The door Alois used was adjacent to the dining area and had a little window in it. Men’s voices wafted on the air and dissipated again when the door swung closed behind Alois. Annamarie crept up to it and looked out to see who was inside. The inn was used for almost all the events for the people in and around Graun. It was the place where everyone got their news and gossip.
Though all the wooden dining tables were square, there was a large round one located next to the door that opened to the front hall. That was the Stammtisch, where the local men played Jassen or discussed the news in the latest issue of the Dolomiten, and it was the only table that had people at it now. Even Jutta was sitting with them all, and Alois lingered next to her by the post. There were no other guests inside.
Careful not to show too much of herself through the little window, Annamarie saw Hans Glockner first, his back to her but hard to miss with his size. His long, bushy beard stuck out on either side of his face. When Hans came to the inn—which he often did because he and Jutta were sweet on one another, and Annamarie found that quaint because they were old—he always had to duck through the low wooden doorframe. When he stood in the room, his head nearly grazed the ceiling.
Hans was the Steinhausers’ neighbour in the hamlet and had once lived with Annamarie’s family after he’d lost his farm to the bank. Annamarie missed his burly presence at their Hof. He’d seemed to take up the entire dining table at their house, and after supper, he would let her stand on his feet as he walked or danced, each left step a dip and a sway from his bad hip. Now, he was starting over on a small piece of property he’d bought from Kaspar Ritsch, who sat to the right of Hans.
Kaspar Ritsch, also with his back to Annamarie, was the only other neighbour in Arlund. He and his wife lived with their sons and their wives and children in a large house behind the Steinhausers. Kaspar was older than old. He barely had any hair left on his head, and he was still wearing his bright-blue farmer’s apron. Annamarie wondered how he’d managed to get into Jutta’s Stube with that still on. Jutta was usually fastidious about these things. Once, when the hunter Karl Spinner had come in with his hat still on, Jutta knocked it directly off his head, sending the grouse feather floating up into the air and landing into Father Wilhelm’s soup. Karl Spinner had simply retrieved the hat, mumbled an apology, and took the wet feather from the priest to dry on a napkin before sticking it back into the hat band.
On the other side of Hans Glockner was Annamarie’s father. He was the first one whose face she could see—his profile, anyhow. His curly brown hair was plastered a bit to his head, as if he, too, had not cleaned up after work. That was when she noticed the stern looks and how the men and Jutta were engrossed in something.
Jutta sat next to Annamarie’s father, and on her other side was Jutta’s brother-in-law, Georg Roeschen, whom everyone in Graun—even Annamarie—still called Mayor Roeschen though he hadn’t been a mayor in over fifteen years. Annamarie’s father had explained that Georg had been replaced by the Italian podestà and that, by calling Georg Roeschen “Mayor,” the locals were able to defy the Italians just a little.
The last person at the table, and sitting across from Annamarie’s father, was Thomas Noggler, the blacksmith’s son. He wore a Dutch cap and knickerbockers, as if he were still a schoolboy instead of a newly married man, but Annamarie liked the look. It suited him. Thomas was known for being a bit of a Walscher sympathiser, and she wondered if the earnest discussions were the older men giving Thomas flack for something he’d done to help the Italians. Even Alois seemed engrossed in the discussion. Annamarie opened the door a crack so that she too could hear.
It was Mayor Roeschen who was speaking. “…Monte Fulmini Electrical has bought the state-operated reservoirs in Glurns and Kastelbell.”
Annamarie had never been to Glurns or Kastelbell, but the two towns were not more than a few hours’ ride to the south.
Jutta lifted her head, her widow’s peak sharpened by the faint pink colouring on her face. She had dark hair slicked back into a strict bun. “Too close for comfort,” she said.
“And our lakes?” It was Kaspar Ritsch.
“Nothing,” Mayor Roeschen said. “No information.”
Annamarie waited to hear about the people who were coming from the city, but their volume dropped, and she could no longer understand what they were saying.
Her gaze drifted to the portrait of the Widow Winkler hanging on the wall behind the regulars’ table. It was a memorial photo and, as usual, was skewed haphazardly on its nail. The widow had been legendary when she was alive, but now in her death, she was said to haunt the inn. Only Father Wilhelm didn’t believe it, though once he’d offered to do an exorcism, but Jutta had said it could be useful to leave the old widow be. From what Annamarie knew, the widow had, at every funeral, insisted that when she died, she be buried at the cemetery on St. Anna’s hill, far away from her deceased husband. Klaus Foglio, Sebastiano’s father, then offered to switch plots with the Widow Winkler, but she always forgot and kept up the reminders. At every funeral. And when the old widow did die, Klaus Foglio reneged on his offer, and Widow Winkler was indeed buried—as she’d feared—with her husband in the cemetery at St. Katharina. It was rumoured that the widow had poisoned that