To Find a Mountain (5 page)

C
HAPTER TEN

O
n the sixth day of my father’s absence a rumor made its way through the village that Bishop Frugazzi was on his way. In the larger province of Frosinone, Bishop Frugazzi was the highest-ranking clergy. To have a priest of his stature come to our village was an honor, and a cause for celebration.

He was coming, ostensibly, to meet the Germans, as well as to bless the village and pray for our safety as the war raged on all around us.

By lunchtime, the rumor had grown to fact: The bishop would indeed be arriving in Casalvieri at noon. The rumor was confirmed by Colonel Wolff, who called me to discuss the matter.

“You’ve heard of the man?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “This is an honor for all of us in Casalvieri.”

He smiled. “Your faith is admirable, Benedetta.”

For some reason, I didn’t think he admired my strong Catholic faith at all. There seemed to be a touch of mockery in his smile.

“Here is a bottle of wine,” he said, handing it to me. “Please serve it to us at lunch.”

“To who?” I asked.

“Don Frugazzi will be coming here for lunch.”

“Here?”

“Here. Is there a problem?”

“No, no,” I said. The fear I had been feeling since the Germans’ arrival was now replaced with a nervous excitement. Without saying another word to Wolff, I rushed to the kitchen and retrieved the best jar of tomatoes I could find, the one with the biggest chunks, and immediately set out to make Bishop Frugazzi the best spaghetti lunch he had ever had.

The freshest garlic, onion, and olive oil, with chunks of pork, all went into the rich sauce. The thickest pasta I could find was boiled. I had never worked so quickly or so efficiently in the kitchen in my life. My hands flew with a speed and precision I didn’t know I possessed.

The best tablecloth, last used for the wake after my mother’s funeral, went on the table. From a felt-lined wooden box came the few pieces of mismatched fine silverware that we reserved for special occasions.

While everything cooked, I hurried to Zizi Checcone’s, holding my dress up so I could run as fast as my feet would fly. Iole and Emidio were playing together in her yard. They saw me coming and raced to meet me.

“Benny, what’s wrong?” Iole asked, her big brown eyes wide with anticipated fright.

I laughed. “Nothing! Just the opposite!”

Emidio was clinging to my dress.

“Father Frugazzi—the bishop—is coming to our house for lunch!” I told them.

They looked at me, clearly not grasping the seriousness of the occasion.

“Come with me—you can meet him and help serve lunch,” I said. “Papa will be so happy to know how well we took care of the bishop. This is an important occasion for the Carlesimo family!”

“This is an important occasion for all of Casalvieri!” Zizi Checcone said, emerging from the front door of the house. She began to brush Iole’s hair with her fingers and straighten Emidio’s shirt and collar, then turned to frantically trying to smooth out the wrinkles in my dress.

We raced back to the house and I sent Iole and Emidio upstairs to change. I tested the pasta to make sure it was right, biting a noodle in half to see that it felt firm but not crisp, soft but not soggy.
Al dente
.

The sound of voices reached the kitchen, and soon Wolff led Bishop Frugazzi into the kitchen. The bishop was a short, wide man, balding, with horn-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in black and was sweating profusely.

“This is Benedetta Carlesimo,” Wolff said. “She’s taking good care of us.”

The bishop’s chubby hand took mine and he kissed it, then kissed both of my cheeks. “Ah, Benedetta, the blessed,” he said. “What a beautiful name, and such a beautiful girl!”

He turned to Wolff. “You are lucky to have such a beautiful
zoccola
.”

I blushed at the word, which means a woman of ill repute. I was certain that I hadn’t heard right, that the bishop hadn’t just called me that horrible name. I then busied myself with the food. Iole and Emidio came downstairs and were introduced to the bishop. They helped me finish setting the table while Wolff and Bishop Frugazzi began talking.

“How goes the . . . effort, Colonel Wolff?” the bishop began.

“Excellent, excellent.”

“Good.”

“We are pushing, the Americans are trying to reach us, but we throw them back, almost effortlessly,” Wolff said. To me, however, his voice didn’t sound as certain as his words.

“The big guns . . . ?” the bishop asked.

“Yes, the big guns are too much for them.”

Bishop Frugazzi drained his glass and motioned for me to refill it, which I did.

