Bolzano, page 1
part #3 of Reschen Valley Series
Copyright © 2018 by Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission.
Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger / Inktreks
Dornbirn, Austria
www.inktreks.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover photos by iStock.com/Olezzo and Ursula Hechenberger-Schwärzler
Cover model: Angelina Stella Berger
Bolzano, a Reschen Valley Novel (3)/ Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger. –1st ed.
ISBN-13: 978-1725061927
ISBN-10: 1725061929
ASIN: B07DMJHWK3
Thank you for choosing to read this book. The Reschen Valley series has been a project very near and dear to me over the last ten years. When I first drove over the Reschen Pass between Austria and Italy, The first thing you see is Reschen Lake, which stretches four miles into the alpine horizon. And then, suddenly, there it is: a 15th-century church tower, sticking straight out of the water along the Graun lakeshore. It is a disturbing sight; one that makes a person really pause and that is probably why there is now a huge parking lot, which allows tourists to pause and examine the indestructible bell tower of St. Katharina of Graun. After many trips to the Oberer Vinschgau Valley (here, called the Reschen Valley), pieces of the puzzle and the fictional account fell together.
This story, part 3, is written as a stand-alone. There are five parts to the series. Follow me on inktreks.com, on Twitter, on Facebook, or on LinkedIn for updates and “behind-the-scenes” details about the little-known history of 20th-century South Tyrol.
TO MY MOTHER, LESYA PUNDYK LUCYK—
For encouraging me to do what I must in finding my own way and never letting me forget where I came from.
Blood has been harder to dam back than water.
Just when we think we have it impounded safe
Behind new barrier walls (and let it chafe!),
It breaks away in some new kind of slaughter.
—Robert Lee Frost, “The Flood”
Is it possible to succeed without any act of betrayal?
—Jean Renoir (1894–1979)
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Prologue
Bolzano, February 1937
W alther’s head was still missing, and anyone who was not already familiar with the sight would most likely find it disconcerting.
Angelo stopped on the edge of the piazza to further assess the beheaded statue of the medieval German poet. Dirty mounds of snow were heaped up around the six-metre-tall pedestal. Tinged greyish-green from exposure, the statue’s marble cape was chipped and cracked at the neck from angry blows. The way the sculpted hands were folded over the robe—the left one clasping the neck of a lute—and how the right foot was set slightly forward, lent the statue an air of indignation. Walther von der Vogelweide was forever demanding someone return his missing boccaletto, his noggin. It had been quite some time since the Fascist mob had lobbed it off. That the city’s politicians were still arguing over where to relocate the ruins spoke volumes about the condition the city was in.
As Angelo continued walking to the Bolzano train station, he imagined what Stefano Accosi would see and react to first. Turning the corner, the pale-yellow walls of the Laurin Hotel rose ahead and, with them, Angelo’s anxiety about meeting his former chief engineer. Twelve years had gone by with little more than Angelo’s letter of apology and the plea for Stefano to return—and a curt but polite reply from Stefano that he would.
As Angelo passed the art nouveau hotel, he noted the mildew streaks on the foundation, how sun bleached the ruffle of the yellow-and-white-striped awning was. Neglect. Stefano would see neglect. But Angelo could not imagine things were much different in any other Italian city these days, except that Bolzano was still filled with Tyroleans. Tyroleans who believed the province was still rightfully theirs.
They were wrong.
The train from Verona was to arrive at Platform 1. Angelo considered again the various ways Stefano might greet him. If Stefano behaved indifferently, closed off even, Angelo would have reason to worry about being able to accomplish what he had in mind. It had taken all this time for Angelo to appreciate the former chief engineer, not only as a loyal ally within the ministry but as quite possibly one of the few friends he’d ever had. Allowing Stefano to be his scapegoat so that Angelo could keep his position had probably been one of the worst of many bad decisions in his career. He needed Stefano now more than ever, needed the intelligent, insightful, and considerate man. Most of all, he needed a forgiving man.
He checked the clock. The train was ten minutes late. Across the track and beyond the fence was a landscape of factories. It contained the plane engines manufacturer, a flour mill, a cotton mill, the quarry’s factory, the aluminium factory—at least twenty-five buildings had cropped up in the last few years, all fashioned to Mussolini’s architectural standards: slick, symmetrical, Roman. The stink of dust, grease, tar, and soot had become commonplace. Where once the valley had drawn migrant workers to its vibrant vineyards and apple orchards, now the attraction was the billowing chimneys. Sulphur-yellow veils drifted up and over the massif the locals called the Rose Garden.
In the middle of the squat factories rose a six-story pillar of modernism. Monte Fulmini Electrical—MFE. The Colonel’s new company. Windows on every floor kept watch over the grinding and hissing huddle below.
