“It’s a nice idea, but strictly from a scientific point of view…”
“You, Doctor, have always been the one to say that the best state of health must come from here”—she bowed her head—“and the spirit.”
“Yes.”
“My head and my spirit are sick.”
“Grief.”
She shook her head. “Disappointment. Regret.”
“I’ll fetch Hannelore. The midwife will be more familiar with your malady.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. “Is grief, is regret, simply a malady?” When Dr Hanny did not answer, she said, “I should name our son after Opa. But Florian and I had planned to name him after my father.”
“Josef Johannes then.”
Katharina tried to look pleased.
“It’s a good name. A strong name. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“What’s wrong with me then?” she asked.
“What do you need?” He was reaching for his medical bag.
“Forgiveness.”
“Maybe you need a priest then, not a doctor.” His smile, a failed attempt. “What do you want to be forgiven for? By whom?”
She had revealed too much already. She moved the baby to her other breast.
His voice was extra gentle when he said, “You forget that I was there.”
She locked eyes with him.
“The day Johannes sent him away,” Dr Hanny said. “That day you ran after him.”
So it was true. Dr Hanny knew Annamarie was Angelo’s daughter. And Opa had too then. If she tried to deny she did not know what Dr Hanny was talking about now, it would make things worse. It would make her lie unbearably gross. She said nothing.
“Your daughter is a strong, healthy child, a blessing. Your husband is a good, honest man. And Annamarie knows him as her father. There is no shame in that.” Dr Hanny patted the blanket near her leg. “You could start all over, you know? It’s a blessing amongst the living to be able to do that.”
He left her then, and Katharina felt as if she would implode from sadness. Her thoughts swirled. Angelo had never acknowledged her letter, and she had not known how much she had hoped to hear from him until this very moment. She had mentioned a daughter. Had the man not enough sense to suspect he had left her pregnant? If he were honourable in any way, he would have answered her. One way or another. Opa, God bless his soul, had stopped himself from prying the truth from her again. She had been dishonest with him under his own roof. Now it was too late to apologise.
The knock at the door startled her, and the baby twitched in his sleep. Florian came in, and even from that distance, she could smell the wood shavings on him. He’d been sawing and hammering the day before. Her husband, the “stranger,” had built Opa’s last resting place. She needed this man now. She needed him to be close to her, to belong to them.
With their son hugged up against her, she said, “Let’s name him after your father. Let’s name him Bernd.”
***
T hey were all waiting for her in the sitting room, where Opa had been lain out on the table beneath the crucifix. Already, from the top of the stairs, Katharina could see her grandfather was completely altered. The rose-coloured cheeks were chalky and thick with some sort of paste that had been used to cover up the bruises and wounds. One of the women had washed and made him up—Hannelore, maybe? Jutta?—and dressed him in his one good suit. And his shoes. The new boots Florian and she had bought him last Christmas. The ones he’d refused to wear, saying he’d save them for a day when he’d really need them. Would be a shame to bury those now, but she couldn’t just march over there and pull them off, could she? Scold her Opa and ask him, teasingly, what he was thinking?
Katharina descended into the murmuring of women’s voices: Our Father, who art in heaven… Prayers for the dead. Into the hushed clinking of glasses. She turned her head to look at the second table, the one they’d brought in from outside.
There were cups of wine and schnapps glasses scattered across the surface, with two empty bottles and two that were half-full. There were people everywhere, and only then did she scan the faces, some politely, sympathetically smiling and looking away, others nodding at her as if to give her strength or tell her they understood.
Everyone was here. Dr Hanny, Hannelore, the Prieths, Hans Glockner, and the Nogglers. Even the Planggers had come all the way over, and Karl Spinner.
She heard someone mutter, “…farm’s going to outsiders,” and searched the men standing around the oven, but she’d not recognised the voice, and there was a whole group of them oblivious to her. Her chest constricted.
Outside the windows, she could see the visitors who had spilled out into the Hof like an invasion of shadows. She pressed Bernd closer to her as she submerged herself into the lot of them. Jutta, Frau Prieth, Frau Plangger, and Patricia Ritsch were sitting on the stools they’d set up in order to pray around Opa. They stood when she approached, and Katharina looked upon the man who’d been her last anchor in this community.
She felt someone touch her shoulder, and Father Wilhelm offered his hand. Katharina took it and squeezed, and then the procession of condolences started. Jutta hugged her before taking Bernd, thankfully without much comment, so that Katharina could accept the stream of handshakes. Her community. Their valley. Some did not look her in the eye, but offered their hands anyway. She’d not paid enough attention to know who would help her in the future and who would turn against her. And Opa could not help her differentiate between the two now.
Patricia Ritsch stepped up, her own infant, Andreas, in her arms. Of course Toni would name his first son after the freedom fighter.
“They will be famous friends, Katharina, our two boys.” Patricia smiled, and then she must have felt awkward, because she swallowed and looked down, her cheeks flushed.
“They will, Patricia,” Katharina offered. She placed a hand on the woman’s upper arm and squeezed gently. “Thank you.”
