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 turned 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.”
“But you speak German,” Florian said, his voice a pitch higher than normal.
“I can do it for you. For a fee.” A flash of teeth.
Katharina pulled on Florian’s coat sleeve. “We’re done here for now, husband. Thank you for your offer, Signor. We will see to it ourselves.”
“As you wish,” the registrar said, and turned back to his books. Before they were out the door, he called them back. “Signor Steinhauser, I am just reminded. Signor Giovanni Thaler, he was a hunter, no?”
Katharina stared at Florian. This was about the rifle.
“Johannes Thaler,” Florian corrected him. “Yes, he was a hunter.”
“The rifle?”
“It was lost in the snow. You’ll have to wait until spring, after the melt.”
Katharina felt the heat rising to her cheeks, and at that moment she loved her husband fiercely.
The registrar made a face. “Ah, sì. You believe me to be a fool. I understand.”
Florian shrugged. “Believe what you wish. I’m telling you, the rifle is lost beneath all that snow. I will bring it to you in the spring.”
The registrar raised his pen, licked the tip, and flipped at a little booklet to his right. “So in April? You will bring it in April?” At the book he muttered in Italian, which Katharina understood well enough by now, “Or in this godforsaken place, it might be June.”
“April,” Florian said.
“It must be April,” the registrar said menacingly, “or you stay in jail until we find it. Capisce? It is the law.” Again the feigned apologetic look.
Florian’s jawline flexed. “Yes.”
“Signor Steinhauser? I remember now. You are not a citizen here, is that correct?”
Neither Florian nor Katharina answered.
The registrar looked at her, then at Florian. “You don’t like our laws, you can always go back to Germany.”
Katharina’s heart dropped, and she tugged on Florian’s coat again until he finally went out the door with her.
“Leave the translation issue to me,” she said outside. “Why don’t you go to the inn? Jutta and Hans are waiting for us. I’ll
