by Dani Amore
Prologue
Estero, Florida, 2011
My name is Benedetta. In Italian, in the dialect spoken around Casalveri where I’m from, it means “blessed.” Can I say my God-given name was a wise choice, that my mother and father had any idea of the life that I would lead? Yes and no. I have known great joy as well as great tragedy.
I know that I have six beautiful children. Children who grew up in a household full of love, where there was always plenty of food, good food, on the table, and lots of laughter. Some pain, too, but that is unavoidable. Your life cannot be full without pain.
I know that I have lived a long life. I consider that a very blessed thing, for I have known too many people, people I have loved, that did not make it nearly as far.
Today I laid my husband of fifty-one years to rest. He took good care of me and our children. I will miss him. The priest talked about the duty of the living to carry on the memory of the dead. I do that every day. I have done that every day of my life.
It is late now. The sun is dropping behind the Estero River, sinking like a giant orange stone. The warm breeze is making small ripples in the water. A boat putts up the river, its driver looking at the houses that line the river’s banks. He occasionally turns his head back to see where he’s going. He should be more careful. There are many stumps in this stretch of the river, stumps that can rip a hole in the hull of a small boat. It’s a sound the big river alligators look forward to.
The driver of the boat looks at my house but registers no expression. He probably sees the pool on the lower level of the screened-in porch, and most likely does not see the old woman sitting on the upper balcony, a small cup of espresso next to her, as she scribbles in the small, leather-bound journal.
My children are asleep, and so are their children. We are all tired from the exhaustion of the funeral, the crying, chasing after the younger children who did not realize the meaning of the occasion that has brought us all together for the first time in many years. As I watched my children try to explain to my grandchildren the concept of death, it hurt me. We should all try to put off learning what death is for as long as possible.
A significant part of me died with my husband. I believe that whenever someone you love dies, a part of you goes with them. I also think that every time someone new is brought into your life, a part of you is reborn. The circle of life and death is a balancing act, God’s way of making things even.
I have six children and eleven grandchildren now. From the looks in the eyes of my children and their spouses at the funeral, I’m sure there will be more on the way. There is something about a funeral that makes people remember the fragile nature of life, and in turn makes them want to create life again.
It was that way after the war in Italy. Entire towns laid to waste. Families destroyed. Dreams shredded by bullets and shrapnel. My children know very little of what happened to me during that time. The parts I have told them are the truth, but I have not told them everything.
They know that their father and mother met during the war. I was just a girl then, barely sixteen, and their father was only a year older. My children know that their parents fell in love during that time, and although they think they know all the details, they don’t. They will learn here for the first time, all of the incredible, painful, unforgettable truths that I now feel it is time for them to learn.
They do not know how close to death I came. They do not know how close to death their father came. They do not know how close to death my entire village came — all because of the events that took place in my house the year the Germans came.
My children will learn, perhaps for the first time, that wars are not just fought on the front lines, but in the dirt streets of poverty-stricken towns like Casalveri, Italy.
They will learn that their mother killed a man during the war.
That is the purpose of this journal. I first want to get everything on paper, bring it out from the dusty parts of my brain. Once it is organized, I will let them read it for themselves.
I loved my husband with all my heart, and there is an emptiness now inside me that will forever prevent me from being whole again. And that is the way it should be. I look around my house and I see him. His eyes. His smile. His voice. I can hear him calling my name.
When my children scatter tomorrow, the silence in the house will be difficult, no matter how much I make myself busy.
It is late. The memories are already coming back to me. The sounds of machine guns, airplanes and bombs dropping from the sky. The thoughts make me feel both old and young, the way I felt so many years ago, when the Second World War came home to all of us in Casalveri.
Part One
Chapter One
Casalveri, Italy, 1943
The Germans arrived one fall morning and took control of Casalveri without a single shot fired.
I woke up that morning and heard voices coming from downstairs. I was close enough to understand parts of the conversation, but some of the Italian words were spoken with a thick, foreign accent that I had never heard before. It was not a strange thing for me then; my father was the unofficial leader of the village, a village too small really to have any kind of government, and he frequently had visitors coming to him, some at all hours of the morning or night.
There were two rooms upstairs; one was for my father, the other for myself, my sister Iole and my brother Emidio. Looking over at their bed, I could see they were still asleep, huddled together for warmth.
I kicked off the sheets and put on a heavy sweater, then my shoes. Halfway down the stairs, I was able to get a glimpse of the big table in the kitchen where our family ate all of our meals. It was a thick, sturdy table, with dents and scrapes that lightened the dark, rich wood and marked the many years of use it had seen. My father had been born on that very table, and we had literally grown up around it.
My first glimpse of the visitors was the shoulder of a gray uniform and a matching gray hat with a black visor. Not knowing much about armies and uniforms, I nonetheless knew enough to recognize the clothes as belonging to a soldier. And then I heard another type of language, thick and guttural with occasional sharp sounding words.
