The Breach

by Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger

  “Tell him what the valley means to us. Be rational. Tell him you want him to cooperate with us and that he has to look at the hard facts. Katharina, that ground can’t hold water. Do you understand that? And if they divert that river, our farmers will have no land left. The best way to convince Grimani is if he has a staked interest in what happens to the people here. A staked interest, do you hear me?”

  Annamarie burst in and tumbled towards them, her glee and innocence almost physical in the touch of her. Katharina looked at Opa just as Florian called out to them.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

  Opa’s look of defeat created a chasm between them, and she stood alone on the other side of it.

  ***

  S he dreamt of him that night: a man for whom she yearned but was never within her grasp. Angelo Grimani. In her dream, he’d been as real as she’d last remembered him, and when she awoke, the details faded so quickly they left her with the pain of a jilted lover.

  She rolled over to see that Florian’s side of the bed was empty, so she was startled when he spoke from the window, a silhouette against the morning light.

  “You were talking in your sleep,” he said.

  “I was? I’m sorry.”

  “Never mind. I didn’t understand anything.” He came to her and brushed his lips on her cheek. “You were asleep before I came to bed last night. What happened yesterday? You and Opa were silent and distant.”

  “Nothing. It was nothing.” She saw her Italian primer in his hand. “I haven’t gotten very far at all with that. Were you studying it?”

  He scoffed. “On the contrary, Katharina, I don’t understand your need to conform.”

  “Conform? But, Florian, we need to know the language. I don’t understand what all the fuss is about, really. It’s a language.”

  “The fuss, Katharina, is that it’s not something they’re asking us to add to our repertoire. They want to forbid German completely. They’re Fascists, Katharina, not damned tourists!”

  “You don’t need to curse,” she said, but it had stung. It was Angelo’s word, and she’d never heard it from Florian.

  To an extent, her husband was right though. To change the focus away from herself, she told him about Alois, and when she finished, he handed her the book.

  “Do you understand now what I mean?” He sighed and seemed to be mulling something over.

  Anticipating bad news, she sat rigid against the headboard.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he finally said. “Maybe we should move to Germany, to Nuremberg, or even to Austria. Don’t you still have relations in Innsbruck?”

  “And the Thalerhof, Florian?”

  “We sell it. Your grandfather told me about Federspiel’s conversation with him. I think we could still get a good price. The cows, we could take them with us across the border or sell them to the Swiss. They’ve been coming more often for our breed.”

  “What will we do in a city, Florian? What should Opa do in his remaining days? This would break his heart. You know that.” It would break hers.

  He stood. “Rooted in tradition, I know. Hundreds of years, I know. I’ve heard it all before, Katharina. Unlike you, I can’t see how things are changing for the better.”

  “It’s not about that, Florian. It’s about this land. My land.”

  He sighed loudly. Now she’d hurt him.

  More gently, she said, “So we’re just going to admit defeat?”

  “It’s a terrible way to look at it.”

  He went to his side of the bed and took something from his nightstand. It was the letter she’d brought him from Graun. She’d almost forgotten about it. He held it out to her. “The attorney’s written regarding my mother’s house.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just requested that he have an assessor look at it and tell me what the value is.”

  She waited.

  “I could go up there, now that it’s winter, and manage the things I hadn’t been able to when Mother died.”

  “Yes, I suppose you could.” He was going to leave her. She had said it aloud again, how the land was hers, not his. She’d said something in the night, called Angelo’s name, and now he would leave her and the baby that was coming, and Annamarie.

  “I would have to get a travel visa, but with this letter, it might not take long. I’d be back in time for Christmas, Katharina. And then we can make a decision.”

  She reached for his hand and held it. She didn’t want to go to Germany. She didn’t want him to go either, lest he realise how much better he had it without all their burdens.

  “Surely we can find a way to stay here, Florian. From what the people say, the economy in Germany and Austria are not much better than here. Nor are the politics. They’re just wearing brown shirts instead of black.”

  Florian nodded, and something in her believed he would give up on the idea, that his heart wasn’t in it. Not really.

  There was a knock on the door, and Opa asked whether they were planning on sleeping in. She held the primer, and as Florian finished dressing, she turned to the last page, to the vocabulary list.

  Inospitale. Inhospitable. Not dull. She had to correct Iris.

  She laid the book on the nightstand, feeling a tug at her heart—that yearning she’d felt for the phantom in her dream—and a sadness settled in her, as with the loss of something dear.

  ***

  F lorian received permission to travel across the border within days, and the night before he left, Katharina placed his hands on the baby in her belly and had him feel it moving. He fell asleep with his hands on her middle, and she did not move so as not to lose his touch.

  When he was gone, the house was cavernous, what with Opa as silent as a mute. She had to do something. She decided to unload her heavy heart and try writing that letter.

  The first version filled pages and pages of all that she felt about the matter: her sorrows, her regrets, and the truth about Annamarie’s existence and how guilty she felt. She wrote about her growing love for Florian and her fear that he was unhappy. The next morning, she felt strangely released from the grips of her deeds and held the letter before the stove’s door.

