The wagon bumped along, and as the dull day began to fade at last, they began to see a few more farms and houses scattered around the hillsides and beside the road and, finally, Hodyn : a dishevelled little farming town. “We will see if there is an inn, ja?”
“All right,” agreed Wilhelmina doubtfully. “But I should warn you, I don’t have any money.”
“Not to worry,” replied Etzel. “In a town like this it will not cost much. I have a little silver.” He smiled reassuringly. “God willing, it is enough.”
CHAPTER 8
In Which Wilhelmina Proves Her Mettle
Prague in 1606 was a fairy-tale city of massive encircling walls with high towers at every corner, huge gates of timber and iron, crooked streets filled with tiny houses whose roofs of red clay tiles almost touched the ground, and a fortified castle with turrets and a drawbridge. Green and yellow banners hung from the battlements, gilded angels kept watch over the city from the top of soaring church spires, and rising on a hill in the very centre of the city gleamed the sparkling whitewashed facade of a grand palace. To Wilhelmina it looked like something the Brothers Grimm might have concocted as a backdrop to a story about a spoiled prince and a selfless pauper. Mina had treasured such a book as a child and had always thrilled to the subtle horror of those antique stories.
“It’s like a dream,” she gasped upon seeing their imposing destination suddenly revealed in all its glory.
They had come upon the many-towered city quite without warning. The open, rolling countryside gave little hint of what was lurking just over the next hill. There was but a slight buildup along the road-a few more farms, a tiny settlement or two-and then, as they came over the rise, they were all at once confronted by the majestic city walls and a view of the imposing brown stone castle, flags aflutter in the breeze. A generous river skirted the southeastern quarter of the town, and a great many shacklike dwellings had been erected on the low ground. Englebert did not approve of this, as he imagined the area would be prone to flooding. “They should know better,” he huffed. However, he did approve of the hefty stone ramparts that encircled the city and the sturdy, ironclad city gates, and pronounced them very good work. “Strong walls are important,” he declared.
The weather had turned cold. There was a shimmering skin of frost on the grass and trees. Travelling in the country, they had the road mostly to themselves, but the traffic greatly increased the nearer they came to the gates. Englebert left his seat and guided the mules as they joined the slow-moving parade that included oxcarts, horse-drawn carriages, and more than a few hand wagons: mobile businesses of several varieties, all pulled by their proprietors-tinkers, shoemakers, weavers, carpenters, and the like-as well as scores of people on foot, and even a goat cart or two. Most of those on foot bore bundles on their backs: sticks, straw, rope, and bales of grass for fodder.
They passed through wide-open gates and rolled on into the heart of the city. Wilhelmina took in the sights and sounds-geese honking, dogs barking, and from somewhere she couldn’t see, the plaintive bleating of sheep-and the smells! The whole of Prague, so far as she could tell, stank of cheese and, unaccountably, apples. Why this should be so, she could not say, but under the pungent scent of rancid milk and rotting apples she detected, unmistakably, the sour, nostril-curling pong of the cesspit. The latter did not surprise her in the least since the gutters of the rough-paved streets ran with raw effluent, and there were mounds of garbage heaped willy-nilly over footpath and pavement everywhere she happened to cast her eye.
Englebert led his wagon directly into the spacious central square of the city, an area marked out and dominated by four immense buildings: a military barracks, a Rathaus, a guildhall, and the great hulking mass of a gothic cathedral. Numerous other structures crammed themselves between the larger buildings, wildly random in size and style-tall and thin brick next to short and squat half-timber, next to ornately plastered and painted and neatly curved facades-forming a sort of mad infill that gave the extravagant city square an outlandish, and slightly demented, character.
The sprawling open space hosted a generous number and variety of pedestrians, human and otherwise. A market appeared to be in full cry: merchants and customers haggling over the various wares on offer outside flimsily constructed booths; hawkers stalking, shouting for attention; dogs barking at ragged, quick-darting children; jugglers juggling, dancers prancing, and stilt-walkers swaggering through the milling throng.
