The Breach

by Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger

  Frederick put his wineglass on the table behind him. “Where’s Father Wilhelm?”

  Jutta pointed to where she had left him with the Planggers.

  “Hans, Florian, come with me.” Frederick brushed by Jutta and stopped in front of the schoolmistress. He bent over her hand, clicked his heels together and looked apologetic. He went to Father Wilhelm.

  Jutta waited until they were gone before turning to Katharina. “Frederick is, in all seriousness, courting that woman, isn’t he?”

  “You mean Iris Bianchi?”

  The schoolteacher was standing alone and out of place. She was a reed, with dark features, thin lips, and a head full of thick hair swept into a bun save for the stray strands that curled above her collarbone. She wore city clothing, the hem of her navy-blue dress outrageously high above the ankles, and she also wore stockings with a pair of patent leather shoes and heels. In the hinterlands!

  “With skinny ankles like hers, that woman won’t last long. It’s her fault, you know. We wouldn’t have this problem if she weren’t here.”

  “Iris could help. She does have a good heart.”

  Jutta snorted. “So Frederick is courting her? I thought it was just a passing fancy. Thought he would get bored soon.”

  “I don’t know what his intentions are. It’s none of my business.”

  One was avoiding the details of a scandalous relationship, and the other was avoiding the details about Alois’s indiscretion. Which of them was the worst for it? Jutta locked eyes on Katharina’s. “Do you remember the day you needed an envelope? You were writing to the Ministry of Civil Engineering.”

  Katharina looked away, that dark shadow passing over her face again.

  “What was that about?” Jutta pressed. “You told me you would explain it later.”

  “It was nothing,” Katharina said.

  “Did you write to him? Did you take the letter to Iris Bianchi and tell her about Annamarie’s father?” She put a hand on Katharina’s arm, but the girl went stiff under her touch.

  Katharina’s voice was flat. “I wrote for Opa.” She pulled away, and Jutta’s hand fell to her keychain. “It doesn’t matter. It didn’t work. We never heard back from the department.” Her eyes darted towards Iris Bianchi. “I think we can do better.”

  “Do what better?”

  Katharina faced her. “Recognising who we need to fight and who we need to help. Right now Father Wilhelm needs our help, and if you need something to do, then do that. Excuse me.”

  Katharina went to the teacher and led her out of the Stube, leaving Jutta—amidst the room full of mourners—to stand alone.

  ***

  W ord had spread quickly about the discovery of the school. All week, and like mice in the dark, Jutta could imagine the sound of people scratching out hiding places for the banned books, wiping down the chalkboards with vinegar so as not to detect a shadow of a German letter scratched in, and salvaging the Bibles under stacks of hay.

  When the carabinieri did come, when they insistently pounded on their doors, everyone held their breath. And if something was found? The rumours were already spreading, if only in half-uttered questions: “The Blechs know that their neighbours were sending their youngsters to Father Wilhelm. What if they…” “Thomas Noggler has a crush on that Walscher schoolteacher. What if he…”

  Then there were the smugglers who had built up their part of the business in the school. Jutta sent messages to them and warned them to stop bringing in the latest books and newspapers from Germany and Austria. The Italian patrols would conveniently forget the bribe money that had been paid to them, she was certain of that, and if the contraband were found, even she might be arrested.

  She went to a pile of papers on her credenza and found the one she was looking for, an article in the Bozner Nachrichten from last week. Two teachers had perished in prison after being convicted of running similar underground schools. The fine had been so high, the teachers could not pay it. Then there were books being burned and hearings held without proper representation or in the language of the accused. The tone of the article was flat. There was no outrage. There was no commentary. No gruesome details. It had been censored into a warning. Tell the people what was happening, scare them, and make them obedient. She understood that. What the Italians did not understand—especially if she had anything to do with it—was that it would eventually have the opposite effect.

  She made the sign of the cross, put the paper under a pile of others, and finished pinning her hair up. She had to do something to stop the tide.