  One day, she thought, the tension with the Italians would pass. It had to. One day, it would be acceptable for Annamarie to know who her real father was, wouldn’t it? She stuffed the letter into her apron pocket and, after breakfast, went back upstairs, to the foot of her bed. She lifted the pine chest’s lid and packed that letter away with the bloodstained shirt at the bottom. The years might eventually soften the blow.

  Two weeks later and six versions of a letter she could finally send to Angelo, Katharina realised how little she knew about Annamarie’s father. She had gotten up when Opa was asleep and written until her hand had cramped and the lights had gone out, and the lamp too. At first she’d tried to write in Italian, until she realised her primer was a poor substitute for making an eloquent plea. With all those drafts, she started the next morning’s fire.

  By the time she was satisfied with the version she could send to Angelo, she had the whole letter memorized. As a partial peace offering to Opa, she showed it to him, but she was still unconvinced by Opa’s logic.

  “Dr Hanny should send him our plea,” she said.

  But Opa said that there was surely someone at the ministry who could still read and translate German. He said nothing about the content. Instead, he told her to add the address of the geologist in Munich and gave instructions. “Georg Roeschen and Dr Hanny will know what to do when the time comes.” He avoided her questioning look. “First, it has to be personal.”

  Next day, she bundled up Annamarie for the post office in Graun, and as they walked, fragments of the letter ran through her head. The phrases she’d kept: Our efforts to address our concerns here in the valley have not been met with any recognition from your predecessors. The feelings she did not commit to paper. Are you married? Do you have children? Have you any
idea what you have left behind? Her letter had focused on reasoning with him, as Opa had suggested. I have been asked to write to you by members of the community because they feel that the goodwill we showed you in bringing you back to health, indeed saving your life, could be the foundation of a trusted cooperation.

  Angelo had shown her compassion the last time she had seen him. The day she took the bike and chased him down, the day he played the charade at Dr Hanny’s expense. She hoped he was still the same man, even if he wore a black shirt. Especially because he did so, she could want nothing further from him. Nothing at all.

  Annamarie sniffed and dragged her feet. They were at the wayward cross. “Mama, tired.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  “Carry.”

  “No, child. You must walk yourself. Your mother’s got quite the weight here as it is.”

  She’d written about the farm, about the worries of the farmers, who would have no land left to pass down to their future generations. Her land. Their children.

  The phrases nagged her. In one paragraph, hadn’t she allowed just a pinch of blackmail? Just a hint of what was at stake? Her heart jumped at the stab of panic. Maybe she should go back and strike that bit, but they were at the bottom of the road. It was too late, unless she rewrote the whole letter at Jutta’s. Then she would truly have to explain herself.

  She turned to her daughter. “Hurry, child, or it will just take longer.”

  When they reached the guesthouse, she opened the door and greeted Frau Prieth, who was just coming out, still smelling of fresh-baked bread, then slipped into the small room that served as the new post office. Before she could change her mind, Katharina handed Enrico the envelope.

  “No, Signora. In italiano. Non Bozen. Bolzano. Non Südtirol. Alto Adige.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. You told me last time.” She smiled and gestured for the pen, but the postman shook his head.

  He held up a blank envelope. “Diece centesimi.”

  “But… Ten centesimi? Is there gold in that envelope?”

  The face of the postman remained blank. Defeated, she counted the change, and he handed her the envelope, shook out the letter, and slipped it into the new one. She filled out the information, wrote Bolzano, Alto Adige, and sealed the envelope.

  Enrico took it with great ceremony, checked it, and shook his head. He pointed to the line that read Ministry of Civil Engineering, and then, as if she were slow, said, “Italiano, Signora. In italiano. Non capisco tedesco.”

  “Now, listen here,” Katharina started, and the little man pulled back as if she’d slapped him. “You better learn enough tedesco to tell me I have to write the whole address in italiano, capisce? You just said I needed to change Bozen to Bolzano and South Tyrol to Alto Adige.”

  “Italiano, Signora.” He slammed the little window shut between them and pulled down the blind.

  “I need a new envelope,” Katharina shouted at her reflection. There was no response except for Annamarie’s whimper. “Stupido,” she whispered.

  “What’s happened?” Jutta was standing in the doorway, her keychain in her hand.

  “That little swindler! He sold me an envelope because I had to change the city name, and now he says I have to write Ministry of Civil Engineering in Italian. How do you say that in Italian?”

  Jutta scowled at where Enrico was certainly still behind the glass. “Just you wait,” she scolded him. “You’ll be out of a job yet. Go back to your dried-up island and eat your noodles and tomatoes again.” To Katharina, she said, “Come with me. I’ve got an envelope for you. Don’t you ever pay him another Heller, not for paper.”

  “Heller!” Katharina couldn’t help laughing. “I could line a whole street full of the coins and only the geese and ravens would profit from them.”

  She waited by the sitting room window while Jutta rummaged in the drawer of her credenza. From the window, Katharina saw Iris Bianchi heading towards the church, and she turned to ask Jutta to hurry up, but she was already handing her the stationery.

  “Katharina, what are you writing to the ministry for?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” She took the envelope.

  “Where are you going?” Jutta called. “What about the address?”

