Domenic’s War: A Story of the Battle of Monte Cassino, by Curtis Parkinson; Tundra Books: Toronto, 2oo6; $9.95 At the mention of war, some of the first images that come to mind are of troops firing from trenches or a plane dropping bombs. These are the experiences of soldiers; but imagine an ordinary person, a family with children perhaps, just doing ordinary, everyday things, like cleaning up the house or sitting down to breakfast. Imagine doing these things, but with shells exploding all around you, parts of your house being blown to bits. To step outside your front door is to risk death. In Domenic’s War; Curtis Parkinson has Antonio experience such a life living in a town at the foot of Monte Cassino, the mountain where stands one of the oldest monasteries in Italy, now the location of one of the fiercest and bloodiest battles of World War II. Antonio is drawing water from his well, when a misdirected shell changes his life forever, reducing his house to rubble and killing his family. While the families near Monte Cassino face such perils, those in other parts of Italy suffer from hunger and poverty. All the food the farmers produced and stored is commandeered by passing German soldiers to whom they dare not give resistance. Thirteen-year-old Domenic Luppino’s father is one of these poor farmers. His family never has enough to eat, and whatever food they do have must be carefully rationed. There is no telling what will happen from one day to the next. When it comes to war, such families are totally helpless. However, it is as easy to pity the soldiers as it is to pity the civilians. Parkinson makes his readers see the soldiers as individuals, men who have been sent by their countries to kill or be killed, but who are, nevertheless, ordinary people, many of whom have families and children of their own. When Domenic’s father and older brother go into hiding up in the hills, Domenic’s house is taken over by a company of German soldiers. Domenic and the German captain develop a rough relationship. The captain is kind to Domenic and shows him a letter from his son, Gunther. It is very sad to see how much the son misses his father and wants him home, sad to see how much the captain wishes to be home with the family he loves. The real enemies, it seems, are those who started the war. At one point in the story, a Canadian soldier tells of how he was sent to drive the Germans out of a town they had occupied and was drawn by a voice into a house that he, himself, had blown up out of sheer anger. He encounters a seventeen-year-old German soldier with his stomach ripped open. “After that,” the Canadian says, “I wasn’t mad at anyone anymore—except whoever it was that got him and me into this mess in the first place.” Parkinson leaves his reader reassured that life will go on for Domenic and Antonio and eventually the war will end. However, something like the war of Monte Cassino, that had such a strong impact on the lives of those who experienced it, will always remain in their minds. Nothing will ever be exactly the same as it was before. Nicholas Rao,12New York, New York
July/August 2007
Curandero
It was a warm, sunny, day. The wind chased the clouds playfully across the sky Mejandro rocked contentedly in his chair, but he knew something was not right. However, he was content to sit on his porch and wait for the trouble to find him. It always did in the end. The sun was just sinking below the horizon when a panicked-looking Henry raced up the worn rabbit trail to Alejandro’s house. It was a nice enough house, made of adobe, but Henry was in no state of mind to notice. “Curandero1 Alejandro! Please, I need your help,” Henry cried in a hollow voice as he stumbled onto the porch. “What is it?” Alejandro asked in his most soothing voice. “It’s my daughter, Esperanza,” he sobbed. “Last night she was taken by the flu” “It’s my daughter, Esperanza,” he sobbed. “Last night she was taken by the flu. Now the doctor says she is in the last hour of her life! You must help us, I beg of you.” Henry ended in another sob. The wind too seemed to be struck with grief for it picked up and began to howl with the man. “I will help,” proclaimed Alejandro, “but you must understand that I may not succeed.” Henry’s house was stifling with heat. “We have been trying to sweat out the fever.” Esperanza, who could usually be found on the riverbank, bursting with life, now lay prostrate on the bed. She looked so pallid that Alejandro wondered if death had already visited her. Esperanza was covered in a mountain of blankets, her black hair matted with sweat. “I must ask you to leave the room,” Alejandro said with an air of authority that made it clear that he wasn’t really asking. He then pulled back his wrinkled black sleeves and set to work. He began by brewing willow-bark tea to try and blunt the fever. Herbs flowed from his blue sack in a small river as attempt after attempt failed. The girl’s breath was coming in shallower gasps now. He was going to lose Esperanza, he thought. But La Muerta would not receive her without a fight. Alejandro knew what he must do. He walked quickly to the window and flung it open. In a voice that never should have been able to erupt from such a small old man Alejandro summoned, “Zephyr, to me!” A large owl with feathers that looked like a network of stars on a