To Find a Mountain

Chapter Four

I used to have a lot of friends. After my mother died I began to see less and less of them; most girls my age were just starting to take over some of the responsibilities their mothers traditionally bore. I, on the other hand, had taken over all of them.

There was no point in complaining about it. What would Papa have said or been able to do about it? In my family, work is not something to be avoided.

Of all my friends, Lauretta Fandella was the only one that had truly remained so. She was a tall, big-boned girl with a long face and thick features. Pretty, but in a rough hewn way. Her shoulders were broad and her feet were long and wide; it was the kind of body that generations of ancestors working in these fields and mountains developed, then passed down to their descendants. Lauretta Fandella was already a typical farm woman and she was only seventeen years old. If there had ever been a girl born to work the fields and raise five or six children, working day and night, drinking wine and living life without a care in the world other than pure survival, it was Lauretta.

The door to the Fandella house was open and I knocked, heard a voice call out, then I went inside.

Lauretta had three older brothers, all of them tall and lanky like Lauretta; they were rumored to be lazaroni only kept in check by their father who was bigger and tougher than all of his sons. At least for now. But when I went inside the house, only Lauretta’s Mama was there, sitting at the table sewing a sweater. She nodded her head upstairs and I climbed the rickety staircase, then went down the short hallway to Lauretta’s room. The door was closed and I knocked. She opened the door immediately, able to reach across the small room from her bed and grasp the doorknob without getting up.

Her room, not much bigger than a closet, was taken up mostly by her bed and in the corner, a small table upon which sat her clothes. The only other objects were a crucifix over her bed and on the opposite wall, a huge poster of the Italian singer Enrico Caruso.

Lauretta, being two years older than my sixteen years, was obsessed with boys. She talked about them, thought about them, even, according to her, dreamed about them.

Lauretta was sitting at the edge of the bed, a mirror propped on the small table in front of her. She was doing her hair, braiding it back in a long ponytail. Lauretta had beautiful long black hair, it was probably her best feature.

“Let me guess, you heard about the Germanesí?”

She smiled and rolled her eyes at me, continuing to work on her hair. I noticed she had on a short dress that looked like it had been recently pressed.

“What, are you getting ready for an inspection?” I said.

“I just figured the Germans would want to see some of the sights, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re terrible.”

“It’s a duty — we need to represent our country properly,” she said, pushing her breasts up higher in her bra.

“Lauretta, these aren’t the local boys. These are men who have seen much fighting and death. You should be careful how you act around them.”

“What are they like? The officers who are staying at your house?” she said.

“Two officers, a couple soldiers. The officers seem pleasant enough. One is a big man, very nice. The other is thin and wiry, he looks kind of mean. I wouldn’t want to be his enemy.”

“Do you think they will treat you—”

“As long as we do what they want, they will tolerate us,” I said. “Nothing less, nothing more.”

“Be thankful, Benedetta,” she said. “They already took over the Ingrelli house and are turning it into a hospital. The family had to move in with the Carboni family. At least you are still in your own house.”

“I don’t feel it is our house any longer.”

I sat down on the bed next to her and helped her put the finishing touch on her braid.

“My father has left,” she said. “He told us it was time for him to find a mountain.”

“I heard that many of the men are doing that.”

“It’s that or die holding a German gun.”

“They think we are dogs,” I said.

“Then my father is a dog who bites the hand that feeds him,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he hates the Germans,” Lauretta said. “His brother was killed by some of Mussolini’s fascisti, the black shirts? Ever since then, he has hated Mussolini and when Il Duce joined up with Hitler, well, now my father hates Germans.”

“Don’t say that so loud,” I said. “They told my father that for every German soldier who dies, ten of us will be executed.”

Lauretta looked at me as if I were ten years younger than her, not two.

“Well, Benedetta, I don’t think Papa is foolish enough to kill any of these Germans.”

“I’m not sure that matters.”

“Just make sure you don’t repeat anything I’ve said — Papa would not be pleased with me, or with you,” she said.

Lauretta stood up smoothed her dress, then turned and twisted several times in front of the mirror. She put her arm around me and pulled me over so that we were both reflected in the mirror. I looked small and worried compared to Lauretta.

“What do you think?” she said.

“Unfortunately, I think the Germans will be more than happy to try to take in some of the local color.”