‘This is a pass that can never be taken, so what is the point of still trying to?’ asked the Austrian commander of his staff.
‘It makes the Italians worry about us,’ said his staff.
The Italian commander said to his deputy, ‘What is the use of any further offensive?’
‘It doesn’t do to let the Austrians think we’ve given up,’ said his deputy, ‘and I’ve heard that General Ponticori is considering the very original tactic of a night attack.’
‘I hope he’ll be here to lead it himself,’ said the Italian commander, ‘it will be very original indeed then.’
Despite the fact that the war was going so badly for Austria, the empire almost bankrupt, in their tremendous and prolonged mountain war with Italy the hardened Austrian troops yielded nothing. In this sector their headquarters were in the mountain village of Oberstein. Out of the line and into Oberstein marched the 3rd Company of the 54th Regiment for a brief rest. In command of the 3rd was Carl. Major Carl Korvacs. He had been campaigning in the mountains for the last three years after a year of fighting the Russians in Galicia. He was twenty-eight. He might, to the careless young, have been any age. His face, tanned to burnt mahogany, was drawn and bleak, etched by the bitter winds into hard lines. His blue eyes had long lost their warmth. They reflected the grey of wintry war as he marched his men through the snowy streets of the attractive little town.
He had not seen Vienna or his family for a long time. A respite for a week or ten days in Oberstein was as much as he and his men could hope for, and even then they would be subject to instant recall. The mountain ridges above the pass awaited their return. They were hungry for the warm bodies of men, those ridges, although a man did not stay warm for long. The living lay almost as stiff and cold as the dead after a while. The dead lay with ice and snow embalming them, preserving them, turning them so purely white that they no longer made an impact on the eye. But eventually they would be gone, most of them, unclamped from their icy tombs by the compassionate hands of men whose duty it was to somehow climb down to them. And those who could not be reached simply stayed where they had fallen, as whitely mantled as the mountains until warm summer uncovered them.
Carl still believed in Austria. But he no longer believed in the war. His only affections were for his men, for their courage and endurance, for their acceptance of the impossible and their attempts at the impossible. His was an established, experienced company, full of veterans who had survived every risk, every hazard, every engagement, and senior officers knew that Major Carl Korvacs and the 3rd could achieve that much more than other companies. But there was something about Major Korvacs which made them prefer to give him his orders by a runner or by a field telephone. To stand face to face with him could be a little uncomfortable. His eyes could convey a cold blankness even as he was saying, ‘Yes, Herr Colonel.’
He hated the pass. It represented the eternal stalemate and all mountain regiments disliked it intensely, although there were no areas of conflict they actually loved. A few months at the pass drained a man of what were left of his caring emotions and wrapped him about with a shell of indifference.
He saw his men quartered in the wartime barracks before making his way to a house called Rosa Bella. He was to be billeted there for his rest period. The name itself, Beautiful Rosa, was sickly. His orderly, Corporal Jaafe, was already there, having gone on ahead to make sure things were right for him. Carl was not as tolerant of imperfections as he had been. The years of irresponsible rapture had gone, and for ever.
The house was imposing, its overhanging Tyrolean roof declining steeply, its timbers weathered and mellow, its chimneys smoking and creating circles of warm dampness in snow that still managed to cling. Corporal Jaafe opened the door to him. The square hall shone. The walls were adorned with pictures which Carl guessed were family portraits. The Trentino region of the Tyrol was Italian-dominated but still part of the Austrian empire. Some of the Italians, calling themselves patriots or irredentists, occasionally threw bombs as a sign that they wished the Trentino region to join with Italy, but the Tyrol was Austrian and had been since 1363, when by amicable arrangement it came under the jurisdiction of Duke Rudolph IV of Austria.
Carl, observing the paintings, noted that the faces were all Italian. Although the Tyrolean Austrians and Italians co-existed they never managed to look like each other. The Italians were as dark as those in Rome.
