Fear Mountain

by Mike Dellosso

  It was morning and that meant we had to think of something. Today was the day we’d conjure up some grand scheme to break into the house, conquer the Nazi sympathizers, and free our kin. Today was the day we would be heroes . . . but I didn’t feel much like a hero. I didn’t feel like breaking into the house or conquering or freeing. I felt like going back to sleep and never waking up. I felt like abandoning the whole rescue attempt and giving in to the coward that lived within me. The coward that had disappointed Dad on more than one occasion. Why change now?

  I then realized for the first time that Henry must have still been in a deep sleep because he hadn’t even stirred since I’d been awake. I listened and didn’t hear the rhythm of his breathing intermingled with the sounds of wildlife around us. I turned my head to the right, and my heart jumped into my throat. Henry was gone. His blanket was there, twisted into a corkscrew, littered with leaves and twigs and dirt. His knapsack was there, too, as well as his canteen, but the shotgun was gone.

  I sat up and looked around, peering between trees and through undergrowth, looking for any sign of Henry’s green jacket or tan trousers. I held my breath and listened for the sound of his familiar cadence. Maybe he’d gotten up early and had gone to scout the area, plan the best route by which to sneak up on the house and take it by surprise. Or maybe he’d gone off to find a nice spot to relieve himself.

  “Henry,” I said in a raised whisper.

  We were no more than fifty yards from the house, and I didn’t want to clue the occupants in to our presence. I sat in silence for at least five minutes, watching and listening, assuring myself that Henry was out there and would return any minute, occasionally calling his name. But when five more minutes passed and Henry had still not returned, my mouth suddenly went dry.

  Standing, I spun in a circle and scanned the woods for any movement at all, any indication that I was not alone. That was my initial fear, not that Henry had also been taken while we slept, not that he may have befallen the same fate as Dad and Pop, but that I was alone in the woods, lost again. My heart triple-timed in my chest, and my breathing became short and shallow. I needed to calm myself or I’d start hyperventilating. I took three deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and tunneled my fingers through my hair.

  The thought struck me again like a lead slug to the chest: Henry was gone.

  After five more minutes of standing on my blanket, turning in slow circles, willing Henry to appear from the depths of the woods, I finally decided to go look for him. I’d sneak to the house first, see if he was crouched under one of the windows. If he was, I’d wave him in, back to our little base camp, give him a good tongue-lashing, then ask what he’d come up with.

  I picked my way through tangles of serviceberry and thickets to the edge of the woods and crouched behind the trunk of an ancient maple. I had a good view of the front of the house and the side with the cellar entrance but there was no sign of Henry. I swallowed hard and circled around to the back of the house, taking care to remain concealed by trees and brush.

  Still no Henry.

  For the first time, I entertained the possibility that Henry had been taken and the thought didn’t sit well with me at all. In fact, I rebelled against it, told myself it was nonsense. How could they have sneaked into our camp, subdued Henry, and carried him off without arousing me from my slumber? Henry was not one to be overtaken without putting up a fair amount of resistance. He knew how to hold his own when it came to brawling. He wasn’t a fighter by nature, but wouldn’t back down if the fight came to him.

  If Henry was taken, why didn’t I hear anything? Why wasn’t I awakened? Then I remembered my dreams, the rustling leaves, Henry’s cry for help. A chill descended my spine like a rivulet of ice water.

  Henry was taken. And I’d slept through the whole ordeal. But why didn’t they come back for me? A question for which I had no answer. Unless they planned to and got sidetracked or hindered. I assumed if it were just a pair of Nazi sympathizers that it would have taken both to restrain Henry. But knowing Henry and his strength, there were probably more than two of them.

  So there I was, alone in the woods, with no weapon but my flashlight and a canteen half full of water. But it was up to me now, wasn’t it? I was Dad’s and Pop’s and Henry’s only hope. If God wanted a more inadequate person for the job, He’d have a hard time finding one. I was the last person who should be playing the part of a hero.

