The door opened. Bernd and Manuel rushed in, their school satchels swinging from their shoulders. Bernd stopped, but Manuel threw himself on his sister, as if he’d expected her there, as if no time had passed at all.
“Annamarie, come to the barn,” he urged. “We have new kittens.”
Katharina watched as Annamarie hugged her baby brother to her. She stroked his hair as if to say she was too old to rush off and play with kittens. She really did look grown out of everything that had once made her happy.
Bernd was still lurking by the door. “What’s the Fascist thief doing here?”
“What did you call me?” Annamarie said.
“Bernd,” Florian said, “you apologise right now. Bernd!”
“Welcome home, sister,” Bernd mumbled.
Annamarie reached for the table and held up a purse. “I’ve come to pay you back,” she said to Katharina. “With interest.”
“That money would have gone to your studies,” Katharina said. “Had it been enough.”
Her daughter held the purse farther from her. “Please, take it. Please.”
Florian went to Annamarie’s side. He put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m proud of you, girl.”
Bernd scoffed.
Florian took the money and pressed the purse back into Annamarie’s hand. “It’s yours now.”
He herded the boys out, saying it was time for them to do their chores. At the door, Florian turned to Katharina.
“Take your time,” he said.
***
W ith Papa out the door, Annamarie glanced nervously at her mother. Was she about to be lectured on the virtues of womanhood? The fact that a young woman like her, running off—
“I see your father’s given you something to eat. Do you need anything else?”
Annamarie glanced at the table where the loaf of bread and cheese lay, as well as a cold potato from what must have been dinner the night before.
Annamarie shook her head, and her mother pulled off her scarf, smoothed down her hair, and took a seat. Wisps of blond hair had come loose from the crown of braids, and her cheeks were still flushed from the exertion it must have taken to come up from Graun. Her brown eyes were large, pleading, and Annamarie did not know why, so when her mother took her hand, Annamarie let her. Her smile seemed to be an effort too.
“Annamarie, tell me everything. Everything that’s happened to you.”
This was exactly what she had feared. “I can’t do that. You’ll never forgive me.”
“Forgive yourself, Annamarie,” her mother said. “We’ve already forgiven you.”
“Aren’t you angry with me?”
“How can I be angry?”
“The prodigal daughter, is that it?”
“I’m happy you’re back, if that’s what you mean. We have to talk, about things I should have told you long ago.” Her mother dropped her gaze to their hands. “Angelo Grimani, for example.”
Annamarie jerked herself free. “Why would you mention that horrible man?”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you even know him?”
“He’d written and said he’d seen you off at the train station.”
“He did nothing of the sort, Mother. Why would he?”
“Because.” Her mother looked dismayed. “I asked for his help.”
“Why? Why would you do that?”
Her mother hesitated. “What happened in Bolzano? Annamarie?”
“I want to know what that hateful man has to do with us first.”
Her mother bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Why did I think he would have done what’s my responsibility?”
“What are you talking about? Mother!”
A deep breath. “Years ago, I found him on our mountain. He’d been stabbed. I…I helped…I saved his life.”
“What?”
Her mother sat upright, palms flat before her, as if preparing for something to knock her over. “Your great-grandfather and I brought Angelo—”
“Angelo?”
“…down to the Hof and… He was very bad off. I took care of him. Dressed his bandages, made sure his fever was down. We…I don’t know. The house was empty. I was lonely. I was so sad. I suppose…”
“He fell on you?” Annamarie snorted. “He’s got a reputation, you know.”
“I don’t know anything about that. To be honest, I think I fell in love—”
“Wait. Stop.” Annamarie felt sick to her stomach. “When was this?”
“Before your papa and I met. I was young. Unmarried. Pregnant, Annamarie, with you. But your father, he agreed—”
Annamarie sprang off the bench, her first instinct to go to the door, to flee. Papa was out there. Her father was… She clamped her hands to her mouth to keep back the bile that had risen. When she felt her mother’s touch on her arm, she doubled over, certain she would lose what little she had in her stomach.
“Oh God,” she moaned over and over. Then, “Marco…”
At the sound of the door opening, Annamarie jerked up, half expecting the entire Grimani family to be there, laughing at their sick charade, but it was her father. Or it was not. He wasn’t her father anymore, was he?
“You lied to me,” she said, but it came out so quiet she was certain he had not heard. “You lied to me. You lied to me,” she repeated, stronger each time.
She felt his hands, those sturdy hands on her shoulders, and she felt as if she were tumbling down a hill, like when she and Bernd and Manuel had rolled down from Hans Glockner’s field and into the meadow below. Exactly like this, her head had spun afterwards.
“Get away from me,” she said, trying to shake Papa off. But he was stronger. They were always stronger.
“I’ve always been your father, Annamarie. Don’t you ever think otherwise.”
“You knew! You knew it when you saw me in Bolzano. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t want to listen. You walked away from me. And when I returned, that older woman said you were gone.”
She swung away and looked at her mother. The only other woman in the room. How could she? “Do you know what you
