Against a Rising Tide

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  “Tickets!”

  The scrawny conductor’s voice was harsh and hoarse. His uniform hung from his shoulders like a tent draped over him, and István noted the faint yellow tinge in the whites of the man’s eyes as he studied the tickets of István’s fellow travelers. Jaundice of some kind, or a Vitamin A overdose, István diagnosed. Probably jaundice. A glimpse of yellow, paper-dry skin between the man’s glove and sleeve confirmed the problem, and István wondered why he was still working. Probably to keep from starving. No one who could do otherwise traveled on trains now. Too dangerous.

  István closed his eyes, but only for a moment. He didn’t dare let the cases out of his hands and sight. Dirt streaked the windows, hiding the passing countryside from view. Not much to see this time of year anyway, unless the river is rising. And he’d prefer not to see that up close. Although, as cold as it had been, he doubted they’d encounter high water before April, if then. Was Western Europe as cold as the eastern regions? Probably.

  The train slowed and stopped, and the people in the carriage stirred, digging papers and passes out of luggage and coat pockets. Heavy boots thumped up the steps, and the interior door slammed open.

  “Heil Hitler! Papers. Now,” barked a black-clad border officer.

  He ripped the documents out of the hands of a shabby man sitting by the door, inspected them, and shoved them back. Two armed guards followed, and the old, shawl-wrapped woman sitting across from István whimpered, starting to shake, eyes dilating. The younger woman traveling with the old lady gently shushed her, holding the older woman and rocking her a little. When the officer approached, the younger woman handed him papers without his asking. He looked from the documents to the women and back, then frowned more deeply, eyes squeezing into narrow lines below thin brown eyebrows.

  “She sick?”

  “No, Captain, sir. My great aunt was assaulted by a Russian solder during the last war, and soldiers still scare her.”

  The brown-clad woman had a light Hungarian accent to her German, István noted. The officer’s demeanor changed at the woman’s words, and he nodded, eyes now open wide. He spoke more softly as he returned the papers. “She is safe here. The red hordes cannot enter the lands of the Reich.”

  “Thank you, Captain, sir.”

  István presented his papers before the officer could ask for them. The man thumbed through, found the letter from the Chief of Infectious Diseases at the University of Vienna’s teaching hospital, and leaned back.

  “You carry samples?”

  István patted the top of the case in his lap.

  “Yes, Herr Captain. They are sealed and preserved to prevent contamination, in a locked case. I would prefer not to open the case unless truly necessary, sir.”

  All perfectly true and honest. Honest and truth is safer, I think. He did not have to feign his evident grave concern and worry.

  “It is not necessary, Herr Doktor Nagy.”

  The Nazis hurried their inspection, departing far more quickly than they had begun. The train lurched a little as it resumed moving, and István heard as well as felt all the others in the car sigh, shoulders relaxing. Even up in the mountains István had heard whispered rumors of people dragged from the trains, trams, cars, and wagons, never to be seen again.

  The train station in Vienna bustled a little, but not as much as István had expected. He went to the telegram office, struggling to hide his fear and nerves. The women working there glanced over their shoulders, uncomfortable, as men in brown uniforms studied the incoming messages. A mildly harried clerk, her grey-streaked hair trying to escape her bun, blinked up at him.

  “Heil Hitler! May I help you?”

  The words burned his mouth, but he said them.

  “Heil Hitler. My name is Martin Nagy, expecting a telegram from Doktor Professor Weissburg.”

  A round-faced man in uniform inspected the message before allowing the clerk to give it to István, who squinted at the words, dismayed by the cheap ink, the terrible paper, and the message itself, in equal parts.

  “Very well,” he murmured. Rudolph . . . Someday I am going to have a word with you, however much may be left of you.

  “Ten marks,” the woman demanded after another glance at the official behind her. István paid with a wince, hoping the currency was still valid. She took the bill and gave him a receipt.

