Both of them remained still until the sound of sweeping began again.
Jutta whispered, “You saved his life, Katharina. And then he left you. Just like that. To your own devices. He owes you. Blood is what you can plead to, stronger than politics or law.”
Blinking back tears, Katharina covered her mouth. “I should have just left him there. I should have left him to die in Karl Spinner’s hut.”
Jutta made a clucking sound, her expression sad.
Katharina swiped at a tear. “How long is he staying?”
“A week.”
She closed her eyes. “I’ll keep her busy.”
Jutta sniffed. “You’ll need a short lead then.”
It was only after Jutta had left that Katharina wondered whether Angelo Grimani knew at whose inn he was staying, how Jutta was connected to all of this.
Chapter 4
Graun, April 1937
T here was a boy from Bolzano at Jutta Hanny’s inn, and Annamarie was going to make sure that she saw him again. The thought of making friends with a stranger who lived in the city was almost as good as traveling there. At least for now. Mother promised her that they would find a way for her to study, but Annamarie was not stupid. Money was hard to come by, and the farm never guaranteed enough.
She rounded the corner of the inn and faced the front stoop, certain that Tante Jutta had indeed gone into Reschen as she always did on Wednesdays. Annamarie entered the Stube, which was only half full. She saw Father Wilhelm first, sitting at the regulars’ table with Thomas Noggler and his father—Martin, the blacksmith. Martin Noggler was almost always at the inn since Frau Noggler had passed away last year.
Annamarie greeted everyone she knew, then went to the bar, where Henri was pouring drinks. From the kitchen came the homey smell of boiled dough and beef, and the air around the bar was humid from it. A lot of unfamiliar faces filled the dining room, but no Marco Grimani or the father.
Alois came out, carrying two plates of Knödel, the dumplings set out on a bed of lettuce. His eyes squinted behind his glasses.
“Hi, Annamarie.” Alois, like most of the adults, spoke German with her.
“Griaß-di, Alois.”
“Are we still playing the game?” he whispered.
She shook her head, and he giggled before moving away. Henri looked up as she took a stool.
“How are you?” she said in Italian to him.
“Fine, thanks. What are you doing here?” It was a friendly question.
“Looking for Tante Jutta.”
“She’s on her errands,” Henri said and pushed the tap. He placed several glasses of wine and a couple of sodas onto a tray, then swung around to her side of the bar. “Do you want a Schweppes?”
Annamarie wanted the fizzy soda that she had only tried maybe twice in her whole life, but her pockets were empty. “No, thanks.”
Henri smiled knowingly. “It’s on the house. One of the guests left half an empty bottle behind. Just let me deliver these.”
She watched Henri as he moved from table to table, placing the drinks before busy eaters. Alois, his hands empty now, stopped and patted her arm.
“What’s the special today?” she asked.
“Dumplings with spinach and cheese, and salad and beef broth. No, no. Beef broth first and then the dumplings.”
Annamarie smiled. “That’s correct.”
“You want the special?” Alois asked, this time in Italian, as he would with the guests.
“No, thanks. I’ve eaten.”
He looked disappointed, but he patted her arm again and wished her a nice day before he went back into the kitchen.
When Henri returned, he removed a half-empty bottle of Schweppes from the icebox and poured it into a glass.
“All for me?” Annamarie asked.
He nodded and turned to wipe his glasses, his shirtsleeves rolled up almost to his elbows. She watched the muscles rippling under the freckles and moles on his arms. She’d never really given him much thought before since Henri was at least ten years older than her. His ears stuck out a little, or maybe it was because of how his reddish-blond hair was cut so close to the scalp, but longer on top, almost like half a helmet. When Henri turned around, Annamarie looked away and twisted her soda glass, feeling caught out. A fizzy bubble splashed onto her upper lip. She raised the glass and took a sip, the ginger sharp but refreshing.
“So school’s almost finished?” he said.
“Yes.”
“What’s your favourite subject?”
“History.”
“Ah.” He began working again. “And Miss Bianchi, I mean Mrs Hanny, she’s still your teacher, right?”
Annamarie nodded. “I still think of her as Miss Bianchi too.” Her teacher—Iris Bianchi—and Dr Hanny, Jutta’s brother-in-law, had gotten married a long time ago. Jutta had not gone to the wedding, but Annamarie had—her first that she could remember—because her mother was good friends with Iris. “She says I could study in Bolzano if I keep up my marks.”
“Bolzano, eh?”
“Didn’t you want to study after you were done with school, Henri?”
He shrugged. “Tante Jutta took me in when I was seventeen, and I’ve had a job since. I guess I just never saw the need for it, and I can take care of my family. I was never really interested in more.”
Annamarie found a way to get the information she was looking for. “You must be very busy when you have all these guests here.”
Henri flipped the towel back onto the hook. “Yeah, I like it, especially when it’s busy like this. So are you going to finally tell me what you were doing here the
