Free Restitution by Eliza Graham Page A

Lieutenant’s Girl, a new play about a young woman engaged to an Austrian officer but in love, against her better judgement, with a Croatian nobleman. Sonja reminded
her of herself, a little naïve, perhaps, but capable of great emotion, which jostled uneasily with her dutiful desire to please her family and friends by marrying the worthy young
adjutant.
    ‘You’ll be wonderful as Sonja. Brilliant.’ He remembered something. ‘Shame your father won’t see it.’
    She felt her face drop. ‘He just couldn’t afford the train fare.’
    ‘It’s a scandal, a man like your father left high and dry like that.’
    There were problems with Papi’s pension. The town was in a kind of limbo, still not yet properly Italian but no longer really Austrian. It took even longer than normal for complications to
be ironed out. Papi was relying on savings, only they weren’t worth what they should have been, because of the war. And he’d started a new venture.
    ‘Did I tell you about the little brown cows?’ Perhaps this would will him into a better humour.
    ‘The what?’
    ‘Swiss cows. Farmers in the Po Valley love them but they can’t breed them down there. So instead of buying them from Switzerland they’re importing them from the South Tyrol.
Papi’s put some money into a small farm with a man who used to teach at his school.’
    Anton put down his soup spoon. ‘Your father’s raising cows? A professional man reduced to that?’
    ‘I find it rather sweet.’ He’d sent her a photograph of himself with a couple of newborn calves. She kept it on her dressing table and it always made her smile when she looked
at it. Her father was one of the few Austrians of his generation who’d adapted to postwar life with some degree of grace. But she couldn’t say this to Anton.
    ‘My father’s fruit rotted in the orchards last year.’ Anton’s gaze switched to the bowl of fruit on the pastry counter. ‘We couldn’t sell it in Austria and we
can’t compete with the Italians. Look at those cherries. Before the war they’d have come from our valley.’
    He was going to start on the subject of the Treaty of St Germain and its appalling treatment of the South Tyrol. Marie looked round the restaurant for a distraction and couldn’t find
anything suitable. She racked her brains for a change of subject. ‘What are your plans for the summer, Anton?’
    He gave her a sharp look, probably knowing what she was up to.
    ‘Will you do any hiking?’
    He scowled. ‘The Italians don’t know how to look after the mountain huts. It makes me sick how they’ve let them fall into disrepair.’ Disgust deepened his voice.
‘This summer I’ll stay this side of the Brenner for my hikes.’
    The waiter had finished sweeping up the shards of glass. How unruffled Viktor had appeared as he’d sprung through the window, as though he were diving into a pool for a dip. He’d
probably run down the back alleys behind the kitchen and jumped on the first tram he’d spotted. He would lose himself in one of the big apartment blocks outside the Ring, the wide boulevard
encircling the city. This evening he’d appear for the performance at the theatre because he’d promised them both he would. Viktor was all the things Anton accused him of being but he
kept his word.
    But why was she letting Viktor preoccupy her like this? Anton was asking about Eva. ‘She’s nervous, too,’ she told him.
    ‘Her part’s not nearly as big as yours. What is she, the Croatian’s crazy sister or something?’
    ‘His cousin.’ Marie shook her head, unable to deny it but almost wishing he’d hide this unnecessary pride in her career. Eva was good, very good in fact, as the jealous and
suspicious girl, giving the role an element of just-controlled hysteria which drew all eyes to her whenever she was on stage.
    ‘Is her affair with Vargá serious?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m not sure it even is an affair yet.’ Why was she so reluctant to discuss it? Loyalty