To Find a Mountain

by Dani Amore

  Suddenly, the fog cleared in my head and I made a beeline for the gun, scrambling across the floor like a crab.

  I was about five feet from the gun when Dominic punched Schlemmer in the stomach and he fell back, landing between me and the gun.

  The German jumped to his feet and rushed Dominic, ramming him in the stomach and they crashed again to the ground with Schlemmer on top. He brought his fists back and crashed them into Dominic’s face, landing with ferocious power on his face. I started crawling toward the gun again, but this time Schlemmer saw me. He jumped off Dominic and lunged toward me, getting a hold of my ankle. He pulled me toward him as he rose to his knees.

  He was laughing, a look of insanity on his face.

  I looked at him and he let go, diving for the gun. Suddenly, a shadow passed over me and Dominic landed on top of the German. A flash of steel blazed in the darkness, and then Dominic sunk the knife deep into Schlemmer’s throat.

  The German had his hand around the gun, but Dominic clamped down on it with his own hand, and pulled the knife in one long cutting motion across Schlemmer’s neck. Dominic repositioned himself and pinned Schlemmer’s head to the ground. A fountain of blood gurgled from the German’s neck as he bled to death. Soon, the flow of blood went down to a trickle, then it seemed to stop altogether.

  All movement stopped, and the barn was silent.

  After several minutes, Dominic rolled off Schlemmer, stood, and rolled the German over. I stood, shaking, and stepped forward.

  Schlemmer’s lifeless eyes stared at the barn’s ceiling, a long gash making a second obscene smile along his neck. His head was nearly cut off, hanging on by a thin strip of tissue.

  Dominic turned and retched, wincing as he did so, then clutched his side.

  He was still bleeding.

  I made him sit down, then took off his shirt. The wound was nasty, but not deep. Apparently it had gone in, then caromed off, cutting much flesh, but not reaching deeply enough to hit any vital organs.

  I forced Dominic’s hand open and took the knife from him, then cut one of his sleeves off. I tied it around him, pressing the widest part of the material into his wound.

  “You have to go back up the mountain. You have no choice.”

  He nodded, keeping his eyes averted.

  I looked down and saw my exposed breasts. I took the loose ends of my dress and tried to hook them together, then tied them in a small knot. It would have to do. It was still dark outside and I could get home unnoticed. I would have to destroy the dress so Zizi Checcone couldn’t see it.

  Both of our eyes fell on Schlemmer.

  “We have to hide him,” Dominic said.

  I looked around the barn, it was empty save for the rotten hay bales and some old planks of wood. A broken plow, too heavy to move, was in a corner.

  “The hay bales. We have to hide him underneath them,” I said.

  We moved them with great effort, then dragged Schlemmer; I had his boot heels, Dominic grasped him underneath the arms. We did not take his gun as discovery by the Germans would mean instant execution.

  We pushed the bale off the top of the stack and it landed on Schlemmer. Then we arranged the other bales around him and quickly covered over the blood spots with loose hay.

  “They will miss him,” Dominic said.

  “Maybe they’ll think he ran away. The colonel said he was a disturbed boy.”

  “I think he was right.”

  “We just have to pray that no one finds him,” I said. “The Americans are advancing, maybe…”

  “Maybe, maybe maybe…” Dominic spat out angrily. “You will be in danger.”

  “If I get home unnoticed, no one will think I killed him. A little girl killing a big, tough German soldier? Never!”

  We both looked outside. The first rays of dawn were just beginning to light up the far edge of the horizon.

  “We both must go. Now.” I said.

  Dominic looked at me, his eyes filling with tears.

  We kissed and left the barn together, our hands clasped.

  “Don’t worry, Dom. We will see each other again. God will watch over us.”

  We hugged and kissed one final time, then Dominic disappeared unsteadily into the woods. I prayed that he would make it up the mountain, a two-hour walk hard enough without a knife wound oozing blood.

