The Colonel eyed her once more, and her cheeks warmed. She was happy when he picked up the telephone, his attention elsewhere.
“Signora Magasa, yes, thank you. Yes, I understand. It’s quite all right. Signorina Casa de Pietra is a friend of my grandson’s, and she is welcome. Please call the Villa Adige and send word to Marco that he shall eat at his grandfather’s tonight.” When she looked up, the Colonel winked, still speaking into the phone. “Tell him I’ve got a surprise for him.”
***
B ased on Annamarie’s first impressions of the grandmother, Maria Grimani would be much harder to fool than the Colonel. No romantic reunion would take place in this house, not with the distasteful and suspicious way the old woman watched her. Instead, when Marco arrived, Annamarie marched straight up to him—for a nerve-wracking second she hardly recognised him—stuck her hand out, and pecked his cheek, as if they were the slightest of acquaintances rather than sweethearts. His expression was one of utter bewilderment. She understood. He would need a moment to overcome his surprise, and when the opportunity presented itself, they would find a way to win a moment alone. Then she could give him a proper kiss.
“Follow my lead,” she whispered. “I have this under control.”
He said nothing except a muttered greeting as he kissed his grandmother before briefly embracing the Colonel. When he turned to her again, he said, “You cut your hair.”
At the table, the Colonel sat her to his immediate right, and Annamarie was relieved when he told Marco to sit next to her. Directly across from Annamarie, Maria Grimani took her seat, her misgivings as plain as day. Annamarie looked away and smiled at Marco, then at the Colonel.
As the servants poured wine, the Colonel pressed Marco to tell them how he had met Annamarie.
Marco stammered, and Annamarie lightly touched his arm. Adopting the same tone she had heard the women speaking at the hairdresser’s and the clothing shops, she said she would explain.
“It is a lady’s privilege to decide what shall be kept discreet and what shall be shared.”
She ignored Maria Grimani’s snort, for the Colonel’s attention was riveted on her. As she spun the tale she’d invented while waiting at MFE, Marco shrank into the gilded back of his dining chair. By the time the soup arrived, he seemed to have resigned himself to let her speak alone.
“I thought,” the Colonel began, “you met here, in Bolzano.”
Annamarie recovered quickly. “Yes, once up north. Once here.”
She was prevented any further embarrassment when the servants came with the next course. The main was pheasant, served on blue-and-white china with a warship on the high seas. The Colonel droned on about Italy and politics and money. Annamarie wiped her mouth on the corner of her napkin. When she placed it back onto her lap, she gently reached to touch Marco’s thigh, and his leg jerked beneath her fingers. He directed an alarmed look at his grandmother, but Signora Grimani was busy cutting her pheasant. Annamarie returned her attention to the Colonel, her hand resting lightly on Marco’s flexed thigh.
“Our youth has a decided interest in the fate of our country,” she said. “Italy must do everything for a victory. Sacrifice, sweat, blood. We must be a unified people.”
The Colonel’s face lit up. “That is absolutely true, Signorina Casa de Pietra. Are you listening, Marco?”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
Annamarie nodded, took a bite of the dried bird. Maria Grimani chewed stonily.
“We must not forget to value our friendships with other countries,” the Colonel said. “But not for sentimental reasons.”
“And”—Annamarie pointed her fork at the Colonel—“not at the cost of diplomacy.”
Marco stared at her, and the thrill that coursed through her made her smile broadly. All of those Italian newspapers she’d sneaked into the Hof and under her bed, all of the long, complicated discussions with her schoolteacher. They had paid off, and she could hardly wait to be alone with Marco again.
“This is a bright young woman,” the Colonel said, and Marco moved some more food around on the blue sea of his plate. “You must have very political figures in your life.”
“My father is a lawyer,” Annamarie said, and Marco’s leg twitched again. She moved her hand and tried the grandmother next. “Absolutely delicious meal. I am so famished. Thank you for having me.”
Signora Grimani twisted her mouth and the strand of pearls around her neck at the same time, then reached for her wine and studied the bottom of her glass.
Annamarie addressed the Colonel. “You must read an awful lot.”
“Books have no influence on me. Books are life lived. The teacher is everyday experience. That is what Il Duce says.”
“What are you doing here, Annamarie?” Marco croaked.
She kept her smile bright as she turned to face him. Don’t ruin this, Marco. “As I said, I’m on my way to Rome. I wanted to visit my friends here first.”
The Colonel’s knife clattered on the rim of his plate, and Annamarie jumped. He folded his hands and rested his elbows on the edge of the table, studying her, then Marco. Signora Grimani made a harsh disapproving sound, though it was not clear to whom it was directed.
“I find her interests in Italy and politics remarkable,” the Colonel said. “You are well versed, Annamarie. You most likely thank your father for that. I’ve told Marco over and over again, youth is the key to Fascism.” He glanced at Marco as if to challenge him to say otherwise. “It has youth’s spirit stamped on it, like a young orchard with plentiful fruits to be picked, isn’t that right, Marco?”
Annamarie recalled something from her newspapers, something that sounded exactly what the Colonel had just