“They will soon give up,” said the bishop. “They lose too many men.”

Wolff nodded in agreement.

“I hear about the American losses,” continued Bishop Frugazzi. “Word from my parishioners is that the southern slope of Mt. Cassino is covered with dead Americans.”

“Our men are good fighters,” said Wolff.

I placed the bowl of spaghetti on the table. The bishop served himself, then pushed the bowl across to Wolff, who was clearly not as experienced with pasta. He awkwardly heaped a pile of the pasta onto his plate.

“And how are your people?” asked Wolff, struggling to wrap noodles around his fork. He watched Bishop Frugazzi use his spoon to hold the pasta while twirling the fork, but this technique was clearly beyond the German’s reach.

“They are good,” the bishop said, obviously distracted by the food in front of him. The bishop drained his glass again and I refilled it. The bottle was almost empty. “They say the Germans treat them well.”

“We want it that way, Your Excellency. We are not here to hurt anyone.” Wolff paused a moment. “At least not any innocent civilians.”

“It shows, Colonel Wolff.”

Bishop Frugazzi heaped even more pasta onto his plate. “There are shortages, of course,” he said. “But that is to be expected during times of war.”

“Some things cannot be avoided,” Wolff agreed.

“Many villages are short on food already. But our people are survivors.”

“The strong survive.”

“Those who survive were meant to survive,” the bishop said knowingly.

Just then, Iole retrieved the empty bread basket from the table and was passing the bishop when he reached out and grasped one of her pigtails. He jerked quickly but firmly and Iole let out a small yelp, like a dog whose tail was just stepped on.

I saw shocked tears leap into Iole’s eyes.

“More wine!” called the bishop, holding up his empty glass. I fought down my anger and emptied the rest of the bottle into his glass. It occurred to me that the bishop might be drunk.

As I finished filling his glass, his arm snaked around me and pulled me closer to him. “Ah, Colonel Wolff, you have picked a fine place for your headquarters. All the comforts of home, no?” he said, shooting Wolff a sly wink.

Wolff did not smile. His eye caught mine and he sent me a message. “Benedetta,” he said, “start cleaning the dishes. The bishop and I will go outside for a cigar.”

I jerked myself away from the bishop. “He could use the fresh air,” I said to Wolff. “Maybe he will remember his manners.”

Everyone fell silent in the house. And then the bishop laughed out loud at me.

Wolff led him out the door and Iole came to me, wiping her eyes dry with the backs of her hands. “I’m sorry, Benny,” she said. “But it hurt.”

I grabbed her by her shoulders and brought her to my chest, then pushed her back and looked into her eyes.

“You have nothing—absolutely nothing—to be sorry for,” I said.

I hugged her again, wondering if during the war nothing would remain sacred.

Not even God.

C
HAPTER ELEVEN

S
everal more days passed with no word from or of my father.

The nights, of course, were the toughest; four, maybe five hours of sleep each night were all I could manage.

The days had already begun to fall into a routine. I got out of bed with the first hint of light—I was usually awake anyway—and went down to the kitchen, where Zizi Checcone was already starting to prepare food for the day.

I heard one soldier talking about the shortages of meat, gasoline, and other items related to the war, but the Germans seemed to have plenty of flour readily available. If their vehicles ran out of gas, at least they’d have plenty of bread to eat while they walked. We usually started by making the bread dough, then I would go outside, build the fire, come back inside, get the loaves, then take them back out to the oven. There, I put them inside on racks, then closed the big doors and sealed them with clay.

Zizi Checcone would typically go back to her house after the initial morning work was done, and I would move on to the day’s laundry. Sometimes I brought water from the well in a huge pot and built a fire in the fire pit out front. Other times, I would carry the bundles to some springs about a half mile from the house. There, I would scrub the clothes and pound them gently with rocks until they were clean. It was hard, dull work that kept my hands occupied and let my mind drift.

I thought about everything while I worked, mostly my mother and father, the early times when we were all together and the house was loud with laughter and love. Things had not returned to normal, and they never would, I knew that. But one day I hoped we would, as a family, learn how to laugh again.

When I got home, my father was standing in front of the house, next to a truck, talking to the driver. Even from a distance I could tell that he had lost much weight; as I got closer, I could see the lines on his face looked deeper, and the folds of skin seemed to hang more loosely.

