To Find a Mountain by Dani Amore Read Free Book Online

the bishop. “He could use the fresh air,” I said to Wolff. “Maybe he will remember his manners.”
    Everyone fell silent in the house. And then the bishop laughed out loud at me.
    Wolff led him out the door and Iole came to me, wiping her eyes dry with the backs of her hands. “I’m sorry, Benny,” she said. “But it hurt.”
    I grabbed her by her shoulders and brought her to my chest, then pushed her back and looked into her eyes.
    “You have nothing—absolutely nothing—to be sorry for,” I said.
    I hugged her again, wondering if during the war nothing would remain sacred.
    Not even God.

C HAPTER ELEVEN

    S everal more days passed with no word from or of my father.
    The nights, of course, were the toughest; four, maybe five hours of sleep each night were all I could manage.
    The days had already begun to fall into a routine. I got out of bed with the first hint of light—I was usually awake anyway—and went down to the kitchen, where Zizi Checcone was already starting to prepare food for the day.
    I heard one soldier talking about the shortages of meat, gasoline, and other items related to the war, but the Germans seemed to have plenty of flour readily available. If their vehicles ran out of gas, at least they’d have plenty of bread to eat while they walked. We usually started by making the bread dough, then I would go outside, build the fire, come back inside, get the loaves, then take them back out to the oven. There, I put them inside on racks, then closed the big doors and sealed them with clay.
    Zizi Checcone would typically go back to her house after the initial morning work was done, and I would move on to the day’s laundry. Sometimes I brought water from the well in a huge pot and built a fire in the fire pit out front. Other times, I would carry the bundles to some springs about a half mile from the house. There, I would scrub the clothes and pound them gently with rocks until they were clean. It was hard, dull work that kept my hands occupied and let my mind drift.
    I thought about everything while I worked, mostly my mother and father, the early times when we were all together and the house was loud with laughter and love. Things had not returned to normal, and they never would, I knew that. But one day I hoped we would, as a family, learn how to laugh again.
    When I got home, my father was standing in front of the house, next to a truck, talking to the driver. Even from a distance I could tell that he had lost much weight; as I got closer, I could see the lines on his face looked deeper, and the folds of skin seemed to hang more loosely.
    I hurried to meet him and he turned to me, but then I froze. My father’s clothes were covered with blood. My heart jumped into my throat, and I looked for bandages, waiting for him to fall into my arms. Instead, he picked me up and hugged me with all his strength. Looking over his shoulders, I saw the explanation.
    The truck bed was literally awash with blood. Dried rivers of red made their way to pools in the back of the truck. The sidewalls of the truck bed were streaked with splashes of dried blood, slowly turning black.
    I closed my eyes at the sight, disgusted but at the same time gloriously happy that the blood was not my father’s.
    “Benny.”
    Tears were streaming down my face.
    “Benny.”
    Papa pulled me away from him and I felt his thumbs on my cheeks, wiping away the tears.
    “What does a man have to do around here to get a cup of coffee?” he asked.
    I laughed as he set me down, then I took his hand and led him inside the house.
    He sat heavily at the table, a deep sigh escaping his lips. Inside, he looked smaller and paler. I poured him a cup of coffee.
    “I’m going to get Emidio and Iole,” I said.
    “No,” my father said. “Wait.”
    He pushed a chair away from the table with his foot and indicated that I should sit.
    “Tell me what is happening here,” he said.
    I told him how my days had fallen into a routine, and what that