How, István wondered once more. How could the world bear it? Why had the Lord not returned to end the horror, as St. John’s vision said that He would? The seals had been broken, surely, and the trumpets had sounded, the Four Horsemen rode once more, but where was the Lord? Now it was his turn to shake all over. No man knoweth the day nor the hour, he reminded himself. He did know that if he did not finish his list and prepare properly, and bring in more wood, Anna Maria would scold him when she returned from checking on the neighbors.
“I must go to Budapest,” he told her that night.
«Is that wise, Uncle Lukaz?» Her tail-tip patted the wooden floor. «Sabor and Karl said that the police and soldiers act strange, capricious, checking the innocent and ignoring the trouble makers.»
“It is not wise,” István said. “But it is needful. I may be able to refill my supplies, some at least, before people begin to need them. St. Roche and St. Barbara have been with us this winter, but I fear they will soon have greater concerns than the health of a few mountain folk.”
Anna Maria’s whiskers fluttered a little, and her ears tipped back, then returned upright.
«That is true, sir.»
István wanted to hug her, to tell her that it would be all right, to soothe her fears. Instead he ate more supper and wondered if the deer had been caught in a deadfall, pit, or snare. No one wasted ammunition anymore on mere poaching.
“Doctor Rabe, eh?”
The black-shirted official with the railway policeman scowled. István wondered how long before he had a heart attack, given his weight and lack of exercise. And his bad temper, if the red suffusing his face did not come from the heat of the office alone. Hell itself probably grumbled about the waste of fuel, István mused, trying to look harmless and scared.
“Yes, sir.”
The official peered at the documents, pawed through István’s open bag once more, and then snorted.
“Not a doctor anymore, not without a proper license from the real government.” He stamped István’s travel paper, certifying that István wasn’t one of those barred from movement. “Get out.”
“Yes, sir.”
The policeman opened the office door with a scowl of his own. István kept his shoulders hunched and head down, scurrying out of the office while clutching his papers and the still-open bag. He didn’t stop moving until he was outside the train station entirely, then set the bag down on a bench and put everything back where it should have been. Several of the larger denomination bills had vanished from his wallet, and István caught a growl before it could be heard. Greedy bastard. His Majesty never permitted such things while the Empire lived. And now both had died. But Hungary and Pannonia still lived, and the Matra.
István walked the once-familiar streets. Germany proper was worse, or so he’d heard, but Budapest looked bleak enough. Late winter had never been the city’s best season, with its low grey skies, the cold rain, and the lead-colored Danube flowing south, dividing Buda and Pest. Few people lingered in the thin, chill rain, instead hurrying on their errands. There were no young men in the dirt-colored streets, aside from those obviously unfit for the military—and young toughs with the black arrow insignia on their sleeves. István swallowed another snarl and compared the address on his paper with that above the shop door. He needed one six zero Királyutcza. The shops, once filled with the latest in fashions and luxury goods, seemed bare. And we are well off compared to others. Oh Blessed Lady, please save Your land.
After some hunting and a wrong turn, István found his first stop. He folded the newspaper page, tidied his clothes the best he could, and pushed the wood-and-glass door open a few centimeters, letting as little cold inside as possible as he squeezed into the apothecary’s store. A small bell chimed, and a nervous, broad-shouldered man appeared behind the counter.
“Yes? Do you have ration cards?”
What? There is no individual ration for medical supplies, is there? István blinked.
“Your pardon, sir, I turned them in already, those my patients have left since Martinmas.”
He pulled his physician’s papers out and gave them to the apothecary.
“What?” The man blinked in turn and took the papers. István noted two missing fingers and decided that explained why the apothecary had not been swept up by the army. “A country doctor. That explains it,” he muttered. “One moment.” He left the papers and disappeared behind the curtain. A woman, lank and tired, with grey eyes and grey-streaked dirty-blond hair, appeared in his place. She too studied István’s documents.
