The Breach

by Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger

  Angelo stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “If this is about opening it by December, the answer is no. We’re already strapped, especially with the two new projects up north. I cannot make further allowances on the inspections.”

  “Cannot or will not? You refute me every step of the way.”

  “Which reminds me, your permit application never came in either.”

  “Angelo, I expected no to be your first answer.” The Colonel rubbed the back of his neck. “Kastelbell and Glurns are not to be compromised. I understand that. Still, I have to push the Gleno forward. I need the inspector’s approvals to do so. Besides, it’s twelve months you’ve got.”

  “Because the king wants to hold an opening ceremony before Christmas?” Angelo shook his head. “What everyone’s asking for is to wring blood from a turnip. We have not seen satisfactory repairs to the mess that got started on the Gleno. Besides, you’d have to pull workers off other projects if you push it forward. That would jeopardise our state-run projects. So here’s my second answer: no.”

  The Colonel smirked. “Come now, Angelo.”

  “It’s my last answer.”

  “That’s why we’re talking.”

  As the Colonel waved Luigi Barbarasso over, Angelo noted his father’s buttons straining on his suit jacket. Too much of Mama’s braised veal? He had another issue, however.

  “Did you pay off another one of my inspectors? He approved that plenary problem surprisingly quickly.”

  But Barbarasso had reached them, and the Colonel signalled he would not answer the question. The contractor and lumberman looked more similar as time went on, like two fighting bulldogs. Or, Angelo mused, the way a dog and its owner could begin resembling one another.

  “Mr Barbarasso,” Angelo said to his father’s bulldog, “good to see you. You’re looking rather robust.”

  “I’ve been taking more exercise,” Barbarasso said.

  Angelo followed the lumber baron’s look, which seemed to devour Signora Conti in a single gulp.

  “Luigi has four tons of freshly cut trees up in the northeast,” the Colonel said. “He’s ready to ship those to the Kastelbell Dam as soon as tomorrow. At a special price.”

  Angelo shook his head. “Very convenient, but he’s not the supplier.” He held Barbarasso’s look. “You’re not the supplier.”

  “The state will get a better price,” Barbarasso said. “We can make an exchange. We provide cheaper lumber to the other projects, and you send us workers for the Gleno. It’s a good deal with your budgets so strained.”

  Yes, Angelo thought, strained just like your coat buttons, and from whom did you steal those trees?

  “Angelo, think about this,” the Colonel said. “You have problems. We’re offering solutions.” He opened his hands. “Talk to your father-in-law. The former minister can certainly give you plenty of examples about how things get done.”

  “Not on my watch,” Angelo snapped.

  The Colonel’s words had stung. Just as Pietro had suspected when taken in for questioning, the Colonel had gotten “things done” so that Angelo could be crowned Minister of Civil Engineering. Pietro, with his usual grace and dignity, had stepped aside quietly, but his acquiescence had only fuelled his team’s resolve to make things difficult for Angelo. It was hardly a secret that Angelo still required Pietro’s consultations on how to “get things done.”

  One tactic was to play the diplomat. He switched from biting to indulging. “I will look into the matter more closely. You have my word.”

  The Colonel smiled and shook his head. “But no promises. Now you sound like the politician. Right, Minister Grimani, keep fighting the good fight. You’ll eventually see it leads nowhere but to sleepless nights.” Absentmindedly, Angelo’s father reached into his breast pocket and withdrew his black notebook. He just held it, as if he did not realise he had taken it out.

  “There’s something else, Nicolo,” Barbarasso said.

  “I haven’t forgotten. The appeals processes, Angelo. With the new water-rights laws likely to pass by March, we can look at new projects for the future, but the objections and appeals process for the landowners is endless. We’ve lobbied to have those deadlines tightened. On the Reschen Lake, for example. Before they put in a caveat to buy more time.”