Anton Federspiel stepped up, Frau Prieth, the baker, just behind him. Katharina held her breath. Certainly Anton had enough decency not to mention the finances now. She shook his hand, and Anton whispered something about how everything would be all right. Her thoughts whirled with the possible interpretations, but she could not make heads or tails of it. As she greeted Frau Prieth, the door opened and Iris came in, her face drawn and her eyes skittering until they landed on Katharina. Her relief was visible, her look of regret immediate. Katharina’s heart swelled with a tenderness and a dread she did not know she had space for now.
Behind Iris, Toni Ritsch stepped in with his father, so near to Iris that she had to step aside to let them through. The men held a schnapps glass each, Toni’s nose red from obviously too many already. As he passed Iris, Toni eyed her up and down, scowling, swaying a little. As if oblivious to his son’s bullying, Kaspar Ritsch came directly to Katharina and patted her shoulder, telling her Opa would get a hunter’s funeral. He’d arranged it.
Katharina thanked him, and he left her to pray at Opa’s side.
When she looked for Toni, he was hovering near the table with some of the other men, his glass filled with schnapps. He was staring at Iris, and even she could hear him say, “The old man would turn over if he knew the Walscher was here.”
“Where’s his rifle, Kaspar?” Katharina whispered at the old man’s shoulder. “Where’s Opa’s weapon?”
“We recovered it before the carabinieri came,” he whispered back, turning only slightly to her.
“I want it, Kaspar. I want it for protection.”
His was a mix of pity and caution. “We have to turn it in, Katharina. You don’t want to risk having contraband found.”
“Talk to Florian. Invent a story that we didn’t recover it.”
“But when the snow melts… Listen, the carabinieri were already asking Dr Hanny about it.”
“Please. Please talk to Florian.”
Kaspar nodded, but she knew he was not taking her seriously. The thought that T
oni, or even Kaspar himself, might squirrel away the rifle for themselves, for their stupid uprising, crossed her mind.
After the Planggers greeted her, Katharina moved from the table to Iris.
“I should not have come,” Iris whispered in greeting, and Katharina took her hand and squeezed it.
“I am glad you did, but maybe you’re right. Please know, I do appreciate it.”
She was relieved when Dr Hanny came to them and gently led Iris to the corner with Father Wilhelm. Iris had two more friends amongst them who would stand up for her if need be.
Katharina had to find Toni, but he was no longer in the house. He’d not come to her. He’d not given her his hand. Instead, she went to Jutta, who stood with Hans near the oven, and took the baby from her.
“I’ll slaughter one of my sheep today, if you want,” Hans said to Katharina. “For the soup.”
“That’s fine, Hans. I’ll have Florian pay you straight away.”
Hans looked embarrassed. “I’ll make a good price.”
“Don’t worry, Hans.” She excused herself and went outside, where she found Florian standing with Martin Noggler and Kaspar Ritsch. Still no sign of Toni.
“Husband, Hans needs some money for the mutton. For the funeral soup. Did Kaspar talk to you about the rifle?”
“We can’t keep the rifle, Katharina.”
Holding back her exasperation, she returned to the other issue. “Where’s Toni? I thought he was with you.”
Kaspar pointed to the corner of the house, where Toni, his back turned to her, was leaving with Patricia. “They’re on their way home. Do you want me to get him?”
“What’s wrong, Katharina?” Florian asked
“Did he give you his hand?” she whispered to him.
Florian shrugged. “There’s a lot happening at the moment. I don’t know. Why?”
Of course, this was all new to him. He did not understand how serious a gesture this was. She watched Toni and Patricia disappear around the house. Hot tears came to her eyes.
It was not from the Italians she felt an overwhelming need to protect herself.
***
O n the day of the funeral, Katharina sat perched on her side of the bed, her back to her husband and looking at the sleeping infant in his cradle. The frost on the windowpanes was hardened into snowflake shapes, and the ice beneath the eaves dangled like clear-cut stalactites. She could hear the cows rustling in the barn, their tapping hooves like the impatient drumming of someone’s fingernails on a tabletop.
It had never been spoken aloud. It had hung in the air between them, and now here it was: Florian Steinhauser, an outsider, a city man, would be the new owner of the Thalerhof. The farm had only half the cattle it once had in its best days, and now their last horse was also gone. There were two children to tend to, and the debts that had accumulated were left unpaid.
Florian stirred next to her, then sat up, alert. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“We’re all tired.”
“I’ll go to the barn,” he said, already pulling on his shirt. “The children?”
“Still asleep.”
It was a miracle really. As if the energy in the whole house was drained. Even Bernd fell into a deep sleep each time she nursed him. She sat where she was, shivering, unable to summon the energy to get up. She heard Florian pause behind her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Katharina turned stiffly to him. “The farm’s yours now. You will have to see Anton Federspiel at the bank, and the registrar to fill out the paperwork. And Bernd’s birth certificate.”
Florian paused in buttoning his vest. “It’s still the Thalerhof.”
“The deed will have your name on it.”
“It’s just a piece of paper,” Florian said. “The sign above the door will still be your name.”