“You can’t have heard, then, Doctor Rabe. What do you need? I have no antibiotic,” she warned. “Only the hospitals have that until next month.”
Damn.
“These, if you have any.” He handed her the list. “I have currency.” As he gave her the page, he brushed her hand, reading her as much as he could. A flash of gold appeared, then faded, and he added, “and coin, but not much. My patients often pay in kind these days.”
“If you’d brought eggs, Dr. Rabe, you could probably have purchased this shop.” She found a pencil and crossed through four of the drugs. “None of these. They are now reserved. The rest . . .” she turned around and disappeared through the curtain once more. Her head reappeared after some discussion and scraping sounds emerged. “Can you compound?”
“My nurse can, but nothing truly delicate.” He dared to feel a tiny bit more hopeful.
“One moment.” István heard more scraping, pouring, and other familiar noises. He entertained himself by glancing out the window and by declining the Latin names of the herbs and other ingredients in their ceramic jars. Will that ever change? he wondered. Sulphur and willow, arsenic and ammonia, belladonna, aconite, sugar of lead—Well, that has gone out of favor, and I suspect mercury as well. Ugh, thanks be those are no longer used. The shop reminded him of a medieval illumination, but without the monks or sisters. Blue-and-white jars on white-painted shelves, mortar and pestle, even an alembic flask gathering dust on top of the shelves.
“You are truly fortunate,” the woman informed him as she reappeared with a paper-wrapped bundle. “A half-kilo of catgut arrived here by mistake last week, and we could not send it back. And because you have a rural practice in the mountains, I can waive the ration card requirement this time.”
“Thank you. I will ask the hospital in Eger to allow me to keep the medical ration cards in the future.”
He winced inside at the bill, counted out some currency, and slipped a gold coin under the pile when he pushed it to the woman. She pocketed the coin faster than fast.
“Do that. And here is the morphine,” and sulfa, she mouthed, putting the vials directly into István’s hand.
He who had once shunned the black market nodded, palmed them into hiding, and packed the bundle into his bag.
“Thank you, ma’am. A good day to you.”
“And to you, Dr. Rabe. Remember, you need to confirm your lists with the hospital now.”
“I will.”
He settled his hat lower on his head and eased out, again trying to keep any heat in the shop. Now, for his second task. István retraced his steps almost all the way to the train station, then turned toward the river, and south, into the working-class district. Ah Rudolph, how low we have fallen, he thought, as he stopped and bought a bowl of soup that had at best only a very distant acquaintance with meat. The café did not skimp on heating, István allowed, letting the cup warm his hands before he sipped the contents. The moist heat inside the building took some of the ache from his joints, but not enough, even as he lingered, glancing at the newspaper. He continued on his way more than a little reluctantly, warmed if not fed, and found his goal at the edge of the industrial section and a military barracks. The Golden Dragon brought back memories of his cadet days, and István shook his head a little.
Ah, to be young, invincible, and with a large allowance and an even larger tolerance for good beer and schnapps.
He opened the door and l
imped in. Shining brass, hints of silver, and wood that still held a faint gleam of polish reflected better days. Several Nazi officers and a few others sat at the marble-topped tables, but they paid little attention to the old man with the leather bag and worn clothes. István selected a newspaper and let the one-armed waiter direct him to a table.
“A small brown,” he ordered in Viennese dialect, as if forgetting himself for an instant.
The waiter frowned, then spoke in heavily accented Hungarian German.
“Do you mean a plain coffee, Doktor?”
“Ah yes, thank you.”
The coffee, or what passed for it now, arrived. István took a sip, resisted making a face at the burnt-bread taste, and read the paper. After a few minutes the waiter returned with a bill and a package of German government-made cigarettes.
“A different Drummer for the dragon,” István observed, as he counted bills for the coffee. Inflation always came with war.
“Ah. Your pardon, Herr Doktor, I misunderstood.”
