***
S nowflakes drifted lightly, the breeze whipping them up in swirls, when Katharina left the inn with Lisl.
Lisl pulled her chequered shawl tighter around her neck and shoulders. “She’s embarrassed, Katharina.”
“About what? Alois?”
“About not being able to talk with that schoolteacher. Ever since that Italian took over the class, well, Jutta never went down there to make, you know, arrangements?”
Katharina stopped. They had reached the Roeschen home. Lisl’s garden, normally lush and colourful, looked drab in the late winter, with the lack of snow.
“Nobody from the school tried to talk to her about it? Not even Mrs Blech?”
“You mean Mrs Foglio. Especially with her, no.”
“That’s awful. I’m surprised at Jutta.”
Lisl shrugged. “You know her pride. It can get in the way. Sometimes.”
Katharina smiled a little. “That’s why I volunteered, I think.” She glanced in the direction of the inn. “I always think of Jutta as the centre of this valley. I mean, she protects everyone here in a way, but since the Italians got here, she reminds me of a hedgehog.”
Lisl was half-smiling, half-frowning. “How do you mean?”
“I mean, she curls up into herself when she feels threatened. I’ve never seen her so at a loss, not even with Fritz.”
“All of us have a weak point, and it could be seemingly the smallest thing that breaks it.” Lisl patted her on the shoulder. “Good luck then.”
Katharina pondered Lisl’s reference to weakness, especially relating to what Jutta had said about Georg. She could not picture their community leader sullen and withdrawn. Breaking points. What might make her break?
When she was within sight of the schoolhouse, she saw the Italian schoolmistress shaking hands with Martin Noggler’s son Thomas. He laughed and said something, then walked off towards home, turning once to wave goodbye to the schoolteacher.
“Miss Bianchi?” Katharina called.
“Sì?”
Katharina felt nervous about trying her Italian on the teacher. In German, she said, “I’m sorry, miss, but I don’t speak much Italian.”
The woman smiled and beckoned Katharina into the schoolhouse. Inside her classroom, she stoked the fire, took a teapot off the hob, then moved behind her desk. She indicated to a students’ bench across from her. Katharina was about to sit down, but she spotted the portrait of Benito Mussolini hanging above the teacher’s head, his face slightly turned and chin raised, as if to challenge the future. Next to him, in the left hand corner on the wall, were some sentences painted in Italian. She read, tedesco. German. And there were negations, but she did not understand what they meant. She decided to stand.
Miss Bianchi smiled and looked at the portrait behind her. “Italy’s papa,” she said.
Katharina could swear she heard a touch of sarcasm.
“Un po’ di té?” Miss Bianchi then asked, and poured two cups.
She accepted one. “Grazie.”
“What is your name?”
“You speak our language?”
“Sì. I study some before I came. But I am not so good. Excuse my mistakes, please.” She stood up and moved from her desk to the bench and sat down. “Please. Seat yourself. We talk.”
The schoolmistress was almost as tall as Katharina, with delicate features and long black hair that she wore in a loose bun. Her face was young, and her large brown eyes showed kindness and a hint of mischief. This did not seem like someone who would write a mean letter of expulsion.
“You a mother to child here?” Miss Bianchi asked.
“Yes. I mean, I am a mother, but she is too young to be in school yet.”
“Ah. That is nice. And you expect another?” She turned an open palm towards Katharina’s belly.
“Yes. I mean, sì.”
“How can I help you?” the teacher asked.
“I am a friend of Jutta Hanny’s.”
“From the albergo?”
“The inn. Yes. She is like a mother to me. Her son—”
“Alois? You are here about Alois?” Miss Bianchi sighed and put her cup down. “Signora, what is your name?”
“I’m sorry. Katharina Steinhauser. I live in the hamlet of Arlund.”
“I am Iris Bianchi. You call me Iris. Bene? Signora Steinhauser, about the Alois. He is sweet child, sì? But the direttore, he say Alois is—” She pointed a finger to her head and made a pitiful expression. “Ritardo. He learn nothing in Italian. I must to teach in Italian. He make it difficult for all here. He cry sometime when he not understand.” She shrugged. “I think he old enough to work now.”
“He is only eleven years old,” Katharina said. “And we all know that he is slow, not mentally retarded, and he’s been attending this school for years. He’s always had a place here.”
“Nothing. I can do nothing. The direttore, he here, he see class, he send me letter and tell me to sign. I sign. I can do nothing. It make me sad.” Iris sighed.
“Please, Signora Steinhauser, believe me. I sad too. Alois is good boy. A good boy. But some children, they not kind to him. It make problem for me. Some children like him. They help him when the others want to fight them.”
“All the more reason for him to stay on,” Katharina said. “Don’t you see? It’s the one thing that makes sense to him. He does have friends here. Here, he has a place in the community.”
Iris lifted her hands up and shook her head. “Per favore, Signora… You are too fast.”
“Katharina, please. Call me Katharina.”
Iris dropped her hands into her lap and smiled sadly. “You are kind. You are first person here to invite me to be friend.”
“Oh dear.”
“Sì. I know the feelings of Alois. He want to be with friends. I look for friends too.” The schoolmistress gazed out the window. “Here, winter make it even more…” She turned to Katharina and flashed her a smile. “Come si dice, desolato in German?”
Katharina shrugged, and Iris stood and pointed
