by Dani Amore
“What’s in it?” I said. 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 small shed. 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 foot, 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 was stuck. 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 was also getting rather fat.
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 big toe was stuck in the middle of a splotch 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 ran 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 catch-all 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 sound of 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.
Chapter Thirty-seven
In the evening, a cool rain began to fall. It was one of those early spring rains that reminded everyone summer was still a way off, and that the cool, remaining chill of winter would take its own sweet time in exiting.
My father’s thick wool jacket kept me warm, a wide-brimmed hat made sure the rain didn’t get down the back of my neck. I had taken to walking in the evenings, after the meals were cooked, the dishes cleaned, the laundry drying by the fireplace. The pretense of going for a walk had just been a ruse to check the rock wall for notes from Dominic, but I had begun to look forward to getting out of the house, breathing in fresh air and looking at the stars.
The work was always too much, and left me exhausted, but I found that I slept better after a walk, so I guess it all evened out in the end.
The grass was wet, so I stepped carefully, not wanting the water to drench my socks too quickly. Out of the house, I turned right, walked past the barn toward the woods, stopped at the same spot along the rock wall where the words of love had been placed for me, to fill my heart and my life with this new, strange thing.
Dominic had not answered my last letter. I worried that it had been too sharp, too cutting, but then again, I felt that he deserved it. If he didn’t feel the confidence to write to me in his own words; well, that was no excuse. Cracked slabs of concrete do not make a proper foundation, nor do false words. He needed to learn that, or nothing of any kind of permanence could be built between the two of us. Nothing that could stand the test of time and endure life’s harsher elements.
The stone was loose, a faded yellow splash of color struggled to peek around its oppressor. I lifted the rock and looked over my shoulder. No one was near. I opened the paper quickly, then held it tightly against my chest to make sure the rain didn’t obliterate the message before I could read it. It was a short, terse message.
Benedetta,
Meet me in the Varano barn tonight. The words will be my own.
Love,
Dominic
I quickly read it again, as if I didn’t understand all the complexities of the message. As if the two short sentences were simply too much to comprehend.
But really, I was just stalling.
It was an effort to sort out my emotions, which were primarily dominated by fear. The fear and a fair amount of excitement hit me at once. Fear of the Germans. Fear of my father. Fear of the unknown. And on a certain level, fear of Dominic. Of seeing him again.
I was scared that Dominic might tell me he didn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore, that I was too much for him, had too much of a temper. Of course, he probably would have just said that in the letter.
But I was excited, too. Other than our time together in the mountains, we had fallen in love through our letters, and I knew things might be different in person as things are sometimes easier to say in writing, compared to face-to-face.
He was taking a risk trying to see me in person. More of a risk in fact than walking up and down the mountain. If he were caught here, the penalty would be severe and immediate. And if we were discovered, the penalty for him would be much greater than for me. He would be sent immediately to the front, and from the sounds of the fighting, he would not last long. On the other hand, nothing would happen to me, other than a stern reprimand from Zizi Checcone and a tired look of disappointment from Colonel Wolff.
The Varano barn: a sagging, dilapidated structure pushed all the way back to the forest’s edge at the base of the mountain. It was the perfect place for Dominic; he could come down the mountain at night, slip from the forest into the back of the barn unnoticed. And at the first sign of trouble, he could be back in the safety of the woods in seconds. It was a good choice.
Was it a good choice for me to go to see him, though? To be with him in secret? It was much more than just hiding love letters beneath a rock. This was a big step.
I had never been in love before, had never agreed to meet secretly with a boy of whom I knew my father did not approve, although I did not know the reasons behind that disapproval.
My feet remained rooted to the ground. My knees bent, as if to step forward, but my feet were not yet ready to cooperate. A hundred possibilities of what would happen went through my mind; all of them bad. What can I say? That’s the way my mind worked. Imagine the worst.
With monumental effort, I turned myself around, and faced the direction in which the Varano barn lay. I glanced to t
he left, that was the way home. I made my decision, and promptly walked confidently in the direction of the Varano barn.
I walked quickly, checking frequently to make sure I wasn’t being followed. My imagination ran wild; everywhere there were Germans, or worse, old women from the village who would see and tell my father that his daughter was secretly meeting a boy of whom he did not approve. I’m not sure who I would rather have been caught by.