The waiter whisked the box away. After István finished choking down the concoction that passed for coffee—cursing every idiot who’d ever set foot in Berlin, or who imagined they could duplicate real coffee, as he drank—the waiter took his cup and left a matchbox, half hidden under the fold of the newspaper. István managed to slip it into his hand, removed the tight-folded page inside, and returned the matchbox to the table.
He did not want to linger in Budapest, but neither could he leave too quickly, lest that draw official interest. He grumbled a bit of a sigh, left the Golden Dragon, and found a place for the night. Only then dared he unfold the paper and read.
All you ask is the impossible, Your Grace, nothing more.
István memorized the coded note, tore it up, and set about sorting the medical supplies, putting some in the appropriate places in his bag and bundling the rest back into the brown paper.
That night “Dr. Martin Nagy” made a house call to a former patient, or so his instructions said. He tapped twice on the door of an apartment building. The formidable landlady let him in and then studied him from hair to shoe-soles.
“Scaling back your practice, Doctor?”
“I fear so, Madame. Today we all must claw for a little bit of peace.”
If we’d had her in the army in ’14, the Russians would never have gotten into Galicia! I’ve seen smaller loggers. She must still do laundry by hand.
“This way.”
She led him up a flight of stairs half-covered by a strip of carpet that had been new when the Romans camped on Buda Hill, or so István guessed. She unlocked apartment thirteen, pushed aside several mops and a broom and other cleaning apparatus, and opened a second door.
“Down there, Dr. Nagy.”
István gulped, ducked under a shelf of cleaning rags—or old clothes so grey and worn they might as well be rags—and took first one step, then another. The little hint of light from the landlady’s candle helped him find the third step, and then the door closed behind him. Damn it. He felt his way down, around a bend, and down a second flight. The air felt warmer and more moist, and István gulped. Was he below river level? A faint light caught his eyes, and he descended three more steps, then walked down a brick-lined passage to a large room, where a grey-and-maroon True-Dragon blinked acid-yellow eyes, peered at him, and blinked again.
“Sssso, you are the one Rudolph ssssspoke offfff.” The voice creaked, and István caught himself staring, surprised to hear the True-Dragon’s voice.
“I might be. His Grace speaks of a number of people, some of whom may not exist.”
A reptilian guffaw and snort met his words.
«That is true. But I can sense your blocked channels—you are the one he described. I remember the fire, and the riot. It wasn’t bad. I’ve seen worse—1848 comes to mind.» The True-Dragon stood with a creak. «Call me Martin.»
“Thank you, Martin.” István watched the True-dragon heave himself out of the room. He caught a glimpse of photography plates, as well as several cameras that dated to the late 1800s, or so he guessed. Martin hoarded cameras and related equipment, István realized, and shook his head a little. He’d heard of stranger, but cameras? Very bulky to hide and move.
«This must leave the Alföld.» Martin said into István’s mind as he returned to the chamber. «The Reds cannot be permitted to touch it, or the last two wars will be arguments in a Poor Claires’ convent in comparison.» Martin set an almost square case down on the table beside a stack of glass plates, undid something, and folded the sides down, then lifted them. Gems and gold glittered in the dim gas light, and a familiar bent cross appeared from the lining. «You will find a box under the table. This goes in there.»
Stephen gasped and crossed himself as Martin picked up a piece of material and draped it over his forefeet. The old True-dragon, forefeet covered in insulating silk, held the crown up to the light. The stones glittered and sparkled through the layer of dust.
«Indeed,» Martín intoned. «Open the case.»
Stephen did as ordered, and the warder set the crown into the empty box. He rotated it just a touch, then folded the silk and laid it aside. Nimble talons closed and latched the case, and, as Stephen watched, the folded silk slipped into a second compartment below the main one.
«Watch and remember.» Martín turned the entire latch sideways, and the sides of the case fell open, revealing vials of medicine on one side and medical specimens on the other. «Go west, Dr. Rabe. Go west to the Americans. They alone can keep the crown safe and save the land.»
