The Breach

by Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger

  He licked his finger before turning his back on her.

  If the Thalerhof were hers—like it should be—she’d march to the barn right now, fetch Opa’s rifle out of its hiding place, and chase Toni all the way into the valley and across the border herself.

  Toni was addressing the men again. “You throw your hat in with us, Johannes, and we’ll get a resistance going, but you make good and sure you know who’s in the fight with you.”

  At the door, he pressed his hat on his head, buzzard feather quivering, before facing Florian. “Many thanks for the wine, but my terms for the bull haven’t changed. Take it or leave it.”

  Chapter 2

  Bolzano, November 1922

  O n their way back from Castel Roncolo, Angelo walked with Marco and Chiara along the Talvera River. Below the promenade, the current swept branches and twigs, fallen leaves, and someone’s handkerchief southwards, a late-autumn migration. To their left, the vineyards were already stripped of their fruit. Between the Bolzano hills, the chimneys of the Rosengarten range rose dusty and brown with just the slightest glaze of snow.

  Chiara stopped and gazed at Castel Roncolo behind them. “It’s rather imposing, is it not?”

  Angelo liked it. It had flair. “I find it elegant, even Italian-like.”

  “I heard that the family turned it into their summer residence in the fourteenth century.” She leaned into him, and her hair caught the November sunlight and blended with the tones of her russet dress.

  Having her like this gave him pleasure, something rare between them these days. In his other arm, he pressed Marco to him, who giggled and took Angelo’s face into both his hands and gave him a clumsy kiss. His soft black curls tickled, and Angelo brought Marco’s head closer to kiss him back.

  Chiara looked back at the palace while stroking the boy’s leg. “I suppose there is something gay about it. Maybe the castle’s taken on the spirit of its function, as a holiday residence, that is. If you believe in spirits, that is.”

  “I believe in good engineering.” He held his arm out for her.

  They moved along the river, and he wanted to take off his coat the way Chiara had her feathered cape. It lay in Marco’s otherwise empty pram, the ecru and black feathers making it look as if they were harbouring an exotic swan. He set his son onto the gravel path, and Marco beelined into the field. The air was crisp with the scents of autumn. The chestnut trees had dropped their fanlike leaves, and Marco toddled through them, trying to kick them up as he had seen his father do earlier. Angelo chased after him, caught him, and whipped him into the air, raising his son high. The bare tree branches stretched out like a web behind Marco. When Angelo looked back at his wife, she was smiling in a way he had not seen in a long time. Too long. November was the skeleton ready to be shrouded by winter, but Chiara looked like the splendour of October. He wanted to talk to her again about a brother or sister for Marco. He wanted to close the divide between them and be intimate with his wife again.

  Returning to her, he saw Chiara was already pointing the pram for home. Angelo grew tense. Here in the park, he was just a man spending time with his wife and son. As soon as they headed for the villa, he’d slip into a world over which he had no control, a world where he and Chiara fought in relative silence. He kept his association with the Blackshirts from her, which was easy, for she was always engrossed in her newspapers and letters. Since the Bolzano Fair and the Tyrolean fatalities, political tensions had grown worse. Much worse. There had been quite the public outcry from the Tyroleans, but the Fascists who now occupied the Alto Adige quickly quashed any revolts. Violence erupted often, and after an attack on him by a mob of Blackshirts, Count Edmond was now in exile. With Mussolini ruling from Rome, Chiara’s letters of protest were dangerous, and a layer of fear infused the house. Except today. Today they had succeeded in leaving it all behind.

  “We should have brought a picnic,” he said.

  “I hadn’t thought it would be so warm.”

  “I could go back and ask the cook to put something together.”

  She seemed to think about it, and he let her, stopping to gaze at the castle once more. He wanted to stay here with his family and find something that would keep them together. It would take more than a picnic, but that might be the beginning. He turned back to persuade her, but Marco was in the pram, and Chiara had the swanlike cape over her shoulders, pushing for home.

