No Man's Land: Reschen Valley 1

by Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger

  Opa wanted nobody to know about the wounded stranger, yet being this close to one's neighbours would make that a challenge, especially when the doctor arrived. There would be questions.

  Hund trotted out from the barn, a stick in her mouth and her tail wagging. "Thanks for the reminder." She ruffled the dog's head before going to fetch wood for the stove.

  When she returned, Katharina paused to listen to Opa’s coughing. The cattle were stamping their hooves and moaning to one another. The scents of spring made them restless, but Opa's rattling chest concerned Katharina more. The cough had come in fits since March. In just two months, she and their neighbours would lead their animals up to Graun's Head for the summer. Before then, she was certain, there would be at least one more snowfall. Opa had to get better before the work demanded all his strength.

  She started the fire in the tiled oven, then heated up the stove for a pot of broth. Opa had promised to dress the hare she’d shot yesterday. When she had everything ready for the midday meal, she climbed the stairs to the top floor. In the hallway mirror above Oma's chest of drawers, she caught sight of her mother in her own reflection. The dark-blond hair, the brown eyes—like the darkest stones on her mother's amber necklace—and Katharina was tall like her too. To see her face in the mirror, she had to crouch a little. She had a streak of ash on her cheek, and she wet a fingertip to wipe it away before fastening the stray braid at the back of her neck.

  In Uncle Jonas's old room, the Italian was still lying as he'd been when she checked on him first thing that morning. She went to the bed and took the dried cloth from his forehead. His skin was not blazing anymore, and he was sleeping peacefully. Last night, he had muttered but had never really come to.

  The scent of thyme from the mug on the bedside table still lingered. The tea was now cold, but what they’d been able to get into him had helped to lower the fever. She rinsed the fever cloth in the basin on top of the dresser, then traced a finger over the bronze war medal lying next to it. The blue-and-white ribbon was grimy. On the top arm of the cross was a crown with the letters VE III. The king. Vittorio Emanuele III. He was supposed to be her king now. In the middle were the Latin letters MERITO DI CVERRA. At the bottom of the cross were leaves and whirls. Katharina turned it over in her palm and saw the five-pointed star on a rayed background.

  Whoever this man was, he must have fought bravely if he had earned a medal like this. But not here. Not in Tyrol. She could imagine Opa with Kaspar Ritsch, over their beers, and Opa slamming his fist on the table before demanding, "The Italians never set foot on Tyrolean soil between fourteen and eighteen, so tell me again how they earned the Brenner Frontier!"

  She looked at the stranger again. His face now had a blue-black shadow of whiskers that made him look rugged. She liked his thin lips, his strong jaw. He was trim and had graceful fingers, like a pianist. They were clean and soft, an intellectual's hands, such as a maths tutor she once had in Innsbruck. Herr Hefel had also had dark hair.

  This Italian was not a threat to them, could not be. The bigger man, the one who had abandoned this one and headed north, was certainly at fault here.

  She moved to collect the tea and the fever rag, when the man's eyelids fluttered. She placed everything back onto the dresser before facing him.

  As if he had dust in his eyes, he blinked his lids rapidly, but when he opened them, the dark-brown eyes contained a lingering fear.

  "There, there now. Everything will be all right."

  "Dove sono?" His voice was hoarse.

  "Do you speak German?"

  He muttered a string of questions and tried to sit up.

  "No, apparently you don't." Katharina stood over him, trying to remember some of the most basic words. "Prego. Don't move. You've been badly hurt. You might begin bleeding."

  He winced and fell back onto the pillows.

  "Dove sono?"

  Maybe he was asking her name. "Katharina. I'm Katharina." Her "r" rolled more than usual.

  "Katharina?"

  "Sì, Katharina Thaler. You're in Arlund. What happened to you?"

  The man whispered in Italian again.

  "Here, drink this." She held the mug of cold tea to his lips. "I'll bring you something to eat soon," she said too loudly. She moved her hand to her mouth. "Eat. All right? You stay put. Please."