  After wrestling with the idea I decided to at least do some reconnaissance. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but knew I had to look for something. And when I found it, I would know it. Crouching low to the ground, I scurried across the clearing and pressed myself against the stone foundation of the house. A window was directly above me. I stood tall enough to clear the bottom sill of the window and get a look at the first floor. The living room appeared empty; no one stirred. I backtracked to the other window on that side of the house which, if I remembered the floor plan correctly, looked into the dining room. It was empty as well.

  The feeling overcame me again. It was the same feeling I’d had when I was in the house earlier. I knew Dad and Pop were in there, just knew it. And again, crouched outside the house, I had the feeling. I didn’t know how, but I knew Henry was in there. Just knew it.

  My first thought was to enter the same way we had earlier, through the front door. But I quickly discarded that plan. When we’d entered previously, Henry had his shotgun and we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. I’d be a fool to walk right in through the front door this time.

  My next thought was of the cellar. I doubted the intruders frequented the damp, moldy dungeon. If I could get in the cellar, I could hear what was going on in the house, who was coming and going and where they were. With that thought in mind and a plan beginning to form in my head, I retreated to the camp for the flashlight and our knapsacks.

  Back at the camp, I stuffed the canteens into my knapsack and rolled a plan around in my head. I was sure the Germans knew I was here and were probably expecting me to plot some conniving rescue attempt. Or were they? Maybe they expected me to go for help. Maybe they were counting on the odds to deter any act of boldness or bravery or heroism on my part. If they were, then I had the advantage. The element of surprise. I knew the execution of whatever plan I conjured had to be swift. If the Germans had time, I was sure they’d kill their captives before giving up their own lives. I had to get into the house without being seen, wait until the Germans left, then free Dad and Pop and Henry. I would trust God to handle the details. For now, my mission was simple: get into the basement.

  I slung the knapsacks over my shoulder, gripped the flashlight in my right hand, and darted through the woods with the deftness of a fox. At the tree line I said a quick prayer and scurried across the clearing to where the basement doors awaited my entrance. At the doors I knelt on one knee and tried to steady my breathing so I could listen for the sound of footsteps.

  Something hard and cold poked the back of my neck, and I heard a deep, throaty voice say, “Aufstehen.” I knew what it meant in German: Stand up.

  I stood slowly, every muscle in my body tensed and quivering. I motioned to turn my head so I could get a look at my captor when something hard slammed into the back of my skull, knocking the lights out.

  13

  My eyelids felt like they were weighted with musket balls. My head throbbed like someone was on the inside trying to get out with a ball peen hammer. With my eyes still closed and my head swimming in murky water, I sensed that I was indoors, lying on my right side on a hard floor. My back ached, and my right hip and leg were numb. I could hear muffled movements to my left, breathing to my right. I tried to move, lift myself off the floor and was quickly scolded by a sharp pain in my shoulders. A guttural groan escaped my dry mouth.

  Something nudged me in my shoulder. Then again, harder. Then a string of harshly-spoken German words. I caught the words “open” and “eyes” and thought it best to do as I was t
old. At least, I hoped I was being ordered to “Open your eyes” and not “Don’t open your eyes.” Slowly, I lifted my lids, blinked several times, and let my eyes focus. A large man with a square head sitting atop broad shoulders stood over me. He had a thick crop of light brown hair, dusted with gray, and a full wiry beard that hid most of his wide and weathered face. In his right hand he held a black pistol, pointed at the floor. He looked at me with narrowed eyes and snorted.

  “Dummen Amerikaner. Aufstehen!” My German was coming back to me. I was being called a stupid American and told to get up. And though my legs were numb and heavy I thought it best to at least attempt to obey my captor.

  I tried to sit, tried to pull my torso up off the floor, but with my arms bound behind my back and every movement sending electric jolts through my shoulders, I only grunted and groaned but got nowhere. I was able to lift my head and begin a feeble roll but that was as far as I got.