All in all, Wilhelmina thought it breathtaking. And when Etzel announced, “Here is where I shall have my bakery!” she felt a genuine tingle of excitement.
“Why not?” she replied.
“Ja! ” He beamed at her with his happy cherub face. “Why not?”
Etzel drove his wagon to a corner of the square where he found a stone trough and hitching post. He halted and climbed down, tied the mules to the post, and allowed them to drink. “We have arrived!” he called happily. “Our new life begins.”
His inclusion of her was so easy and natural, she accepted it herself. In any case, it was not as if she had any better option.
The strangeness, the utter impossibility of her plight, was not lost on Wilhelmina. But benign acceptance of the peculiar situation was steadily, stealthily creeping up on her. She had to keep mentally pinching herself to force her wandering and easily distracted mind to remember that what she was experiencing was in no way normal. Yet, bizarre though it surely was, more and more she was discovering that her otherworldly sojourn was also curiously compelling. The weird cavalcade of events exerted its own beguiling influence. Old-world Prague was winning her over.
Englebert was gazing about him with equal amazement. Finally, he drew himself up and turned to her. “I am wanting to ask you something, Fraulein,” he said, his voice taking on a note of unexpected gravity.
“Go on then,” she said warily.
“Would you watch after Gertrude and Brunhild for me?”
Mina gazed back in bewilderment.
He indicated the mules.
“Oh! Of course.”
“I will not go far,” he told her, climbing down from the wagon box.
“Don’t worry. I’ll stay right here.”
But he was already gone, disappearing into the wheeling, swirling traffic of the square. Mina sat in the wagon and continued soaking in the sights and sounds around her, trying to gain some measure of the place. Prague, she thought, in the thirtieth year of Emperor Rudolf the Second-is that what Etzel had said? What did she know about the seventeenth century? Not much. Nothing, really. Didn’t Shakespeare live in the 1600s? Or was it Queen Elizabeth? She couldn’t remember.
If she had ever once in her life given the realities of life in seventeenth-century Bohemia a fleeting thought-and she most certainly had not-she would have pictured a world of superstition and suffering where obscenely rich and powerful aristocrats oppressed the miserable mass of grimy peasants whose lives were nasty, brutish, and short. Yet the folk she observed bustling around her, while admittedly grimy and short, seemed a fairly happy lot-judging solely from the air of amiable bonhomie permeating the Old Town square. Everywhere she looked, people were smiling, laughing, greeting one another with formal handshakes and kisses. Uniformly dressed in dull browns and drab greens-long knee-length cloaks and breeches for men, and short bodices with long, full skirts for the women-they nevertheless seemed prosperous enough.
It was the ladies who caught her attention, and from what she could see from her seat in the wagon, long hair was definitely in fashion-piled high and extravagantly curled or braided. Nearly everyone wore some sort of head covering; a scant handful of women covered their elaborate locks with fine, lace-trimmed hats; simple linen caps were in abundance, as were scarves. While their skirts might have been plain, their shawls were not; whether fringed, tasselled, square-cut, rounded, fine-woven, or knitted-all were as vivid and bright as possible: crimsons, yellows, blues, and greens, in any and all combinations. In fact, both men and women wore
shawls. And children, of which there were many, were dressed exactly as their elders: adults in miniature.
The market crowd occupied her complete attention so that when the great clock in the city hall tower struck for the second time since her arrival in the square, she stirred and realized sitting so long in the wagon had made her cold. She rubbed her arms and blew into her cupped hands. Where had Etzel got to?
As if in answer to her thought, she heard a piping call and turned to see her companion, his arms laden with cloth-wrapped packages, bowling toward her through the throng, a small tribe of ragged foundlings around him. “Wilhelmina!” he called as he came to the wagon. “Our luck is good!”
He began handing up packages to her, which she took and stowed behind the wagon seat. The children were clamouring in a language Mina did not understand. What did they speak in Prague? Czech? Slovak?