Everything the Colonel was to this city—power—was contained in that building. The signage was new. The colours of the letters MFE alternated black, red, black, with a silver bolt of lightning through them. Angelo imagined the Colonel inside, almost seventy, balding and slightly angled over the paunch of his belly. Other than the physical signs of ageing, Colonel Grimani would not be slowing down anytime soon. He’d be surrounded by his investors and supporters, planning his next move—the biggest dam he could build. A dam that would provide electricity to exactly the kinds of industries that surrounded his new building. And the Colonel would be planning the manoeuvres that would divert around Angelo’s ministry in order to build it.
There was a click followed by static on the loudspeaker, and the train rounded the bend. Even from a distance, Angelo could tell it was packed with people. Elbows, arms, and hands jutted out the windows, and as it drew closer, the end of a yellow scarf fluttered on the breeze. The train hissed to a stop, and passengers spilled out onto the platform. A chorus of Italian dialects rose as people sought one another out. He imagined entire families—peasants from as far as Sicily—had become disengaged as they’d boarded their northbound connections. These were the Italians who had been hardest hit during the depression and were now flocking to the former Tyrolean province, where more opportunities lay in wait.
Stefano Accosi would tower over these people. When Angelo did not spot him right away, he watched a group converging nearby. They were all men who would probably send for their wives and children once they secured positions and received their first paycheques. They wore chequered jackets in a variety of earth-tone colours, and beneath the coppolas on their heads, their faces were masks of mistrust and strain. No doubt they envisioned hordes of Tyroleans just around the corner, waiting to attack them with axes and picks as depicted in anti-German propaganda. Yet as the train pulled away and unveiled the industrial zone before them, there was something like a cheer that rose from the new arrivals. This was what they’d come for, as if silk and perfume were being spun out of those smokestacks instead of cheap labour, sweat, and—Angelo’s eyes landed on the MFE logo—exploitation.
He’d been a part of that once. No more.
“Minister Grimani,” a man’s voice called.
Angelo was already smiling before he spotted Stefano. The first thing he noticed was Stefano’s wire-rimmed spectacles—new—then the friendly, open face. All the earlier doubts and anxieties about their reunion washed away.
When Stefano reached him, Angelo clasped the man’s shoulders. “It’s so good to see you again. Thank you for coming. Thank you.”
Stefano grinned and embraced Angelo. “It’s good to be back in my hometown.”
When they pulled apart, Angelo glanced at the emptying platform. “Where’s your family? Where’s your wife?”
“Elena wanted to stay on in Verona with the children.” He looked sheepish. “Just until it’s safe.”
“Safe? Safe from what?”
“You understand. In case I’m forced to relocate again.”
“I’m so sorry—”
“Stop. You apologised enough in your letter.”
He pressed the bridge of the spectacles up with a
“Besides, the party did as you had promised. They made our transfer as easy as could be expected, but Elena, you know, is very cautious. She wants to make certain that I really have a place here.”
Angelo patted the man’s shoulder. “You tell her to start packing then.”
He shepherded Stefano towards the exit, but Stefano stopped and turned, staring across the track at the factories. His smile vanished, and he whistled quietly.
“The Bolzano Industrial Zone,” Angelo explained. “The locals call it the BIZ. That’s where all the money is flowing. And, Stefano? People like you and I will be checked any time we threaten to ebb that flow.” He pointed to the MFE tower. “That’s the reason I need you back here.”
Stefano glanced sideways at him. “Colonel Grimani’s?”
They both had to be thinking it, picturing it. The Gleno Dam. The breach. Over three hundred people dead. The committee had put on quite a show during the hearings, hammering the Colonel with questions and accusations, but men with money and power rarely made it to the scaffold. And if you were the son of such a man…
“My father’s. Yes.” Angelo turned his back on it, Stefano following him. “It’s a new name, a new facade, but everything within it is still the same.”
***
T o get back to the ministry, Angelo hailed a taxi and directed the driver to city hall. Stefano sat hunched in order to look out his window, making sucking sounds in response to what he saw. Like Angelo, Stefano looked older. There were slight creases around his eyes and lips. His dark hair had the first few wisps of silver. Otherwise, he looked fit, trim. Happy even. It had to be the return to Bolzano more than anything. Twelve years was a long time for anyone to be away from home.
As they passed the Laurin Hotel again, Angelo’s thoughts returned to the Gleno Dam tragedy. He had been in that hotel, lying in bed with Gina Conti, the morning the dam broke. A porter had heard about it on the radio and come to fetch Angelo, so obvious had his whereabouts been. Angelo had left Gina behind with hardly a thought and never resumed the affair again. The opportunity had never truly presented itself.
“When did that happen?” Stefano asked into his window.
Angelo bent to look, and the images of Gina Conti evaporated. They were passing the forlorn statue of von der Vogelweide in the square. “The day they renamed the piazza after the king. Quite some time ago.”
“Well then.” Stefano leaned back into his seat and gazed at Angelo, his light-grey eyes magnified a little by the glasses. “That ought to show the Tyroleans how things are done.”