  ***

  A steady drip of rain on the windowpanes interrupted Angelo’s reading, and he checked his office clock. Noon. The outing with Chiara and Marco the day before seemed years ago now that the weather had turned.

  He rubbed his eyes. After lunch he would have to take a nap before coming back to the office.

  He heard a door open at the far end of the hallway, and footsteps paraded past his office. Someone knocked at what must have been Pietro’s door. Angelo turned back to the structural report he’d been reading on the Gleno Dam and hoped their lunch break would not be delayed. He’d reached the last page when the door opened and closed again, followed by the footsteps once more. The party stopped outside of Angelo’s office and spoke with hushed voices before moving on. When it was silent, Angelo took his coat off the hook, glad that Pietro and he would not be too late for lunch after all.

  He was setting his hat on his head, when someone knocked.

  “Come in. I’m just getting ready.”

  Pietro’s secretary. She looked upset.

  “Mrs Sala?”

  “They’ve taken the minister.”

  He should have gone out into the hallway. “What are the charges?”

  Mrs Sala shook her head. “I wasn’t able to hear them.”

  “Call the Villa Adige and inform my family that Minister d’Oro and I will not be home for lunch. Do not tell them why. Just say an urgent matter has come up.” He had another idea. “Please call Colonel Grimani first. Tell him to meet me at the police station.”

  She turned to go.

  “And Mrs Sala? Tell the Colonel to come immediately. His meal can wait.”

  He took the stairs down to the police quarters to enquire about the charges, to at least get hold of the man responsible for the case. He was surprised when the man in charge offered to let him see Pietro right away and led him to a holding room in the basement.

  Pietro was standing under the window and smiled, but defeat dimmed his eyes.

  “How are you?” Angelo asked.

  He gestured to a chair. “They plan to only question me. I haven’t been arrested yet. I imagine they could charge me with anything as little as abusing my power and manipulating bids to as much as treason. Any of it, of course, quite incorrect.”

  “I’ve called for the Colonel.”

  “Ah.”

  “You could have just retired when they asked you to, the way the Colonel advised you.”

  “He warned me, Angelo—he did not advise. I do not take warmly to warnings.”

  “You wonder where Chiara gets her fighting spirit.” They both grinned, and Angelo relaxed a little. “They won’t prosecute you.”

  “No, Angelo, if I go quietly, they will install you as minister. And you will take over quietly.”

  Angelo wanted to say something positive. Instead, he felt angry. “You fed too long on the successes of the German League. Count Edmond promised you too much when he promised to fight for your position. If the Tyroleans had gained control, even then there would have been nothing he could have done for you. They are just as anti-Italian as we are against the…”

  “See? Violence begets violence.” Pietro’s smile turned from knowing to apologetic. “You must admit it was all rather exciting. The League made much progress. We believed we were running to win the race. Basic human rights. Bilingual access to all minority groups. The Tyroleans demanded only that, and yet they deserve more.”

  “Yes,” Angelo said sharply, “and the Fascists crushed them. Even the count is in exile. You should have stopped it all then.”

 
“I’m sorry that I convinced Edmond to flee,” Pietro said.

  “Why? The League was disbanded. The Fascists beat him up in the street, in broad daylight. There’s nothing for him to do here now. And the countess, well, Susi should have gone with him. I don’t understand why she decided to stay behind.”

  “Because it’s her country.”

  Angelo gritted his teeth. “It’s Italy now.”

  Pietro cocked his head. “It must be difficult for you, son, to be trapped in the middle of us all. Chiara. Me. Nicolo. Don’t look at me that way. I know where you’ve been all those nights and weekends, at your father’s side. I could try and explain this all to Chiara, but she is absolutely unforgiving about such things. You know she values honesty and justice and righteousness above all else. Yet I suspect that she loves you enough to protect herself. She swats away the rumours about your activity in the Fascist party because it’s easier that way.”

  “Chiara’s the main reason I’m active. To protect her.”