  There it was again, Angelo thought, the project that refused to leave him in peace. Sleepless nights indeed. “Perhaps I’ve not been communicating this clearly enough: gentlemen, we have no money left. I can hardly get the permissions from Rome to extend our budgets on the projects we do have going, much less put new ones forward or speed them up. We must begin earning something from the dams we’re building before we can reinvest.”

  Barbarasso scratched his head and made a face. “We’re working on that. As a matter of fact, Mussolini is drafting decrees for more building, and the funds will be made available. That we can assure you.” He glanced around the room. “We just need some help to tide all this over until that happens. Tell us what you need, and the consortium will help you as soon as it can.”

  “Why is the Reschen Valley even in question again?”

  The Colonel and Barbarasso exchanged a look.

  “Some of our men were recently in Curon Venosta,” the Colonel said. “We’ve done an independent surveillance on the lakes.”

  Angelo’s blood simmered. “You were in Graun? What for?”

  Barbarasso stepped forward. “Because we’re still convinced there is great potential if all three lakes are raised. With the new water rights, the project will also find resonance in Rome.”

  The Colonel put a hand on Angelo’s shoulder. “Look, when the money comes, we need a clear path. You take care of the communities and the legal aspects. Sell it to them in advance, Minister. Sell them on exactly what you’re good at, the good fight.” He opened to a page in his notebook and scratched something in. Angelo imagined the words flood, money.

  “We are of the opinion that any new projects need to have a face on them, an authority figure,” Barbarasso said. “What if you were to take to the road and connect with the people? Campaign for a prosperous, industrious Italy. These dams will create jobs. The farmers we relocate can work in factories. They just need to be made to recognise the advantages.”

  Angelo shook his head. They wanted a mouthpiece for their dirty tricks. A politician. And he was not. He was an engineer. “I’m needed here. I cannot just traipse off to the frontiers.”

  “You could send someone else up there,” Barbarasso said. “But—”

  “We believe you’re the right man for the job,” the Colonel said. “You already have the connections you need, people you could convince. Like in the Reschen Valley.”

  Angelo felt a prickling under his arms. “Such as who?”

  “Captain Emilio Rioba, for example. He’s been made prefect up there. You know him. The policeman who came to see you about… Well, I don’t know what it was about, I suppose.” His father stuffed the notebook back into his breast pocket. “He’s been canvassing some of the locals up there.”

  A bead of sweat rolled down the inside of Angelo’s arm. Maybe he should tell his father the truth about the attack on him. It was so long ago now, what difference would it make? The Colonel was waiting for an answer.

  “Vaguely. I remember Captain Rioba vaguely.”

  “If you have your own friends up there, Angelo, connections you made during your stay there, then use them to help the cause. Before you’re forced to fight against them.”

  “Thank you for the warning. If that’s all, gentlemen, good night.” Angelo winked. “I need to catch up on my sleep.”

  He brushed past the milling crowd to the door. Before he left, he heard his father laugh and turned to see the beguiling Gina Conti standing with the two dogs. She most certainly had the lead on them.

  ***

  O n his desk, a letter. Addressed to him and posted from Curon Venosta. Graun.

  Someone mentioned something, and suddenly it was everywh
ere, crawling out of the woodwork. Months before, he’d read an article by a Victorian philosopher explaining African backwardness. While studying slaves, the philosopher had come to the conclusion that human development took place in three stages: savagery, marked by hunting and gathering; barbarism, accompanied by the beginning of settled agriculture; and civilization, which required the development of commerce. European scientists claimed that Africa was stuck in the stage of barbarism because Africans lived in a place with such good soil and climate that it provided “tropical abundance.” For days thereafter, Angelo heard about the topic on every corner, in every café, and read it in other newspapers and journals, as if the world were being revolutionized by the idea. As if it would justify or change things.

  On the letter from Graun, the handwriting was feminine. Arlund was where she lived. But the post office was most likely in Graun. Damn it.

  Angelo loosened his necktie, sliced the envelope with his opener, and unfolded the paper. There she was at the bottom, in black ink. Katharina Steinhauser, geb. Thaler. Damn it. He started at the top of the letter and slammed it down.