  In the locked drawer of her credenza, deep in the back, was the envelope of money for Alois. She took it out and put it into her dress pocket, keeping her hand on it. In the hallway, she felt the emptiness around her. The door to the post office was still locked. Eric, the post-robbing Italian postman, was late again. Another night of drunken debauchery in the Italian quarter; at least he no longer lived under her roof. He’d stolen a bottle of her schnapps, and even the prefect had agreed to moving Eric out.

  Down the street she could see workmen repainting the Prieths’ bakery. Herr Prieth was watching from the window, his mouth turned down. The painters were stencilling in the Italian word panificio. Herr Prieth disappeared from sight when he saw her, and a workman looked down at her from his ladder. She scowled at him and hurried away.

  There was nothing for it. They were creeping towards her, and the wall of the guesthouse would soon read albergo.

  She reached the Farmer’s Bank and waited. Hans should come at any moment, and when a few minutes later she saw him walking down from Arlund Road, her heart fluttered so much she could hardly breathe. It might work. It might not. She hoped it would. She hoped their friendship was strong enough for this. She called to him and met him at the corner of the building.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, cautious.

  She glanced at the door of the bank. “It’s today?”

  He nodded.

  “What are the chances that Federspiel can still do something for you?”

  He looked away. “It’s over. I can either sell it off, or they will have to auction it.”

  “Oh, Hans. When did you find out?”

  “He warned me at the wake.”

  She lifted his hand and pressed the envelope of money into it. He reacted as if she’d burned him.

  “Listen,” she pleaded. “It may be enough. I’ve been saving it for years in case…it doesn’t matter. I was saving it in case of an emergency. Take it, Hans. It may tide you over and you can keep the farm and then…just listen. And then whenever you can, just whenever you can, you pay me back, or you help Alois if he ever needs it. Maybe he could help you around the farm? It will be a way to repay me if he learned something.”

  He just stared at her.

  “Why? Why not, Hans? What will you do otherwise?”

  “I can’t do that.” He ran a trembling hand over his beard. “Unless?”

  He had to take the money. He had to. What would Hans do without his farm, without his sheep and the wool?

  “What is it?”

  He looked regretful and swallowed. “It’s not right to take money from you, Jutta. Unless…unless you were my wife. If you were my wife.”

  Jutta took a step back. She had expected this at some point, had hoped for it, but not like this. “Don’t be ridiculous, Hans. I won’t marry you so that you can have my money—”

  He dropped his head and pushed past her. “I didn’t mean to…”

  “Hans!”

  “I’m no good at this,” he said without turning back to her.

  “Hans! You can’t give up! Just take it, for the love of God. Let me help you.”

  He finally faced her at the entrance of the bank. His eyes were shining. If it were not for his beard, she could tell whether he was crying or enraged.

  Stupid pride! Stupid, stupid, stupid pride.

  She marched after him, ready to shake it out of him, but Martin Noggler came around the
corner, dragging Thomas by the ear.

  “At least I don’t have to go to school twice in one day,” Thomas cried, and Martin walloped the back of his son’s head.

  She looked for Hans, but he’d melted behind the door of the bank. Protests from the churchyard came next, and she spun around. The carabinieri were leading Father Wilhelm towards the barracks. A small group of villagers followed behind, and someone shouted that the carabinieri were cowards.

  They had found something of the school.

  She made to follow them, paused at the bank window, and pressed the envelope of money up against the pane, but Federspiel had already put a fatherly arm over Hans’s shoulder. With their backs turned to her, they withdrew into the shadows.

  Chapter 8

  Bolzano, July 1923

  A ngelo was buried in the paperwork that was coming across his desk. They required his approval, or stamps, or signatures and attention. Much attention, more attention. Three bridges that were being built in Bolzano. The new roads up in Lana and Merano. Then the dams.