  The German reached down and grabbed a handful of my jacket at the shoulder, yanked me to a sitting position, then shoved me back down so I was lying on my arms behind me. Pain shot across my shoulders and momentarily paralyzed me.

  Again, I received a nudge with the boot and an order, “Aufstehen.” Stand up. He said it in a calm voice, as if he were telling me to eat my bratwurst.

  I tried again, but again my attempts proved futile. My muscles were too dead, shoulders too sore, right side too numb. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Again the German nudged me—“Aufstehen”—and this time I caught a hint of irritation in his voice.

  “I can’t,” I said, wondering if he understood any English at all. I didn’t want to say “No” for fear that he would interpret it as insolence and feel a need to display his advantage over me. My survival depended on my ability to stay calm and oblige my subjugator as best I could.

  He looked at me with those narrow eyes then pressed his lips into a thin line. Reaching down, he took a grip on my jacket again and lifted me to a sitting position. Blood thumped through my head, and my eyesight blurred from the pain. When things came into focus again, I noticed I was in a small room alone with the German. There was no furniture, no carpet, no wall hangings. The two windows were covered with torn shades, allowing only stray beams of sunlight to illuminate the room with muted, dirty light. The hardwood floor was dusty and gray. Long jagged cracks split the ceiling plaster into three even sections.

  The German squatted next to me, his face only inches from mine. It was then I noticed how dark his eyes were. I could barely tell where the irises stopped and the pupils started. His forehead was broad and thick and his nose boxy and red. He looked hardened and tough. Not someone I wanted to anger.

  He said it again, this time cutting each syllable with a sharp edge. “Aufstehen.” A speck of spittle landed on his lower lip.

  Careful not to shake my head (the universal sign for “No” and defiance) I said in as calm a voice as I could muster. “I don’t think I can.” Still my voice cracked and quavered.

  The big German stood tall, towering over me like Goliath over another victim, and pointed the pistol at my head. “Aufstehen.. Jetzt.”

  My heart punched the inside of my chest. If I didn’t appear cooperative, I would have no chance of surviving this. And if I didn’t survive chances were strong Dad and Pop and Henry wouldn’t either. Once this brute got his temperature up and blood on his hands, there would be no telling where he’d stop. I struggled to get my legs under me but with my right side in its present state of deadness and my arms out of service, my attempt proved fruitless. My mind told my legs to move, but my muscles weren’t getting the message.

  I looked at my captor, searching his granite face for any sign of pity and found none. “I can’t,” I said again, hoping, praying, he would understand, if not my words then at least my body language.

  “Aufstehen!” he hollered, then raised the gun as if to bring it down hard on my head.

  I flinched and shut my eyes waiting for the blow that would once again turn off the lights. But it never came. Instead I heard laughter. Not happy laughter, but mocking laughter. I slowly opened my eyes. The German, hands on his hips, glared at me, laughing with a broad, evil grin stretched across his hairy face.

  “Dummen Amerikaner.” Then in one quick, fluid motion, the smile disappeared, a shadow fell over his eyes, his hand lifted, and he brought the pistol down against my head.

  14

  When I awoke again the light in the room was waning, and I was alone. I had no idea how long I’d been out, but my aching neck and pounding head told me it must have been hours. I was back to lying on the floor, on my side, my back against the wall. My German host must have left me where I’d slumped after receiving another blow to the head compliments of his pistol.

  I opened my eyes all the way and looked around. Something was different. Was it the room? I didn’t think so. It looked like the same room I was in before. Same shade-drawn windows, same tears in the shades, same cracks in the plaster ceiling. Maybe it was the lighting. The setting sun cast a drab ginger hue over everything as it slipped past the jagged rips in the shades.

  Holding my breath and gritting my teeth, I used all my available strength to right myself so I sat with my back against the wall. The pain started in my shoulders and radiated across my upper back, into my neck and base of my skull. I tried to move my arms, stretch, anything, but my hands were bound too tight.

