Katharina looked up from milking and watched her sons. She and Florian had decided against telling them about Annamarie’s letter, at least until Florian had a chance to find her, meet her, determine what was really happening with her. But now he was going to Germany, for the men. For politics. For a damned uprising that would never happen—couldn’t—just like last time before Hitler was arrested in Munich. She was tired of it. Tired of the things that took priority over her family. And she was tired of these men and their nonstop talk.
“Manuel,” she said loudly, hoarsely, and her throat tightened, though because she was losing her voice or from the strain she felt, she could not say. “I forgot to tell you. We’ve heard from your sister.”
Her youngest glanced over his shoulder. “You did?”
“Yes, she wrote to us.”
He straightened from the cow’s udder and faced her. “Where is she?”
“Bozen. Bolzano.”
“When is she coming home?”
“Soon, we hope.” She stared at her husband’s back.
Florian was looking sideways at the ground, his hands still, obviously listening.
“Your father,” she said measuredly, “will find her and fetch her home. Soon as he’s done with his politicking up north.”
Without looking at her, Florian went back to milking, and Manuel pressed his lips together into an uncertain smile before doing the same.
She had no patience for these diversions. Only one option remained if Florian was not going to make her daughter a priority. There was still Angelo Grimani. And she just might have something he would want in return.
Chapter 13
Bolzano, November 1937
O n the Tuesday morning of Angelo’s weekly staff meeting, Stefano was waiting for him outside his office, unexpected because he was supposed to be in Verona in consultations.
“What are you doing here?” Angelo asked and shook the chief engineer’s hand before leading him into the secretary’s antechamber. Miss Medici was not yet in. Espressos would have to wait.
Angelo hung their coats on the rack outside his office, then unlocked the door for Stefano. Instead of going behind his desk, he took the armchair nearest to his desk, the leather still cool to the touch. Stefano, meanwhile, lowered his tall, skinny self on the right. It wasn’t yet seven, and the sky outside the windows was beginning to lighten on an overcast day.
“I got in last night, Boss,” Stefano started. He was grave. “I received news that the Alto Adige Electrical Society has filed—on the king’s decree—their petition to put the Reschen Valley reservoir on the bidding table. Immediately.”
Angelo slammed into the back of the armchair as if he’d been shoved. The decree. So they were no longer in the running. All projects that had been placed on hold were now being pushed forward with no further assessments or approvals necessary, private sales given top priority. Volume and power, the only interest. The proposal of raising all three lakes had already been approved by Rome, back when Grimani Electrical was pushing it through the society almost fifteen years ago. Nothing, now, held them back. On the contrary, they were being requested to proceed.
“That’s it then,” he said flatly. “MFE will find the investors it needs. We have nothing on this anymore.”
Stefano sighed, and Angelo read the mixture of disappointment and resignation in his expression. “I’m so sorry, Angelo. È andato tutto a monte.”
“No, no. We haven’t failed yet. You’ll have to go back up there. To the valley. Get the people you talked to together, and we need to make sure that their needs are met, that they know we’re on their side and…” Angelo did not finish.
Stefano’s face was transforming, twisting into frustration, or maybe it was anger.
Tersely, the man said, “There’s nothing I can do up there anymore.”
“What do you mean there’s nothing you can… We had a petition. You had enough signatures—”
“They’re not interested in working with us. Not even with me.”
“That’s not what you said this spring.”
Stefano looked exasperated. “The German League has them. You understand? They’re done with us.”
Angelo crossed his arms, assessed his chief engineer. Something wasn’t right. And it began with the man’s appearance.
“What?” Stefano said defensively. “I gave it all I had. They’re stubborn sons of bitches.”
“Really? Did you go to them dressed like that?”
Stefano shrank within himself but looked dumbfounded at Angelo.
“The cufflinks, the new shirt,” Angelo explained. “You’ve traded your woollen suit for this pinstripe one. The shoes. What is that? Real Italian leather?” He realised he was being unreasonable, but he was just as angry as Stefano.
“These? The outfit?” Stefano looked indignant. “I don’t see what this… I mean, it’s all Elena. She negotiated hard for these things. Am I supposed to dress like a peasant? Would that make you feel better?”
Angelo rose, apologetic. “No, no. Of course not. I’m sorry, Stefano. That wasn’t right of me.” He strode to the window, looked over the rooftops. He would have to get on the telephone to the Colonel, postpone the staff meeting. Or let Stefano take it over. He turned to his man again.
“Tell me what we do have, what we can work with.”
Stefano shrugged, compliant now. “We’re not offering them anything they want—”
“What do they want?”
Stefano scoffed. “Hitler.”
Angelo sighed again and shook his head.
“Look, Boss, with the German League stoking their hopes, we haven’t got a chance in hell. I mean, your father—MFE—has already ordered three new excavating machines.”
Angelo straightened. “He has? When? How do you know?”
Stefano pushed his glasses up his nose, licked his lips. “Everyone knows what MFE wants. What the Colonel is after. They’re all talking about it in Verona. I was there. People know him.”
He was being belligerent, and Angelo was also frustrated.
Miss Medici came in, holding some post and looked startled to see them there. She asked if