quilt of night glided in through the window to land on Alejandro’s outstretched arm. Alejandro walked solemnly to the sick girl’s bed. Carefully he placed the owl next to her head. The owl stared hard into the old man’s eyes as if looking for something. He seemed to have found it for he emitted a soft hoot. Zephyr returned his attention to Esperanza. Puffing out his feathers, the owl blew a silvery mist that engulfed the girl’s entire body. For a moment the blanket of mist shone with a piercing light, then it disappeared. With it, went Zephyr. Esperanza’s eyes opened, life seemed to flood into her cheeks. “Mama?” she called. Her voice sounded as if it was coming from somewhere a thousand miles away. Alejandro took two long strides to the door and admitted her parents. The couple took one look at their daughter and burst into tears of gratitude. They clamored to thank the man who had saved their daughter’s life and rushed to her bedside. His work done Alejandro quietly exited the door without so much as a word. Just a smile. Footnotes 1 A curandero is a folk healer. Kiyomi Wilks,12Corrales, New Mexico C.J. Green,13Manassas, Virginia
Haunted Mansion
Haunted houses don’t exist, right? Well, one night when I was about nine, I wasn’t so sure. I was coming home from my friend’s house as the sun was setting, hurrying since I was late for dinner. I was on the east side of the hill, and darkness blanketed me. The last rays of the sun highlighted the tops of the tallest trees. It was a little spooky, so I tried to walk faster. Up on the top of the hill was the old Finster house. To get home, I had to walk right past it. I was already shivering from the gloominess of the darkened hill, and the presence of that old mansion frightened me. Even from the bottom of the hill, I could see the cobwebs cluttering that rickety front porch and the broken windows on one side. Creepy as it was, I couldn’t rip my eyes away The only time I’d ever walked past that house was with my friends in the middle of the day We would dare each other to walk up to the front porch and sit on the old rocking chair. No one ever did it. Usually, we all looked at our feet and hurried on by. Consequently, I never got a good look at the place. Now, if I tried hard enough, I could spot some dusty furniture inside the house. By craning my neck, I saw that the side door hung crookedly in its frame, and blew slightly in the wind. The creak, creak of it sent shivers down my spine. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I froze, and whirled around. There, in a second story window was a pale yellow gleam. The sun had set by now, and the faint glow cast a square of light on the hill. I wanted to run and hide, but my feet were cemented to the ground. I knew what I had seen. I wanted to run and bide, but my feet were cemented to the ground There had been someone in that room. It was a man, hunched over with age. The light had gone right through him, and his features had been ghostly white. He’d a lantern on the table where it flickered now. If I listened closely enough, I could hear his footsteps on the creaky floorboards. Then, there was the wheezy sigh of someone settling into a rocking chair. My whole body was shaking violently. Now I found energy to run. Before you could say “boo,” I was up the nearest tree. No one belonged in that house. Old Man Finster had moved two years ago. I barely remembered it. The house hadn’t been in a better state, that was for sure. All Old Man Finster had done was keep the cobwebs on the porch at bay I wondered if someone had broken in and was planning to rob the place. Then, I laughed shakily Silly me, who would want to rob that dump? There was nothing worth taking, unless you had an interest in rotting timber. Still, something nagged at me. No one had moved in—the “for sale” sign still swayed in the breeze by the road. Besides, no lights had been on in there ever since Old Man Finster moved out. I was almost certain it was a robbery. That was even worse than a ghost was, I thought. Ghosts really couldn’t hurt you, but real, live people could. What if they had guns? I climbed a few branches higher in my tree. The sky was a deep, indigo blue now, and the entire world was a shadow. The light from the Finster house’s window seemed much brighter. I had just resigned myself to a night in the tree when I remembered something I’d read in the newspaper. People were supposed to be in that house. It had been one of the stops on the Underground Railroad in the Moos. Someone had bought it, and was sending a renovation crew to fix it up so people could visit it. That spooky old Finster house was going to be a museum! I caught another glimpse of the mysterious man. He wasn’t hunched over, at all, nor was he transparent. He was middle-aged, and wearing a baseball cap. A clipboard was clutched in his hand. He made a note on it, picked up the lantern, and left the room. Comforted, I shinnied down from the tree and alighted on the ground. Picking up my jacket from where it had fallen, I strode on down the road, my head held high. Ghosts? Ha! Ghosts don’t exist. That old house wasn’t haunted, and nothing inside was going to get me. I began to jog, since it was now dark. After all, I was late for dinner. Lyla Lawless,13Gaithersburg, Maryland Kamiye Hoang Mai Davis,13Palo Alto, California