  In the far corner of the room, to my right, sat a wooden chair with arms. I hadn’t noticed it before.

  I listened for the sound of the Germans. I knew there were at least two, probably more. The house was silent. Were they gone? Had they left? And if so, how long before they returned? I began to formulate a plan. If they were gone and if I could free myself . . . . No, too many ifs. I needed to know. I listened again but heard nothing, not even the sound of my dad or Pop or Henry. Maybe they weren’t here after all. Maybe I was alone in this house with the Germans. The thought made my skin tingle.

  I was about to call out, test the water, when suddenly the sound of heavily booted footsteps ascended the stairs. A man, different from the German who’d knocked me in the head, appeared at the doorway. He was smaller in build and had a much smoother complexion but the same wiry beard and dark eyes. He looked at me, smiled, then poked his head around the corner and said something in German that I didn’t understand. Moments later two or more sets of footsteps pounded up the staircase.

  I held my breath as three more Germans rounded the corner and entered the room, their black boots clopping noisily on the hardwood flooring. One of them was the burly beast that I’d already met, the other two were smaller but thick in the shoulders and chest with short necks and round faces. Both had unruly beards and thick eyebrows that hung low over deep brown eyes. They looked like four mountain men who’d spent the last month tramping around in the woods giving no heed to hygiene or the possibility of running into other humans. All four of them wore gray button-down shirts and matching wool trousers held up by thick black belts.

  The big one, who I assumed was the leader, approached me with a wide heavy gait, like a bear’s. He rested his hands on his hips and looked down his thick nose at me with those molasses eyes. “Aufstehen,” he said, motioning with his chin for me to stand up.

  I looked from him to the smaller of the four, the one who’d first poked his head around the corner and smiled at me. He was still smiling but it wasn’t a friendly a smile. He reminded me of a hungry coyote I once saw on the farm.

  The leader nudged me with his boot. “Aufstehen. Jetzt.”

  I leaned to the side and pulled my feet, which were no longer dead and numb, up under my buttocks. Then, after rocking forward and back a few times to garner some momentum, I tried to roll onto my knees. Instead I lost my balance and tumbled onto my side. The Germans laughed, and I heard more than one say, “Dummen Amerikaner.”

  The leader turned his head toward the other three and snapped out an order. I caught something about the chai
r.

  The smaller of the three, the one with the coyote smile, retrieved the chair in the corner and slid it to the center of the room.

  The leader bent at the waist and grabbed two handfuls of my coat at the shoulders. Then, with surprising ease, lifted me off the floor, turned me around, and sat me hard in the chair. He slapped me across the face. The blow stung and caught me by surprise, and I would have fallen off the chair if not for the arms holding me up. Tears burned behind my eyes. I was sure they were going to kill me. And I was even more sure they were going to have some fun with me first. I wondered if they’d done the same to Dad and Pop and Henry. Were they already dead? Had these brutes tortured them for sport then killed them?

  Another slap landed on the other side of my face and snapped me back to my present predicament. My lip went numb, and my mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood. The Germans laughed again.

  The leader leaned forward and gripped the arms of the chair. His face was only inches from mine, and I could see the cracks in his chapped lips and the individual hairs of his beard. He spoke in a deep, gruff voice that sounded like gravel in the bottom of a metal bucket.

  I had no idea what he’d asked me so I said nothing.

  He turned his head and looked at the other Germans then nodded toward me. One of the other large men approached me and took position in front of the chair. His hands were large and thick and worn. His eyes were dark and lifeless. He smiled at me, a big open-mouthed grin that revealed a few missing teeth. For a moment I thought, or maybe hoped, the whole thing was one big misunderstanding and they were going to let me go with a slap on the back and a Es tut mir leid—I’m sorry. But another blow, this time to the side of the head, dashed any hope I had held. The jolt sent a shock of pain through my head and momentarily blinded me. It felt like a grenade had exploded in my skull.