To Find a Mountain (18 page)

C
HAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I
n early March, Mt. Cassino fell to the Allies, but only briefly.

When the bombs started falling closer to Casalvieri, we knew something was wrong. When the first armored vehicles of the
Germanesí
roared down the mountain and into town, with the sounds of the bombs not far behind, we knew that the Americans had finally managed to top the mountain.

Boom-boom, boom-boom, KA-BOOM!
Each explosion brought more Germans into town and they struggled to organize themselves. They looked like rats pouring out of a hole that was filling with gasoline. The town was instantly deserted, and for good reason. For months, rumors had floated around that the Germans would massacre the village before leaving, a rumor that was followed immediately by old women crossing themselves, as if the ritual would prevent a few more murders in the midst of an ocean of death and destruction.

As far as I knew, I was the only one looking forward to the fall of Mt. Cassino. The tension for me had been unbearable. I couldn’t stand the thought of the Germans being in my house for one more week, let alone a month or even a year. No matter what kind of horror their retreat would bring, I felt joy at the prospect. Perhaps I would pay for that, but I was prepared to accept the price, come what may.

With a group of German soldiers parked in front of the house, Colonel Wolff finally pulled up in his jeep, and motioned his radio operator to follow him inside. The operator put the mobile radio on the big table, and I bustled about, getting coffee for Wolff and the radioman. Wolff sat down heavily as the operator set about powering up the radio and adjusting the frequency dial.

I set a cup down in front of Wolff and he drank half in one big gulp, seeming not to notice me or the fact that the coffee was hot to the point of scalding. There was a battle for control of Wolff’s emotions: One minute he looked to be in an utter state of panic, the next minute a dull resignation, an acknowledgment of sin.

The radio squawked to life, and Wolff began barking short, guttural sentences in German into the microphone. A man’s voice answered, surrounded by the sounds of bombs dropping, rifles firing, and heavy machinery grinding away.

After listening, Wolff spoke for several minutes, gesturing with his hands to the man on the other end of the radio, who could not possibly see them. I gathered that he was giving directions to his troops. When he finished, the radio squawked again and the man asked several more questions, to which Wolff responded with more sharp words and hand gestures. Finally, the man answered in the affirmative, Wolff nodded to the operator, who promptly turned the radio off and checked his watch, probably ready for an update at a certain preset time.

Wolff stood and walked outside, where he spoke to the men waiting for orders. They instantly hopped into their vehicles, and headed slowly back toward the mountain.

He came back inside, sat in the same chair next to the radio, leaned back, and ran his hand through his thick hair. His eyes fell on me.

“Benedetta, could I please have some more coffee?” he asked.

I filled his cup but his eyes were locked on mine.

“Benedetta, what will you do after the war?”

I thought for a moment.

“Starve,” I said.

The radio operator laughed out loud. Wolff smiled, a movement that was weak and weary.

“When the Americans take over,” Wolff started, and the radio operator shot him a look of disapproval. “It will happen one day, Klaus. We will not be here forever.” The operator looked back to the radio and pretended to make some adjustments.

“When they take over, they will bring food, enough to get you to the planting season,” Wolff said. “And you will have crops again, you will have wine, and the men from the mountains will return. You will be all right.”

“You are more optimistic than I. There are stories that the village will be butchered.”

Wolff rolled his eyes. “Ah, you Italians, you have such active imaginations. That’s why you have so many artists and sculptors. It’s all up here,” he said, tapping the side of his head.

“Yes, I know what you mean,” I answered hotly. “My friend Lauretta had a terrific imagination.”

“Lauretta?”

“The girl that was hanged in the square.”

He looked down at the table, visibly stung. He sipped slowly from his coffee cup, measuring his words. “There’s that Italian fire, too,” he said.

Just then, the radio blared, and the operator hurriedly adjusted the frequency knobs until the voice on the other end, screaming maniacally in German, came in loud and clear.

Wolff shouted into the microphone and the voice calmed. The two spoke back and forth, the operator hanging on every word, and a smile slowly spreading across his face.

After several minutes, Wolff jumped up and ran out the door, barked orders at the few men remaining outside, and then came back into the house. He picked up the microphone and spoke for several more minutes. At last, he nodded to the operator, who shut off the radio and stood, stretched, and clapped his hands.

Wolff smiled, too, but I got the sense that it was forced.

The operator said something and left. Wolff looked at me and I raised an eyebrow.

“The Americans accidentally dropped bombs on their own men. We were in full retreat, and they wiped themselves out. My men are going back in, killing the survivors. We have reclaimed the mountain. The Mignano Gap and Mt. Cassino are back in the hands of the Wehrmacht.” There was no smile on his face, no look of triumph.

My heart sank and I turned my back on him, even though I got the sense he may have been just as disappointed as I. So much for Casalvieri returning to normal, so much for feeling safe, for being able to go to bed at night knowing that nothing terribly unspeakable will wake you up to the sound of screaming and gunfire.

“It looks like we will be here for a while longer.”

I poked the fire listlessly.

“I’ll make more coffee.”

C
HAPTER THIRTY-SIX

T
he ax blade severed the rooster’s head with one clean stroke. Blood spurted onto the wood chopping block and I stepped back as he took off running, speeding around in tight circles. At last, he reversed direction, stood uncertainly swaying, then collapsed onto his side.

