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
