by Alma Boykin
At his words, several of the other men made rude faces, and István almost smiled. Almost. “Turnips fill bellies, gentlemen, and we have turnips. Germany has turnips. We do not have potatoes or enough grain.” Even with what we’ve requisitioned from Romania.
“We need more manure from the cities,” Gabor began. “That will make a start, and any extra will help, even if the Hamsters eat the produce. And we need to expand the winter wheat and rye. Rye is not as good as manure, but it will help keep the wheat from ruining the soil for a few years, or so my farm manager claims.”
“And rye we have in plenty, thanks to Poland and Galicia. That much the Russians missed this summer,” István noted.
“And we need to stop those idiots from killing for veal,” Mecier snapped.
“What?”
“Who is making veal?”
“That’s not allowed anymore!”
Zoltan Széchenyi raised one hand for silence. “It is not supposed to happen, but it is. I have seen veal for sale myself, at a butcher who was holding it back for ‘special clients.’ Yes, the police stopped him and forced him to sell the meat to card holders, but someone had to sell the calf.”
“I wonder if they sold the calf for veal so they could have more milk to sell in the cities,” Müller said. “Butter smuggling and cash sales have been reported in Vienna and Pilzen, my lords.”
Three years before, the words would have made István laugh at the folly of the very idea. Now it sounded all too much like what he’d read of the sieges in the Middle Ages and Thirty Years’ War, when rat meat passed for a delicacy. He shuddered at the very thought. “It is certainly possible. My cook has reported hearing rumors about secret sales, although nothing ever came of what he heard.”
“We need to change the law to allow farms to consolidate,” a new voice said. István looked past Zoltan to Imre Lovász. The plainsman looked back, his round face placid as he continued. “Larger farms are more efficient. I know you want to redistribute the land, my lord Széchenyi, but it is the larger, more developed farms that are producing the most per hectare. Inheritances are splitting the small farmstoo quickly, so allow for block inheritance and consolidation among heirs, my lords, gentlemen.” The lawyer picked up a page and waved it. “You can see it yourself. And His Majesty has been talking about unifying the law codes, as much as is practical.”
“But that’s for mineral and crownland holdings, not inheritance,” Gabor protested. “Inheritance is different and should be. And the peasants will vote Wilson for Emperor before they tolerate the idea of not giving something to each son.”
“They’re already dodging the laws as it is,” Széchenyi said. He sounded tired and he rested his head on one hand, elbow planted on the table. “They want larger holdings, especially if they can take them from the rest of us.”
Or keep more of their harvest, but now is not the time to even consider that idea, since the army is already paying top crown, mark, and shilling as it is. The Russian and Alföld peasants would rather watch all of Budapest, Pressberg, Vienna, and Prague starve than sell their grain below the highest price they could wrangle. Or so István had to assume.
Talk shifted to other topics, and István wondered if the House’s farmers would consider trying to open more land in the forests. Probably not, and they’d need to terrace and do all sorts of leveling that vineyards and timber stands did not require. He did make a note to allow more foraging, if the foresters agreed. Acorns could be eaten, if it came to that. And if we starve the boars out, I suspect few of my people will shed any tears—although I’ll miss the hunts. And the good Lord knew, wild pigs and boars seemed to emerge from the very ground if you turned your back on a sow.
Come December, István wondered if his mother were the best off of all of them. She no longer worried about the present or future. They’d found her staring into space one morning early in the month, still abed. When she came to herself, she inquired about a cousin who had died before István was born. Barbara and Lady Marie’s maid put her off and distracted her, but . . .
“I am sorry, my lord,” Mistress Nagy said three days later. “Something shifted in her brain, blocking the proper blood flow, or so I suspect. Her memory and sense of time and place will not return.”
István took the news with a quiet sense of dread. “Thank you. I take it this may be the beginning of the small losses that you mentioned this spring?”
“Yes, my lord. If you can keep her within the family, I believe it would be better for her. The endowed foundations and refuges—” She broke off, but her hand gesture and small sigh-like exhalation told István more than he cared to know. A fixed endowment income might as well be no income at all when prices rose, no matter what resources the foundation might otherwise have, or how well-intentioned the Sisters working there might be.
“Thank you,” he repeated. He didn’t want to know, but he needed to. “How long until her mind is completely lost?”
Mistress Nagy shook her head. “I do not know. She is otherwise healthy, so it could be several years. Or something could break or shift overnight. Even Healers have limits to our knowledge.”
