The breeze ruffled the loose top of her tunic. “I’m taking Marco with me,” she said. “To the shops.”
He acknowledged that he’d understood.
She looked at him. “I worry that it just would not be right.”
“What’s not right? To give Marco a brother or sister? That our family continues to grow?”
“To bring another child into the world now.”
“There is never a right time,” he snapped.
“There is, Angelo. There is a right time.”
“Fine. Then we can be careful.” He leaned forward. “I want my wife, and I don’t want to wait for a gold-leafed invitation to her bed.”
Her face rippled with different emotions, and for the first time in a long time he saw her really looking at him. He waited for her to say something flippant, to straighten up and lash him with her liberal diatribe. He waited. She said nothing.
“I have done everything,” he said, “to keep this family together. I work hard for you, for Marco, for your parents. I aim to make the best of a bad situation. I have not denied you anything. Not your new outfits. Not the new furniture or the things you buy when you are sad or upset. I have never ordered you about. Tell me how many husbands would make the allowances I have?”
He stood up, and she jerked back in her seat.
“Stop it,” he said. “Stop treating me as if I were some sort of monster. I understand. You do not agree with my ways. Now accept that I know what I am doing and that what I am doing is in the best interest of my family. I’m the minister of my department now. I give the orders. Do you understand?” He stared at her pale face. “Goddammit, Chiara, it’s time I put my foot down.”
Over the landing, he saw his sisters and the Colonel coming down the street. Chiara saw them too and rested one hand lightly on the landing.
“I’m coming to you tonight, Chiara. I expect that you will open the door to me when I come.”
She raised her chin but did not turn to him. “Your wish, Captain? Or your command?”
He left her there, her eyes still on the street.
Chapter 9
Graun, September 1923
T he cuckoo clock in the Stube read a few minutes before eleven in the morning when Jutta heard the doorbell ring. She finished wiping down a table before dropping the rag into the bucket just as the hanging bell above the front door clanged. Hadn’t she locked it?
Emilio Rioba and the two carabinieri he never seemed to be without, Vincenzo and Ghirardelli, stepped into the dining room. Of course. Rioba still had a key. His policemen had the same look dogs do before being released on a hunt.
“Buongiorno, Signora Hanny,” he called.
“The kitchen’s closed on Tuesdays.”
He took off his fez and looked around the Stube. “Cambiano i suonatori ma la musica è sempre quella.”
She squared herself against him. “I know that you speak my language. Tell me what you want.”
Rioba sighed and placed his cap back on his head, then gestured to the other two. Ghirardelli hesitated a moment, gave a respectful nod, and he and Vincenzo turned on their heels to go back into the hallway. Jutta moved to follow them—they had no business in her inn—but Rioba held up a hand, blocking the way.
“Prego, Signora. Stay here.” He looked around. “No guests?”
“I told you already. We’re closed on Tuesdays.” She had two geologists from Munich, and they had the necessary permits to be here. She didn’t care who Rioba was or that Ghirardelli had just been assigned as police captain. They had no right to harass her customers. She stared the prefect down.
In any other world, Rioba might have been a nice man. The curly black-and-grey hair, the distinguished features, and the intelligent eyes gave the impression of a pleasant man. He was also very fit for his age. She had often seen him walking the hills early in the morning. The days when the Italians were their summer guests and had gone climbing with people like Johi Thaler as their guide, those days were gone, but she could imagine Rioba being one of those Sommerfrischler, then coming back to the inn, refreshed, rejuvenated, hungry, and sitting down to dinner with his family with enough energy to play with his grandchildren. If he even had a family.
From the kitchen, she heard something crash to the floor and shatter into what must have been a thousand pieces. Rioba raised his eyebrows before Jutta shoved past him and to the kitchen. The policemen were sorting through her porcelain and throwing each and every piece onto the tiles. In his hands, Vincenzo, the small, squarish brute, held her mother’s handmade water pitcher. He sneered, lifted it above his head, and slammed it to the floor. It shattered like an egg, liquid and shell. Behind her, Rioba murmured something reprimanding, but it sounded false in her ears. Ghirardelli looked at least sheepish, like a naughty schoolboy, as he destroyed her expensive serving platter.
In his hand, Rioba held a stack of the postcards that Jutta kept at her front desk. He fanned them out, their backs right side up. His tone was the one she used with Alois when she had to explain, repeatedly, why she was denying him something.
“No German, Signora Hanny. Forbidden. No tedesco, capisce? We have this discussion before. No signs in German. No dishes in German. No postcards in German. No maps in German. Solo in italiano. Siamo in Italia. We are in Italy.”
Jutta clenched her fists into her skirt, her keys rattling. “I did remove everything. All of the crockery: for the honey, for the salt, the hot water, the lard, all of it.” Everything except her mother’s pitcher, which she rarely brought out of the
