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.
