The Longest Winter (40 page)

His abruptness dismayed her.

‘Goodnight, Major Korvacs,’ she said.

He turned at the stairs. He knew he’d been brusque. He had no right to inflict his greyness on others.

‘I’m sorry, I had things on my mind,’ he said. His coat collar was turned up, his tanned face hard from the cold night. ‘We’ll play chess again tomorrow, shall we?’

‘It must be when Mariella is in bed.’ Pia summoned up a smile. ‘She will be jealous otherwise.’

‘I’ve made a conquest?’

‘Yes,’ she said in a low voice.

‘That’s unfortunate, isn’t it? Someone must remind her I’m Austrian.’

Pia trembled.

‘Oh, how can you! That is so unkind.’

‘But necessary, Pia. Goodnight.’

He fell asleep without effort but when he was awoken he felt he had only just closed his eyes. The noise, a creaking floorboard, had been enough to bring him instantly alert. He lay for a moment, his nerves on edge.

The floorboard creaked again.

He sat up. Silently he slipped from the bed. He rustled into his shirt, trousers and jacket, for the bedroom was chilly. He went to the door. He opened it, slowly and noiselessly. The house was in pitch darkness. But he heard faint, indistinguishable sounds. From above. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, standing at the open door, thinking. Did it matter? Would it affect the course of the war, whatever he found, whoever he found? All the same he was curious.

He silently crossed the landing and took the short flight of stairs to the attic. He saw a dim light under the door of the attic. He walked to the door, and carefully though he trod a floorboard creaked. And another. He found the handle and opened the door. The attic, lit by two candles, was eerie with frail yellow light and flickering shadows. A man was there, a man who stood squarely to the open door and so looked directly into Carl’s face. Pia was there, too, rooted, staring.

‘You, I think,’ said Carl to the man, tall, broad
and bearded, ‘are Pietro Amaraldi. A patriot, I believe.’

‘I am the Amaraldi.’ The man’s voice was deep, strong, resonant. ‘And you are an intruder in my house.’

‘But you, if you had any sense, are the one who should not be here,’ said Carl.

Pia was anguished, trembling. Her father was nerveless, purposeful, a dark unmoving figure amid the wandering shadows.

‘The floorboards creak, Austrian,’ he said, ‘they tell me when someone is prowling about. Well, you have done your prowling and finished with it. You just have time to say your prayers.’ He raised both arms. The revolver clasped in his hands pointed at Carl.

‘No!’ cried Pia.

‘Dead dogs are the only commendable ones,’ said her father.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Carl.

Pia darted, frantically reaching for the aimed revolver. But it barked twice in rapid succession. The bullets tore into Carl’s chest. He staggered, shuddered and fell. Pia froze, the blood draining from her face and retreating from her agonized heart.

‘No,’ she whispered in pain, ‘no. Oh, Mother of God, no!’

‘What else could I do with an interfering dog?’ said her father and slipped the revolver back into his belt.

Pia ran to Carl, dropping to her knees beside him. He lay on his back outside the door, in the
dark shadows, the weak candlelight from the attic scarcely touching him. His blood oozed inside his shirt and jacket.

‘No,’ whispered Pia again, ‘no, no!’

Her father stooped, ran his hands over Carl and nodded with the dark sombre satisfaction of a patriot who had done what he had to do and done it well.

‘It had to be,’ he said, ‘they’re all the same, all nosing around in search of good Italians. Well, this one has had his day. Go down and get his socks, his boots and his other clothes. We’ll take him out of the house and leave him somewhere. He was out this evening, wasn’t he? Very well. He did not come back. You understand? He did not return here. Someone shot him in a street. It happens. Come on, girl, get up. You don’t want him left lying here, do you? Go on, bring his greatcoat and the other things.’

Pia, numbed by anguish and tragedy, stared up at her father, the great Amaraldi, a leader of Italian irredentists, a man determined to take the Trentino into the warm arms of Italy. He and Pia had both heard the floorboards creak and had known it would not be Mariella or her mother. And Pia realized her father had not thought twice about the necessity for murder. For Pietro Amaraldi there could be no compromise.

‘Why, Papa, why?’ she whispered brokenly. ‘He was not that kind of Austrian, he did not deserve this.’

‘Are you mad? There’s only one kind of Austrian. Leave him and get his things. He’s
joined the others who are better Austrians now they’re dead.’