  “I’ll be back in a minute. Watch Annamarie please.” She hurried to the church, hoping Iris had gone in and not farther on down the road. She found the teacher kneeling before the statue of St. Katharina, and Katharina waited until the woman had made the sign of the cross. When Iris stood up, Katharina quietly went to her and touched her on the shoulder.

  “Katharina, buongiorno. Nice to see you.”

  “Buongiorno, Iris. I’m sorry to startle you. I did not want to interrupt while you were praying.”

  Iris looked up at the statue, then smiled at Katharina. “Santa Katharina. She help the teacher, sì? I pray to her for help. And here you are.”

  “That’s right. She protects the teachers. Do you need help?”

  She shook her head. “Not today. Per precauzione. Just in case.” Iris pointed at her. “You are here to pray?”

  “No. I saw you come in. It’s me who needs your help.”

  “Sì. Bene. I try.” She looked pleased.

  Katharina retrieved the letter in the blank envelope and led Iris to a pew. “How do I write Ministry of Civil Engineering in Italian?”

  Iris looked at her questioningly.

  “They are the office in Bolzano that builds the roads, bridges, and dams.” Katharina made sweeping gestures with her hands. “You know? Lots of water, held back or whoosh!”

  “Is this government?”

  “Sì.”

  “Ministry is easy. Ministerio.” Iris gestured for a writing utensil, and Katharina fished her pencil out of her bag. “Roads? Bridges? Genio Civile. That must be the office.”

  Iris finished writing the words onto the envelope and gave it to Katharina.

  “Thank you, Iris.”

  Iris smiled as if she was waiting to receive an explanation about the letter, but Katharina stood up, and Iris followed her out of the church without any questions. Katharina expected Iris to follow her, to return to the Blechs’ home, now called the Foglios, where Iris had a room, but instead she faced north. Farther down the road, Katharina saw Dr Hanny coming in his motorcar.

  “I go to Reschen,” Iris said.

  “Oh. Are you not feeling well?”

  Iris blushed. “He practice his Italian with me. He show me his books.” She shrugged. “I learn German. Tyrolean.”

  It made perfect sense. Dr Hanny had never married, and Iris was an attractive young woman. He had always had a taste for the exotic. Katharina had often wondered what had kept Frederick Hanny in the valley all these years when all he seemed to yearn for was a bit more of what the world had to offer. Whether the valley was ready for this liaison, however, was another issue altogether.

  Katharina offered her an understanding, if not encouraging, smile. “I’ll be off then.”

  She turned back to the inn, and when she looked up at the window of Jutta’s sitting room, she saw her frowning. The sound of the motorcar made Katharina turn. She should have told Iris about the difference between the words dull and inhospitable in German. Dr Hanny was opening the car door for Iris, and Katharina smiled. It didn’t matter anymore.

  She turned back to Jutta, a cautious smile on her face, and waved the envelope until Jutta turned her attention to her.

  Post office, Katharina mouthed.

  Outside the post office door, someone whistled a lively tune that made Katharina cringe. Rioba, their new prefect. The podestà. He was leaning against the counter and touched his fez before moving aside to give her room. Enrico stamped something Rioba must have given him and then put his finger on the corner of her envelope. She kept her hand on it, feeling sick to her stomach.

  “Just a moment,” she said.

  Rioba leaned over the envelope, the bronze eagle on his fez also casting a critical eye
. “Ah! Cosi si affida a vecchi amici… Brava, Signora Steinhauser. Ce l’ha fatta in italiano? Non era poi cosi difficile, vero? Enrico, timbra la lettera.”

  She struggled with the words, trying to understand. From underneath her hand, Rioba pushed the envelope over to Enrico, grinning as if he could not be more pleased. Enrico immediately stamped it, and the letter disappeared behind him. What if Angelo was just like these men?

  “I…I’d like to have that back. Prego. I need to change something.”

  Rioba shrugged and tipped his head, the tassel of his fez brushing his brow. “No tedesco, Signora.”

  That was a lie. The former police captain had picked up enough German from them to hold a conversation, at the very least to make it clear to them what he wanted and expected.

  Her hand shaking, she paid the postage, trying to convince herself she had done all she could. If she was opening Pandora’s box, then it was because she hoped Minister Angelo Grimani would prevent a flood. Not start one.

  Chapter 5

  Bolzano, January 1923

  In the crowded gymnasium, beneath Mussolini’s photographed stare, Angelo felt as if he were in a sea of Blackshirts. The party had grown exponentially under Il Duce’s leadership.

  Angelo found Gina Conti just behind him, who acknowledged him with a curt nod. Her husband stood next to her. Angelo imagined that General Conti had been made fun of as a boy for the scourge that caused the pockmarks across his face. These days, nobody laughed in the general’s presence.

  Signora Conti made her way towards the small group of speakers who were leaving the podium. She had her hand on her husband’s arm, but Angelo was certain she was steering him and not the other way around. He remembered the Colonel’s words the first time he had seen Signora Conti: she was a woman who made men.

  When he turned around, his father was coming towards him.

  “I need to speak to you,” the Colonel said.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve received a memo from the king about the Gleno Dam schedule.”