“Iris? The Italian teacher?”
“The schoolmistress and I know one another, and she’s helped me before. Florian, ignore that man. He’s only trying to provoke you.”
He looked uncertain, but she bent to her daughter to make sure she was well bundled. She froze when she heard whistling and knew who it was before he stopped in front of them: the prefect, Captain Rioba.
“Buongiorno, Signora Steinhauser. Con tutta la famiglia questa volta?”
Katharina could feel Florian simmering next to her, but she felt a little thrill deep below the terror. She was beginning to understand what these people were saying. The prefect had asked if she were here with the whole family this time.
“I hear from your grandfather’s death,” the prefect continued in German. “I am sorry. To both of you.”
Katharina gave him a stiff nod, remembering how he’d made no effort to clarify himself to her at the post office the last time she’d seen him.
“Did bank contact you about money owed?” Rioba asked. “I have tip for you, a clue.”
Florian stepped forward, his cheeks flushed. “We will take care of those debts as they were arranged between Johannes Thaler and the bank.”
“Sì, sì, I certain you will. But perhaps you know that you have big opportunity to buy off—no, scuzi, who can buy land these days? I mean sell off your land. Italian government put together offers for all properties where dam may be, capisce?”
Florian shook his head. “There have been no formal plans for the dam. And surely none that would affect Arlund.”
Rioba looked concerned. “No? Ah, they are coming. They are coming.”
He winked at Katharina, and her heart galloped.
What if her letter had only provoked Angelo Grimani? He was a Fascist now. What had she done?
“No need to alarm,” the podestà continued. “You transfer deed into your name. They make offer when it is so far. Then you talk with them, eh? How do you say? We sing all from same songbook in the end.” He bent down and chucked Annamarie under the chin and looked up at Katharina. “Bella, come la mamma. E questo è l’ultimo! And here you have a new baby. A lad or lass?” he asked, using the Tyrolean slang for boy or girl.
“A boy,” Katharina said.
“Come si chiama?” Rioba asked, looking at Florian. “What his name?”
“Bernd,” Florian said.
Rioba lit up. “Benito! Splendido! Named after Il Duce, he will go far.”
Chapter 7
Graun, April 1923
A nother funeral, and just months after Johannes Thaler’s. From her kitchen window, Jutta dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron as first the pallbearers then the mourners spilled out of St. Katharina and into the drizzling rain. At the sight of the tiny coffin, her heart felt heavy.
Melanie, the Planggers’ youngest. She’d just turned six when the melt spilled over the riverbanks, taking her with it. It almost sucked in the other three youngsters who had been playing with her at the Planggers’ tree. Jutta ought to be with Maria Plangger now instead of cooking for the wake, but Sara had run off in the night, most likely with the Italian builder, that he-man who had lurked around the back fence of the Post Inn.
When Katharina—the baby in her arms—and Lisl appeared in the procession, Jutta rapped on the windowpane until they realised she was trying to get their attention. The women hurried through the back gate, and when they were in the kitchen, Jutta explained the emergency.
Katharina placed Bernd in an empty apple crate, while Alois tugged Annamarie to a place where they could play.
“We were wondering why you weren’t in church,” Katharina said. “What can we do?”
“I haven’t got the strudel ready yet,” Jutta said. “The apples are over there. There’s all this food the farmers brought, but I’ve got the soup finished. Alois is out there pushing the tables to make one long one…” She was about to say, like we had for your Opa. “…per usual. One long table. And the wine jugs, of course, and the schnapps. There’s not a soul here who can be measured as being wealthier or poorer. Everyone gets soup today.”
Lisl looked over Jutta’s shoulder at the Knödel dough. “I’ll roll and boil those. You get to the potatoes.”
“That little chit,” Jutta muttered. “Sara knew the funeral was today.”
“Scandalous, really,” Lisl agreed. “And to leave you all alone with Alois. Maybe she’ll come back.”
“She had better not,” Jutta said. “If I ever get ahold of her, she’ll be sorry about a lot more than leaving me high and dry.”
She turned to the potatoes just as the Widow Winkler barged through the door. “I will not be buried with that husband of mine!”
Every time. With every funeral.
“Yes, Frau Winkler,” Jutta said. “We know. That’s why you bought into the plot at St. Anna’s with the Blechs. I mean, the Foglios.”
“What?” the old widow yelled. “Foglios?”
Katharina made a noise like held-back laughter. “She means Klaus Blech. He sold you his plot on St. Anna’s hill.”
The widow was not pacified. “I won’t be buried with him. Herr Winkler’s in hell, and I won’t be buried with him, and not with Klaus Blech either, that Walscher lover. Not with anybody…”
Jutta nodded. “Not with anybody going to hell. We understand.”
Katharina dropped the apple she was peeling, shaking her head. Lisl was also smirking. When she realised nobody was paying attention to her anymore, the widow left with one last indignant huff.
“Jutta Hanny.” Katharina laughed when the door closed behind the old woman.
“What? Klaus signed the pact with the devil when he changed his name.” She remembered the Steinhausers’ predicament. “Katharina, have you heard anything about the deed to the Hof?”
“Nothing yet. Every time we ask, they say to check next week.”
Lisl clicked her tongue. “Even in the worst of times, our bureaucrats were more efficient.”
“Well, it took a while with mine,” Jutta reminded
