To Find a Mountain (16 page)

C
HAPTER THIRTY-ONE

T
wo days later, the next note came.

I was in the habit of stopping by the low stone wall several times a day, more than I’d like to admit, but it was true—there was a lightness in my stomach, a tightening of my throat when I came close to where the loose rock was. When there was nothing underneath it, I felt a mixture of sadness and relief. A lack of love sometimes makes life simpler.

But on a crisp morning when the dew was still on the grass and the sun was just beginning to make its presence felt and layering warmth on my back, I saw the white of paper peeking out from beneath the chosen stone.

I checked over my shoulder and scanned the surrounding field as well as the edge of the forest. No one was around. The Germans were still sleeping, and Iole, Emidio, and Zizi Checcone had walked to the other side of town, where a friend of Zizi Checcone supposedly had some extra zucchini with which she was willing to part.

I had told them I was going to stay at the house and get breakfast started, and that I also needed to go out back to the bread oven to make sure the sealing clay was still affixed around the door, but I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone. Iole certainly had an idea what was going on, and Zizi Checcone probably did, too. She didn’t miss much.

I lifted the rock and picked up the letter underneath, but then I saw a second note underneath the first.

The first letter was heavily wrinkled, with small grease spots along one side. Dominic had resorted to using bits of wrap from something as a substitute for paper. “Benedetta” was written across the top in the same loopy scrawl as his first letter.

I unfolded it, and imagined that I could smell the smokiness of the cabin, the men cramped into that tiny space, the smell of cards on the table and weak coffee brewing over the fire.

It started off simply.

Benedetta,

Your letter made me happy. Thank you for forgiving me. We were with each other for a short time, but my feelings are strong. Not a day, not an hour, not a minute goes by that I do not think of you.

I am not good with words, but I feel that nightingales whisper your name, and the chambers of my heart resonate with their song.

I miss you.

Dominic

P.S. To answer your question, I bring the notes myself.

The last line hit me like a sledgehammer. Foolishly, I looked to the trees, half-expecting to see him there, waving at me, smiling. I would rush into his arms and we would fall together to the forest floor, in each other’s arms, kissing. But that could not be; he would not remain here during the day—it was too dangerous. He would walk down the path at night, leave the note, then walk back up the mountain. At night, in the mountains, the land reverts back to the Italians.

I bring the notes myself.
I read it again, horrified and warmed at the same time. This man, this young man, was risking his life to communicate with me, to express his feelings. No one had ever done anything like that for me before. Sure, there had been flirtatious young men, but theirs was meaningless chatter, all talk to impress other young men. They made up lies and inflated their chests, but they were still boys. Dominic. Now Dominic was different.

The words themselves even reminded me of him—simple, to the point, saying a lot with a little. Relief came over me in waves. He was not frightened off by my losing my temper with him at the spring. He was a man who could handle a strong woman; that was good.

I picked up the second letter. My name was on the front, too, but in a different handwriting. I recognized the penmanship: It was my father’s.

Dearest Benedetta,

I love you with all my heart; I know you know that. I want nothing but the best for you. I know Dominic is bringing letters to you. I had him bring this one. I trust this young man; I know he didn’t read it. He is a good boy. But I do not want you to get involved with him. I will tell you later why. Please respond to him that you are not interested, or I will do it myself.

I am sorry, Benedetta. But that is how it must be.

Give my love to Iole and Emidio.

Your Papa

Like Dominic’s, I read the letter again.
Why would Papa want me to stop talking to Dominic, especially if he thinks he’s a good boy?
I was not too young; lots of girls my age were starting to develop friendships with boys. There was nothing wrong with what I was doing. And why was he being so mysterious about why? Why would he tell me later?

I crumpled both notes into the front pocket of my dress and headed back for the house. This was too much. I was being torn between my father and the man I now knew I was in love with.

Nothing was ever easy. I had allowed myself a simple dream, one in which Dominic and I were married after the war, our families joining us in celebration, and then we would start a family. I momentarily forgot, impossible as it seemed, the war around us. I had thought there would be nothing standing in our way. And now this, a letter of disapproval from my father, a man who loved and cared about everyone.
How could this be?

I stormed toward the house, seething with frustration. As I got closer, I heard screams and crying. Running with images leaping to my mind of Iole and Emidio being shot or stabbed, I came upon the house and now could tell that the crying was coming from Zizi Checcone. I rounded the corner and Iole and Emidio, ashen faced, were in Zizi Checcone’s arms as she sobbed uncontrollably.

“What? What is it?” I cried.

Iole and Emidio jumped out of her arms and ran to mine.

“We couldn’t see,” Iole said. “Someone . . .”

Zizi Checcone walked slowly toward me, tears streaming down her face.

“Someone what?” I said.

“It is your friend, Lauretta,” Zizi Checcone said.

“What happened to Lauretta?” I said, my heart filling with dread. Zizi Checcone’s face was red as tears continued to pour.