Nothing really belonged to him except on paper. Their daughter had his name, but not his blood. The farm would legally be his, but the name and its reputation, never. His clothes had belonged to other people, and even she had lent herself to him in the beginning. Bernd was his only legacy. At least, so far. And Annamarie? With a son now, Florian truly had no obligations to Katharina’s daughter anymore. He certainly had no obligations to the Thaler family. What he did still have was his mother’s house in Nuremberg.
“Well, you could just sell everything here and drag us to Germany now.”
Florian froze in his dressing.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I said that.”
He smoothed down his vest and quietly left the room, the door clicking softly behind him.
It would be his decision in the end, though after he had returned from Nuremberg, she had overheard him telling Opa that the economic situation was—as she had guessed—not much better than here. As for his mother’s house, he’d not yet decided whether to sell it.
By the time she had Annamarie dressed for the funeral, the death bells were already tolling, the largest to the smallest ringing in succession. She met Florian coming out of the barn, and he threw icy water on his face and upper arms before rolling down his sleeves and slipping into his overcoat and joining her, in silence, on the road to St. Anna’s hill.
Later, as they neared the church, she could see the cemetery wall and the gathering in front of the chapel. At their arrival, the whispered condolences and light handshakes were repeated as in the wake, and Katharina swam through the villagers as if grasping at debris, looking for someone to pull her out of the flood of grief.
Father Wilhelm came to them, but Katharina found it difficult to concentrate. It irritated her that the priest led Florian to the altar next to Opa’s coffin and whispered about whatever needed whispering about. It was Jutta’s touch that turned her attention away from it all. She handed her Bernd.
“He’s beautiful, Katharina,” she said. “I wanted to tell you that at the visitation, but thought I’d wait.”
“Florian’s pride and joy.”
Jutta grasped her hand but said nothing.
Father Wilhelm started the service, and Florian took his place next to her, but Katharina could not remove her eyes from Opa’s coffin. She went through the motions, and at one point Annamarie whimpered and Katharina realised she was squeezing her hand too hard. She bent and kissed the girl’s head, drawing her closer to her skirts.
In the cemetery, the hunters had hung up an enormous wreath with a green ribbon, and Karl Spinner and Kaspar Ritsch were dressed in their hunting costumes. They led the singing—“Aufwiedersehen”—and loneliness overcame Katharina as she wept for the first time.
All her loved ones lay under the ground. Her last living relative on her father’s side was gone. Johannes Thaler had dreamt of leaving his legacy to his sons. Had even considered her worthy enough to own the land, to take over the Thalerhof. And she had merely proven herself unworthy. And the valley folk would not make it any easier for Florian.
She looked at her husband and, as with many times before, wondered at the practical stranger who had taken on the responsibilities of becoming a husband, a farmer, a father to a bastard child.
Start all over, Dr Hanny had said. It was he who had probably imparted the same wisdom on Florian. Katharina would never be able to forgive Dr Hanny if Florian packed them up and made her leave the Thalerhof for Germany.
***
F our days after the funeral, Florian asked Katharina to go to the registrar’s with him to handle the death certificate, the transfer of the Thalerhof’s deed, and Bernd’s birth certificate. She bundled up the children, and they walked to the office that once used to be Georg’s. In a few minutes, she managed to communicate to the official what they were there for. They started with the birth certificate.
“Nome?”
“Bernd. Bernd Steinhauser.”
Without raising his head, the registrar rolled his eyes. “Bernd?”
“Sì.” Katharina gestured for him to give her the pen so she could write it down. When she tur
ned the scrap of paper to him, he sighed as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders, but wrote into the form.
“Il suo nome e Benito.”
“What did he say?” Florian asked.
She examined the birth certificate the registrar presented her. She could not believe what she was reading. “He wrote that his name is Benito Casa de Pietra.”
The registrar waved his pen at them, then indicated the portrait of Benito Mussolini. Il Duce, as his followers called him, the Leader.
“Sì, sì.” The registrar nodded enthusiastically. “Casa de Pietra. Steinhauser.” He said their German name as if he were chewing on glass.
Florian grabbed the document, then looked at the registrar. “You understand enough German to be able to translate our name into Italian? In that case, you will understand this: my son’s name is not Benito. It is not Casa de Pietra. His name is Bernd Steinhauser, and you will now change it to reflect that.” Florian pushed the document back at the glaring registrar.
“Signor Steinhauser, it would be wise of you to consider changing your name to an Italian version,” the registrar said. His accent was heavy, and the high German sounded wholly out of place. “You would like the deed to your farm to reflect you as the owner—then you should know that the generous Italian government is prepared to help fund any repairs you may need to create a sturdier, more comfortable home for you and your lovely children.” He looked as if he felt badly about it. “But there are certain criteria—”
“I am a carpenter,” Florian said stonily.
The registrar wobbled his head. “You are looking for a job?”
“No. I don’t need your cursed funds. I can take care of my family myself.”
“As you wish. Here are the forms. The deed?”
Katharina fished the deed and Opa’s death certificate out of her bag and handed them to the registrar, her heart thundering.
Just a glance at the document first before the registrar said, “You must have both translated into Italian. All formal documents must be filled out in Italian, and if you wish to have the deed transferred into your husband’s name, you will have to present us with an Italian version.”
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