And, just as suddenly, I knew.
There had been much talk recently of the Germans establishing a line of defense across the middle of Italy. Casalveri was several miles north of Mt. Cassino, the highest point in Central Italy and home to the Mignano Gap, the only way through the mountains that cut the country in half. Whoever owned Mt. Cassino owned the Mignano Gap. And whoever owned the Mignano Gap, owned the right of passage from southern Italy to the wealthy cities of the North. This is what the men talking with my father had said. I hadn’t totally understood it, but felt like I knew the basics.
The talk had centered around the threat of an Allied capture of Sicily and other islands in the Mediterranean, and how they would work their way up to us.
If it was true, the Germans would be taking over small towns like Casalveri along an East and West line across Italy.
Judging from the presence of German officers in our kitchen, I assumed the talk was true.
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, my father’s voice boomed out.
“Benny! Come, come meet our guests!”
I walked into the kitchen and eating area, one long room that functioned as our primary living area. At one end of the rectangular room sat the table, at the other end was the fireplace, over which we cooked all of our meals. On an iron rack next to the fireplace hung the pots, pans and cooking utensils.
My father was seated at the kitchen table with two men. One was a big man with a full belly, silver hair and a ruddy complexion. He was tall, well over six feet, and I could see small veins in his cheeks, usually the sig
n of too much drinking. The other man was thin and pale with fair hair that matched the colorless gray of his eyes. He was tall, but not as tall as the first. Next to them, my father looked even shorter and rounder than he normally did.
“This is my daughter, Benedetta,” my father said. “Benedetta, this is Colonel Wolff.” I shook hands with the large, ruddy man. “And this is Lieutenant Becher,” my father said, and I shook hands with the thin German soldier.
“A beautiful daughter,” Wolff said. “How many children do you have Mr. Carlessimo?” His voice was gravelly, and he sounded tired, but there was a pleasant smile on his face.
“Three,” Papa said.
“And your wife…?”
“She died with the fourth.”
I retrieved the coffee pot from the small wire hook that held it over the fire. The metal was chipped and dented, scratched here and there, but it still worked. Like my father, it had survived, and showed its years, but kept its history to itself. He rarely spoke of Mama, and I knew that he wished not to speak of her now.
“Here’s your coffee, Papa.”
I refilled his cup and offered to do the same for the Germans, but they waved me away. I turned my back on them and felt their eyes follow me.
“It will be nice to have such a gracious hostess serving us coffee in the morning, Signor Carlessimo,” the thin one, Becher, said.
I turned and watched my father’s face struggle to be impassive. I felt a chill run down my spine and my head swam.
The Germans would be living with us.
In our house.
I felt my stomach churn, as the logic of it ran through my head. Our house was on the highest hill overlooking the valley of Cassino below. From here, the Germans could watch anyone coming or going. Plus, there were more rooms on the other side of the house that were spacious but drafty; we had basically sealed them off and turned them into storage areas. Those could be emptied out and turned into living quarters. Although it was something my father had talked about, it was too big of a job for us. The Germans certainly had enough hands to get the job done.
I already feared for my father’s immediate safety. The Germans were known to force the Italian civilians into the hardest, most dangerous labor jobs on the front. Carrying ammunition, gasoline, retrieving the wounded. They saw the Italians as a good way to conserve their own forces. Better an Italian man died on the front than a German.
Trying to sound casual, but certainly not succeeding, I managed to utter one short sentence.
“And you will be staying until…” There was an awkward silence as I gestured, but no other sound came from my mouth.
Wolff looked at me curiously, smiling slightly, but it was Becher who answered, with ice in his voice.
“Until we have won the war, of course.”
Chapter Two
When I was excused, I flew up the stairs two at a time. I rushed into our room and Iole and Emidio were rolling on the bed, wrestling and giggling. The look on my face must have terrified them, because Emidio’s lower lip started to tremble, like he always does just before bursting into tears.
“Iole,” I said to my sister. “Put Mama’s crucifix behind the dresser, and get her jewelry box — put it under the loose floorboard in the closet. You know the one?”
She nodded but stood still. They both looked at me, eyes wide and then a big tear slowly slid down Emidio’s cheek.
I forced myself to relax, then went and got Mama’s jewelry box, lifted up the floorboard in the closet and slid the box inside.
“I’m sorry about that, you two.”
Just then, I heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. I hugged my brother and sister to my chest and listened.
Papa stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
I tried desperately, but my lower lip was determined to tremble like Emidio’s. And when Iole saw me, she started, too.
“Shush, you three,” my father said. He knelt in front of us and his face was calm, his big brown eyes warm and smiling. My heart burst with love at the sight of his gentle face, reassuring us as always.