Within minutes, the barn came into sight. It was even more run-down than I remembered; it had been some time since I’d seen it. Its rafters were sagging, the door sat crookedly on its hinges, and the window frames were stripped of any paint; the barn was mostly stone, and it seemed to be cracking everywhere.
I walked briskly past it, down a steep grade, then cut across a shallow field to the edge of the woods. From behind a tree, I watched for any movement in or around the barn. I saw nothing. Something rustled in the undergrowth behind me, but it faded away slowly. Probably a chipmunk.
Scanning the area around the barn and the houses farther away, I saw no movement, no sign that anyone had followed me. But it was dark, and I had no way of knowing for sure. This was a gamble, in every sense. Although I felt melodramatic in thinking it, there was no getting around the fact that what I was doing now would most likely change my life forever.
Mustering up as much courage as possible, I made my way slowly along the treeline, keeping the barn in the periphery of my vision, while I kept my eyes scanning the surrounding homes and fields. Again, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I reached the back of the barn. I looked at the crumbling back wall, covered with vines and smelling of decaying timber.
There was no sign of Dominic.
Wishing not to use the enormous front doors, I moved along the side until I found a half-door, probably used for livestock. I ducked underneath and was inside, the musty smell of old hay washed over me; not entirely unpleasant. In fact, with the cold rain coming down harder every minute outside, the barn was cozy in a way.
“Dominic?” I whispered softly, scanning the darkness. Slowly I began to make my way around, feeling with each foot before setting it down. I stepped on something soft and squishy, chills went down my spine. A soft squeaking sound called from a corner. Field mice, most likely.
Suddenly, a hand clamped across my mouth.
Chapter Thirty-eight
“Ssshhh.”
I felt a hand turn me around and then from out of the darkness I saw the faint glow of Dominic Giancarlo’s beautiful blue eyes.
“You made enough noise,” he said, laughing softly. “Good thing you aren’t a spy, we would all be doomed.”
“Very funny. Nice place to pick. So romantic.”
He still hadn’t taken his hands off of me.
“What, do you want me to meet you in the town square?” he said. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a war going on.”
“Why don’t you—”
He kissed me then, hard. His lips didn’t move on mine, but he pressed hard. I threw my arms around his broad shoulders, and his arms circled my waist like big snakes. We broke apart, smiled at each other, then kissed again.
“The letters…” he started to say, but I pressed a finger to his lips. “I know,” I said. Then I kissed him again.
He put his hands on my shoulders and gently pushed me back.
“No, I have to tell you something.”
I rolled my eyes, then folded my arms across my chest.
“This better be good.”
“I used parts of the letters from Luigi Iacobelli’s book.”
“I know.”
“But only because the letters said what I was feeling, and said it better than I could have.”
“What, are you going to have this book with you for the rest of your life? When you are feeling an emotion, look up the right chapter and then tell me about it?” I said.
His face reddened.
“No, I’m telling you that’s why I did it,” he said. “And I know it was the easy thing to do. From now on, they will be my own words.”
“You are honest, Dominic, that’s one of the reasons I love you. Your honesty is more beautiful than any words you could copy out of a book. You know that?”
He hugged me tightly.
“And you are more beautiful than anything in the world,” he said.
We kissed again and he lifted me, carried me across the barn to a stack of hay bales. He set me down and lay next to me, one arm under me, the other caressing my body.
His hair felt soft beneath my hands, his lips gentle and firm. I felt a warmth in my loins I had never felt before, and my body surged with emotions. His breath became ragged and he broke away from me to catch his breath.
Thoughts of my father came into my head, thoughts of Zizi Checcone, and the German soldiers close by. But I pushed them from my mind. Just awhile longer, I thought. Just awhile longer and then I will go back to that existence soon enough.
“I have dreamed of this moment since you left,” he said, turning to smile at me. I was looking up into the darkness of the barn’s rafters.
“I’ve thought about it, too. I just thought it wouldn’t happen until after the Germans left. I guess I didn’t realize how foolish you are.”
“Love does that,” he said.
I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the warmth, the heat of my body; I could still feel his hands on me, his eagerness and desire consumed me, made me feel alive. Until then, I had always felt like a girl, but now, with the smell of hay beneath me, and the scent of Dominic on my cheeks, I felt, for the first time in my life, like a woman.