The decision had not been easy, and it was not made by me alone. Zizi Checcone had brought it up.

“It is time,” she had said, gesturing toward the henhouse, now empty except for the gigolo.

“Time for what?”

“Your little brother and sister need protein. No one has rented Gallo for some time, probably because eggs are too precious at this point, even if it means fewer hens down the road. Everyone is living in the present. We must, too.”

I walked to the bottom of the stairs.

“Emidio! Come here!”

Zizi Checcone watched me from the kitchen. Emidio walked down the stairs as if it was a struggle to do so. I scooped him up into my arms and looked at his face closely. There were dark circles under them, and I noticed red in the corners. I pulled his lips apart and looked at his teeth. I set him down and pulled his sleeves up, looking at his skin. There were several bruises on each arm.

“Where did you get these?” I asked, my temper rising.

“From chores.”

“What chores gave you these?”

“Gathering wood, helping with the laundry.”

“Go back upstairs.”

Without a word I walked out of the house to the barn, where I got the small hatchet.

Emidio had never bruised that easily before. Zizi Checcone was right—something had to be done.

The rooster was happy to see me, figuring that I was either going to feed him or set him up on another romantic outing with one of his girlfriends. He strutted before me, full of bravado and self-confidence.

“You finished your life in style, rooster,” I said. “That’s more than a lot of us might be able to say.”

Now I stood with his dead body in my hand. I hung him high in the barn, where no animal could get to him. In the morning, I would pluck him and boil him, then give the heart and liver to Iole and Emidio. They would no doubt complain, but they would eat the protein-rich parts or have them stuffed down their throats. They needed their strength. It’s when you are young that your brain needs fat and protein for development; I would not let the
Germanesí
create any permanent damage to my little brother and sister.

I went back into the house, where Zizi Checcone motioned me to follow her. We walked back outside and around to the back of the house. She turned to me, and her black eyes were blazing.

“Here, take this to the pig.” She handed me a large bucket with a towel over it. “If things continue, we are going to need to slaughter him in secret, and eat him ourselves—none for them,” she said, gesturing toward the house with a look of contempt on her face.

“What’s in it?” I asked. The pail was heavy. I couldn’t think of any scraps we had that would weigh so much.

“Look once you get into the shed. Not before then,” she said. “When you do, remember, war changes everything. We have to survive first. Now, go, and don’t stop and talk to anyone.”

She walked quickly back toward the house and I went to the barn. Once inside, I set the pail down and went to the back, moved all of the objects away from the wall, then brought the bucket back over.


I lifted the towel.

A severed hand sat on top. I jumped back, stifling a scream. My stomach surged and I felt vomit rise in the back of my throat, but I forced it down. A foul odor rose from the bucket and I moved farther away from it, then made the sign of the cross over my chest.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I whispered. Where did Zizi Checcone get this? I stepped forward and looked inside the bucket. Underneath the hand, I could see other hands, parts of a f
oot, maybe even a section of leg. And then the answer came to my mind. Of course, Zizi Checcone was very close with Signora Ingrelli, who was in charge of the makeshift hospital that had been set up in her home. Signora Ingrelli must have given these amputated limbs to her, probably because Zizi Checcone told her about the pig.

Were they crazy? Did they really think we would eat a pig that had been fed on the body parts of German soldiers?

The more important question was, now what? I couldn’t just leave the bucket sitting here. I couldn’t take it back to the kitchen and discuss what to do with its contents.

That’s why she wanted me to wait until I was in the barn to look inside the bucket. Behind the house, I could have refused, and then she would have been left with this gruesome picnic basket. But now that I had it in here, I knew what I had to do. It was very crafty of her, and I admit I felt a grudging admiration for her. But now, I knew there was only one option, one thing left to do.

Feed the pig.

I opened the secret door and the pig scurried to the back corner. It stunk in the confined space, what with the close quarters and no fresh air.

He had stopped gaining weight, and it looked like he may have gotten a little thinner.

I stepped into the center of the small space, held the bucket as far away from me as possible, then turned it over. Hands, feet, ankles, and maybe even chunks of leg and arm plopped onto the dirt floor. I looked back in the bucket and a severed big toe was stuck in the middle of a drying pool of blood. I could see the long toenail, slightly yellow at the outer edge. There was dirt underneath the toenail, and dirt was caked in the folds of skin at the knuckle.

I shook the pail harder, but it didn’t move. Looking around, I found a stick and pried the toe loose. It fell on top of the pile before bouncing off and rolling to the side.

I hurriedly stepped back and closed the door. Chills raced up and down my back and I again felt the urge to vomit. I pushed the old tub and the plowing harness back in front of the door. Along with some odd scraps of leather as well as a few pieces of old lumber, the catchall pile provided a good disguise for the secret door. I was careful once again to leave no trace of my presence. As I started to leave, I heard the pig grunting, and I knew he was eating. I didn’t want to picture the scene—fingers and toes disappearing into the pig’s mouth—but I couldn’t help it. I knew one thing for certain. Never, under any circumstances, would I eat any part of this pig, no matter how hungry I became.

The bucket would need to be cleaned. I went to the well and rinsed it out, but I absolutely would not scrub it. Signora Ingrelli could do that. I had done enough already.