“Listen, the Germans are not here to hurt us,” he said. “They have chosen our house because of its position on the hill. They can watch people coming through the valley. Most of the soldiers will be on Mt. Cassino. They will only use Casalveri as a place to bring wounded. They will probably set up a makeshift hospital at the Ingrelli house. Colonel Wolff, Lieutenant Becher and a few men will stay with us. They’re going to be staying in the rooms downstairs.”
“For how long?” Iole asked.
“Until they win the war,” I answered.
From outside, we heard the sound of a vehicle start up.
Papa went to the window and looked out, then came back and knelt in front of us again.
“They say that if we help them, they will help us. And I believe them. They have food and more importantly, good medical supplies.”
I immediately thought of Mama, and I could tell that Papa did, too.
“We just have to be careful.” He fixed his eyes on my younger brother and sister.
“Iole. Emidio. I want this room spotless before you come downstairs,” he said. “Benedetta, come with me.”
We went next door to his room. It smelled of Papa; a mixture of wine, garlic and a man who works hard every day. Every once in a while, though, when a soft breeze made its way through the house, usually in the springtime, I could smell my mother. I often came into Papa’s room on those kinds of days, just to see if I could detect her scent.
I sat on his bed and Papa pulled an old wooden chair over and sat in front of me.
“Benedetta, you have to be strong.”
He took my hands in his. “They are scared of us. The people who live here, all Italians. They don’t know who are ribellí and who aren’t.” The ribellí were the rebels, young Italian men and a few women who opposed Mussolini and vowed to do everything they could to kill Germans.
His eyes clouded over. “But it is not a good thing that they fear us. With fear, comes danger. You know how a wild animal attacks viciously when backed into a corner? That’s what these Germanesí will do — if we fight them. Colonel Wolff said that if one of his men dies, ten of us will die.”
My heart skipped a beat, but my father’s grip on my hands tightened.
“If we feed them, wash their clothes, their bedding, help them find their way around, they will treat us right,” he said.
“But Papa,” I said. “Will they make you go to the front line? That’s what I heard they do.”
His smile was different this time, not relaxed like always, and because of that, I knew he was feeling fear.
“Benny,” he said, “listen to me. I am not going to the front line. The Germans need me to help them with the people of the village. They consider me the leader of the village and as soon as I’m done talking with you, I need to go around and start collecting food for them until their supplies arrive.”
“What happens then?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What happens when they are organized, the village is giving them what they want, they won’t need you anymore. What then?”
Now he made no attempt to smile.
“Once they are here and are organized, it is true they may not need me as much. When that time comes,” he shrugged his shoulders. “We shall see. I may have to find a mountain.”
Fear struck at my stomach like I’d been kicked by a mule.
“Papa, if you go, who will take care of us?” I asked, gesturing at the room next door where Iole and Emidio were probably wrestling.
Papa rose to his feet and looked down at me. His brown eyes revealed nothing.
He answered matter-of-factly.
“You.”
Chapter Three
In a small village like Casalveri, word traveled fast. It seemed like my father had been gone no more than five minutes when people started bringing bundles of food to the house. And, of cour
se, along with their bundles of sausages, bread, eggs, cheese and wine, they brought plenty of questions.
“Will they kill us?”
“What are they like?”
“Why did they pick your house?”
“Will we have to go to the front?”
“Will they burn down our houses and rape the women when they leave?”
It was almost too much to bear. I answered the questions I could answer, and to the ones I couldn’t I said: “The Germanesí are right in the next room, why don’t you ask them yourself?”
I usually got a blank stare, followed by a peek around my shoulder toward the house.
For the next hour, people continued to bring baskets of food to the house, and I struggled to organize them. The big table was piled high with bundles by the time visitors stopped coming.
At long last, Alberta Checcone stopped in. She was a short woman, my father’s age, with a round face and varicose veins in her legs. She was thick, but not fat, and at one point in her life, had probably been somewhat pretty. But time had not been kind to Signora Checcone. She had lost her husband to tuberculosis, an illness that had taken many years to blossom, and then he died quickly, leaving his wife no children, a small house, and a small patch of land.
She took care of herself: she planted the crops, harvested, made her own wine and did the hundreds of things a woman by herself needs to do. She was loved by everyone in town, perhaps even pitied by a few. I loved her, as did Iole and Emidio. Since my mother’s death, she came to the house more often, helping us and my father. And when she needed a man to help her, usually my father was the one.
We had gotten to know and like her so much that we called her “Zizi” Checcone, which was a more familiar form of “Zia” which meant aunt.
Now, she placed the small bundle on the table.
“Come walk with me, I have another bundle at home I need your help with.”
We walked out in the mid-morning sun and I slowed my pace to walk beside her.
“How are they treating you?” she asked, as soon as we were out of earshot of the house.
