The Star of Kazan

by Eva Ibbotson

  The porter came.

  ‘If I’m to telephone for the doctor I’ll have to get the key from round her neck,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Fräulein Heller. She began to move aside pieces of splintered harp.

  ‘No, no – don’t touch her,’ someone shouted. ‘She mustn’t be moved.’

  ‘Is she really dead?’ the girls asked each other, their faces full of hope.

  ‘I’ll have to go for the doctor in the carriage,’ said the porter, and made his way to the front door.

  Annika had surged out of the concert hall with the other girls. She passed Professor Gertrude sobbing on the stairs, but the professor did not see her and she ran on down.

  She had to find Stefan. If she could find Stefan there was still hope. But there was no sign of him in the milling crowd.

  ‘Smelling salts – we must have smelling salts.’

  ‘No, burnt feathers are better.’

  ‘Iodine,’ shouted a tall girl, ‘there’s some in matron’s room.’

  The servants came hurrying out from the back.

  ‘God be praised, the harp has eaten her,’ cried one of the scullery maids.

  ‘Oh, the blood,’ moaned Mademoiselle Vincent. ‘There is so much blood!’

  The headmistress’s foot was still pointing upwards. It had not moved.

  ‘We must go to the chapel and pray for her soul,’ said one of the girls, and she ran off down the corridor, followed by two of her friends.

  In the confusion and noise there were two people who only sought each other. Annika looked for Stefan, Stefan looked for her.

  There was no sign of him in the hall, but the front door was open. Girls were beginning to run out into the dark and none of the teachers attempted to bring them back. They stood as if hypnotized over the remains of their headmistress. The golden pillar of the harp had fallen on her chest. Could she still be breathing?

  ‘Oh, where is the doctor?’ cried Mademoiselle Vincent.

  Fräulein Zeebrugge groaned, coming round from her faint, and was pulled out of the way by her legs.

  Annika was getting desperate. If Stefan had gone . . . if he had already been turned away . . . Then she remembered that she was supposed to say she felt sick and make her way to the cloakroom, but when she reached it, there were girls ahead of her, gulping cold water from the tap, talking excitedly.

  But now a figure stepped out from behind a pillar.

  ‘Oh, Stefan!’ she sobbed.

  And he put his arms round her and said, ‘It’s all right, Annika, it’s all right.’

  The harp case was where he had left it, but Stefan ignored it. Ragnar Hairybreeks’s day was done. For what was happening in Grossenfluss was a riot, a break-out, as more and more of the girls rushed out into the night, shouting, dancing, vanishing between the trees – and were not pursued. As surely as the walls of Jericho had fallen to Joshua’s trumpet, so the gates of Grossenfluss had fallen to the death cries of Professor Gertrude’s harp.

  ‘Come on,’ said Stefan, and he took Annika’s hand and ran out with her to the carriage where Ellie waited.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  STEFAN CONFESSES

  ‘She’s back,’ said the lady in the paper shop, handing a copy of the Vienna News to the cab driver who had come in from the rank for his morning paper.

  ‘Annika’s back,’ said Josef, bringing a jug of coffee to Father Anselm, who always had his breakfast in the cafe.

  ‘Have you heard? Annika’s come home,’ said the old flower seller, tying up bunches of sweet peas.

  The postman knew; so did the milkman. The stallholders in the market had sent a basket of fresh fruit. The little Bodek boys trotted back and forth with messages of goodwill. Though the Eggharts were still away, their maid Mitzi called in daily for bulletins.

  But Annika slept. She lay under the white duvet in her attic, and slept as deeply as if she had been enchanted and the professors’ house was ringed by a hedge of thorns.

  It was the old family doctor, called out to Annika after she had been carried up to her bed, who had come up with a phrase which was a godsend to those who were protecting Annika.

  ‘She has nervous exhaustion,’ he had said. ‘She’s to be kept absolutely quiet. Don’t tell her anything; just let her rest.’

  The phrase ‘nervous exhaustion’ travelled round the square. No one knew what it was, but it sounded serious and kept visitors at bay.