But Pia was frozen. Someone came climbing the stairs. Signora Amaraldi appeared on the dark landing, a woollen dressing gown around her, her hair loose over her shoulders. She looked at the tableau of drama, at the still form of Carl, at the kneeling Pia and at the tall, heavy figure of her bearded husband.

‘They woke me, the shots,’ she said in a strangely calm voice, ‘but Mariella is still sound. You’re lucky, Pietro. If she had woken and come up to see what you had done, this house would have rocked to her screams. She loved this man. He was kind to her, spared time for her. In her innocence, what did she care that he was Austrian? You have murdered a good man, a fine soldier. If God will forgive you, I will not. Do you think only Italy deserves patriots, do you think yours the only cause that matters? What gives you the right to put any man to death?’

‘What are you talking about, woman?’ It was not in the nature of Pietro Amaraldi to accept or admit, even for a moment, that any member of his family was not as dedicated as he was or could think differently from him. For as long as he could remember he had campaigned for the Trentino to become part of Italy. He had risked his life far too often to have it put in careless jeopardy by an Austrian officer who was an uninvited guest. ‘Was I to let him take me, hand me over? You’d have been taken too, all of us, even Mariella.’

Signora Amaraldi, white-faced and rigid, looked down again at Carl. She crossed herself. Icily she met her husband’s dark, fanatical eyes.

‘You understand nothing of life, of people,’ she said. ‘Do you know what Major Korvacs would have done? I’ll tell you. He’d have told you not to put your family at risk by staying here, by having us hide you and feed you. He would also have told you that Italy could have the Trentino as far as he was concerned. He had lost his illusions, he knew what the cold hard facts of life and war were. For four years he had fought for his country. But he still cared for people. He cared for his men, for Mariella. Your politics meant nothing to him. He would only have told you to go. But to you patriotism and politics must be fed with blood. So you murdered him. Perhaps you and Pia feel happier now. I do not. I am weeping for him. And for you, for both of you.’

‘Mama, no,’ gasped Pia in anguish. ‘Oh, please, I am weeping too.’

‘It’s not to be wondered at when your mother makes crazy speeches like that,’ said her father. ‘Get up.’ He pulled her to her feet. ‘You must do as I ask, Pia. It’s necessary. For all of us. Get his things. Get them.’

‘What are you going to do with him?’ asked Signora Amaraldi.

‘Dress him up to his greatcoat and cap,’ said her husband. ‘Then we’ll take him away and leave him where it will look as if he’s been assassinated in a street. I’ll fire two shots. Then I’ll go. I can’t stay here now. The swines will come looking,
they’ll search this house from top to bottom, knowing he was quartered on us. They’ll have their stinking suspicions. You’ll have to clear the attic of all traces. Pia, do as I say. Do you want us all shot?’

Pia went down like a pale ghost. Her tears were locked frozen inside her lids. She collected up Carl’s things, the necessary things. Her limbs moved mechanically, her mind as drained as her heart. She took the items up to her father. He was quick and expedient, and unmoved by his act of murder. He was used to making decisions, to desperate extremes, to committing himself. Pia stood shuddering, wondering if she would ever be able to close her eyes again and if the pain would ever go. Her father stooped, pulled Carl up and hefted him over his broad shoulder. Carl hung limply. Pia led the way down to the hall. Her mother descended with them, opened the front door and looked out. Oberstein was asleep, shrouded in whiteness. She crossed herself again.

‘Go with God, Major Korvacs, and forgive us.’

‘You’ve turned into a crazy woman,’ whispered her husband fiercely. ‘Go on, Pia, lead the way. Go down the street and turn right, that’s the way to the Austrian Headquarters. He came from there, he must be found on the route. If you see anyone, come back to me, I’ll be following. There’ll be the usual night patrols out, so take care. Ah, you’re the one I can always rely on, Pia. On your way, girl.’

Pia went. Her father waited a little while, then
followed, carrying Carl. The door of the house closed. The night was cold, icy cold. The snow hung on the mountain slopes, on every ledge, and it hung on every roof in Oberstein. There were no lights, but the snow whitened the darkness. The surface of the streets was slippery. But Pia did not care if she fell and slid into eternity. The tears unfroze and ran down her face. They blinded her eyes but she went on. Her father, a patriot, must be protected. Nothing could bring Carl back.

Oh, why did you come to our house? Why didn’t you let me stay as I was? Why did you make me love you? I could not love you, but I did. Now we have murdered you.