“There is only one bakery on the square,” he announced, “and it is very small.” He passed her another package. “This one is for you.”
“For me?” Wilhelmina savoured an unexpected delight. “What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
She pulled one of the strings and unwrapped the parcel to reveal several small glazed cakes with chopped nuts and tiny seeds. “Honey cakes!” she cooed. “How sweet of you.”
He beamed. Taking another package, he handed it to the nearest and tallest of the ragamuffins around him. “Share with your brothers and sisters,” he instructed firmly in German, which the children seemed to understand.
The young lad opened the bag and distributed little white biscuits to his noisy comrades, who were now leaping up and down to receive their treats. The bag was soon empty, and Etzel shooed his entourage away, telling them to be good, attend Mass, obey their parents, and come back tomorrow.
“These are lecker!” exclaimed Mina, dusting off another of her grandmother’s words. She held out one of the cakes to him.
“I am glad you like them,” he said, biting into the little pastry. “This is a good place,” he observed, chewing thoughtfully. “I like it here.”
“What should we do now?” Mina wondered.
“We will start looking for a place to have my bakery.”
“Now?”
“Why not? It is a good day.”
“Very well,” she agreed. “Where do we start?”
“We begin here.”
After leaving the mules and wagon with a nearby livery service, Englebert and Wilhelmina made a thorough circuit of the square. They went shop by shop around the large open plaza that formed Prague’s busy commercial centre, and talked to many of the shopkeepers. Yes, the Old Square was the best in the city, the best in the entire region, even. And, yes, it was very expensive doing business in such a prime location. No, they did not know of any empty shops or premises on the square. “The landlord charges any price he wants for rent,” complained the butcher who worked out of a shop hardly bigger than a wagon bed. “Yet even at such high prices, these places do not stay empty long.”
The sentiment and explanation was echoed with only slight variation by everyone they approached. In the end, they were forced to conclude that even if there was a vacancy, Englebert would not be able to afford it with the limited funds he had brought from Rosenheim for the venture. “Everything is very expensive. I am beginning to think I have made a mistake in coming here,” he confessed. The thought cast a pall over his cheerful demeanour.
“How can you say that?” Mina chided. “It’s a big city, and we’ve only looked one place.”
“We’ve looked in the best place.” He sighed. “Everyone says this.”
“Maybe,” she allowed. “But there are bound to be others just as good. We just have to expand the search.”
Englebert allowed himself to be prodded into action once more, and they began scouring the interlocking network of side streets. These, they quickly discovered, were uniformly dark and narrow, and a far cry from the salubrious square. The shops and businesses were of a poorer, scrappier, even vaguely disreputable quality-as were the people frequenting these down-market establishments. The premises tended to be shoddy, the facades in need of cleaning and repair; there was rubbish everywhere; a few overly dressed ladies loitered about and, out of the corner of her eye now and then, Mina glimpsed rats.
The off-streets were depressed, to be sure, and ultimately depressing to Englebert, whose hopes dwindled with each dingy urban corridor they explored. His sighs became heavier and more frequent. Yet, these grubby backstreets did offer the one thing the more respectable and prosperous square lacked: cheap space, and plenty of it. Indeed, every third or fourth shop seemed to be either empty or going out of business; and those that weren’t gave every impression of clinging precariously to their existence.
“I have seen enough,” said the now disheartened baker. “Let us go back.”
Mina felt sorry for her dejected companion and concern over her own prospects, which were now enmeshed with his. She gave him a pat on the shoulder, and they started for the open air and sunlight of the square. Working their way back through the tangle of interwoven byways, they turned onto a street they had not searched. Halfway along, they saw that the way was blocked by a horse and wagon drawn up outside of one of the buildings. There was a man in the wagon stacking furniture and boxes into a very tipsy pyramid. Now and again, a woman appeared in the doorway with another box that she handed up to the man to be added to the unstable mound.
“I think they’re moving out,” surmised Mina.