  "Please," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Eat."

  She smiled a little, took the empty mug, and went downstairs. If they had to be subjects of the Italian king, then she would have to learn the language. That much was certain.

  From the top of the stairs, she heard Opa stamping his boots on the mat.

  "He doesn't speak German," she said when he came through the door. "Only Italian, and I don't understand what he's asking all the time."

  Her grandfather hung up his hat on the hat rack next to the door. "He woke up?"

  "He's sleeping again. I need to get some food into him."

  "I didn't think he'd be one of our Italian settlers."

  "We know most of the migrants around here. Besides, he's not a hawker or a field worker." She bit her lip. "I found a war medal, Opa. A cross."

  Her grandfather frowned. "We'll have to report this. First, I want Dr Hanny to check on him. The doctor speaks Italian well enough. Get the story before we go to the authorities."

  "What about Karl Spinner's—"

  "Don't you worry about that, and don't you go gallivanting on the mountain till we've cleared this up." He looked up at the ceiling again. "Did you get a name? Where he's from?"

  "No, but he knows mine."

  "Well then," Opa muttered. "Some of that soup would be good. And you should eat something too."

  Katharina went into the pantry and took down a loaf of bread from the rack and picked up the pot of dumplings she'd made two days before. She cut a wedge of cheese and put the last of the smoked bacon onto the cutting board, then poured Opa a cup of thyme tea.

  They stood at the table and bowed their heads while Opa said the Lord's Prayer.

  "Amen." He cut the bread, then sat down and slurped his soup.

  When they were finished, she cleared away their plates and soup bowls. "I'll wash up later. I'm going to try and get him to eat something."

  Opa grunted.

  With the bowl of broth, Katharina went back upstairs just as Opa broke into another coughing fit.

  H

  e was sleeping, the sheepskins tossed off to the side. Katharina placed the bowl on the table and checked his forehead. His fever had dropped but was still there. Dr Hanny had once told her that the body produced fever so that it could fight off infections. She hoped that this man's was nothing serious.

  She covered him with the lambskin again and went to the window to let some fresh air in. The sun was hidden behind piled-up clouds, and the wind carried the smell of rain. The pines mimicked the sound of the rushing water in the Karlinbach so that, if anyone would ask her what spring sounded like, Katharina would say it was the creek carrying the melt to the Etsch River. She smiled, then remembered her ruined blouse in the garden below. Opa had said she could just burn it. She should have soaked it right away, but she'd forgotten it, and now the stains remained. She would have to grab it from the line before it started to rain.

  Katharina turned around and was surprised to see the stranger watching her.

  "You're awake," she said and closed the windows again.

  "Prego," he said, and motioned her to open them once more.

  When she did, he leaned towards her so that maybe he too could see the pines and meadows. But when he just stared at her, she quickly shut them.

  "You have a fever,” she said. “The draft isn't good for you."

  As if she were not in the room, he shoved the sheepskins off and started for the edge of the bed. Katharina imagined him trying to flee through the hamlet, and she hurried to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  "The wounds. They need to close before you m
ove."

  Grimacing, he said something that sounded like, "Dovehbanyo."

  "Look, I've brought you some soup. You should eat while it's still warm." She moved to the table and took the bowl of broth, then gestured with the spoon.

  He shook his head and repeated the word, his voice gravelly and weak.

  "You must be hungry," Katharina urged. "Please, eat something."

  But his expression was desperate. Slowly, he swung one leg after another to the floor and tried to stand. When she took a step to him with the bowl and spoon, he scowled at her and, with one hand, cupped himself between his legs.

  "Dove è il bagno?" he insisted.

  Katharina's heart fell into her stomach. He looked around the room again, and she discreetly hitched up the waistband of her britches.

  What was he looking for? There was only the bed and a simple wooden wardrobe, the chest of drawers, and the side table. She slammed the bowl on the side table, ready to fetch Opa, but then his face lit up, and he said something that sounded like "well."

  Bewildered, she raised her voice. "No, it's soup. You understand? Soup."