  Another ten marks bought a tiny sandwich and thimble-full of coffee at a stehcafe in the train station. István stacked the cases between his feet and ate, watching the people coming and going. Men in brown uniforms and black boots inspected the passengers. One lean, blond individual caught István’s eye, although he was careful not to look too closely. The Austrian stood at least two meters tall and moved with unusual grace. He reminded István of the posters depicting true Aryans, or would have if he’d not had a pair of thick glasses perched on his elegant nose. The tall man spoke to another fellow in uniform, and István noted terrible teeth. But all the young from the first war are prone to dental troubles, so the authorities probably overlooked that flaw. István finished his poor excuse for a midday meal and went to find the ticket office. One the way he stopped by the men’s room, and removed a second letter from inside his coat.

  “Heil Hitler! What do you want?” the surly, acne-scarred man behind the bars demanded.

  “Heil Hitler. I need a ticket to Linz, as soon as possible.” István concentrated on the words, hiding any hint of a Hungarian accent, stretching and softening the sounds as a Viennese would. “On official business.”

  He presented the clerk with the second letter. The man glowered, trying to look intimidating.

  “Documents.”

  István presented them, along with the appropriate funds. If the currency had been forged, the forger had done a beautiful job, István thought. The clerk read the letter, frowned even harder if such a thing might be possible, and stamped the tickets so hard István imagined the ink forcing its way even through the wooden counter.

  “Go.” As István turned he heard the man mutter, “Damned foreign blood.”

  Some days it feels as if we are already among the damned, István agreed inwardly.

  A half-hour remained until the train to Linz departed, and he considered trying to find a newspaper or something more than the sandwich. A few steps away from the ticket agents’ counters, the swirl of black and brown uniforms convinced him that it was not worth the risk.

  István made his way down the steps to the platforms and found the one he wanted. Vienna smelled different than it once had. He thought back through the years, to the walled inner city and the smell of the river and gardens in spring, of coffee, and other lost delights. The city of his younger days beckoned, and he wanted to sink into the memory.

  “That looks like a Jew.” The sharp words cut through his reverie and István peered left and right to see who the voice referred to. “You a Jew? You look like one, scuttling around with your boxes.” A plump man in a brown uniform that strained at the chest and stomach stopped centimeters from István’s face and sneered. “I think you’re a Jew.”

  The man stank of rough fruit spirits and too little soap. Indignant, István leaned back, eyebrows up, chest puffing out a little, shoulders back.

  “I fear you are dreadfully mistaken. No Jews pollute my family line. Only Germans and Magyars since before Prinz Eugen himself walked these streets.”

  “Scheiße, that’s what you are. I say you’re a Jew, snuck back into Aryan lands to help the damn Reds or the Yankees. I know your kind,” the overweight man sneered, grabbing István’s arm. “I can smell Jews.”

  He shook István and reached for the medical case. An even larger hand caught that of the Nazi.

  “May I see your papers, Doktor?” The Nazi backed up but kept a firm grip on István’s arm. “There are rumors of draftees attempting to hide.” The speaker was an army sergeant, and István heard no hostility in the young man’s voice.

  “Certainly, Sergeant.”

  István
reached into his coat with his free hand, giving the sergeant the documents before the Nazi could snatch them away.

  “Thank you, Dr. Captain Nagy. Pure Catholic on both sides.” The sergeant showed the baptismal records to the Nazi. “On official medical business, veteran of the last war.” The sergeant folded the documents and returned them. “This man is not a Jew.”

  “Yesh, he ish, and I’m—I’m—I—”

  The sergeant and a private grabbed the Nazi as he staggered, easing his fall to the dirty cement and brick platform floor. István checked the Nazi’s pulse. The scent of alcohol formed a nearly-visible cloud around the brown-clad boor, and István allowed himself a moment of disgust. Still wary of listeners, he kept his words low.

  “Nothing more than intoxication, I suspect, Sergeant.” The man nodded, and István continued in a louder, professional tone. “No doubt the stress of his position and his dedication to duty have overwhelmed him.”

  He ignored the rude noises from the private and several bystanders.

