Eva Sleeps Read Online Free

blanket is totally out of place in my elegant home, all in lime green and aquamarine shades. It’s also rough, like barbed wire, and feels like wool that hasn’t been carded. I can still remember how that coarse kind of wool used to make my arms itch. How did I ever put up with it? No wonder I have only cashmere or mohair sweaters now.
    The telephone rings.
    In the stillness of dawn, that sharp sound makes me jump and I almost spill my coffee. I’m about to answer but freeze. Who’d be calling me at this hour? It’s probably a wrong number. I let the answering machine start.
    â€œThis is number . . . /
Hier spricht der Anrufbeantworter
. . . ”
    I let Signorina Telecom/Fräulein Telekom finish her elaborate homage to bilingualism, and keep listening. There’s a protracted silence. There’s a presence on the other end of the line. Then, a little louder, comes the faint sound of breathing. I can’t believe they play tricks even at this hour! Before even going to school! Maybe it’s the sleepless night, or perhaps the jet lag but the adrenaline starts pumping in my veins. I grab the receiver. “Stop it! I’m fed up with this!”
    â€œEva . . . Is that you?”
    It’s a man’s voice. Not a young man. Perhaps he’s tired or ill, or both. Taken aback, I say, “Who’s that?”
    A pause.
    â€œMy
Sisiduzza
. . . May I still call you that?”
    I stare at the absurd square in the blanket. The orange one. I really must ask my mother which pullover it comes from. Perhaps it wasn’t mine but one of Ruthi’s.
    â€œIs this a joke?” I whisper.
    â€œNo, it’s me—Vito.”
    I look up. The sun has risen. A golden light is bathing my kilim.
    Â 
    Woe betide the daughters of loveless fathers: their fate is that of the unloved. Only once in my life has my mother, Gerda, been sure of a man’s love, and I of a father’s. All the other times have been like summer downpours: they came, made our shoes all muddy, but left the fields dry. With Vito, though, it was the real thing. Both for her and me, his presence was like a rainfall in June, like water that makes the hay grow and refills the springs. But even then we weren’t spared the drought, before and after.
    In a tired voice, Vito tells me he hasn’t got long left to live.
    He also says, “I’d like to see you again.”
    A few hours later, I’m already on my way. I’m going South, I’m going to him.

1925 - 1961
    V
ofluicht no amol!
” Hermann burst out in a loud voice. “Vofluicht, scheisszoig!”
4
    The basket his master had given him to take to the market had fallen on the ground. All the wheels of gray cheese had rolled on the ground.
    He hadn’t sworn in Italian, as demanded by the Fascist laws now in force, which dictated that only Italian be used in public. He hadn’t even used a blasphemy, which would have been frowned upon but not considered illegal, as long as it was in Italian. He had sworn, and sworn in German. And, to be more precise, in dialect. An employee of the Fascist land registry office, who was walking past, heard him and, wishing to defend the Roman spirit of Südtirol, now Alto Adige, struck Hermann right across the face with his ink-stained open hand, then decisively tore off his
Bauernschurtz
, the blue work apron.
    No German to be spoken in public, no Tyrolean clothes, no dirndl or
Tracht
or
Lederhosen
. Nothing to imply that the new Brenner border wasn’t the holy limit of Italic land. It was the Fascist law. Among the peasants and
Knechte
at the market, nobody looked up or defended him.
    Some time later, despite the slap and the humiliation, or perhaps for that very reason, the badge, the fasces pin of party members began to gleam on Hermann’s collar. The local party officials looked on this favorably and taught him to drive a truck. They entrusted him with the