  As the first rays of light began to peek over the top of the mountain, I made my way home. I walked past the houses where people were getting their last, precious moments of sleep and I broke into a run, my feet flying, my legs pumping so that I felt like I was soaring over the ground, suspended in the air by an invisible mixture of fear and strangely enough, love.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  For a week, nothing happened. I received no note from Dominic, but that meant nothing. Even if he made it back to the hideout in the mountains, he would not come back down again. He would need to rest and let his wound recover. And if he didn’t make it, I shuddered at the thought there would be no more notes, ever.

  Although I had suffered no physical wound, the week was one of recovery for me, too. The shock of Schlemmer’s attack and the ensuing fight still clung to me; every time I heard the sound of a German I pictured Schlemmer appearing in the doorway, his head lolling crookedly to one side, blood seeping from his throat.

  But as the days passed, I calmed down and felt that maybe Dominic and I would be lucky, maybe no one would miss Schlemmer and even if they did, maybe no one would think to look inside an abandoned barn beneath some bales of hay.

  Exactly one week later, when black clouds rolled in and light rain began to weigh down the dust of Casalveri, a German soldier on crutches came to the house, followed by Becher, and it was then that I knew for certain my luck had run out.

  They came inside the house, and Becher gestured toward me, questioningly. The man on crutches looked me up and down, said something to Becher who turned and looked at me again, then responded, also in German, to the wounded man. He shifted on his crutches and looked at me, then a flicker of recognition passed over his eyes.

  My blood ran cold.

  The man on crutches nodded again and said something to Becher that was clearly in the affirmative.

  Becher turned to me, his cold blue eyes flat and lifeless. He said something to the man on crutches who turned and left the house. I could hear the sound of pushing and grunting as he swung himself along.

  Pulling a chair up, Becher sat and looked at me as I stood before him.

  “So how did a little girl like you manage to kill one of my soldiers?” There was a smile on his face, but no humor behind it.

  When I answered, my voice was even.

  “I’ve killed no one. That’s your job.”

  He laughed out loud.

  “Yes, and since you or whoever, killed one of my soldiers, I will have many more to exterminate.” He emphasized the last word, as if we Italians were rodents.

  I said nothing as he continued to watch me.

  “So you know nothing about Schlemmer’s death? Even though the soldier who was just here said he was sitting with Schlemmer outside the hospital a week ago when they saw you walk by?” Becher said. “It was very late at night; these soldiers, with all of their medications, they have trouble getting to sleep sometimes.”

  He seemed to be almost compassionate when he spoke of his soldiers.

  “He said you were walking quickly. Schlemmer apparently decided to follow you. And no one has seen him alive since.”

  “I go for walks at night,” I said and shrugged my shoulders. “Ask anyone. Ask Colonel Wolff.”

  “I think we’ll leave Colonel Wolff out of this matter.”

  “I never saw Schlemmer,” I said. “If he came after me, he never caught up. I walk pretty fast and if he was at the hospital he must have been hurt, maybe he couldn’t keep up the pace.”

  He laughed out loud at that.

  “You are a good liar, aren’t you?” Becher said. “Well of course you are —
you’re an Italian.” He smiled. “I admire you. You are a brave girl, no one ever doubted that.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  Suddenly, he brightened, as if struck by a thought. “Perhaps you would like to see how we can make you talk, make you tell the truth? I know some men who would love to get their hands on a beautiful young girl like you. I would let them do the same things to you that they did to that other girl, what was her name?” He looked at the ceiling as if he were trying to remember. “Lauretta!” He snapped his fingers. “Yes, Lauretta. Now, you two were good friends weren’t you?”

  I ignored him, and the anger that rose within me at the mention of Lauretta’s name.

  “I would tell them the same thing,” I said. “I don’t know what happened to the soldier named Schlemmer.”

  He sighed heavily, but then one of the men from the jeep outside called to him as their portable radio burst with German shouting. Becher stepped to the door and called out to another soldier who was waiting outside; he was young, blonde and had his rifle slung over his shoulder. Becher gestured toward me.