  “Indeed, he appears to be a true and loyal servant of the party,” the broad-shouldered sergeant intoned. He met István’s eyes, stared for an instant, and mouthed something. What was it? He repeated it, and his bright blue eyes shifted for an instant to gold, then back to blue. Eyes! István settled himself.

  “Thank you Sergeant. No doubt you are correct.” A Half-dragon in the Austrian army? Which House, I wonder. And possibly not so young as he seems. “He needs somewhere quiet to rest and recover from the stress.” Behind his back, István heard someone murmur what sounded like “try the bottom of the Danube Canal.” Ah, what would that do to the poor fishes downstream?

  “Over here.” The sergeant waved, and two railroad police in black uniforms swooped down on them. “He passed out. Dr. Nagy says stress.”

  Everyone moved away from the patient as the policemen studied the limp form.

  “Stress my ass,” the older of the two muttered. “Thank you, Doktor. We will see to him.”

  “Thank you, Herr Polizist,” István replied.

  He gathered his cases and got out of their way. He boarded the train and the rest of the journey passed almost without excitement. Almost.

  What’s that wailing sound? István froze, one foot in the air as he climbed the steps of the Linz Hauptbahnhof. The people around him reversed their steps and everyone hurried back down to the platforms. The wailing grew louder, and he realized what it meant. He caught himself before he could stagger, and turned, following the crush of people trying to hide. He heard the sirens grow louder, then explosions and the booms of artillery.

  “I hope they get the bastards this time. Before they drop their eggs,” an old man beside István hissed.

  The earth shook a little, and István saw in his memory the fortress walls, and the spray of dirt from Russian artillery rounds as they churned the earth of Galicia into powder and mud. His head ached, his back and leg as well, and he cringed as the shaking grew stronger.

  “At least the Yankees don’t kill you in your bed like the damned English do,” a different man snapped.

  “Dann heiße ich schon Meyer,” a third man whispered. Some of the people laughed, bitter, dark laughter, while the others kept their heads down, or glared with mixed anger and fear at the ones who dared to chuckle. István didn’t get the joke, and he fought off his memories, adrenaline driving his heart, panting a little, trying to stay here and now, not in 1914.

  “You alright, sir?” The young woman sounded concerned, and István nodded.

  “I will be, thank you, miss. Memories from the last war,” he explained.

  Several men nodded. After one of the longest half hours István could recall, the earth stopped shaking, the wailing faded, and the crowd took a long, shuddery breath—or so it felt.

  István emerged from the train station and saw smoke from the bombing raid curling out of the industrial district. Dear sweet Lord, what have we done to deserve this?

  Bribery always worked, or so it felt. István traded his skills and some easily-replaceable supplies, as well as marks, for transportation on wagons and in trucks, travelling west and south. The next three days passed in a blur, enough so that he wondered if he’d sustained a concussion during the bombing raid. No, he decided as he washed his face in the basin at a farmhouse on the edge of the Tyrol, fatigue sufficed. I don’t understand. I’m only fifty-four. We live to be over a hundred. His body and mind felt as if he’d lived that hundred years already.

  “I’m sorry I cannot do more, Frau Bauerfeld,” he said as he left the tiny washing area.

  The underfed farm-wife nodded once. “Thank you, Herr Doktor. You have done more than the other doctors did. How long?”

  “No more than a few days. She will not feel any pain.” The poor child had gotten too close to a bull and the beast had trampled her, smashing her leg and hip and doing internal damage. “Too much dirt in the wounds, Frau Bauerfeld. I am truly sorry.”

  The child’s aunt nodded again, turning away from him. “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away, thanks be to God.”

  “Amen.”

  And where are my children? Have they gotten away from the Russians? Are all of them safe? He hoped that Weronica had found a safe place for the twins and their brother.

  “You say that you are going into the mountains, Herr Doktor?”

  “Yes. I was ordered to attend the people farther up the river, since the local doctor is away.”

  The man had fled, or so István had heard from the farmer who’d brought him this far.