  First, the Gleno Dam: An inspector’s report about bad working conditions and concerns that the dam was poorly joined at its foundations. He would have to speak with the Colonel again about this. Saving money was one thing, but moving the completion of the dam to the end of November now was too risky. He paused and remembered the day he had asked Pietro about the new permits. He picked up the receiver and asked Mrs Sala to find the archived files on the Gleno. When he hung up, he turned back to the surveyor’s report. At the bottom of the page, he wrote a note that he would later reword to the Colonel: Get this into shape, or it will not be opened in time for the king’s attendance. If I need to check on this myself, I will (where is the permit??). Before laying the report to the side, he made a mental note to send his risk assessor down there.

  The next one was from Stefano Accosi, his chief engineer on the Glurns project: The workers had tunnelled into the mountain with very little incident so far. One small cascade of rock from a weak spot, but no injuries. In comparison to the Gleno, this was great news.

  Kastelbell: Some of the landowners had put in new claims and appeals regarding the amount of compensation they’d receive. They were already unhappy with the agreements they had signed. Angelo had a pile of these, and they were tiresome. Pietro had warned him that stamping final approvals on things lulled one into a false sense of security; they were just the beginning of the real job. “And,” Pietro had said, “that bigger mahogany desk you’re taking over only means you’ll be taking more work on, not spreading it about more thinly.”

  Angelo put the letter from Kastelbell on top of a pile of similar disputes. Then the letterhead from the Consortium for the South Tyrolean Waterworks stared up at him. It was a copy of the report they had sent to Rome. The Colonel’s signature was scrawled across the bottom. He bristled.

  Rome had promised Angelo that his proposal to raise Reschen Lake by five metres would be approved. Now the consortium was lobbying to raise it by twenty-two metres. Their report touted a lucrative production of energy for Italian industry. The more value for money would appeal to Rome well enough, save for the relocation plans of the citizens. Not dozens, but hundreds of properties would be affected.

  Here they were again on the political carousel, but he was going to stay one step ahead of this manoeuvre. He rifled through the papers before him, looking for the soil sample order, when the phone rang. He lifted the receiver.

  “Mrs Sala, did you find the file for the Gleno? And where is that work requisition for the Reschen Valley I asked you to draft?”

  “I put the requisition with the other papers on your desk, and I haven’t got to the archives yet. Minister, before you hang up, Mr Michael Innerhofer is here to see you.”

  Pietro had once confessed that he would have preferred a dragon lady guarding the gate to the minister and scaring everyone off, but Mrs Sala was the widow of one of Pietro’s work colleagues. Angelo wondered now if he would be able to do what Pietro had not and replace Mrs Sala with a tougher woman. Like Gina Conti. He liked that idea.

  “Tell him to make an appointment with me.”

  She hesitated. “Sir, he did. Today is his appointment.”

  Christ. “Send him in.” He stood up to greet Michael and recognised the suit, even more frayed at the cuffs.

  Michael’s dark eyes darted around the office, as if searching for clues and misplaced contradictions. As journalists, Angelo mused, are wont to do.

  Michael’s eyes landed on the table next to the bookshelves where the detailed model of the Reschen Valley was. Stefano Accosi had built the model to show exactly what areas would be affected. Michael drifted to it and examined it. He would see the mountain villages and the plans Angelo had for diverting the river. The reservoir would affect the edges of Reschen, Graun, and Spinn. It was a compromise, but the best Stefano and he had been able to come up with.

  He strode over and gave Michael the stiff, quick handshake that indicated he was a busy minister and, therefore, in a hurry. “Take a seat.”

  Michael flashed an uneasy smile and sat. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his cigarette case. “Mind if I smoke?”

  This would take longer indeed. Angelo reluctantly pulled the crystal ashtray from his desk drawer and placed it in front of the journalist, who was patting around his faded jacket pockets. This was the first time Chiara’s acquaintance was interviewing him. Chiara’s friend. Chiara’s accomplice. He did not offer Michael a light.

  The journalist found his own, and when he had taken his first drag, he leaned back and scanned the office less discreetly. “Many changes, Minister. Lots of development. You are a busy man.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m pleased that you can appreciate that. How are things at the paper?”