  It was three days since Annika had been rescued from Grossenfluss. The first time she woke she sat up, terrified, thinking she was still back at the school. Then she felt the warmth of her duvet and saw the familiar bars of light through her shutters.

  She was safe; she was home – and she let her head fall back on to the pillow.

  When she woke again, she knew where she was in an instant and remembered everything. She had run away and defied her mother. Soon now she would have to face the consequences.

  But just as she began to be anxious, Ellie came in with a tray. A croissant warm from the oven, fresh raspberry juice, a poached egg in a glass.

  ‘You’re to stay quiet,’ she said. ‘You’re not to get up yet.’

  And all that day, and the next, whenever Annika started to fret, Ellie appeared as if by magic with chicken soup, a ripe peach or a piece of milk-bread spread with butter.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ she’d say, whenever Annika started to ask questions – and Annika did. She had not been told yet that Zed was in Vienna; she knew nothing about the suspicions surrounding her mother or that the jewels in Fräulein Egghart’s trunk were real.

  And while she slept, her friends waited.

  For Zed, the waiting was hard. He was still sleeping in the bookshop and working in the professors’ house, but he was anxious to be on his way. The image of the two men in their brown uniforms haunted him. He only took out Rocco at night, and he was packed and ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Yet he could not bring himself to go without saying goodbye to Annika.

  Pauline too found waiting difficult. She had looked up ‘nervous exhaustion’ in the medical dictionary and she did not think much of it.

  ‘I don’t really want to have a friend to whom one has to bring soup,’ she said to Ellie when she met her going upstairs with yet another tray. ‘Soup is for old ladies.’

  Though he too was waiting for Annika to wake, Stefan kept away from the professors’ house. The journey back from Grossenfluss with Professor Gertrude and the shattered, bloodstained remnants of her golden harp had not been happy, and since her return she had stayed in her room and brooded.

  The harp was not insured, and the men who had made it for her said it could not possibly be mended. In any case, who would want to play a harp to which pieces of the headmistress’s unpleasant skin and hair had stuck? Because of Stefan’s clumsiness Professor Gertrude – who had owned the most exotic and expensive harp in Vienna – was back to playing the old pedal harp she had had for fifteen years.

  It was true that the tone of her old harp was very beautiful – after all this time, the sounding board had curved gently so as to give the special resonance that old instruments acquire. And it was true, too, that her old harp was easier to take to concerts and made it possible for her to move more freely round her room. All the same, she could not bring herself to speak to Stefan and he was banished from the house.

  Then on the third day after her return from Grossenfluss, Professor Gertrude crept up to Annika’s attic and opened the door. As she tiptoed over to the bed, Annika woke and suddenly sat up.

  ‘It was dark plum jam,’ she said – and her voice was full of joy. ‘That’s what I couldn’t remember, for the stuffing!’

  Then her head fell back and in an instant she was asleep again.

  That afternoon Professor Gertrude sent for Stefan.

  ‘I wondered if you had anything to tell me about the . . . accident,’ she said to the boy who stood before her.

  Stefan cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he sa
id, summoning up his courage. ‘It wasn’t an accident. I did it on purpose.’

  The professor nodded. ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘You know? How? When?’ Stefan could not believe his ears. ‘When did you . . . ?’

  ‘Not at first. I was too distressed – but soon afterwards. I have known you since you were a few weeks old and you have never been a clumsy boy.’ She stopped for a moment, looking him up and down. ‘There are children who don’t know – “push” from “pull”, but you’re not one of them. I understand you have been troubled in your mind, so I wanted to tell you that you did right.’

  ‘It was because of Annika,’ he stammered. ‘I thought once they knew we weren’t meant to be there we’d be turned out without a chance to get to her. The only thing seemed to be to make a diversion and hope—’ He broke off. ‘I’d have done anything to get Annika out.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the professor. ‘You did right. It was the most expensive instrument I’ve ever owned and it can’t be mended – but you did right to push it down the stairs.’

  In the end it was Rocco who got Annika out of bed.

  ‘I keep hearing Rocco whinnying,’ she said restlessly to Ellie. ‘Even in my sleep I hear him. They say all horses sound the same, but it isn’t true.’