  Pietro shrugged. “You mean should her political activities—the causes she so passionately believes in—create trouble for her? Or make it uncomfortable for you?”

  Angelo looked down at his lap. “You know I don’t subscribe to any of it.”

  “That is the danger, Angelo. The members prey on you because they believe you are weak. Do you truly believe you have the strength to take them on if you’re dressed up like them?”

  “Yes.”

  “You seem pretty certain about that.”

  “I wasn’t before. I am now. Do you want to know the story? The one about when the Colonel handed me those orders? Then I’ll tell you.

  “It was on the Marmolada. My men and I were on a mission to spy on those Austro-Hungarians and the Prussians up on the peaks. This was an easy assignment for me because I’ve been skiing those mountains since I was a child. I know them blindfolded.

  “My troops and I could get very close to their nest. We studied the enemy for weeks. We knew when they slept, we knew when they ate and what they ate, we knew when they were drunk, and we knew where and when they pissed. We even knew the lyrics to their folk songs and could have sung with them.

  “Then the day came when my father, the Colonel, came on tour and began giving us orders. It was crazy, those last months of the war, Pietro. Really. There were soldiers from the navy stationed in the mountains, and fathers as commanding officers. When my father mapped out the strategy he had in mind, I saw immediately how devastating it would be to us. I sought to speak with him, but he refused to listen to me and degraded me. I know that he was under a lot of pressure. And I…” Angelo sighed. “I was afraid of him. So I put my tail between my legs, went back to my unit, and explained that we were to proceed as ordered.

  “My best friend, Gasparo Farinelli, was also with me and was my first lieutenant. Before we were deployed, he asked me again to speak to the Colonel. We all knew we were being sent to a slaughter, and they thought that because he was my father… Well, when I did not go to him, Gasparo did.”

  Pietro shifted in his chair and inclined his head.

  “I didn’t realise Gasparo had gone to the Colonel,” Angelo continued, “until I heard screaming coming from the officers’ quarters. By the time I got there, the deed had been done. The Colonel”—Angelo cleared his throat—“punished him for insubordination. He cut out his tongue, like they do in Ethiopia. And called me a coward for sending Gasparo to him.”

  Pietro was mercifully quiet. When Angelo could manage again, he said, “Gasparo lived. The rest of them, I deployed according to the Colonel’s orders, and the Austro-Hungarians had an easy hunting day. My men all died. I got a medal because I did not. My father had been right. I was a coward.”

  “I don’t know if I would call you that.” Pietro’s voice was gentle.

  “I won’t be that again. You said yourself I need to keep watch over him. I’m going to do more than that. I’m going to give the orders.”

  His father-in-law turned to the window. “Perhaps we are much alike, you and me. We feel we must protect everyone, at a great cost to ourselves and sometimes to those we love most and are trying to protect in the first place.” Pietro studied him. “If you didn’t care about the projects from our department or their impacts, you would have already found your way out of this predicament of facing off against the Colonel again. Perhaps all is not lost. You will accept the nomination as the new minister, Angelo, and you will have my full support and my guidance, as promised.” He shrugged, “If you accept it.”

  Someone knocked on the door, and a policeman led Mrs Sala in. “I did not reach the Colonel,” she said. “I was told he is in Rome on business.”

  Angelo frowned. “In Rome? When will he be back?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t ask.”

  “That’s fine, Mrs Sala. Thank you,” Pietro said.

  When she left the room, he turned to Angelo. “You will begin learning how to get the things that you want and need. You tell your father that there are some conditions on which you will accept the nomination. You tell him that you want my detention to be kept quiet. Don’t allow the Fascists to sensationalize this as a victory of some kind. If they try to make a spectacle of me, you will refuse the nomination.”

  Angelo ran a hand through his hair and stared at the ceiling.

  Outside, coming from the square behind the building, was a great deal of noise and excited chatter.

