do you know where that is, Benedetta?” Zizi Checcone asked again. I then realized that it was too dark for her to see me nodding yes.

“I know where it is.”

“A man will meet you once you start walking up the path. Do what he says—he is risking his life to come and get you.”

“Did Papa send him? Does this mean he is alive?” Hope had blossomed in my chest.

“Hush, child! I said I don’t know anything.”

“What if the Germans see I’m gone?”

“Colonel Wolff said he would not be back for several days, so you should be safe. If he comes back early, we’ll say you’re at a neighboring village, helping a cousin who is sick.”

That made sense to me.

“Be just as careful when you come back,” she said, grabbing me by the shoulders and hugging me. Then she shooed me toward the stairs.

My mouth felt dry and my heart pounded as I walked down the stairs to the front door and adjusted to the shock of being awakened from a dead sleep to sneak out of the house in order to climb a mountain. I stopped at the hearth and took a quick drink of water, and then I was out the door and into the cool still of the night.

I walked quickly at first, but then slowed down, realizing that I should look as casual as a girl my age could walking around in the dark at two o’clock in the morning. I doubted there were any Germans out and about at this time of night, but who knew for sure?

The stars were out and a gentle breeze blew. The booming of the distant guns was going strong.

I made my way around the village, walking on the outer paths where soldiers returning from the front would not be traveling. My heart started to slow down as my feet fell into an easy rhythm, and I wished that I had stopped to go to the bathroom before I left. A vision came into my mind of my guide and me being caught by the Germans because I had to stop and pee.

The path narrowed and soon the Marciani house came into view, a low stone structure with a red tiled roof. I passed it quickly as a dog started to bark, and then soon I was beyond it. The path wound its way through trees and thick brush. After several minutes, I realized that I must have missed the entrance to the mountain path marked by the big yellow rock. I backtracked and soon found it. I stood at the path, uncertain. Where was I going? Would I find my father alive or would I have final proof that he was dead? The path into the woods was dark and intimidating. I couldn’t see more than a few feet into it.

There was only one way to answer any of my questions, and I plunged into the darkness of the path.

It was a dirt path with large stones sunken deeply and erratically, the kind that make you stub your toe and twist an ankle. The path rose quickly, and I frequently reached out to branches for support, as well as to help pull myself up after a rock tripped me. Soon, though, I fell into an awkward rhythm and my eyes adjusted to the darkness, allowing me to see the more well-worn parts of the path with signs of recent use, and I wasn’t stumbling so much. I was even able to pick out small clumps of fresh dirt that signaled the recent presence of a boot.

As I passed a particularly thick stand of trees, a dark shadow silently emerged and stepped in front of me. It was a man, tall and slender, with a black cap on his head that cast a shadow over his face. I froze, hoping to hear a kind voice.

“Benedetta Carlesimo?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” My voice sounded small and weak in the darkness of the forest.

“Follow me. It will take two hours. Be as quiet as possible.” His voice was so low I couldn’t get any feeling for who he was or if I knew him.

With that, he started walking.

We climbed steadily for almost an hour. The trail leveled off at times but always returned to a steep incline that left my thighs burning and my calf muscles aching.

He looked back occasionally to make sure I was still coming, and once in a while paused while I caught my breath. Never once did I hear him even slightly huff with exertion.

At one point, I asked him if my father had sent him. He responded by shushing me.

The walk was torture. I focused on his back, following him like a heifer follows the lead bull through the meadow. When he went right, I went right; when he stepped over something, I stepped over it.

When I thought I could climb no more and was going to pass out, collapse, and roll back down the mountain, my guide suddenly froze in his tracks.

I was so intent on the ground, on putting one foot in front of the other, that my head butted him in the middle of his back and he let out a small
oof
. He regained his footing, turned, and grabbed my arm. I tensed, watching as he strained to listen to the darkness ahead, and I did the same. I heard nothing.

With a grip on my arm that I was certain would leave a bruise, he yanked me off the path into the thick woods just off the trail and pushed me to the ground. He joined me, got down on his belly, and crawled in between and partially under a thick stand of brush, making virtually no noise in the process. He moved slightly to his left and motioned for me to do the same.

