No Man's Land: Reschen Valley 1 Read online

  No Man’s Land

  Reschen Valley Part 1

  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.

  Book Cover by Ursula Hechenberger (ursulahechenberger.com)

  Cover model: Kathrin Meier

  Photos owned and copyrighted by Ursula Hechenberger © 2017

  Arlund: A Reschen Valley Novel / Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger. – 1st ed.

  ISBN-13: 978-1983810183

  ISBN-10: 1983810185

  ASIN: B078WDPDSJ

  Buy or Borrow:

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B078WDPDSJ

  Partial Manuscript for Promotional Purposes only

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to the Reschen Valley series.

  I offer you my heartfelt thanks for choosing this book.

  As a special token of my appreciation, I will send you the first two chapters of Part 2, The Breach, for free.

  A promo code and link are located at the back of any purchased version of this title.

  I look forward to hearing from you!

  Yours,

  Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger

  To Fredy—

  You heard this story take its first breaths and always believed it would live.

  It must be admitted that the hacking of essentially Tyrolese valley from the rest of the Tyrol was incompatible with the principles of self-determination embodied in the original war aims of Allied statesmanship.

  —David Lloyd George, Prime Minister of England, 1916–1922

  Chapter 1

  Arlund, April 1920

  I

  t seemed a shame to kill on such a fine, spring day. As the wind rose from the valley, so came the scents released by the melting snow—of leaves and grass and wood, of new life rising, resurrected.

  Katharina steadied her aim on the hare and held her breath. Before the Italians confiscate our rifles again, her grandfather had said, go practice your shooting. Bring us some meat. The hare turned its head, haunches tensed, and Katharina squeezed the trigger. The animal fell but flailed on the ground.

  Hund sprang up, but Katharina checked the dog with a hiss.

  "Leave it be," she muttered. She leaned the rifle against a stump before picking up the canvas sack and drawing her father’s knife from her boot.

  As she approached, the hare jerked, trying to get on its legs, panic rolling with the whites of its eyes. Knife in hand, Katharina grabbed its scruff and drew the blade across the throat. Hund sniffed the ground where the work left its mark.

  The sun reached over Graun's Head, and Katharina rose, shading her eyes to look up the slope. To the right of the outcropping, where the summer hut still lay deep under snow, was the scar from a small avalanche. She slung the bagged hare over her shoulder, Hund panting next to her. Turning her back to the mountain, Katharina had a view of the valley below, revelling in April’s lustrous green, a contrast to the alpine path where the snow came over the tops of her boots.

  She was glad she'd traded her smock for Papa's britches. The villagers might look sideways when she wore them, but nobody ever said a word. She reckoned her father's good standing in the community had something to do with that. Or because he had died fighting for them.

  Only Opa and she were left of the Thaler family—a tragedy, possibly even a disgrace. The whispered predictions about what would happen to the once-prosperous dairy farm when Katharina’s grandfather should pass were audible enough. The thought of a future without Opa in it was devastating enough, but for what other purpose did her grandfather work her, teach her, as hard as he had any of his own sons if it weren’t to leave the farm in her capable hands?

  She looked down at Hund, the bitch pup she’d saved years ago. “It would never cross their minds, would it? A woman running a farm.”

  A soft wind rose, and she picked up the trail back to the main path, Hund next to her. The sunshine was already softening the snow for the worn soles of her boots.

  No. They expected her to marry so that at least a man would be involved when the inheritance was necessary. But whom did they expect her to take as a husband? She was supposed to have studied in Innsbruck, at least that was what her parents had wanted for her. Six years ago she had planned to finish her schooling, travel north to her mother’s family in the fall, and become a teacher. Now she was learning to become a farmer.

  The Great War, they were calling it; the war that had ended all wars. It had ended their country, in either case, killed many good men, and brought with it a plague of loneliness, an emptiness, a film of sadness that no spring could cleanse.

  There were other men in the valley now: Italian guards patrolling the newly attained border. While their job was to keep Tyrol cut in two, they collected bribes from the smugglers. It was the only way for friends and relatives from the north to slip their contraband across, like lovers' notes through prison bars.

  O

  n their way back to the main road, Hund, her nose to the ground, loped past and stopped some metres ahead. When Katharina reached her, the dog was scratching at something in the snow.

  Katharina crouched to get a better look. Blood. It was blood. She straightened and looked around. Two sets of boot prints. No animal tracks.

  Who else her heart pounded. Who else is out here?

  A gust of wind rose from the valley, like the sound of rushing water. Stuck amongst the branches of a sapling, a scrap of paper flapped against the current. She caught one just as it freed itself. When the strip was in her hand, Katharina recognised the symbols and lines of a relief map, similar to her father’s before he’d marched off to Galicia. This one, however, showed the ridges and curves of her mountains. More paper summersaulted northwards on the wind. She looked at the kicked-about snow, and the back of her neck crawled.