  “Angelo, look at me.” Pietro put a hand on his shoulder. “He will not only accept these terms, he will carry your message to the party gladly. I can assure you that.”

  ***

  T hat afternoon, Angelo passed groups of people heading to the marketplace. Something was happening, but he had no time to find out about the latest commotion. When he reached the villa, the hallway was empty, but he heard voices coming from his apartments upstairs. At the parlour doors, Angelo recognised Michael Innerhofer’s voice. The thought that the reporter had discovered something about Pietro’s detention and beat Angelo home made him fling open the doors. Inside, scattered on the chaise longue and settees, were Chiara and Michael; Michael’s brother, Peter, the now out-of-work teacher who’d been shot during the Blackshirts’ raid the year before; and the countess Susi.

  “Thank heavens you’re home.” Chiara sprang up. She rushed to Angelo, taking his hands. “Have you heard the news?”

  “I was there, of course,” he stammered. “But don’t worry. I have everything under control. How—”

  “You were in Rome?” Peter asked.

  “Chiara never told us you were in Rome,” Michael said.

  “Of course Angelo wasn’t in Rome,” Susi said. “There must be some misunderstanding.” She gathered the many layers of her golden gown and strode over to him, offering him her hand. “Hello, darling. So nice to see you.”

  Dressed in a turban, dangling earrings, and a fur cape over her dress, she was more the Egyptian queen than a European aristocrat. Both antique now.

  “What’s happened in Rome?” Angelo asked his wife.

  The skin beneath Chiara’s freckles was bright pink. “Mussolini’s been made prime minister, and he’s been granted dictatorial powers for one year. Angelo, a year? Parliament says he will be able to heal the country. Mussolini, to heal the country!” Her laugh sounded unnatural.

  “And here, as of Wednesday,” Michael said, “all correspondence with any officials are to be only in Italian. The German language is banned on all governmental levels.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this.” Angelo referred to the latter part of the news.

  Chiara pulled away from him. “Sorry to hear it? Is that all?”

  What he really wanted to say was that since Mussolini’s march on Rome just weeks before, he’d expected nothing but victory for the Fascists. What he wanted to say was that after the miserably irresolute and ineffectual ministers, Mussolini might finally be the man to do the job. In this crowd—these Communists—however, he was not about to start
a debate. Then he remembered the discussion his father had had with Luigi Barbarasso the day Angelo eavesdropped on them. Someone had made it into Rome. An insider. He’d believed then that it had something to do with the Reschen Valley or the Gleno Dam, but they must have been discussing Benito Mussolini and his fascisti.

  “But what news do you have, Angelo?” Susi asked.

  He looked blankly at her.

  “You said you were there. Where is ‘there’?”

  The countess never missed a thing. He turned to Chiara. “It’s nothing we can’t talk about later.”

  “Nonsense.” His wife turned to the group, “We’re all friends here. Why don’t you all stay for lunch? Where is Father? I’ll go tell him and Mama to join us. There is a lot to discuss, and he will most definitely have more to say than ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’”

  Chiara moved to the door, but Angelo grabbed her hand. “I need to talk to you. Alone. They can stay another time.”

  “You don’t want our friends to stay?” Her voice was abnormally loud.

  He let go of her. “Of course they can stay.”

  “A luncheon would be splendid,” Susi said. “Wouldn’t that be splendid, boys?” She slipped off her cape and perched on the edge of the divan, a bemused grin on her face. Susi was ever Chiara’s ally.

  In the meantime, Michael moved to a lounge chair, and Peter stayed standing, looking as if he would rather flee.

  “Then I’ll go inform the cook,” Chiara said, but Angelo stopped her again.

  “Your father’s not here,” he whispered. “He’s been taken in for questioning.”

  Chiara’s feigned smile vanished. “What?”

  “Your father’s being held…” He lowered his voice even more. “Only for the interim. I tried to reach the Colonel—”

  “For God’s sake, Angelo,” Chiara said loudly. “Why was he arrested?” There was fear in her eyes.