He stripped off his gloves and entered the drawing room. There Corporal Jaafe helped him off with his greatcoat. There stood a young woman. She was as stiff as a poker, inasmuch as her rounded form would let her be. She wore a crisp white blouse and black skirt. Her dark hair was neatly braided, and her eyes, overwhelmed by soft black lashes, were slumbrous with the smouldering hostility of the Tyrolean Latin for the Austrian overlord. Carl had seen that look before. He was not impressed. He turned to Corporal Jaafe.
‘This is an Italian house,’ he said in German.
‘This is our house,’ said the young woman in Italian.
‘What is wrong with the house of good Tyroleans?’ asked Carl of Jaafe.
Jaafe knew he meant an Austrian family’s house.
‘Herr Major,’ he said, ‘as I understand it there’s no other house—’
The young woman interrupted, again in Italian. ‘We are good Tyroleans in this house.’
‘Who is this person?’ asked Carl.
‘She’s Fräulein Am—’
‘I am Signorina Amaraldi.’
Carl turned to her. Her dark fiery eyes clashed with his indifference. They were immediate antagonists, except that he cared very little and she cared passionately, patriotically. She was hotly Italian, which meant, as far as he was concerned, that it took little to make her spit and scratch.
‘Are you an Austrian subject?’ he asked.
‘That is what our papers say.’
‘Then speak German,’ said Carl, ‘or you will not be heard. You have a grievance, obviously. What is it?’
Pia Amaraldi, nineteen, an educated and intelligent young woman and an avowed irredentist, could speak the official language very well, but was not going to yield to a brusque command from a hard-faced Austrian major.
‘I have a protest, not a grievance,’ she said, still in Italian.
‘I did not catch that,’ said Carl. He handed his cap to Jaafe.
Pia’s crisp blouse stirred as her simmering fires grew hot.
‘You have heard everything else I said.’
Carl could not be bothered to argue with her. They all had some complaint or other, those who were pro-Italy, stupidly forgetful of the fact that they were better off under Austrian rule than they would ever be under that of the erratic Italians. Italians would never make good politicians, only opera stars. They should stick to opera and leave politics and bombs alone.
‘Very well,’ he said curtly, ‘what is your protest?’
‘That we have told the military authorities more than once that we have no room to house soldiers. Now they have ignored us and ordered us to find room for you. There is no room.’
‘Have you been spared billeted men up till now?’
‘Yes.’ Proud, defiant, she was not afraid to let him know which side she was on.
‘Then you’ve been fortunate, fräulein. Show me the house.’
‘That is not necessary.’ It was another protest. ‘You may take my word for it.’
‘I can’t,’ said Carl, ‘not without overriding the decision of the billeting officer. I’ll see for myself. You may lead the way.’
She turned with an angry swish. She began with the ground floor, with the dining room, study, kitchen, outhouse and a sitting room. In the latter with its view of the mountains were two people, a handsome middle-aged woman and a twelve-year-old girl. Pia did not introduce them. Carl asked who they were.
‘My mother and sister.’
Carl nodded briefly to them.
‘I am Major Korvacs,’ he said, ‘I shall be staying h
ere for a while.’
Pia’s mother inclined her head. The girl smiled hesitantly, shyly. Pia frowned at her.
On the first floor were five bedrooms. He looked into all of them. Three bore the mark of occupancy.
‘As well as your mother and sister, who else lives here?’ he asked.
‘I do,’ said Pia.
‘Who else?’
‘There are relatives,’ she said.
‘No doubt.’ The Italians were well known for the numeracy of their relatives. ‘Living here?’
‘They come to visit, to stay. Where are we to put them if you leave us no room?’
‘I shall leave them one room. I shan’t be here more than a week or so. I’m not on a long holiday. If I were I should be in Vienna, not here. What is this fuss you’re making? Three of you and five bedrooms. And what is upstairs?’ He pointed to the short flight leading to the second floor.
‘There is only an attic up there,’ said Pia, smouldering and fuming.