  Pointing to the corner near the window, he gestured at the chamber pot. "Quella, per favore."

  "Oh dear God, of course."

  She hurried around the bed, smacking her hip on the wooden footboard. With the pot in hand, she returned, rubbing at the sting on her hipbone.

  "I'm terribly sorry! All that tea I made you drink, and you've been here for a while…"

  He waved her away.

  "Let me just…I'll just wait outside. You go ahead." She hurried into the hallway and shut the door behind her, but she could still hear him making water. She should go to her room. Go downstairs. Give him privacy. Just as she moved away, he sighed from behind the door and there was a clunking sound.

  "Finito! Entri pure." His voice was stronger and less like sandpaper.

  She opened the door. The chamber pot was at his feet, the small washcloth draped over the top. He was examining the bandage on his torso.

  She set the waste by the door, then brought him the salve and the bowl of water.

  He dabbed at the wound, then sniffed the mixture of pig fat and herbs.

  "Thank you," he said in German.

  "You rub it on, like this." She made circles over her ribs.

  He did so, and when he sucked in his breath, she looked away from the angry skin around his wounds. Beneath the hollow of his neck were tight black curls.

  He asked her a question in Italian again, returning the jar to her.

  She pointed to herself. “Katharina Thaler.”

  "Katharina Thaler," he confirmed, and her name sounded like water rolling over the creek bed in summer. He pointed to himself. "Angelo Grimani." When he grinned, his teeth flashed bright against the shadow of his beard.

  "Signor Grimani."

  "Angelo."

  Quietly, she repeated his Christian name. She looked at his wounds again. "I should…you should put new bandages on." She took some from the drawer, but when she tried to hand them to him, he shrugged. She could do nothing but sit on the bed next to him. His eyes moved from her face to her hands. Here, this close, she could smell him, musky, unclean, yet comforting.

  "Tutto bene, Katharina?" He pointed at her britches.

  She glared at him, her cheeks hot.

  “Good?” he said again, tapping his hipbone.

  "You mean… Oh, yes. Sì! It's fine. I'm fine. Grazie."

  Still embarrassed, she gestured for his arm, and he lifted it with a smile.

  "Mi spiace, Katharina." He shook his head and glanced furtively down at his legs where he'd grabbed himself before. When he smiled, again, Katharina saw none of the callousness from before.

  He started to chuckle. First softly, then heartily, and his good arm clung to his torso as if he were hanging on to himself. With his left hand, he opened and closed his fingers as if he were working the mouth of a hand puppet.

  "Blah, blah, blah." He pointed at the door.

  True, she had made a fool of herself by not understanding him earlier. For not understanding him at all. For talking the whole time when he needed his privacy. "I'm sorry too," she said, smiling back, and her relief turned into a laugh.

  It felt good, laughing with him, and it went on like that, chuckling and smiling at one another while she bandaged his arm.

  When she was finished, he examined her work and nodded. Katharina felt his closeness and, with relief, remembered the broth.

  "You should eat before it gets cold. I'll do the bandage on your head afterwards. I need fresh water."

  Mr Grimani, amusement still in his eyes, took the bowl. At his first mouthful, she smiled back.

  Against the window, the first drops of rain pelted the glass. The blouse!

  She hurried to the bedroom door but stopped and turned back, the room much darker now.

  "What happened to you out there?" she asked.

  He turned to her, but in the darkness she could not see his face. Something about the way he held his head told her he had understood her question. The way he held the spoon in the air told her he could not—or would not—answer her. She closed the door on the distance that had formed between them.

  T

  he last cream scooped off the milk. The last tins set out for pickup. The fresh straw laid out. The water poured into the troughs. Katharina could finally head back to the house. Outside, the rain still came down in soft, steady drops, a spring rain that would melt the old snow around them but fall as new snow above. Katharina hoped that Opa was coming home soon. The sky was already dark. She shivered as she washed in the water trough in the stable yard.

  Hund followed her to the front door. Under the light coming from the sitting room, she could see the hope on the dog's face.