“Who can blame them?” commiserated Englebert.
Drawing near the wagon, they paused. “Good day to you, sir. God bless you!” called Englebert, who seemed incapable of passing anyone without offering a greeting.
The man looked up from his labours and grunted a reply. The woman appeared in the doorway with a rolled-up rug. On a whim, Mina felt moved to address her. “Good day,” she said. “Are you moving out?”
“Achso, Deutsch! ” The woman gave her a dark, disparaging look and answered in her own language. “Are you blind, girl?”
The surly response knocked Wilhelmina back a step, but it made her more determined. “Please,” she said, “it is just that we are looking for a place to open a bakery.”
“You can have this one,” the woman told her, “if you can hold your water until we’ve gone. And good luck to you.”
“Now, Ivanka, there’s no cause to be rude,” said the man in the wagon, pausing to wipe his face with a dirty rag. “It is not her fault.” The woman lifted her lip at him, turned without another word, and went back inside. To Wilhelmina, he said, “Landlord is inside. You talk to him, good woman, and find out all you wish to know.”
Without consulting Englebert, she stooped to enter the shop, which was almost empty save for two more rugs and a few wooden boxes. A long-faced, sallow man with a neatly trimmed goatee beard that only served to accentuate his already elongated face was standing at a wooden counter writing in a tiny book with a quill pen. Like so many of the men Wilhelmina had seen, he wore a long black coat and a white shirt with an odd little white starched neck ruff; his head was enveloped in a large bag hat of green silk with the flourish of a white feather sweeping out to one side. “Yes?” he said without looking up. “What is it?”
Wilhelmina tried to think how best to phrase her request, and wondered if he, too, would understand her German.
“Well? Speak up, man! I am very busy.”
“Sir,” said Mina, “are you the landlord?”
“Yes, of course.” He glanced around at her without moving his head more than necessary. “Who else should I be?”
“I am certain I don’t know,” answered Mina. “Is this shop for rent?”
“Why? Do you want it?”
“Yes,” replied Mina rashly.
“Sixty Guldiners.”
“Pardon?”
“Sixty Guldiners-for six months.” He returned to his little book. “Away with you. Come back with your father.”
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“We will give you fifty,” she said, “for a year.”
“Get out!” said the man. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of my shop-and do not come back.”
“Wilhelmina,” called Englebert from the door. “What are you doing? Come away.”
Reluctantly, she rejoined Englebert on the street outside. “He wants sixty Guldiners,” she told him, “for six months.”
“That is too much,” said Englebert. “For a place like this”-he wrinkled his nose-“it is too much.”
“I agree.” She frowned. “What is a Guldiner anyway?”
Etzel gave her a curious look. “Do they not have such as this where you come from?”
“They have similar,” she allowed. “But not Guldiners. What is it?”
He lifted the hem of his coat and, after a moment’s fuss, brought out a small leather pouch. He untied it and reached inside. “This is a Groschen,” he said, producing a small silver coin. “It is worth six Kreuzer.”
“I see,” replied Mina, repeating the formula to herself. “One Groschen equals six Kreuzer.”
“There’s more,” he said. “Ten Groschen make a Guldengroschen-or Guldiner, as we say.” He fished inside the pouch and brought out a larger silver coin. “This is a Guldiner-very good.”
Mina nodded. “Ten Groschen make up a Guldiner. Got it. Are there any more?”
“There is a new one called a Thaler-this is also very good, though you may not see so many of them. They are worth twenty-four Groschen.”
“So, Thalers are even better,” observed Mina. She plucked the silver guldiner from between Englebert’s thumb and forefinger.
The departing woman reappeared with another rolled-up rug under her arm. “How much?” she asked as she passed. To Mina’s puzzled look, she jerked her head towards the shop door and said, “Him inside-how much did he demand?”
“Sixty Guldiners,” replied Etzel.
“The greedy miser,” scoffed the woman, handing up the rug to her husband in the wagon. “We only paid him thirty for the entire year.”
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