  Katharina returned to the tracks. One pair of footprints was much larger than the other. Up the trail, she found where the smaller person had fallen on all fours. More blood had pooled here. The tracks parted, the smaller footprints east, into the woods. The second pair led north. The border.

  No animal but man, Opa had once said, would hunt down another man and leave him to die.

  She called for Hund only to realise the dog was still at her side.

  After she hitched the rifle over her shoulder, she felt for the handle of her father's knife and looked back towards the valley. It would take too long to get Opa first. With a sharp whistle at Hund, she followed the trail into the woods, remembering the first time Opa had shown her how to track. She'd followed the signs of a fox and a hare, read the fox's final pounce, found a tuft of fur and, finally, the telling red of a successful kill.

  This trail came to an end outside Karl Spinner's hut, and the latch to the front door was broken. Katharina’s heart tripped up against her chest. She had hardly ever spoken to the hunter, but Opa had never said a bad word about him. When no one answered her knock, she opened the door.

  A few shafts of light came through the western window to reveal a dusty floor. There was a wooden table with a smeared oil lamp and four curved-back chairs under the window to
the right. Hanging on the wall and boiled of their skins was a row of deer antlers and mountain goat skulls. A simple bed was in the far corner, with a red-and-white-checked quilt bunched at the foot of it. And someone lay on the floor in the middle of the room, his back to her, as if he had fallen off the bed and never stood back up. Over the sour, gamey odour of old animal fat, Katharina smelled iron.

  "Mr. Spinner?" Her voice cracked. "Are you all right?"

  No answer. She lowered the canvas sack with the hare and took a step. Another. Katharina stopped just short of the body.

  The clothes were different. This man wasn't dressed like anyone from the valley. This was not Karl Spinner.

  She raised her rifle. "Sir? Are you well?" In her sights, the dark hair was matted with blood.

  She knelt beside the body and lay the weapon off to the side. Carefully she rolled the man over, propping his head with her arm. His eyes were closed. Her fingers searched his damp neck until she felt the pulse. Faint. On his side, bloodstains and two cuts in the coat. She pulled at a wide black belt, unbuttoned the coat, and then lifted his shirt. Just below his ribs, two gashes. She leaned in close and listened. The breathing was shallow but clean. Clean was good. His left shirtsleeve was also soaked in blood and, when she examined the cuts, found a deep slash on the arm.

  Looking around for something to stop the bleeding, she found only a canteen and a pair of field glasses. Near the edge of the bed, something gleamed, and she reached over the man to pick it up. A cross attached to a blue-and-white-striped ribbon—an Italian war medal—weighed heavily in her hand. She dropped it on the table, turned to the man on the floor again, and pulled out her father's knife.

  “There’s nothing for it, whoever you are.”

  She leaned over him, knife poised, and sliced the cloth of his shirt until the upper body was free. The blood from his head and his arm had congealed, but the two slashes near his ribs still pumped thick and red. To bandage the man's head and the arm, she could use his shirt, but she needed something denser for the punctures in his side. The canvas sacks in the corner looked dirty. The sheet on the bed mattress had certainly not seen the washing basin in months either. Her smock, she thought, would have been more practical now. She considered her woollen wrap. No. Jutta had made it for Katharina’s mother, when nothing else seemed to keep the chill away.

  Katharina listened to the stranger’s breathing for a moment. He was not apt to wake up, so she slipped off her waistcoat, then her flaxen blouse—heavier, thicker than his—put her waistcoat back on, and pressed the cloth against the wounds.

  Hund sniffed around the stranger's face.

  "Lie down," she ordered.

  The dog obeyed.

  She examined the man’s face. He had a straight nose and a dimpled chin. He was a little older than her. Maybe thirty. And his skin was darker than hers, darker than all of those in the valley. His clothes…definitely not local. So. This was the enemy.

  Before she'd gone off to hunt this morning, Opa had called after her. "They can take your land, they can take your weapons, but they can't take the fight out of you." This man's wounds were no accident. Maybe he'd even provoked his attacker.

  Though the bleeding slowed with the pressure she was applying, he was likely to die if she did not get help. And if he died, and if he was really Italian, the carabinieri might blame her for his death. Or Karl Spinner.

  She grabbed a dirty canvas bag, pressed it against the blouse, and took the two ends of the man's belt and fastened it tightly around the bunched fabric. With the Italian covered and secured, she hurried to fetch her grandfather.

  B

  efore Katharina could finish explaining what she had found, Opa headed to the front door and released the rope that led to the bell house on their roof. That bell called her family to midday meals and, if signalled correctly, it alerted the valley and the Alpine Rescue Team of any accidents.

  "The man's Italian," Katharina called.

  Her grandfather halted, both hands still on the rope. "You're sure?"

  "He looks it. I mean his clothing. His face."

  "Is he police?" he let go of the rope. Above, the bell made a single, muted ring.