  “And now I’m supposed to be able to read German? Christ.”

  He could just burn it. He should destroy the letter, for two reasons. If it related to anything personal, he did not want to know what it was. If it had anything to do with his job—had she read about his nomination in the papers?—then he could choose to ignore it. The German language was dead here. He did not have to respond to anything calling on his official duties if it was not written in Italian.

  He glanced at the open page. “Damn it.”

  On the bookshelf was the thick German-Italian dictionary. The letter was less than two pages long, but it would take him half the day to get it to make sense. He started at the top again. Certainly he could recognise a few words. Start there. Staudamm. Plan. It was about the dam.

  Meine Tochter und unsere Kinder.

  My daughter. Our children.

  His head reeled while he calculated the time gone by. He had not known he was holding his breath. Those five words were surrounded by others, such as der Grund, das Tal, die Bauern, das Leben von allen, der Staudamm. The ground, the valley, the farmers, the lives of all, the dam. A name and address was at the bottom as well, for someone in Munich. The geological society.

  It was about the dam.

  He balled the letter in his fist and pressed it to his forehead. There was nothing this woman could tell him that he did not already know.

  “Damn it.”

  Smoothing out the letter again, he rolled the end of it over the edge of his desk and ripped the bottom from the rest of it. They were worried about the dam, and there was only one way to get rid of this chapter in his life once and for all.

  Minutes later he was at the desk of the main surveyor, the name of the geologist in Munich in his hand.

  “Find the report from them on the Reschen Lake. And if you don’t find one, get them to send it immediately.”

  “Yes, Minister.”

  “And get it to me translated in Italian. Properly.”

  Chapter 6

  Arlund, February 1923

  F rom the window in the sitting room, Katharina watched Opa hitch up his trousers and wade through the deep snow to the stable. He halted under the eaves and leaned against the wall as if a strong wind had blown him over. From the way he righted himself and from his moving mouth, she knew he was embarrassed. Then the cough gripped him, that cough that had come in on him every year since the winter of twenty. It clung to him like a creeping vine, coating the inside of his lungs and latching itself onto the smallest capillaries. The inhalants Katharina made never seemed to reach that far in, yet Opa insisted he could do all the daily chores. She did not want him to notice how she watched him, so she looked away. When he passed by the window again, he wore his feathered cap and had his hunting rifle in his hand.

  She hurried to the door. “Where are you off to?”

  “Snow’s stopped. There’ll be animals needing relief. I aim to put one out of its misery and put some meat on the table.”

  “Must you?”

  “Cold air does my lungs good.”

  The sky was as clear blue as a lake, and the air was warmer than it had been in weeks. The unseasonably warm fall had been followed by an unseasonably warm winter, until over the last two weeks the snow had fallen every day, pausing only to take a deep breath before releasing another load upon the valley.

  “Then take the horse and sled,” she said. “And Hund. Hund should go with you.”

  He gave in to her, and she was surprised, but helped him hitch Pfeffer to the sled and put a lead on Hund. “Just be home before dark, Opa.” She lifted her hand, intent on stroking his wrinkled face, but stopped herself. Instead, she said, “I’d come with you. Like in the old days.”

  A tenderness flashed in his eyes, something she’d not seen since the Angelo Grimani resurrection in their home. He looked down at the ground, the snow almost as high as his boots. “Those were good days in bad times,” he said. “You were a brave girl, Katharina. A brave girl. Still are.”

  A gust of wind came from the south. Watching Hund and him wade through the snow, the feather in her grandfather’s cap braced against the side, she wanted nothing more than to close the distance between Opa and her. Go with him. She rubbed a hand over her middle. Much had changed. So much, she didn’t know how to go back and make good on her mistakes.

  Later, when she put Annamarie down for a nap, Katharina decided she too needed some rest. Each night, her ankles were swollen and she could never get comfortable with the baby so soon on its way. This time, sleep was instant.

