by Alma Boykin
Map: Austria-Hungary-Czechoslovakia, ca. 1919
I will lift up mine eyes ...
1: Domestic Bliss (and Diapers)
2: When Chaos Threatens
3: Summer in the Mountains
4: The Mountains
5: A Meeting of the Houses
6: Turnip Winter
7: Turnips and Turmoil
8: Old Acquaintances
9: The Tide Turns?
10: So Close and So Far
11: Straining at the Seams
12: When the Commonweal Crumbles
13: The Four Horsemen Ride
14: Bite and Hold
15: Prayer and Supplication
16: Of Maps and Anger
About the Author
The Powers
The Colplatschki Chronicles
The Cat Among Dragons Series
Publication Details
(For copyright information, ISBN, and other editions, please see Publication Details.)
Levavi oculos meos in montes, unde veniet auxilium mihi. Auxilium meum a Domino, qui fecit caelum et terram.
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. My help comes from the lord, who made Heaven and Earth.
“I am coming to believe that ‘perfidious Albion’ is a profound understatement,” Jószef Mátyás Eszterházy said, folding the newspaper with great care before hurling it across the small office.
His older brother, Count István Eszterházy, watched the flying foolscap hit the floor before turning to the next page in the ledger. He did not enjoy the minutia of the House’s forestry and lumber business, but he needed to know the latest numbers. And it kept his mind out of the town palace across the river in Buda, where his wife was in labor. “What foolishness are they propounding now?”
“More about German atrocities and the rights of Italians to be free of the shackles of the tottering Habsburg Empire.” Both brothers looked up at the picture of Emperor Karl Josef and his wife Sonja, displayed next to a statue of St. Florian, the patron saint of firefighters.
“And no word at all, I take it, about their treatment of the Irish when they asked for religious freedom and self-rule within the British Empire.” István turned another ledger page, read a little, and backed up. “I though we’d sold this.”
Mátyás leaned forward to see what István was pointing to. “We did. They can’t make the payments so they defaulted. Their manager also swears that when the great Romanian nation takes back with is rightfully theirs, they will own it anyway, but they are graciously allowing us to manage it for them until then.” He sat back and ran a hand through his borderline-shaggy brown hair.
István shook his head and sat back as well. He’d inherited their father’s lean features, softened a little by his maternal side, medium brown hair with a touch of dark brown in it, and the lean but solid build of a horseman. At the moment his eyes appeared brownish-green, masking their true amber color and slit pupils. Mátyás resembled their mother, but with their grandfather’s heavier build. “They’d do better complaining to the Avars and Slavs about the loss of Transylvania rather than whining about the Magyars and Székely and Saxons. We’ve owned Transylvania for the last seven hundred years.”
“Shall I call in Cousin Imre to correct you?” Mátyás winked.
“Do you want to be here this time tomorrow, waiting for him to finish?” Their weathercock of a cousin had a fondness for causes. At the moment he leaned toward Romantic Nationalism, although he’d probably flip back to Social Democracy before Easter, István suspected. “Because I don’t.”
“No, thank you. I like my dinners and suppers, such as they are. How’s Barbara?”
“In labor. I was ordered out of the house until three.” He sighed. “Mother seems to forget that this is not our first child.” Given the toll the ongoing food rationing was taking on everyone, perhaps some caution was appropriate. Just not this much.
Mátyás made a half strangled sound, probably a stifled laugh, as he struggled to look properly sympathetic. Neither brother cared to add anything more and they went back to their work. Dowager Countess Marie still blamed István for their father’s premature death the previous autumn. Wartime stress, too many cigars, and a long fever as a child had probably contributed more to Janos’s fatal heart attack, but the subject remained taboo within the family.
Speaking of taboo, István though a while later, as he picked the Budapest conservative paper up off the floor. Unlike its Viennese counterpart, the editors here kept a supply of pre-approved filler pieces on hand to prevent blank spaces when the censors stopped something at the last minute. Even so, some days it took close reading to sort out the well-meaning chaff from the wheat. Not today, however. István read the latest news from the southern front with growing unease. The Italians were screaming about digging out bodies in places where the Austrians had triggered avalanches in the passes to keep them out during the winter fighting. Well, yes, that’s what happens when you march under cornices in February in someone else’s mountains. That the Italians simultaneously denied that any of their soldiers could possibly have attempted to infiltrate the Austrian borders was, of course, immaterial now that the Italian government thought it had something to use against the “evil, tyrannical” Austrians.
The next page held what István was looking for. He ran his finger down the column as he read through the latest revisions to the rationing lists. The few that he found wouldn’t affect his family too much, although some of the House members might need assistance given the stricter meat limits. We were so fortunate that the military’s command to kill all the pigs in order to save grain was rescinded after only a week. What stupidity! Once again István wondered how much damage General Conrad von Hötzendorf and his pets would have done if then-Crown Prince Josef Karl had not relieved him of his command and ordered Archduke Thomas to take over administration of the imperial military. If the initial rail chaos and dealings with the press were any indication, the Russians would have been in Budapest by now, the Serbs would own Croatia, and Conrad would probably have found a way to alienate the general population even more than had already happened. As it was, the Entente’s propaganda was inspiring trouble. And now the Social Democrats had resumed their foolish muttering about strikes and land reform and breaking-up the empire. István’s stomach growled. Who needed propaganda when food was in short supply? That was improving—slowly, but improving. At least for now. If this year’s harvest was poor . . . He preferred not to think that far into the future.