  "You want to come in," she said to Hund, "but Opa will frown on this."

  Hund cocked her head, and her eyes skittered to the door.

  "All right. Come in."

  In the kitchen, the dog curled up in a corner with a loud sigh, and Katharina stoked the fire before pulling the hare out of the pot. She steeped the tea and heated the soup for the dumplings. The Italian would get a good portion of the meat.

  The Italian.

  It was not appropriate to call him by his Christian name. They were not familiar enough with one another to do so. Yet calling him "the Italian" was simply rude. She would call him Mr Grimani no matter how much he otherwise insisted.

  Her stomach grumbled, so she took down the half-eaten loaf of bread from the rack and cut two slices to dunk into the juices from the hare. In the crock, the butter was low. Her eyes landed on the moon calendar. As she'd guessed, tomorrow was ideal for working the milk. She would churn more butter tomorrow.

  When she had stilled her hunger, she prepared a tray for Mr Grimani but heard the sound of people coming up to the house. Opa was home, and someone was with him.

  "Evening," he said hoarsely as he hung his hat on its peg.

  Behind him, Hans Glockner ducked through the door. He, too, greeted her and hung up his hat. Both men grunted and sighed as they shook off their wet coats and tugged off their boots.

  Katharina could smell the outdoors, the snow-rain, on them. "You'll want something to eat."

  Hans nodded once, and she saw iced-over drops on his long beard. He limped towards the table. Sometimes the way he walked made her think of a grandfather clock's pendulum swaying back and forth. She guessed the pain in his leg had flared. He and Opa had been out in the mountains half the day and half the night. She checked the remaining portions of hare and covered Mr Grimani's tray with a dishtowel. No need to start a fuss about how much food she was giving the Italian.

  Only when Katharina had laid out everything on the table and the men had started eating did she ask her questions. "Is Dr Hanny not coming?"

  Opa wiped his whiskers of meat juices and smacked his lips over a thighbone. "Tomorrow. Fi
rst thing."

  "Did you find anything up on the mountain?"

  Hans and Opa looked at one another. Hans said, "Yup. Like you said, the tracks went north. Right to the border. We found some chicken feathers and droppings." He jerked his head towards the ceiling. "The Italian must've run into a smuggler."

  "Why would a smuggler stab him like that?"

  Opa shrugged. "Wrong place, wrong time. Maybe the Italian surprised him. Maybe the Italian tried to steal his chickens. Maybe he thought the chickens were rightfully his, like this valley." Opa chewed a piece of bread and watched her.

  Something wasn't right here. They weren't telling her the whole truth. "Did you find Karl Spinner?"

  Opa nodded again.

  "And?"

  He dropped the bone on his plate. "Girl, we are trying to eat. Hans has to hurry and get to his sheep yet. Give us our peace."

  Hans slurped his soup as if he'd not heard them.

  "I suppose I'll take the tray up to Mr Grimani then," she said.

  "Did you hear that, Hans? We have a name now." Opa looked at her. "Did you find out why he's here in the first place?"

  His hostility was unsettling. Something had happened. "Just a name," she said.

  He jerked his head towards the stairs. "Go on. Mr…"

  "Grimani."

  "Mr Grimani needs to get his strength and then go back to where he came from."

  Chapter 3

  April 1920, Arlund

  E

  ver since she had moved into her parents' old bedroom, Katharina often looked towards Papa's side of the bed and wondered what he and Mama had talked about between the space of the two mattresses, how they might have kissed and loved one another here, away from the eyes of the others who had once lived in this house, before it had become so empty. Until now.

  Behind her bedroom door, at the end of the hall and in Uncle Jonas's bedroom, was a stranger, a man whose dark eyes watched her with interest. She thought of his long, graceful hands and the way he moved them. Sighing, she turned over onto her back. Across the hallway, Opa was moving in his bedroom. His cough had eased up after she'd made him a steam inhalant of pine and rosemary. She still had him, her stoic but loving grandfather. And he expected her to be up already.