A weight heavier than the entire Carpathian Range settled on István. He couldn’t! Leave Hungary, cross the fighting lines to find Hungary’s mortal enemy? Everything in him, every oath he’d sworn rebelled.
Then he recalled Galicia’s death, and Ukrainia’s as well. If Pannonia died, the Matra would not be able to protect itself and would destroy his family and him with them, backlashing through the entire House. István felt again the pain as all of Galicia’s dying energies had coursed through him more than thirty years before. And he recalled what had happened to the Houses of Galicia and elsewhere. He bowed his head. For this I was saved. So be it.
“To the Yankees and them alone,” István whispered. “God willing.”
«Amen.» Martin opened a drawer in the table and handed him a fat packet of papers and other things. «These were meant for another. But they may help you. Go overland, go quickly, and go with God.»
István did not recall how he left Martin’s lair. He found himself with the crown’s case hanging from a strap over his shoulder, his medical bag in his hand, not far from the cathedral. He groaned a little at the distance he had to walk, then squared his shoulders and began limping along. He caught a glimpse of a policeman and muttered aloud, “Of all the nights for a baby call, and Szentgeorgii sick. I’m too old for obstetrics.”
The policeman drifted away, shaking his head a little, although whether it was in sympathy or at the complaint István couldn’t guess. He continued grumbling all the way to his lodging. St. István knew that his namesake had more than enough to mutter about.
The next day, Dr. Rabe purchased a ticket to Vienna, showing the woman behind the polished brass bars his papers.
“Herr Professor Doktor Weissburg is most insistent,” he told her when she hesitated. “There are disease concerns.”
The name of the medical professor, combined with fear of a plague, gave the ticket agent new life, and she took his money after confirming his papers.
“Party members and military have priority, and there are no reserved seats in third class.”
She slid the tickets and documents out under the bars with a firm shove, and István just managed to catch them before they sailed off the counter and scattered onto the floor.
“Thank you.”
István moved quickly out of the way, or as quickly as he could without dropping the papers, his medical bag, and the “samples” in their square case. He managed, awkwardly, unti
l he found a quiet corner where he could set things down on the gritty floor and reorganize his documents. “Dr. Martin Nagy” traveled west. István had slipped his own papers into the inner pockets of the coat’s false lining. Unless things have changed greatly, I will not be taking the coat off due to overheating. He’d never ridden third class before, but everyone knew how few amenities the trains provided, even in the best of times. He picked up the cases and wended his way through the small clusters of people coming and going through the train station, head down, concentrating on his steps—or so it would appear to anyone looking his way.
The quiet unnerved him. A train station should bustle, with people talking and calling out to others, whistles blowing, and voices announcing departures. Not Budapest in late February—those coming and going spoke in soft whispers if at all, looking over their shoulders, and giving anyone in a uniform a clear path. People shifted without seeming to, not waiting for the Black Arrow men, or the Nazis, or the police to demand passage. István thought he could smell arrogance and hostility as the railroad police stalked past, studying him the way a bear or wildcat studies its prey. He kept a faintly worried expression on his face, constantly glancing at the large clock at the end of the concourse as if afraid of missing his train.
And he was worried—not about the train as much as about what would happen after he left the train in Vienna. Austria is no longer friendly. Hell-fires, Austria might as well be Germany now. István’s train grumbled up to the platform, stopping with a squeal followed by a sigh of the brakes. He drifted along with the other people until he found a third class car. Tarnished brass, faded lettering, and peeling paint greeted him. István let several others go ahead, then staggered a little as he climbed the first, long step from platform to rail car stairs. He glanced left and right, turned right, and opted for an empty seat on the aisle. The patched and worn brown upholstery on the benches had seen far better days, as had the padding. He suspected that the car had served second class passengers before being demoted, and the whole train smelled of sorrow and coal in equal parts. István tucked his medical bag under his feet and kept the box with the samples in his lap.
Against a Rising Tide Page 23