István made himself work through two p.m., approving timber and lumber sales, and signing three lease agreements. He rejected an especially bad contract offer, even though it was supposedly with the army. He re-read the pages for a third time, frowning, eyebrows so drawn in that they touched in the middle. Something about the contract smelled wrong. István parsed the clauses and payment lists again. That was it, there, in the payment and storage section—an unusual, and large, handling and administration fee listed in with the other reductions in payment. Who on earth approved that? The army has never had that before. István flipped to the second page and skimmed through the list of approvals. “T.G. Lt. Colonel,” he said under his breath. His blood went hot, then icy cold. Tisza Georg, the man responsible for the injury that had ended István’s cavalry career, among other things. He was still skimming and scheming, it seemed.
“I’m done.” István got up and reached for his topcoat and hat. Mátyás returned from the WC, limping heavily as usual. “I’m going home. Walking.”
Mátyás stayed in the doorway. “I’m not certain that’s safe. There are rumors of a strike call for today.
And you’ve had trouble before, not just from crazy old women, either, my lord.” He spoke as a businessman and House member, not just as brother.
István bowed his head, acknowledging the warning. “I will be very careful. And I suspect I’m a much less interesting target on foot than I would be in the carriage.” He buttoned his coat and put on his hat, adding, “Or one of his Grace the Archduke’s motorcars.”
Mátyás rolled his eyes at the last comment and stepped out of the way. “That House must require having one of those in every generation.”
“I’m inclined to think so. His grace certainly lives up to the tales.” Or down to them, in his own way. Although if I had three Powers in my head every waking moment, I’d probably be more than a little touched myself.
For a March day, the air felt remarkably warm and dry as István set out. The House’s business office sat at the edge of the commercial district in south-central Pest, not far from the Great Market Hall. Traffic, both on wheels and on foot, seemed to be normal, and he sensed no strange moods in the air as he walked. He heard a few people shouting from downstream when he reached the foot of the Elizabeth Bridge by the church, but nothing troublesome. Closer to the water he noticed men pulling a boat in by hand, calling the rhythm. He nodded and pulled his coat collar a little tighter. The wind felt out of the north and would be fierce on the bridge.
“What’s a young man like you doing out of the army?” The voice came from behind István. He glanced over his shoulder, ready to ignore the speaker, until he saw the uniform. István sighed to himself and pulled his papers out of his pocket. He opened the leather folder and stepped out of the stream of foot traffic. The major bustled up, puffing with his own importance. “I said why are you not in the Army.”
István held out his documents. The major ignored them. “I have the right to arrest you for failure to report,” he said, crowding István.
“No, you do not.” István summoned every bit of “arrogant nobleman” in his repertoire. “I am honorably medically discharged, Major, and you are out of proper uniform.”
“Who are you to tell me anything, civilian scum?” The man snarled, his face too close to István’s—close enough that the beer and sausages on his breath made his target’s eyes water.
A second voice, from behind and to István’s right, called, “Good afternoon, my lord Colonel! Well met, my lord.” The major backed up by a step as a broad-shouldered man, grey haired but hale, walked up. He raised one hand in greeting before he bowed slightly, showing the muscles in his arm in the process.
“What do you mean by disrupting an officer of His Majesty’s army?”
István held his papers ten centimeters from the officious fool’s nose. “I am retired Colonel Count István Eszterházy, currently assigned to His Grace the Archduke’s staff. And you are drunk, as well as out of order, and are the second worst example of an officer that I have had the displeasure to encounter.” He read the man’s insignia and stripes and smiled. “And your commanding officer happens to be my brother-in-law’s uncle. I suggest you go back to your office and sober up before I report you personally.”
Dobroslav, the messenger standing beside István, smiled as well. The major gulped, blanched, and began to retreat as a quiet growl rose from the rapidly gathering audience of interested bystanders. The major spluttered something and fled, puffing and wheezing. “I believe I know where all those missing rations went that the police were searching for in the warehouses,” Dobroslav observed loudly to István—and to the crowd. Snickers, and a call of “and last month’s as well,” followed the fool across the bridge and back into Pest.
István hid his growing agitation and anger at both the major and the crowd. Instead he smiled, easing out of people’s way until he and Dobroslav got clear and could pick up their pace over the remaining length of the bridge. “Thank you. What news?”
“Your lady wife is doing well, my lord Colonel, and asked for me to bring you home. Lady Marie is resting comfortably.” A tickle of laughter underlay Dobroslav’s words and István turned a chuckle into a cough.