I hurried to meet him and he turned to me, but then I froze. My father’s clothes were covered with blood. My heart jumped into my throat, and I looked for bandages, waiting for him to fall into my arms. Instead, he picked me up and hugged me with all his strength. Looking over his shoulders, I saw the explanation.

The truck bed was literally awash with blood. Dried rivers of red made their way to pools in the back of the truck. The sidewalls of the truck bed were streaked with splashes of dried blood, slowly turning black.

I closed my eyes at the sight, disgusted but at the same time gloriously happy that the blood was not my father’s.

“Benny.”

Tears were streaming down my face.

“Benny.”

Papa pulled me away from him and I felt his thumbs on my cheeks, wiping away the tears.

“What does a man have to do around here to get a cup of coffee?” he asked.

I laughed as he set me down, then I took his hand and led him inside the house.

He sat heavily at the table, a deep sigh escaping his lips. Inside, he looked smaller and paler. I poured him a cup of coffee.

“I’m going to get Emidio and Iole,” I said.

“No,” my father said. “Wait.”

He pushed a chair away from the table with his foot and indicated that I should sit.

“Tell me what is happening here,” he said.

I told him how my days had fallen into a routine, and what that routine was. He nodded as I spoke, sipping his coffee. I then told him about the visit from the bishop, leaving out the part about how Bishop Frugazzi had made Iole cry, and how he had put his arm around me.

Papa’s face beamed with pride as I described how the bishop had dined in our house, at the very same table where he was now sitting. He seemed particularly happy when I described the meal I had made, and how much the holy man had enjoyed it.

“Good,” he said. “Good.”

He asked if there was anything else he should know and I said that there wasn’t. He asked if the Germans were treating me well and I said yes.

I realized I’d forgotten about the pigs, so I told him that they had been slaughtered, then, whispering, told him about how I had hidden the piglet in the indoor chicken coop and that we were secretly feeding him with the few scraps I could manage to sneak out to him.

Papa laughed. “That’s my Benedetta. You’re just like your mother.”

We both paused briefly at the mention of her.

The smile disappeared from my father’s face and I decided to change the subject.

“How are you doing, Papa?”

He looked at me, a strange flash of anger taking away the sadness in his eyes. Papa stood and walked into the other rooms of the house before returning to the table.

“I am going to try to escape the front, Benny,” he said.

“What . . . how . . . ?”

“It is too dangerous. If I don’t do something now . . .” He shrugged.

“But they won’t let you . . .”

“If an Italian man disappears during the battle, the Germans assume he was killed or captured. It’s only if they actually see us running away that they try to shoot us. And even then, they might not want to waste a bullet on us.”

He paused, then added, “I can die trying or I can just die,” he said.

I said nothing. I felt dizzy.

“The Germans do not consider us people,” Papa said. “We are not human. In their eyes we are lower beings. A step above monkeys. A step below them. They make us do the most dangerous jobs. Hauling artillery and explosives on our backs through rough terrain.”

His voice had turned bitterly angry. I reached across the table and took his hands, looking quickly around the room. He lowered his voice. “The Americans are trying to make it up Mt. Cassino,” he said. “You can hear the guns booming from here, can’t you?”

I nodded.

“But the Germans, they have the big guns above the only pass, the Mignano Gap,” Papa said. “The Americans are committing suicide every night. In the morning, the Germans send us out to strip anything of value off the dead Americans. Two days ago, an Italian was shot by a wounded American.”

He shook his head and I refilled his coffee cup.

“There are dogs everywhere on that side of the mountain,” Papa said. “There isn’t enough food on that side either, where the Americans are. The villagers are caught in the middle, so their dogs run free. They are feasting on the Americans, tearing flesh from the corpses that haven’t had time to rot.”

I shuddered at the image.

“Listen to me, Benny,” my father said, taking my hands in his. “Before you get Emidio and Iole, remember, I am going to try to get away from there. Away from them. You must be strong, stronger than ever, Benny. I’m counting on you.”

He sat back in his chair, the dark circles under his eyes making him look even more exhausted.

I left him sitting there, looking into his cup of coffee, the weight of the war resting heavily on his sloping shoulders.