They found a place. The nearest house was forty yards away. Her father set Carl down in the crisp snow close to a wall. He laid him on his back, his greatcoat unbuttoned, for the bullets had directly entered his jacket. His cap was dislodged and Carl, at peace, had his face turned up to the night sky. Pia, tears streaming, could not help herself. She knelt beside him and touched his cold face, his closed lids. Grief engulfed her. Oberstein, asleep, was his graveyard, Vienna lost to him.

‘I’m going to fire two shots,’ whispered her father, taking the revolver from his belt.

‘Not into him! No, never!’ hissed Pia.

‘Of course not, foolish Pia. That would make four bullets in him, not two. Then I’ll go. You get back to the house. You mustn’t be seen. I’ll look after myself. You’ll hear from me. You’ll
hear from Italy too when the Austrians go down. They’ve lost the war. It’s only a matter of time. What are you crying for?’

‘I’m crying for us, Papa, for us,’ she wept, then stiffened on her knees. Her fingers on Carl’s eyelid detected the faintest flutter. As her father looked round she put her hand over Carl’s mouth. And his mouth was warm with the faintest of breath. Oh, sweet Mother Mary, he was not dead, not yet! But she knew her father must not be told. ‘Go,’ she gasped, ‘go before a patrol comes, go!’

Her father fired his two shots into the air and slipped away. Pia, he knew, had sense enough to vanish. But Pia stayed there, slipping her frantic hand inside Carl’s jacket to feel his heart. Was it beating, was it? Oh, please, dear God, let it be.

It was. So faintly, so weakly, but it was.

But he was lying in the cold, killing snow.

With her father gone Pia flung herself over Carl, pressing to him, giving his cold body the warmth of hers and crying like a child.

They found her there, with him, close to him, the Austrian night patrol. They had heard the shots.

He came out of a long, disturbing dream, a dream of decimating war. The ceiling danced, slanted, keeled, then slowly righted itself, becoming blankly and whitely still. There was a figure nearby. White too except for the red cross on her cap. She smiled at him.

‘So,’ she said.

His chest was tight, his lungs pained him as he breathed. She took his wrist and counted his pulse rate.

‘Ah,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ said Carl. It was as much as he wanted to say.

‘Don’t talk,’ she said briskly.

He was not inclined to. Drowsy, he lay there looking at the ceiling and trying to get his brain to work. The room was small and smelt of disinfectant. He wondered what had happened. He drifted back into sleep. When he next awoke a man in a white coat was bending over him, lifting his lids, looking into his eyes. The nurse stood by.

‘So,’ said the medical officer.

‘So?’ said Carl and the nurse smiled.

‘Good,’ said the doctor, ‘very good.’ He spoke to the nurse, then left.

‘What’s good?’ asked Carl, his chest feeling heavy.

‘You are,’ said the nurse, ‘but don’t talk.’

He was better the next day. He remembered. Two officers from Headquarters came to see him, to ask questions. He shook his head negatively, still disinclined to talk, and the nurse said he shouldn’t, anyway. They left. Carl ruminated. The luck was still with him. Even as Amaraldi had fired there had been an instant of time to tell himself he was not going to survive, after all. Pia had tried to save him. That was worth remembering.

The heavy ache in his chest turned into a pain, but it was bearable. And in the afternoon the nurse said he could talk a little. Having said it, she left him to himself for a while. So he could only talk to the ceiling. The ceiling was blankly unresponsive.

The following day the doctor had a look at him while the dressing was being changed.

‘Well?’ said Carl.

‘Good,’ said the doctor clinically, ‘very good.’

‘Very good feels like indigestion to me,’ said Carl.

‘Don’t talk,’ said the medico, ‘breathe in. Good. Out. Good. Hurt?’

‘A little,’ said Carl.

‘Quite so,’ said the doctor and left. He was a busy man.

Five minutes later the nurse said there was a visitor for Carl. He had had visitors earlier. Captain Freidriks and two of the men.

‘What visitor?’ asked Carl. One of the officers from Headquarters was back, perhaps, wanting to get his story from him.

‘An anxious young lady,’ said the nurse. ‘She’s tried to see you before but you haven’t been up to visitors until now. You may receive her for a short while.’ She went out and after a second or so Pia came in. She wore a warm black coat and fur hat to protect her from the wintry cold, but she looked chilled and pale, her mouth working agitatedly and her eyes dark with pain. She closed the door and leaned against it, seeking its support for her trembling body.