  Ellie made up her mind. ‘It is Rocco,’ she said.

  And she told Annika about Zed’s journey and that they were sure he hadn’t taken her trunk, but she said nothing about Frau von Tannenberg.

  ‘Well, if he didn’t, I don’t care who did,’ said Annika. ‘Who cares about a trunk of old clothes?’

  Ten minutes later she was dressed and out in the stable yard .

  ‘He remembers you,’ said Zed, as Rocco rubbed his head against Annika’s arm.

  ‘I certainly remember him,’ said Annika. ‘Oh, I can’t believe you’re here and Rocco’s here; it’s like magic, finding you in Vienna.’

  She had forgotten her fears, and her fatigue. Seeing Zed when she thought he was gone forever made everything right. Now she said, ‘You’re staying here, aren’t you, Zed? You’re staying in Vienna? Ellie says you can find plenty of odd jobs to do and the professors don’t mind stabling Rocco.’

  ‘Annika, I can’t.’ Zed had turned his face away so that she did not see how much he minded the thought of leaving. ‘I have to go and find the gypsies. We could be in trouble here, Rocco and I, if I stay.’

  ‘But why? What sort of trouble?’

  ‘There were two men – special police I think, or informers. They saw me when I was riding Rocco in the Prater and they kept staring at me and they wrote things down in their notebooks. And I saw one of them again; when I was teaching Rocco to do a collected trot on that piece of waste ground behind the museum, and I was sure he was going to come up to me, but someone came and talked to him and I got away.’ He paused, rubbing Rocco’s neck. ‘You’ve got to remember, Annika, I stole Rocco. The Master bought him for Hermann, not for me. The police must have been told to look out for me – and if Rocco is taken back to Spittal he’ll be sold to anyone who wants him, and I’ve got to see that doesn’t happen. I chose Rocco when he was a foal – and I suppose I chose him again when I took him away. Maybe stealing is a kind of choosing.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to go to prison.’

  ‘Yes, I see. But couldn’t you just stay a little longer? I want to know about your journey. And I want to show you Vienna. You have to go on the Giant Wheel in the Prater, and down the Danube in a paddle boat – Oh, a lot of things.’ And as Zed remained silent. ‘Please, Zed?’

  ‘I wanted to see that you were all right and you are, but now I must go.’

  ‘Just for a few more days?’ she pleaded. ‘No one will find Rocco in our backyard.’

  ‘It isn’t that I want to go, Annika. Everyone has been so kind – everyone. I haven’t had a home since the Master died . . . Well, never mind all that. I’ll stay till the end of the week but no longer than that. And all right, we’ll all go on the Giant Wheel. I suppose no one is allowed to leave Vienna without going on that!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE EMPTYING SCHOOL

  The headmistress’s bedroom on the first floor of Grossenfluss had been turned into a hospital. The lower legs of the four-poster bed rested on two upended iron cauldrons so that the blood, when it reached the principal’s feet, would be sure to return to her head. Large bronze cylinders of oxygen were propped up against the walls, rubber tubes and kidney bowls and syringes were piled on the bedside table. Fräulein von Donner’s leg was in plaster and hung from a pulley on the ceiling; there was a splint on her broken nose, one arm was bandaged.

  She had pinned the Order of the Closed Fist to the collar of her flannel nightdress, and she was eating a pork chop.

  The pork chop was slightly burnt and this was because it had been cooked by the principal’s faithful secretary, the eel-like Mademoiselle Vincent, and the reason for this was simple. There had been twenty maids in the kitchens and sculleries of Grossenfluss and now there were only two.

  Nor was it necessary to tell the girls to be quiet outside the door of the sickroom because the corridor was almost empty of pupils, and every hour or so a carriage drew up and yet another nobly born lady or gentleman came to fetch their daughter home.

  For Stefan, when he let the harp fall on to the headmistress, had started something which was not yet finished. Single-handedly, he had brought about the downfall of the school. It had begun slowly, like the fall of the harp itself, but now, a week later, it was almost complete.