  It was Hund’s bark that awoke her, a frantic scratching and then the banging of the front door and footsteps up the stairs. Hund. Opa. The dog must be excited about a kill they’d brought. Outside the window, it was dark already. She turned on the lamp just as Florian burst in.

  “Listen.” He put his hand up. “Do you hear that?”

  Katharina cocked her head towards the window where he gestured. It was not a noise; it was the vibrations of the floor under her feet. Like all the children in the valley, she had learned early on that when the freeze comes too late and the snow doesn’t stop, avalanches are set off like dried timber to a match. You must be able to smell it before you can hear it, feel it before it comes. And then run.

  “Where is Opa?” She struggled to get up, the child in her middle weighing her down.

  “Hund came back without him. I’m going out. Annamarie’s crying in her crib.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “We haven’t got time to wait.”

  But she was up, feeling strong. She wrapped Annamarie in the shawl and tied her to her back, then ran to the rope that led to the bell tower. She tugged and signalled the avalanche to the rest of the valley before hurrying after Florian. It was snowing again, and he was already ahead of her with the dog. The torch in his hand revealed the snow-coated tree branches, the snow-covered barn, and the tops of the fence posts of the corral. She followed him to the woods where she had seen Opa last go. Annamarie made little noises of protests. Florian turned off the torch, and the snow sizzled around them in the dark. It was easier to see this way, but she felt as if her world were upside down, like the snow globe her distant aunt in Innsbruck had once sent them.

  They came to the mountain road and stopped, Annamarie and she one step behind Florian. There was no other sound save that of the snow and a light wind, until the bells began: first Hans Glockner’s, then the Ritsches’, then the alarm spread out to the valley. She and Florian marched on until they spotted a wall of snow piled high on the road. The scar on the mountainside was fresh, ugly, a solid, dark river in the night.

  The wind howled, a deep tenor from the Karlinbach’s gorge, and Katharina saw something float up into the air. A feather. She knew that feather. Opa’s hat.

  Sucking a long, cold breath, Katharina let out a high-pitched scream until she was
out of air. She inhaled again, and this time one stab after another tore through her middle. She gasped and sobbed. It was Florian’s arms she fell into and Annamarie’s shriek she heard before the barrier between her womb and the cold world broke.

  ***

  U nder the thick covers, Katharina slid deeper into the soft darkness, into safety. She would eventually have to face what awaited her: Opa’s funeral arrangements. The people downstairs conducting the visitation. Her baby—Florian’s son. Florian. Annamarie. The house was filled with people, yet the emptiness in her was absolute.

  She shut her eyes tight but heard the voices outside the door and then the baby crying like an abandoned kitten.

  “She won’t take him.”

  “Give her time.” It was Hannelore.

  “But she won’t even look at him.” Florian again.

  “She’s grieving.” That was Dr Hanny. “Give him to me.”

  When a soft knock came at the door, it took every bit of her energy to sit back up. Dr Hanny stepped in, holding the bundled infant.

  “I’m bringing your son to you.”

  She saw Annamarie peek around from behind Hannelore’s legs, caught sight of Florian’s concerned face, and was relieved when Dr Hanny gently closed the door on them.

  “Hannelore will come in just a moment. I thought you should have the baby. And we could talk about your grandfather, the avalanche.”

  He handed her son to her, and Katharina pulled away the edges of the blanket to look at the baby’s face. His eyes were swollen, like Annamarie’s had been when she was born, and his skull a little cone shaped. As Dr Hanny took a chair from the corner of the room, Katharina put the baby under the bedcovers and helped him to take her breast.

  She looked at Dr Hanny. “And how long until I feel something for this one?”

  “You love both of your children. You are in a state of shock. Your grandfather—”

  “At the same time as he”—she lifted her arm where her son lay—“decided to come into the world.” She felt his tiny hand against her breast. “Do you think my grandfather’s spirit entered him?”