‘Let me see it.’
‘What is the point?’ she said angrily. ‘You have made your decision.’
He regarded her coldly. Angrier, she led the way up the stairs to a small dark landing. ‘There,’ she said, ‘see for yourself if this is fit for anyone to sleep in!’ She flung the attic door open. He looked in. It was full of junk, with an old bare truckle bed turned on its side against a wall. A small gable window let in grey light.
Carl, thinking of cold mountain bivouacs, said, ‘There are worse places.’
She stalked away, she swished down the stairs. He followed. On the ground floor she turned to him.
‘I am allowed to protest?’ she said. ‘Well, I have protested. You have decided. Supper is at seven.’
‘You may dine without me. I shall be in bed.’
He was stiff and weary. The cold took time to thaw out from the bones. Corporal Jaafe prepared one of the spare bedrooms and half an hour later Carl was beneath the sheets and asleep. He slept solidly through the night.
The morning was crisp and clear. He saw the soaring white heights through the window, icy peaks ranging the wintry blue sky. Corporal Jaafe, arriving early from the barracks, brought him his hot shaving water.
He was spruce when he entered the dining room. A buxom woman in a white cap and front bobbed agitatedly to him. No one else was present.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Maria, signore— Herr Major.’ Flustered, she bobbed her way out. Pia came in, clad in a dress of dark blue trimmed with white. She looked richly brunette.
‘Good morning,’ she said, ‘that was Maria, our maid.’
‘She wasn’t here yesterday.’
‘She doesn’t live in now, she has her widowed mother to look after.’ Pia hesitated, then said, ‘Herr Major, I must apologize.’
He did not want apologies. He did not want to have to participate in trivial pleasantries. He wanted a few days doing nothing, thinking of nothing.
‘There’s no need,’ he said.
‘I was very rude to you,’ she said, ‘I am sorry.’
She was attractively penitent. He recognized it as a pose. Her hostility yesterday had been far more sincere.
‘You’ve breakfasted?’ he said.
‘My mother and sister have, I have not.’
‘Do you object to my sitting down with you?’
She saw that her apology had been wasted. She flushed. ‘No,’ she said touchily, ‘I’ve no objection.’
She sat at one end of the table, he the other. Maria brought them coffee, rolls and some cheese. The coffee was weakly redolent of ground acorns, the bread black. Carl made no attempt at conversation. He ate the sparse meal without fuss and drank the coffee without comment. Pia watched him from under lowered lashes. He was not like most Austrian officers she knew, with their gallantries she thought shallow. Major Korvacs looked as if he had stopped treating life as a ballroom and war as a game long ago.
He rose to his feet as soon as he had finished.
‘Thank you,’ he said politely.
‘If you wish the use of the drawing room?’
‘Thank you, no. My own room is adequate and comfortable. I wish only to reside in your house, not to occupy it.’
Pia flushed again, hating him.
‘I see,’ she said.
He left the house a few minutes later. She watched him from a window. He walked briskly, stick in his gloved hand, his greatcoat buttoned to the neck against the cold. He would be a problem, she thought. He was arrogant enough not to care that he was in a house where he was unwanted.
Carl made the rounds of his resting men. They were in a relaxed mood at the moment, glad to be free for a few days from the soul-destroying atmosphere of useless conflict. They knew he would look in on them, but said little. He had made them the hardiest and toughest of mountain units, and if he was a more demanding officer than others, he was also one of the most respected. He had been promoted company commander two years ago. No further promotion happened. He had grown out of the acceptable mould. It did not worry him. His disbelief in the war as a great crusade had not affected his belief in his men. He knew Austria could not last much longer. He would be happy to finish the war as commander of the 3rd. He would be happy to finish it alive. But after four years each new day shortened the odds. Three times he had been wounded. The fatal bullet must be lurking somewhere.