  She thought of the war medal and went to Opa. "He's not wearing a uniform, but he's not one of our Italian settlers either."

  Opa scratched his beard, then looked hard at her. "Where's your blouse?"

  "I had to use it to stop the bleeding," she said.

  "Hang up the hare. Bring two blankets."

  Her grandfather secured the bell’s rope to the hook again and moved towards the woodhouse, and Katharina did as she'd been told. In her room, she put on an old pullover before returning to where Opa now stood in the yard. On the ground before him were two wooden poles. Propped against his right calf was the cone-shaped basket he used to transport the things he needed up the mountains. He was winding a rope around his elbow and between his thumb and forefinger and Katharina remembered how her uncle Johi would do the same thing when the bells tolled. Was Opa also thinking about the day Johi died up on the mountain?

  Their eyes met, and she read mistrust in his.

  “I want to know what this is all about,” he said. “Before we call the authorities.” He looked her up and down.

  The temperature was dropping as the last of the afternoon sun hung between the peaks.

  "Tie up the dog," Opa said. He jammed the rope and flask of schnapps into the basket, then strapped it onto his back before leading the way.

  They quickly reached the path that led to Karl Spinner's hut. Below them, the church bells volleyed off the massifs, calling the villagers to evening mass just like they called them for all matters of importance. The bells for fires. The bells for avalanches. The bells for death. The bells called them together and tolled for the missing and dead. Then came the Great War. Twice. First, the call to the eastern front, and again when their Italian neighbours—their friends—became enemies upon the signatures of strangers. As the valley had emptied, Katharina had thought it odd how those very men, who had been helping hands on their farms, would cross the Italian border to the south, turn around, and take up positions against the Tyroleans.

  The bells had continued to toll, a new tone added to announce the arrival of the lists, an inventory of the missing and the dead. Papa's last letter had said his unit was leaving the eastern front to defend Tyrol against Italy. He was coming home, Papa had written. Like so many of the families who'd received similar letters, she and Mama had walked from Arlund to Graun every time the bells had made their disconsolate call. It was the quiet way in which the villagers had opened a space at the wall for them that day that Katharina knew he would never come home. Papa had been reduced to four points in perfect German calligraphy: Josef Thaler. Of - Arlund. Died - Galicia. 1916.

  "Three boys in two years," someone had whispered behind them.

  "What a shame. They were good boys," someone else had said.

  "Opa's boys," they called them, as if the deaths belonged only to Opa and not at all to Josef's wife, the outsider. Not to Josef's daughter, the half-city, half-mountain girl.

  Mama had turned to those gathered at the wall, taller than any of them, and fair coloured like none of them, and said, "We have lost them all." Then, to Katharina, she said, "Child, you must find your way home now," as if her mother had known that she, too, would leave them all soon after.

  The dying had not stopped with the end of the war. All Katharina wanted was for the fighting and the dying to stop.

  W

  hen they arrived at the hut, Opa checked the stranger's pulse, then pulled out the schnapps flask, tipped it to the man's lips, and glanced at her. "Gets the blood flowing, but he’s not got much left."

  Katharina lit the oil lamp, and Opa pointed the flask at her.

  "Have some."

  She could smell the hint of raspberries, but there was none to have in the taste of it. She swallowed the sharp alcohol down before h
er grandfather took the flask and tipped his head back, his beard yellow in the lamplight. After wiping his mouth, he gave the wounded man another dose.

  "He's Italian, all right.” Opa sounded regretful. “Pick up his things. Put them in the basket."

  Katharina picked up the canteen, the field glasses, and the belt with the attached gadgets. Then she remembered the war medal and took it from the edge of the table and put it into her pocket.

  She stopped at the sight of the bloodstains on Karl Spinner's floor. "I should clean this up," she said.

  "Tomorrow."

  Opa's ominous behaviour troubled her. She lifted the makeshift gurney at the front with Opa having to manage the weight in the back. After they secured the door as best they could, they picked their way over the freezing path, the light having given way to a dark-blue dusk. It would work to their advantage in going around Arlund, in getting home unnoticed.

  As they struggled, she thought of the relief map. The bigger footprints. The blood. Why was the Italian here, on their mountain?

  "I wonder what happened," Katharina said loudly.

  Her grandfather said nothing. She twisted to look at him, though she sensed his displeasure.

  "I wonder what happened to him," she repeated.

  "He’ll have to make it through the night, girl, before you can find out.”

  Chapter 2

  S

  tepping out into the grey dawn, Katharina could hear the sounds of her hamlet beginning its day. Behind the Thalerhof was the Ritschhof, the multigenerational house filled with life, now that Toni Ritsch was finally married. She could hear someone pouring slop into the pig's trough and someone else sawing away. Farther up the road was Hans Glockner's sheep farm, and she saw Hans heading up the meadow to his corral, probably to fix the posts.