  “Keep your eye on her until I return. Do not let her leave the house or your sight.”

  The soldier nodded and stepped inside the doorway to let Becher pass, but Becher stopped.

  “I will be back shortly. Don’t go anywhere. This matter is not yet settled.” He looked me in the eye, but I returned his look with a blank stare. Then he walked briskly to a waiting truck that quickly started up and roared away.

  I went to the hearth and stirred the fire. The house was silent; Zizi Checcone, Emidio and Iole were doing the wash in the natural springs east of Casalveri. They would be back soon.

  My mind raced and I forced myself to concentrate on the facts. For one, I knew the Germans had no way of knowing what had happened to Schlemmer. If they had found any evidence linking me directly with his death, I most likely would have been executed on the spot. The fact that Becher asked me for information meant that Dominic had gotten away. I thanked God for that.

  I also knew that Wolff had told Papa that if one German soldier died, ten villagers would be executed. That’s what Becher meant when he said more people would die; he believed Schlemmer’s death would be avenged. But would Wolff approve of that?

  There were too many questions and not enough answers. Suddenly, fear washed over me and my hands started shaking. I wanted Papa here to protect me, I wanted to run to my mother, I wanted to be far away from anyone who could hurt me; and the realization washed over me like ice-cold water that I might die today. Becher might have me stand against a wall and have his men fire their rifles at me. Or worse, maybe he would have some of them take me behind the house and rape me.

  I stayed like that for a long time, I’m not sure how long, but I heard the sound of voices, children’s voices, and I got to my feet. The German soldier was standing where Becher had left him, watching me impassionately, not a trace of sympathy or even curiosity.

  The door opened and Iole bounded in with Emidio right on her heels. I looked out the door and saw Zizi Checcone coming toward the house, a heavy basket of laundry on her shoulder. She was looking away from the house, to the right. My eyes followed her and I saw a long line of German vehicles coming down the mountain and into town.

  Colonel Wolff was in the lead vehicle.

  I motioned for Zizi Checcone to come inside quickly. I needed to get them out of the house before Wolff arrived. If there was going to be any retaliation for Schlemmer’s murder, I wanted it to be directed toward me and I wanted the three of them to be as far away as possible.

  Zizi Checcone was ten yards away from the house, her short legs carrying her as fast as they could manage when a deep rumble shook the ground and I looked toward the Western side of the mountain.

  Zizi Checcone stopped and stood still, looking in the same direction.

  As the long line of German vehicles drew toward the house, the entire Western side of the mountain erupted in a tremendous explosion: a mixture of fire and black smoke, dirt and debris rained down upon Casalveri, turning day into night.

  Chapter Forty

  “Go! Go! Go!” Wolff yelled to his driver. A German soldier who had followed the armored convoy on foot, ran to Wolff’s car and piled onto the back.

  The Germans were leaving Casalveri. The Allies were bombing their retreat, trying to kill as many of them as possible, probably for revenge after the bloody battle of Mt. Cassino.

  Wolff barked a command at the driver of the second vehicle: a large two-track carrying at least twenty men. The driver of the two-track followed Wolff’s car and a man leapt from the back of the truck and directed the rest of the vehicles to follow. Men raced into the house and then back out, carrying the few meager belongings that were still in their possession. I watched as one truck went to the Ingrelli household where soldiers who were able to walk or run clambered aboard the waiting truck. The ones who couldn’t travel would be left behind, prisoners of war at the mercy of the Allies.

  As men raced to and from, carrying rifles and packs, I saw Becher emerge from a car.

  Colonel Wolff entered the house.

  “Benedetta!” His eyes fell on me.

  Iole and Emidio were huddled around my legs, hugging them, and Zizi Checcone was standing near the hearth with the laundry at her feet, uncertain as to what to do. I pushed the children toward Zizi Checcone as Wolff reached for me. There simply hadn’t been enough time to get them out of the house, especially with Wolff approaching the house’s only exit.