  “You’ll need a good breakfast then.” Not long after, he heard the sound of meat frying and smelled bacon, real bacon, for the first time in over a year. István’s mouth watered. “We can’t pay you in fee,” the farmwife said apologetically as she served him a plate full of bacon, eggs, rough country bread, and even a small dish of butter—real butter!

  “Frau Bauerfeld, this is worth far, far more than any doctor’s fee, I assure you.”

  István thanked the Lord for the bounty and ate with a clean conscience. Healing cost energy, and István had little left after his efforts to help the people in the tiny settlement.

  He set out on foot, walking along the narrow road along the Drachental River. Mountains rose ahead of him and on both sides, snow-bleached against the pale blue heavens. The land looked healthy, but where were the people? The late winter sun shone warm for the moment, and a little whisper of breeze stirred the morning air. Women should be hanging wash, men should be doing farm chores, looking after the fences, and children should be coming and going to school. A few women moved, shoulders bent with more than physical loads as they carried fodder from stacks to barns, or shook much-patched coverlets and blankets before hanging them to air. István plodded along, praying and giving thanks that Josef Karl had not lived to see his people suffer so terribly.

  Something moved behind him and István glanced back. Nothing. Still, something lurked, watching, almost pacing him. He stopped, turned, sighed.

  “I know you are there. Come out.”

  If it was the Nazi police or a would-be thief, he’d just as soon see them coming. The hedge to his left rustled, shivered, and a True-dragon wrapped in brown and grey rags staggered out. István hurried over to inspect the starving male.

  «I am tired, nothing more,» a reedy tenor voice murmured. «We must keep moving. The brown and Red bastards are behind us.»

  István squared his shoulders and pointed up the slope to a trail through the fields. He’d been considering it before, but the low way had been easier. The True-dragon gestured his agreement, and they cut that way. Rocks and snow-melt-mud slowed their progress, and the sun had passed noon before they reached the bend in the river István had been told to look for.

  “We’re on Drachenburg land now,” he told his silent companion.

  «Thanks be to God» came the fervent reply.

  An hour later by sun, a sturdily-built man in forester’s wool and leather clothes appeared fro
m behind a large boulder.

  “Dr. Nagy?”

  “I am he.”

  István wondered who had carried what message. And how the forester had avoided military service. The man nodded.

  “Her Ladyship sends greetings and welcome, and her apologies. The Nazis are watching the Schloß, so she cannot offer you proper hospitality. A place has been prepared in the Drachenburg for you.” The forester turned to the True-dragon. “Do you need refuge?”

  «Yes. I was once of House Wittelsbach.» István heard profound pain in the simple statement and his heart clenched. Had the True-dragons been read out of the House? Or had things reached the point that they could no longer be hidden? Had the House dissolved? Who was Guardian of Bavaria? «The House . . .scatters for safety. The Nazis executed the Head, the Guardian is in hiding.»

  “There is room here. Not much, but room for now,” the forester assured the True-Dragon. “Follow me, please. It is another hour’s walk ahead.”

  The trail turned into a mountain goat track, as best István could tell, and he panted from the exertion. The Matra were high—though not alpine high—and he needed to rest, but dared not. Trees grew between them and the valley below, shielding them from view but also encouraging the snow to linger, and ice, too, in the thickest shade, even on the south-facing slope.

  Below them, a few meadows ventured to show green faces to the sun, and rows of fruit trees cast black shadows by the road. István saw a car and a brown truck, both out of place in the rural scene. The True-Dragon spat.

  “Indeed, sir,” the forester murmured. “I have not seen my wife and children for two years because of the brown plague. I do not care to leave them truly orphaned if I can avoid it.”

  István concentrated on walking. The rough handles of the cases cut into his hands, and the strap on his other bag ground his shoulder. It had already worn thin places in his coat, and Anna Maria would fuss terribly when he returned home. Home. I have to go back, somehow. His head spun as he tried to imagine how he could possibly do it. Later. First you have to get the crown to safety. Everything else comes after. He managed to avoid yet another puddle, biting his tongue as a rock found the thin spot in one shoe sole.