Stefano was being glib, and Angelo ignored him. There was a line you could not cross with the people who had grown up here. Such as his own wife. Chiara was Italian on both sides but had grown up in Bolzano when it was still part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Her love for all that was Tyrolean was a thorn in their marriage to this day.
“Seventeen years since we annexed the province,” Stefano suddenly said. “You’d think Italy would feel pretty secure by now.”
“What do you mean?”
Stefano shrugged, looked piqued. “I just heard that anyone who calls it Tyrol or South Tyrol is fined, that’s all.”
“It’s the Alto Adige. Always has been. To us Italians, I mean.” He shrugged. “So that’s what it needs to be called. Alto Adige.”
Stefano grinned apologetically. “I don’t mean to politicise. It’s that half-German in me.” He turned his head to look out the window again, and muttered, “Thank God it’s my mother’s side. Imagine what would have become of me if I carried a German name.”
Angelo shrank away and looked out his window. In truth, he needed Stefano for the very reason that he was half-Tyrolean and spoke German, but he couldn’t say that now. He needed to bring this around. Fast.
“Chiara is very much looking forward to seeing you,” he said. “She could use a lively discussion and an ally, reminisce about the old days and such.”
Mercifully, the taxi stopped. Angelo paid the driver before helping Stefano with his bags. They followed the pedestrian zone the remaining metres to the ministry.
“How is your family?” Stefano asked
“Marco is growing up too fast for his own good. He’s training to be an engineer as well. It’s his second-to-last year. He’ll be doing an apprenticeship during his school breaks. I’m thinking of taking him on at the Easter break.”
“There’s certainly a need for engineers these days. And Mrs Grimani?”
Such a difficult question to answer. “She’s still grieving over her mother’s death.”
Stefano looked sympathetic. “I was sorry to hear about that.”
“You’ll see her tonight. You’re staying with us until you find a new apartment.”
“Thank you for your offer.”
They reached the neo-Baroque building of city hall.
“So where do you want me to begin?” Angelo asked as he held the door open for Stefano.
“Why not with why you’ve called me back here?”
Angelo did not hesitate. As they crossed the arcade and headed up the staircase, he listed who was backing MFE and said that the Colonel’s electrical company was, once again, growing into the most powerful one in northern Italy.
“My father was in Rome the day after the banks crashed in thirty-one,” Angelo explained. “He got access to the committee that established the Industrial Reconstruction Institute, then convinced Mussolini that privatising—not nationalising—would help the recession, create a middle class, and build up companies, which meant more employment opportunities.”
At the second floor, Stefano moved down the hall to where their offices had once been.
“I’ve moved to the top floor,” Angelo called. “A larger space.”
They climbed the next flight of stairs as he continued. “Mussolini not only agreed to that, he also proposed that, at the BIZ, any company relocating or establishing a new branch in the north here can do so tax free for the first ten years. And the state is subsidising the electricity.”
Stefano stopped at the top of the landing. “Thus, MFE finds its legs. They’ll need a lot of power by the look of the BIZ.”
“You could say the Colonel is out of the trenches and back on top of the ridge.” Far away from the firing squad at any rate.
They reached the door to the front room, and Angelo opened it. Miss Medici was busy typing away. He greeted his secretary and introduced her to Stefano before leading him into his office.
Stefano scanned the room, letting out the same low whistle he’d done at the sight of the BIZ. “Well, well. You seem to have quite the vantage point yourself, Minister Grimani.”
Angelo saw his workspace through the chief engineer’s eyes. The mahogany bookshelf took up the entire north wall, up to the ceiling. Angelo had placed an expansive blue-and-red Ottoman carpet beneath the entire desk and sitting area. Behind the desk that had once been his father-in-law’s when he’d been the minister, the windows reached from floor to ceiling and opened onto two narrow balconies. They allowed a view of the Habsburg-influenced rooftops all the way to the cathedral opposite the square. The office was large enough for Angelo’s project models to be placed around him as if in a museum exhibition. On the walls not taken up by the bookshelf were the maps and aerials of lands under development. Different colours marked the roads, bridges, and dams being planned throughout the regions. Despite the outrageous debt the country had accrued since Mussolini had taken control, in Angelo’s office, the region was showing growth and strength. It was all for show with no end in sight: Mussolini was so deeply entrenched, nobody could get him out.
Stefano had drifted over to the enlarged black-and-white photo placed in the middle of Angelo’s enormous bookshelf.
“That’s one of yours,” Angelo said.
“I remember.” Stefano’s tone was flat.
So did Angelo. The Gleno. The breach in the walls. The muddy water snaking over the destroyed villages. The pylons cut down by the force of the water. The Colonel, more irritated than devastated, had dared to complain about Stefano documenting it all. All Angelo had wanted was to push his father off the road and into that water.