When the war was over, he absolutely had to have a telephone installed in the house in Buda. They should have gotten one long before, but his father hadn’t seen the need since Mátyás handled all the business and lived in Pest anyway. István added telephones to his growing list of things to do later. “That is all good to hear. Thank you.” Both men kept a careful watch around them for the rest of the walk, but neither saw nor heard trouble. István let himself relax once they got off the main road and turned into the rows of town palaces and small mansions at the foot of Buda Hill. The church bells rang three, and István glanced up to the palace atop the ancient fortress hill. Last and sweetest, at least to István’s ears, the bells from King Mátyás’s church pealed their song.
Once inside the outer gates of the house, both men relaxed. Dobroslav’s eyes shifted color to indigo. István took that to mean that the doctor had already gone, and indeed, he didn’t see the man’s small pony trap in the courtyard. István took the steps to the main entrance two at a time, as always avoiding the place where Janos had collapsed. The carved wooden door opened. Ferenk, the butler, bowed him inside before taking István’s hat and topcoat. “Your lady wife is in her chamber,” he said.
István moved more carefully on the wood and carpet, taking his time up the steps to the second floor. He walked quietly down the hall, tapped on the green-painted door, and waited to hear “Come in.” He opened the door just a few centimeters, only enough to squeeze in without letting out the heat. Both the firewood and coal rations had been trimmed recently.
Barbara lay in bed, very tired but smiling. Rose, the younger nurse, rocked Imre in his cradle. Magda, the senior nurse, presented István with a small bundle that wiggled one tiny pink hand. “My lord, your daughter.”
He should have felt disappointed, unhappy about having a girl rather than another boy to ensure the succession. Instead, relief and bright joy filled István as he took the bundle. Erzsébet Marie Margaret Sonja Rosenberg-Eszterházy yawned and wiggled a little as he smiled down on her. István returned his daughter to Magda and crossed the room, perching on the edge of Barbara’s bed. He took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you, my lady, my love.” He kissed her lips and caressed her hand.
“You are welcome. She’s beautiful.”
“Yes, she is. Just like her mother.”
Barbara smiled at the flattery, yawned, and closed her eyes. Like her daughter, she wiggled a little before falling asleep. István brushed a few threads of sweat-soaked hair away from her forehead, kissed his wife once more, then let her sleep in peace.
He stood and asked quietly, “How is she?”
Magda set the newcomer into a woven basket beside the bed and frowned a little, beckoning with one finger and drawing István away from his sleeping wife and children. “Very tired, my lord. It is not really my place to comment on the ways of man and wife, my lord, but Lady Barbara appears to be one of those women who does better with more rest between children. The delivery, although shorter than her first, took more from her.” The wrinkled woman’s expression softened a little. “But this has been a hungry and trying time, my lord, and that no doubt did not help.”
“No, the strain of the fall and winter did not help, and I am grateful for your counsel and assistance. You and Miss Rose.” He’d raised both their salaries to the legal limit, taking funds from his personal account to do so. “I will let all of you rest.” Even he knew better than to linger in the birthing room. He was, after all, a mere male.
István changed clothes, assisted by Szombor Attila, his valet. “Should the rest of the staff not know already,” a most unlikely prospect, he chuckled silently, “you may tell them that Lady Barbara and her daughter Erzsébet are both well and resting.”
“Excellent news, my lord. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
István went to the ground floor, where his private office waited in undil
uted masculine splendor. He found coffee—good coffee—waiting, and smiled. Apparently the staff knew the news already and had decided to celebrate. A month had passed since he’d had real coffee, made strong with a touch of cream and genuine sugar. He also allowed himself a cigarette. He really did not like giving up smoking, but with the emperor setting the example by enduring the wartime austerities, at least in public, István felt obliged to do likewise.
And things were getting better, he reminded himself as he blew a long stream toward the smoke-darkened ceiling. The Imperial Army had recaptured Galicia, all but the eastern strip, in time to get in and plant some spring wheat and other grains. As close as things had been in the fall of 1914, István still marveled at what the army had managed to do. They’d even run the Russians back out of Poland, although that seemed to be a mixed blessing, since now it left the Austrians and Germans with the Poles. “Thank you very much, now get out,” seemed to be all that the Polish politicians, or would-be politicians, could say. The peasants just bowed and endured, as they had for the past thousand years. But even with the empire feeding the Germans as well as itself, things had improved, at least for now. At least until Russia coordinates an attack with Romania, the Serbian die-hards, and Italy, István thought, glowering at the map on the wall. The French were screaming for Russia to do something after the Germans almost grabbed Verdun in February, and the Russian response had been a disaster—for the Russians. They needed revenge.
Which brought him back to the bridge and that disgraceful excuse for a major. István drummed the fingers of his free hand on the top of his desk as he replayed the scene in his mind. It was one thing for him, Col. Eszterházy, to reprimand the man and send him back to his unit with his tail between his legs. It was quite another for the workers, women, and others on the bridge to attack as well. That boded ill for the reputation of the army and the respect people had for the military in general. Creatures like him do more harm than ten Russians do, István grumbled. Like the mess with Viennese Hofrats, with their special shops and ration cards. His Majesty did well to terminate those, despite the grumbling. After some thought, and after finishing both his smoke and the coffee, István decided that Archduke Rudolph needed to be made aware of the incident.