On the Hills of Cassino

Lucia mia,

The monastery still stands above us, ancient and stubborn. The bombs fall around it, and I think: even war hesitates to destroy something so beautiful. But I know it is only a matter of time. Nothing beautiful survives this war.

I am fighting now with the partisans in the hills. It is not the life I imagined for us. I imagined a quiet life — a vineyard, children, Sunday dinners with your family. Instead I find myself crawling through the underbrush with a rifle, a man I barely recognize.

But I recognize my love for you. That has not changed. It is the one fixed point in a world that has gone mad.

When this is over — and it will end, Lucia, it must end — I will come home. We will plant that vineyard. We will watch our children grow. And I will tell them about the time their father lived in the hills and dreamed of a woman whose eyes were the color of the Mediterranean.

I carry your handkerchief in my pocket. I press it to my face at night and imagine I can still smell your perfume.

Your Giovanni