He dropped in at Headquarters and lodged a curt complaint with the billeting officer, Major Wessel. To the effect that company commanders in from the line should not be housed with Italian families. That he would welcome arrangements to quarter him elsewhere.
‘Impossible, Major Korvacs,’ said Major Wessel. He saw the cold glint in Carl’s eyes. ‘True, true, I know that’s a word you don’t recognize but unfortunately I have to. However, I’ll do what I can.’
‘Thank you. At a pinch,’ said Carl impassively, ‘I’ll share with you.’ It was common knowledge that Major Wessel was very comfortably lodged.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ repeated Major Wessel, equally impassive.
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Carl.
He took a long walk in the cold, crisp air, leaving Oberstein well behind. The mountain road, narrow, drew him upwards. The sky was an icy blue, the peaks brilliantly glacial. He went on until he had a clear view of the pass, away to the left, to the south. He stopped, turned and looked. He grimaced. That was what had drawn him. The unbreachable pass. He had left the ridges only yesterday, and gladly. But there it was, a sweeping white valley, the trenched lines black, like a series of dark winding gashes in the snow. He could not see the barbed wire but he knew it was there, extending far up the slopes. The sandbag emplacements looked ridiculously tiny. How deceptive was distance. He looked at the heights which, on either side of the pass, defied the most agile of mountain fighters. He wondered if it mattered now. It mattered to the respective corps commanders. One or the other would mount a new attack any moment. Whose turn was it?
The Italians’ turn, he thought.
He returned to the house just before lunch. He glimpsed Signora Amaraldi at the front window. The door was opened by Maria. She looked flushed and upset. Pia swept into the hall, the skirt of her dress offendedly rustling.
‘Major Korvacs, your servant—’
‘Do you mean my orderly, Corporal Jaafe?’
‘Yes, I do mean him,’ said Pia. ‘I do not mind him helping in the kitchen, but he is not here to run things or to take liberties. There will be no peace unless you make this clear to him.’
‘Corporal Jaafe has a few duties here to attend to,’ said Carl, ‘but he’s not known for being tactless. I’ve never had any trouble with him.’
‘But you are not Maria,’ she said with meaning. ‘Maria is a good Catholic.’
‘So is Corporal Jaafe,’ said Carl. Hardened by four years of savage war, he felt this kind of complaint was a trivial absurdity. His expression told Pia so, but she stood up to him.
‘He has insulte
d Maria.’
‘How?’
‘By forcing his attentions on her, by kissing her.’
‘Oh?’ His sardonic scepticism could not have been more pronounced. His reactions to the whims of women were no longer basically chivalrous. ‘That has upset her?’
‘Do you doubt it?’ flared Pia.
He did. The complaint was not that Jaafe had kissed the maid, but that he was Austrian.
‘She made it clear to him he had offended her?’
‘She made it very clear. To him and to me.’
‘Then I expect Corporal Jaafe feels as hurt about it as she does. To my knowledge she’s the first woman he’s kissed who didn’t like it. Maria can therefore consider she’s given as good as she got.’ He walked to the stairs.
‘Major Korvacs!’ Pia’s voice shook with anger.
‘Fräulein?’ he said politely, turning. The German form of address raised her temper higher. She knew it to be deliberate.
‘I’ve always understood,’ she said, ‘that whatever the circumstances no Austrian officer would give one less than ordinary courtesy.’
Carl considered the point.
‘I accept your rebuke, Fräulein Amaraldi. I’ll speak to Corporal Jaafe. If he’s there, please ask him to come up to my room.’
Corporal Jaafe, when he presented himself to Carl, wore the old soldier’s air of innocence, a time-honoured façade one tacitly accepted without being required to believe in it.
‘What’s the trouble?’ asked Carl.
‘Trouble, Herr Major?’
‘In the kitchen.’
‘Ah, the kitchen.’ Jaafe seemed relieved that there was no more to it than that. ‘Well, where else should I polish your buttons and clean your boots, Herr Major, where else should I press your—’
The Longest Winter Page 26
