more.
Papa rose to his feet and looked down at me. His brown eyes revealed nothing.
He answered matter-of-factly.
“You.”
C HAPTER THREE
I n a small village like Casalvieri, 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 course, 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, “Why don’t you just ask the Germanesí yourself?”
I usually got a blank stare, followed by a peek around my shoulder.
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 before killing him suddenly, 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, and perhaps pitied by a few. I adored her, as did Iole and Emidio. Since my mother’s death, she came to the house more often, helping my father and us. 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, a more familiar form of “Zia,” which meant aunt.
Now, she placed her own small bundle on the table.
“Come walk with me, Benedetta,” she said. “I have another bundle at home I need your help with.”
We walked out in the midmorning 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.
“They have hardly spoken a word to me. This Colonel Wolff told me to bake bread. Other than that, they have left me alone.”
We quickly reached her house and went inside. She turned to me and held my hands tightly.
“Listen to me, Benny, you must be careful. You must be strong. You must be brave. But above all, you must be careful.”
“But Papa is here . . .”
“For now. But he must leave soon. Like the other men,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you not noticed?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“The fields? They are empty.”
Suddenly, I realized how silent the village had been this morning. Without really thinking, I had perhaps assumed the Germans had forced people to stay in their homes, or maybe that the people of my small village were hiding, but the opposite was true.
“The men . . .” I began.
Zizi Checcone sighed, a heavy, tired sigh.
“The men have gone to the mountains.”
The men. No one was going to work in the fields.
“But how will we survive?” I asked.
My mind was whirling. If the men weren’t working in the fields, there would be no crops. With no crops, there would be no food. With no food, we would starve.
“We will survive, Benedetta. But we must be crafty. Here.” She walked back to the stairway leading from the dining room to the upstairs. She pulled back a board and I saw a cubbyhole filled with a bag of flour, salted pork, and jars of tomatoes.
“You must find something like this in your house. If you are in charge of the Germans’ food, steal just enough to survive. But be very, very
Papa rose to his feet and looked down at me. His brown eyes revealed nothing.
He answered matter-of-factly.
“You.”
C HAPTER THREE
I n a small village like Casalvieri, 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 course, 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, “Why don’t you just ask the Germanesí yourself?”
I usually got a blank stare, followed by a peek around my shoulder.
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 before killing him suddenly, 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, and perhaps pitied by a few. I adored her, as did Iole and Emidio. Since my mother’s death, she came to the house more often, helping my father and us. 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, a more familiar form of “Zia,” which meant aunt.
Now, she placed her own small bundle on the table.
“Come walk with me, Benedetta,” she said. “I have another bundle at home I need your help with.”
We walked out in the midmorning 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.
“They have hardly spoken a word to me. This Colonel Wolff told me to bake bread. Other than that, they have left me alone.”
We quickly reached her house and went inside. She turned to me and held my hands tightly.
“Listen to me, Benny, you must be careful. You must be strong. You must be brave. But above all, you must be careful.”
“But Papa is here . . .”
“For now. But he must leave soon. Like the other men,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you not noticed?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“The fields? They are empty.”
Suddenly, I realized how silent the village had been this morning. Without really thinking, I had perhaps assumed the Germans had forced people to stay in their homes, or maybe that the people of my small village were hiding, but the opposite was true.
“The men . . .” I began.
Zizi Checcone sighed, a heavy, tired sigh.
“The men have gone to the mountains.”
The men. No one was going to work in the fields.
“But how will we survive?” I asked.
My mind was whirling. If the men weren’t working in the fields, there would be no crops. With no crops, there would be no food. With no food, we would starve.
“We will survive, Benedetta. But we must be crafty. Here.” She walked back to the stairway leading from the dining room to the upstairs. She pulled back a board and I saw a cubbyhole filled with a bag of flour, salted pork, and jars of tomatoes.
“You must find something like this in your house. If you are in charge of the Germans’ food, steal just enough to survive. But be very, very
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