Next, they marched around the gym, an exercise for discipline and precision, and Filipa led them into the first ballad about Giovanni Berta being killed by the Communists.
Annamarie sang, sober now, thinking of her future mother-in-law. The word that was never spoken aloud but always alluded to at the Colonel’s dinner table was that Marco’s mother was one—a Communist.
Annamarie heard Filipa’s voice rise, and when she glanced over, Filipa was frowning at her, her mouth still moving to the words, so Annamarie put more energy into the next ballad until she won a smile from her troop leader. When they finished the drills, Filipa and Gemma called her over.
“Annamarie,” Filipa called, her cheeks flushed.
Annamarie approached with caution, prepared to be scolded for her behaviour. Instead Filipa took her hand. “I need to ask a favour of you. I want to return to Rome, and now I cannot play the main role in our next production. Gemma and I were wondering if you’d like to have the part?”
Now. Now was the perfect time to reveal all. “I would love to. I mean, I should do as much as I can before I get married, I suppose.”
“Married?” Filipa asked.
Gemma clasped her hands dramatically to her chest. “Really, Annamarie? He proposed?”
Annamarie grinned conspiratorially. “Marco has also promised we’ll move to Rome when we’ve married.”
Filipa frowned. “Marco? Marco who?”
“Grimani,” Annamarie said, and Gemma giggled, nudging Filipa so that Filipa stumbled sideways.
“Can you believe it?” Gemma cried.
But apparently, by the look of astonishment on her face, Filipa could not. “When? How?”
Annamarie’s insides prickled painfully. She would not tell them how. “Today.”
“That can’t be,” Filipa cried.
Annamarie laughed. “Why? Is there some national holiday today I don’t know about? Some decree? Our party is stricter than the Catholic church!”
Gemma grabbed Annamarie’s shoulders and bounced on her toes, trying to get Annamarie to do the same celebratory jig. But Annamarie could only do so half-heartedly. She wanted Filipa’s blessing, some sort of consent. Her troop leader’s apparent reservations—yes, they were young; yes, Annamarie had made commitments to the theatre group—were deflating her confidence.
Gemma, bless her heart, was trying to create the opposite reaction. “Finally, I say! Finally,” she squealed. She spun Annamarie at that moment, begging to be her bridesmaid. When Annamarie was freed of her, she saw Filipa running for the door, clutching her stomach.
Annamarie stared after her, stunned, then turned questioningly to Gemma.
Gemma shrugged. “I hope she’s not taken ill. She’s been out of sorts all afternoon.” Then Gemma turned to the rest of the girls lingering around the stage and called, “Annamarie’s engaged!”
The shrieking of excited girls and happy congratulations soon swept over Annamarie, and she decided Filipa’s consent was not necessary now. As the girls clamoured around her for more information and talked about all the necessities for a proper wedding, Annamarie’s troop helped make her engagement all the more believable. She remembered Filipa only after they had all left the gymnasium.
Chapter 16
Bolzano, November 1937
S he was late. Annamarie hurried to the Grimani apartments to get dressed for supper. Marco had promised to bring a dress by, and she was anxious to see what he had chosen. At the thought of seeing Minister Grimani, of really meeting him this time, her heart did catapults. Their violent introduction beneath the Planggers’ tree had been less than pleasant. She would steel herself against him. Together, Marco and she would face him and convince the man that they were meant to be together, that they would defy anyone who tried to stand between them. Once they had this behind them, Marco would become more tender, less distracted. She knew this to be true. After tonight, everything would be better.
Snowflakes were falling, swirling on the street as a gust of wind came through the valley. At the door of the Grimani apartment building, Annamarie noticed a man leaning on a post near the fountain, his shoulders hunched against the cold. Her step faltered, and when their eyes met, he stood up straight and moved towards her. She heard her keys drop with a dull clang.
“Annamarie? It is you.” Her father was dressed in the warm coat with the dark lambswool inside, the one she used to wrap herself in when it was cold in the house. He was unshaven, and he wore that felt cap, the one that belonged to her great-grandfather, with the huge black and white feathers and which he now pulled off his head. Under the streetlamp, she could see the contrast his grey sideburns made with the rest of his hair. He held the hat in his hands as if he knew it embarrassed her, the snow falling harder now and clinging to the tangled curls of his hair.
Checking the urge to run to him, she bent down to pick up the keys. By the time she was standing up again, he was before her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. It came out more delighted than incensed.
“Looking for you,” he said. “What else?”
Footsteps approached, and two men in dark coats walked past them, one brushing by her father so that he had to sidestep. It was enough of a distraction for her to collect herself before Papa could notice.
He turned back to her. “Annamarie, how are you? Are you managing all right?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He swallowed. “Do you need money?”
How could she ever