I leaned over to whisper that into his ear and it was then that I felt the chill of cold steel against my throat.
My eyes opened and I saw Schlemmer above me. A knife was in his hand, pressed against my neck and in his other hand was a pistol, pointed squarely at Dominic, who still had his eyes closed.
Schlemmer spoke in broken Italian.
“Ah, you play the saint with me, whore with him.”
Dominic’s eyes snapped open and he started to lunge, but Schlemmer’s pistol forced him back down.
Suddenly, I felt dead inside and I knew that I was going to die in this barn. I had allowed myself a dream, a brief one, and now it was going to be cut apart by an evil German. I thought of my father, first losing his wife, and now his eldest daughter. It was too much.
“Turn over, hands behind your head,” Schlemmer said to Dominic, gesturing with the pistol. Dominic complied, and I saw his thick hands with hay stuck to them.
Schlemmer’s voice became disgusted, filled with loathing. “Coward,” he said. “Hide in the mountain from the fighting, but come down to be with your whore, hiding in a barn. There is no such thing as an Italian man. There are Italian women and Italian cowards.
His breath reeked, a sour smell that renewed its strength with each breath he took.
“You disgust me,” Schlemmer said. “We should kill all of you, forget about the Americans. At least they fight.”
Dominic was on his stomach now, but I could see his neck redden, the veins bulging.
Schlemmer turned to me and with his pistol still on Dominic, slowly trailed his knife down my neck to my breasts. His knife went between my breasts and I inhaled sharply. Dominic turned his head slightly and Schlemmer increased the pressure of his pistol against the base of Dominic’s skull.
The point of his knife hooked on my dress and he lifted quickly, slicing the material. He reinserted his knife and slowly pulled down, tearing my dress open and exposing my breasts. I instinctively brought my hands up to cover them, but he jerked the knife quickly, saying “ah-ah-ah,” and I stopped my hands in mid-air, then dropped them back to my side.
As his eyes devoured my body, he started to talk.
“So there I am, sitting on a chair outside the hospital, unable to sleep from the medicines the doctors are giving me from my shrapnel wounds, when what do I see but a beauti
ful young Italian girl sneaking toward a barn.”
The knife moved down over my stomach, the material being cut in half.
“I decide to follow. I can’t sleep, anyway, right? So I see her go into this barn. I wait. I look for a door where I can slip in quietly and watch the action and oh, what action I see!” He laughed in the darkness and I could smell his foul breath, visualized his stained teeth.
“I see you two rolling around and I think to myself, if anyone’s going to fuck this girl, it’s going to be me,” Schlemmer said.
His knife point reached my pubic hair and he stopped, then pulled slightly so my dress would reveal more. His breathing was increasing and his hand was starting to shake. The knife went down farther and I felt the tip touch my vagina. My body shook and I started to cry.
He raised the knife back up to my chest and pulled my dress wider, so that my breasts were completely exposed.
“Ah, so beautiful, so beautiful.”
He bent down and placed his mouth around my nipple and as he did so, Dominic lashed out with his hand and threw himself to the right. The gun exploded, and a puff of hay erupted from the bale next to Dominic’s head.
Schlemmer’s arm swung up from the force of Dominic’s blow and before he could swing it around to aim, Dominic was on his feet and moving toward Schlemmer. Dominic swung from the hip, a sweeping blow packed with power that connected flush on Schlemmer’s jaw with the sound of a two-by-four cracking a pig’s skull. Just as the punch landed, Schlemmer jabbed with his knife and it sunk into Dominic’s side. Schlemmer went down from the blow and Dominic jumped back, his left hand went to his right side and came away bloody.
Schlemmer, stunned, regained his footing but Dominic stepped in and grabbed each of his hands, and lunged forward, head-butting the German who staggered backward. Dominic shook the pistol from Schlemmer’s hand and it arched across the barn, landing in a pile of hay.
Dominic held onto Schlemmer’s wrist and tried to break his grip on the knife. They twisted, each trying to get ahold of the knife. They crashed to the ground and the knife flew over both of their heads. They broke, rolled in opposite directions and then crashed at each other, but Dominic was faster and landed a sharp uppercut that snapped Schlemmer’s head back.