  Annika was not the only girl who had escaped that night. In the uproar and pandemonium three other girls had run away. The mushroom-hating Minna and the silent Flosshilde reached their homes safely and were not returned. A big, good-natured girl called Marta was hidden by a farmer, fell in love with his son and decided to stay.

  But even the girls who did not escape had suddenly gone mad. The sight of the headmistress enmeshed in the strings and splintered woodwork of the harp seemed to undo years of fear. Some of the girls, herded into the chapel to pray for the principal’s recovery, stood up and burst into a hymn of praise to God for smiting her. Olga slid down the banisters, whooping with joy, followed by her friends, and none of the teachers stopped them. In fact the day after the accident two of the teachers left suddenly, and the day after that, three more.

  Perhaps it was the servants who did most to end the tyranny of Grossenfluss. They came out of the kitchens and gave out food to the girls who had been hungry for so long: loaves of bread were tossed into dormitories; bags of dried fruit were emptied into outstretched hands.

  Then the police were called in, but for those wishing to restore the old order this was a mistake. The police had notes on the case of pupil 126. They had not been allowed to investigate the girl’s death properly; they had been told it was an accident and sent away, but they had not believed it. Now, with Fräulein von Donner out of the way, they took statements from the maids and from the pupils who were left. The old princess received a visit from a government minister. By the end of the week no one doubted that the school would have to close.

  And all the time, Fräulein von Donner lay helplessly in her bed and raged. The pork chops poor Mademoiselle Vincent brought became smaller and more burnt; the corridors became increasingly empty. Only the sound of the carriages on the gravel as the parents came for their daughters broke the silence.

  ‘I can’t see anyone,’ Fräulein von Donner said as the days passed and the storm clouds gathered. ‘Don’t let anyone in. I’m too ill . . . I’m in pain.’

  But there was one parent who took no notice of the principal’s bleats or the shooing-away movements of Mademoiselle Vincent. Frau Edeltraut von Tannenberg’s knock on the door was brief, she entered the room like a battleship with all flags flying – and behind her, his duelling scar throbbing with unease, came Oswald.

  The news that Annika was missing from Grossenfluss was waiting for Edeltraut when she and Oswald returned fro
m Switzerland. It caused them great distress.

  ‘We must get her back at once, Oswald. This could be very serious. If the Vienna people get hold of her we could be in trouble. I don’t think Annika went on believing that Zed took the trunk – if she should start asking questions again, or those wretched professors. The place is full of lawyers . . . and those ghastly Eggharts.’

  ‘I wonder how she did it,’ mused Oswald. ‘Got out, I mean. Grossenfluss is supposed to be like a fortress.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how she did it,’ snapped Edeltraut. ‘She must be brought back and we must keep her close all the time. Remember how that jeweller looked at us in Switzerland? Not Zwingli, the other one. The one who said it was unusual for a child to sign away her rights like that.’

  So now, storming into the principal’s room, she went on the attack at once.

  ‘Do I understand that my daughter – my daughter – whom I entrusted to your care, has run away?’

  ‘We don’t know if she has run away,’ said the headmistress. ‘She seemed very happy here and she was settling in well.’

  ‘Well, what do you suggest happened?’ demanded Frau von Tannenberg.

  The principal lifted herself higher on her pillow. ‘We think she may have been kidnapped,’ she said. ‘Perhaps by someone who knew of the good fortune that has come to your family of late.’

  ‘What good fortune?’ said Edeltraut angrily. ‘I hope nobody has been gossiping about the affairs of Spittal. And in any case we would have received a ransom note and we have heard nothing. Nothing at all. We returned from Switzerland to get your letter and that was the first we heard that Annika was not safe and sound.’

  She took out her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

  ‘What exactly happened?’ asked Oswald.

  ‘We would like to know precisely when she disappeared, and how,’ said Edeltraut. ‘Every detail of that tragic day.’

  ‘Well, it was the day of my accident. I was seriously injured, and needless to say the staff and the girls were very concerned. For a few hours they were running about, fetching doctors, carrying me to my room . . . nobody had time to think of anything else. I was very nearly killed.’