  He put his arms around me and I flinched, half expecting to feel the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against my head. This was the moment we had both longed for and dreaded; the Germans were leaving, and the question was, what would they leave behind?

  Colonel Wolff grabbed me and hugged me tightly. His medals pressed against me and poked my chest, the rough stubble of his unshaven face scraped my cheeks.

  “Benedetta,” he said. “You must tell me what happened between you and Schlemmer. I want the truth.”

  Becher appeared in the doorway and we both turned. Wolff looked back at me.

  “I saw him following me and I ran,” I said. “I cut through a barn then circled around and went in the other direction. I never saw him again, I figured that I had tricked him.”

  “She’s lying,” Becher said.

  “I believe you,” Wolff said to me.

  He turned to Becher.

  “She is not lying. She has taken care of me and my men, and now this matter is of no importance. We must hurry.”

  “No importance?” Becher asked, his face reddening. “Since when is the death of one of your men not important? Since when is there not enough time to avenge the murder of a German soldier?”

  “Since the Americans will be coming over that mountain any minute now and the longer you delay us creates more time for the Allies to kill our soldiers!” Wolff was shouting. “If you really care about our men, you will forget this and go!”

  “His death must be avenged!” Becher shouted. “These people must understand that Germans are their superiors!”

  “Are you insane? We are losing the war! We are losing this country! Our leader has stretched us too thin, spent too much time murdering Jews!” Wolff moved toward Becher, his hands clenched in fists. “Look at you! Look at your arrogant German pride! This is what has been the death of us!”

  Becher took a step back and for a moment I thought he was going to run outside and climb into a car. But he did not.

  Instead, he coolly removed his pistol from the leather holster on his hip and faced Wolff.

  “You are a traitor,” he said quietly.

  And then he shot Wolff between the eyes.

  Wolff fell backward, his large body crashed to the floor. His head landed at my feet. The soft gray hair, now coming apart in bloody chunks, was splattered on my shoes.

  “The penalty for treason is death!” Becher yelled at the dead man on the floor.

  “Traitor!�
�� he said, and spat on Wolff.

  The smell of gunpowder reeked in the room. Iole and Emidio were sobbing loudly against Zizi Checcone’s legs. The old woman watched, frozen.

  “You,” he barked at Zizi Checcone. “Take those two and go stand against the barn! Now!”

  Iole and Emidio were in tears as Zizi Checcone herded them out the door.

  Becher crossed the room and stood before me. “See what you have done?” he said, then slapped me across the face. The blow knocked me to the ground and I tasted blood in my mouth.

  I staggered to my feet and watched as Becher unholstered Wolff’s belt with the pistol still in the holster. His face was a mask of stone, unmoving, his eyes seemed to be frozen straight ahead, as if they were locked on a target.

  “Gather all the food you have and bring it outside to me!” Becher said. “Then stand with the others against the barn! Now! Move!”

  He walked out toward his car. In the distance, I saw Zizi Checcone standing with Iole and Emidio against the wall. They were watching the house. Zizi Checcone was crossing herself. She knew, as did I, that Becher wanted us lined up against the wall for one reason: to execute us.

  I rushed to the kitchen and grabbed the last loaf of bread and a big hunk of cheese. It was all we had left. A small burlap sack, holding two small onions sat on the floor against the hearth. I emptied the bag of the onions, and then placed the cheese inside.

  I opened the small cupboard in the corner of the kitchen and grabbed the hand grenade Emidio had brought home. It still felt incredibly heavy in my hands for its size and I hesitated for a split second, truly thought about what I was going to do. And then I moved.

  I turned over the loaf of bread and scooped out a small hole, then tucked the hand grenade inside, lodging it in sideways with the grenade’s pin sticking out. I looped one finger through the grenade’s pin, then gathered cloth with my remaining fingers so that I could lift the bag.