  “A constant tug of war with the censors,” he said, his accent thick. “They check the advertising too now.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to hear that.” Angelo glanced at the report from the consortium and turned it over. To be polite, he should ask about Michael’s family, ask how the brother, Peter, was doing after losing his teaching position. He was relieved when Michael cut the pleasantries.

  “I’m not here to discuss my work troubles, Minister. I will write a story about the banks and the land they buy up. Your ministry is responsible for bidding on many auctioned lands, no?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if it’s that many. We have the authorisation to purchase land as allocated within the projects, certainly, but you’re talking about a matter between the landowners and the banks, not the landowners and this department. We get the information about available properties just as any other citizen.” Angelo smiled and opened his hands. “We just happen to be in the market for a lot of real estate at the moment.”

  “You mind if I ask you questions? I want to get this story straight.” Michael flicked the cigarette over the ashtray and raised an eyebrow. “My Italian, you see, is bad.”

  “It’s become much better.” He meant that sincerely.

  There was a defiant look in Michael’s eye. “You are too kind. But maybe I should ask you to speak to me as if I’m a child. Make sure a simple Tyrolean like me understands everything.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How many more projects do you have in the frontiers? Coming?”

  “The ones that you already know of. There are not many more.”

  “Not many more? What is many to the Italians? It’s not the same for us Tyroleans. One is already too many. You see, it is relative. I need numbers. Mussolini has big plans, as does the new senator, Ettore Tolomei.”

  “Tolomei’s speaking at the Municipal Theatre next week. He’ll probably have many of the details you’re looking for.”

  Michael narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth grim. “I look forward to meeting him face to face. Tolomei always had big plans for Tyrol. Big plans to make it Tyrolean free and wipe us off the face of history. Italian history, that is.” He was referring
to the Alto Adige as if it still belonged to the Austrians.

  “Mussolini knows that here, we have money,” Michael continued. “He marched on us last year in his big boots to see how much of it he could shake from the ground and see if we would run to leave it behind.”

  Angelo shifted in his seat. Indeed, in some ways the Tyroleans, this area, rather, were better off than almost the rest of the country, but he wouldn’t describe it as rich.

  Michael exhaled smoke. “I’m not talking about lire, Minister. I refer to the resources. Land. Water. Grain. Fruit. Wine. Borders.” He sounded as if he were running through a grammar school vocabulary list. “All things that turn to gold for your prime minister.”

  The sooner you accept that he’s your prime minister too, the better, Angelo thought. He said, “Do you not want your country to prosper? These developments are for the entire nation’s well-being. I agree with most of what is planned and under construction, Mr Innerhofer, because it is meant to improve our standard of living. Add to your prosperity.”

  An irritated smile spread across Michael’s face. “Our province prospered before you came. At the cost of our landowners, no, Minister, we do not want to see more of it. Tolomei is, what is the word? A python. He squeezes us around the middle, and departments like yours have their hands around our necks. But allow me to get to the facts.” Michael flipped open a small notepad and read, “The number of forced foreclosures and auctions of farms with loans at the Farmer’s Bank increased tenfold in the last year. It is in direct correlation to two things: the projects coming out of this ministry and the bank’s new board of directors, made up of only Italian members.” He looked up, earnest. “I’ve prepared, but please feel free to correct my grammar if you still hear a mistake. I would hate to offend anyone’s Italianism.”

  Loathsome man! Angelo cleared his throat. “Go on.”

  “Your ministry decrees new roads, new bridges, new dams, everything new, to bring in more Italians from the south, and you buy off property cheap so that you don’t have to pay compensation, even restitutions, later.” He looked up, his pencil poised over a blank page now. “These lands have belonged to the Tyrolean people for hundreds of years, many generations. Over and over, these families live, work, sweat, have families in these houses and on these lands, and in less than one year, you swoop in like…like crows to shiny things and exchange them for contracts they cannot understand because they do not know the language.” Michael held a hand up when Angelo shook his head. “How many more projects, Herr Minister? How many more projects with no regard to people on those lands and around those lands?”