Franz’s hair was straight and blond, shaved around the sides but long on top. The fringe draped over his forehead like a tied-back curtain over which he absentmindedly brushed a flat palm. In fact, most of the boys were wearing their hair like this. Like Mussolini, Hitler dictated the local fashion.
“Come on. Let me buy you a beer,” Franz said, nodding at the barkeep for a fourth mug.
She looked at his eyes. They were not green, and because they were not, she accepted his offer. Also, when he asked her to dance, she accepted, though wholly unfamiliar with the music and what was expected of her. But his hand was strong in hers, and she gave in to his lead, spinning, twisting, laughing when he did.
“I’ve never heard this music before,” she cried before he pulled her in for another spin.
“Really? Where are you from?”
She pretended not to hear.
Afterwards, he returned her to the bowl of soup at the bar, delivered two beer mugs to the table, leaving two on the bar, and when he returned, they clinked glasses, she on the velvet red stool, he standing next to her. The beer was a change. Back home, everyone usually drank wine. Then Franz ordered a cognac for both of them. Feeling lightheaded, almost sick, Annamarie sipped the liquor, though Franz made fun of her, prodded her to do so faster. She had not eaten well in days, and the soup, despite the hearty dumpling, had not filled her enough for the amount of alcohol she was consuming.
She eyed the stale buns behind the counter, the wedge of cheese, and her stomach churned, but this time with homesickness. She looked away, accepted a cigarette from Franz, and leaned in to let him light it.
“So,” he said, waving the match. “Where are you from? I mean, you’ve sort of an accent.”
“Near the border,” she said woozily.
He frowned. “Which?”
“Italian.”
His face lit up. “That explains it! But not South Tyrol, right?”
She realised her mistake. She could have said she was from Germany, could have taken on her father’s dialect. “No. Nauders.”
“That’s good. Too many of those Italian lovers are slipping through the borders, looking for work, like they still belong to us or something. But”—he shrugged—“I suppose that’s solved. Border’s closed.”
Annamarie looked away and quickly took another sip of her cognac.
The music changed, a male singer in German, crooning. There was an uproar at the same time as Franz snapped his fingers over the bar. When the barkeep looked up from the tap, Franz said, “Turn that Jew off.”
The barkeep hurried to the radio, cheeks splotched red. He turned the knobs. Static crackled, then classical music. Groans from the table. The barkeep twisted the dial once more. A woman’s voice—deep and sultry—broke in, and all the boys whistled. Franz clapped, cigarette dangling from his mouth, smoke rising into his eyes.
“That’s it,” Franz said. “Dietrich.”
Chairs scraped against the wood floor, and Annamarie glanced over her shoulder. One of the boys stood up, arm raised in the salute that she’d seen everywhere.
“Heil Dietrich,” he cried. And all the others stood too, Franz pushing himself from the bar, laughing, his cigarette between the fingers of his raised hand as everyone cried, “Sieg! Heil!”
As the group pulled their chairs back in to sit down, Franz turned to her and brushed a forefinger on her nose. “It’s turning red,” he laughed. “So what are you doing in Innsbruck now?”
“I’m here to work,” Annamarie said quietly.
“Oh.” He seemed to think about that.
“In the theatre,” she hurried. “I’m an actress. I mean, I’m here to audition.”
“No kidding?” His eyes widened, and he smiled as he took a deep draw on his cigarette. His whole body turned as if he were about to address the room, but then he seemed to reconsider. “So where are you staying?”
“For now? Near the train station. I mean, I have relatives here, but I hadn’t managed to reach them before I came. Now I’m afraid I’ve lost their address.”
“Big family?”
“An aunt. A cousin.”
“Innsbruck may seem big, but…” Another light touch, this time on her hip. “We’re all family here.”
Annamarie shivered. Her feet were cold and wet.
He pulled back and stubbed the cigarette out. “What are their names? Maybe I know them.”
She picked a piece of lint off the lap of her dress. “It’s all right. I’ll call home tomorrow and get the address again.”
“A boarding house has got to be expensive for someone not earning,” he said, exhaling. “I might have a place for you. My sister’s got an extra room.” A flutter of fingers on her waist, his hip brushing up against her right knee. “And a telephone she’ll certainly let you use.”
Someone laughed loudly. Others joined in, slapping the tables. The Brown Uniforms found something funny, and she heard reference to storming a police barricade, about tanks on the streets. They were recalling the Anschluß.
Since Annamarie had been at the bar, a red-haired woman had joined the group in the middle of the table. She was laughing too, leaning and rocking into one young soldier, then another.
The biggest in the group, a tall, meaty dark-haired one, turned in his chair, his eyes searching as he called, “Fräulein! Bier!”
His look landed on Annamarie. His smile faded a little as his eyes darted to Franz. The barmaid came between them, and Annamarie looked away and put out her cigarette.
“May I have some water?” Annamarie asked Franz.
He turned to ask the barkeep for it, and Annamarie glanced back at the party, at the redhead. She couldn’t be more than in her midtwenties either. Her hair was set in the fashion of the women Annamarie had seen on the streets—shoulder length, obviously disciplined by big rollers, swept in waves