I complied, my bare legs scraping the dirt and sticks as a million imaginary bugs, as well as a few very real ones, crawled onto my skin. A memory came to my mind of playing hide-and-seek with Iole, before Emidio was born. I had hidden in the woods just behind the barn, in the dirt, while Iole searched and searched. Finally, when I knew she had given up, I started to get up, and that’s when the ants started biting me. My legs, arms, and other delicate parts of my body were on fire. I ran to the house screaming. Mama ran out of the house, eyes wide with fear. She took one look at me, scooped me up, and threw me into the big copper pot she’d been washing clothes in. The pain didn’t last long, but the welts were visible proof of my humiliation.

Now, on my stomach next to the strange man, I waited, conscious of any noises and twitching at the slightest feeling on my skin, real or imagined. We waited but I still heard nothing. Just when I thought I could bear it no longer and was ready to whisper to my mountain-climbing companion that this was no place to take a girl, we heard the first, soft sounds of far-off footsteps approaching.

Peering through the branches and leaves, I was able to see a glint of metal, a soft gray of uniform fabric.
Germanesí.
I heard a clunk of leather and the labored breathing of men who had been walking for quite some time. In the darkness above me, I caught a quick glimpse of a rounded silhouette that I recognized to be a German helmet.

They passed haphazardly. This wasn’t the single-file marching I’d seen from them on occasion. These soldiers were either stationed here, searching for Italian men who were in hiding, or had been temporarily sent back to Casalvieri for rest.

After they passed, I slowly let my breath out, not realizing that I had been holding it the whole time. When the sounds of their footsteps had disappeared entirely, my body sagged. Almost as if on cue, swarms of mosquitoes and flies found us, attacking every inch of exposed skin with a violent thoroughness. It was time to go. I brought a leg up underneath my body and had started to push up off the ground when my guide’s hand shot out, clamping on to my arm.
Great
, I thought.
Now I’ll have matching bruises
.

I looked at him, but again, his face was in shadow. I could just see the outline of his nose peeking out, his eyes black hollows trained directly on the path ahead.

Suddenly, anger welled up inside me, and I pulled away from him. Who did he think he was? Easy for him to lie among the biting insects; he had on thick black pants and what looked to be a heavy shirt. His cap even covered his ears from the swarming insects.

Just when I was ready to lay into him, the sound of someone running down the path reached our ears. I held my breath as the man ran toward us. It was a shambling gait, as if one of his legs was shorter than the other. Despite the darkness, I could see what he was doing: He was zipping up his pants.

I turned to look at my guide, wanting to apologize for my foolishness. If he hadn’t stopped me, I would be standing right in the middle of the path now. Just in time for the German soldier to run directly into me.

Perhaps sensing my look, my guide turned to me and his eyes glowed from the blackness of the forest. Even in the dark they seemed to shimmer, reminding me of the one time I had been to the Mediterranean Sea and swum in its brilliantly clear waters. My heart skipped a beat as he focused on me. My palms were suddenly sweaty.

As he stared at me, his eyes suddenly seemed to twinkle, and his lips parted, his clean white teeth gleaming. I think, in the darkness, he was laughing at me.

And then something happened that I would never forget. The German soldier tripped. The sound he made crashing into the ground startled me so much, coming as it did at a time when I was looking into these beautiful blue eyes, that it scared me, startled me, caught me off guard so much that I jerked and a small, soft sound escaped my lips.

The soldier, starting to get up, snapped his head around toward where we were hiding, although a little bit too far to the right. Which worked out perfectly, allowing my guide to burst from the bushes and ram his head into the soldier’s stomach before he could react. My guide straightened and his fist swept around in one fluid motion, catching the German flush on the jaw. The element of surprise was entirely on our side. The soldier went down to the ground in a heap.

My guide ripped the rifle from the soldier’s hands, jacked open the chamber, and emptied the bullets into his palm. He then threw the rifle farther down the path and heaved the bullets into the forest.

I still hadn’t moved.

He reached into the woods and grabbed my arm, then pulled me roughly through the bushes. The small twigs scratched my face and arms.

We ran then, my guide holding me, jerking me along until I could run no more, and then he scooped me up and slung me over his shoulder and ran faster.

I vomited onto his back.