“The Germans . . .”

“What are they doing to her? Where is she?” I could hear my voice rising to panic.

Zizi Checcone opened her wide arms and started to hug me.

“They have hung her.”

C
HAPTER THIRTY-TWO

T
he streets, the trees, the houses, the faces along the way were a teary blur to me. My feet felt wooden as I ran. My face was wet but I wasn’t crying; my eyes were wide open and unblinking. I pictured arriving in time to lift Lauretta down, explain that it was all a mistake, and nurse her back to health so we could go back to the clearing in the woods and watch the American pilot wave to us again. I would tell her that we had made it this far, that she just couldn’t die on me now; it was too close to the end. And then she would open her eyes and I would help her back to her room where we would lie on her bed and look at Enrico Caruso.

People were dispersing from a group at the center of town, hurrying away and crossing themselves in prayer. I pushed my way through them to the front.

The world dropped from beneath my feet.

She was dead.

There was no doubt in my mind as I saw her body hanging limply from a wooden beam.

Lauretta’s neck was stretched to twice its normal length, a grotesque sight that I knew would forever be burned into my memory. She didn’t look human with her neck like that; she looked like a painting in which the artist exaggerated the subject’s features. Her head was tilted down and to the side; her face was pale and her eyes stared sightlessly over the tops of the trees toward the distant hills.

Her feet were pointed outward, both shoes missing. I wondered if they’d been stolen. Her dress was the same one I had last seen her in: a green print with yellow flowers and patches worn smooth and shiny from use. There was blood on the dress, from what, I did not want to think.

“Cut her down,” I said to no one in particular, not sure if I had even said the words out loud.

No one responded, but a few people in the crowd moved away from me.

“Cut her down.”

Two German soldiers, stationed inside the abandoned store, sauntered out and stood to either side of the body.

One of them was Schlemmer. He gestured to Lauretta’s body, which was twisting slowly in the gentle breeze.

“
Ribellí
,” he sneered. “For three days she must hang here, so the rest of you know what will happen if you fight us.”

“Cut her down!” My voice was high and unsteady. I could hear people behind me moving farther away, not wishing to be in the line of fire if it should come to that.

“Her father and some other men bombed a supply truck, killing the driver. This is what happened as a result of that,” he said.

“Who ordered her to be hanged? Colonel Wolff? He would not do such a thing.”

“Becher understands how we need to treat you filthy people,” Schlemmer said. The other soldier laughed.

“Filthy?” I asked. “Is that why you had so much fun with her before you killed her?”

The smile dropped from his face.

“Cut her down,
capibile,
” I spat. “It is enough.”

Schlemmer laughed and looked at the other soldier, who was shaking his head. Fury rose up inside me and I stepped up to Lauretta and took hold of her feet, which were ice cold. I hugged them to my chest anyway. The rope had been tied over the thick post supporting the sign, then trailed down and was tied off to a stanchion against the wall.

I let go of Lauretta’s feet and stepped forward to untie it.

The hard heel of Schlemmer’s boot caught me just above my stomach, in the midriff and lower part of my rib cage. I fell backward into the street, landing on my back, my head crashing onto the hard dirt, the air escaping from my lungs with a whoosh.

It took a minute to focus, and I had a flashback to when Becher had done the same thing. But this time, I would fight back.

I threw my weight forward and bounced up, then rushed him, ready to tear the flesh from his face with my bare hands.

Schlemmer kicked me again, harder this time, directly in the stomach. I sank to my knees and he grabbed my hair in his fist and dragged me back into the street. The second soldier followed, kicking me in the legs, thighs, and bottom.

A blind fury seized me and I twisted and clawed, kicked, and swung my arms.

I felt hands pin my arms behind my back as Schlemmer stepped back and slapped me hard across the face. The second slap didn’t sting as much as the first. After the third and fourth, I felt almost nothing. The taste of blood seeped into my mouth. It was starting to become a familiar flavor.

The arms released me and I dropped to the ground. New hands, gentler this time, scooped me up underneath the arms and pulled me away.

“This is your friend, girl?” Schlemmer’s voice taunted. I looked up at him through a veil of blood and tears. My eyes bored into his, and I studied every inch of his face, willing it into my memory so that when the day came, I knew I would be killing the right man.

He lifted his rifle and its steely bayonet glistened in the light. With a backward glance at me to make sure I was watching, a joyously giddy expression overcame his face as he reared back and then thrust forward, sinking the blade deeply into Lauretta’s stomach. I closed my eyes but I had seen everything I needed to see. Pure, raw evil was before me, had touched me, had killed my best friend.

Her body was pushed backward, and Schlemmer withdrew the blade from her stomach.

Her face remained unchanged, but her body swung lightly; the rope chafed against the wooden beam and made a soft, squeaking sound.

Blackness descended across my eyes, through my heart, and over my soul.