István ducked a little at the polite reminder and rejoinder. “Then I will pray and hope for the best, so long as she is not in distress.”
The household shifted a little. A young woman from the House, Jirina, arrived the next Saturday, carrying a battered rucksack and a letter of recommendation. “Mistress Nagy asked my mother to send me,” the slight, fair-haired girl said. “My father is with God and there are six of us to feed, and I have some skill with caring for the sick.”
István reached for her mind and found that she could hear telepathic comments, although she could not send. What she could do instead was project a telepathic shield. Based on that alone, István and Barbara decided that Jirina needed to stay. “She can help with Lady Marie, and perhaps with the children as well, when I’m too tired,” Barbara said. “Imre’s Gift is still weak, and even Mistress Nagy is not certain what Gifts Erzsébet will show. But if that changes . . .”
“Once again I bow to your wisdom,” István told her, kissing her free hand. Lady Marie’s maid, Clara, seemed a little unhappy with the arrangement. That is, until Lady Marie swept in, took one look at Jirie, and exclaimed, “Tadea! How good of you to come. How is your mother?”
“She is quite well, my lady, and sends her regards,” Jirie said, dropping a small curtsey.
That evening Barbara snuggled against István in their bed and explained, “Your mother thinks Jirie is Tadea Arlescu, the granddaughter of someone she went to school with. Jirie has taken it with grace, and Clara seems willing to play along as well. Jirie is very good with a needle—better than I am—and she can knit, as well as doing a little fine work.”
István kissed the top of her head. She smelled tired, but so did everyone in the house, and House. “I remember Jirie now. Her father was Arpad Nyitrai, one of the under-foresters from the north slope, the Moravian side. He died in the Russian prisoner camps last year, or so the Red Cross says. Her mother is a Nagy on her father’s side, so Jirie is a distant cousin-in-law of Mistress Nagy.” István closed his eyes, feeling guilty again, just as he had when he’d first realized who Jirie’s father was. I should have done more when I learned of Arpad’s death, but no, I was too worried about Barbara and Erzsébet to do anything.
“She can read and write some, so she is helping Lady Marie with her correspondence as well. She has a lovely hand, despite not going to school.”
Her words didn’t penetrate until the next morning. Once they did, István locked himself in the downstairs parlor cum reception room, settled into the most comfortable chair, and closed his eyes. He reached for the House, sending inquiries out to the members he could reach, asking them to pass his question along, then accepting the replies as they came. He didn’t emerge from his trance until shortly after noon, when he found a tranquil Lady Marie and slightly puzzled Jirie winding pieces of old cloth into a ball. H
e heard his mother saying, “He is doing House Head business, and will be finished soon.”
The young lady’s slightly pursed lips and lowered brows suggested that she doubted Lady Marie, but she said, “Of course, my lady,” and continued winding the cloth ball. István remained where he was until absolutely certain that all of his mind had returned to the here-and-now. He would have to check with the House later, to hear more of the replies to his query, but what he’d gathered revealed that Miss Jirie’s situation was all too common, even within the House.
“I am finished for the moment, Mater,” István said, or tried to. He coughed, repeated the words, and levered himself out of the chair, which creaked in warning at the assault on its construction. Apparently Barbara or his factor had chosen it for appearance, not sturdiness.
He returned to his office and paced. He should have known that the House was not prepared to care for so many widows and orphans, but what he’d seen revealed that the House had failed a goodly number of it’s members. House Sárkány had tried, István knew, but venison and foraging permission did not mean much to a mother with six mouths to feed and no husband. Or worse, those whose fathers and brothers are prisoners of war in Russia. They do not even get the small death benefit, since there is no proof of the man’s death, and no wage because he is off the front lines. István shook his head, wishing he could be back on the front lines himself. And wishing that his father still lived, available to give advice, or to take back these many responsibilities.
By supper time, István had finished his list of widows and orphans. He looked at the long row of names and tried to remind himself that House Sárkány suffered very little compared to some others. The empire had lost almost three hundred thousand men since June, and most of those had come from outside the Houses. But it did not help. When will this war end?
“Do you have to go to Vienna?” Barbara asked. Erzsébet fussed in her cradle and Barbara turned, rocked their daughter, then picked her up to pet and cuddle. “Teething fever again,” she explained.
“Ah. And yes, my love, I do. Archduke Thomas’s successor . . . I shouldn’t have been surprised by the death notice, but I do not think anyone anticipated this.”
Barbara swayed back and forth as the baby whimpered. “How old was his grace?”
“Eighty five.”
Her eyes bulged with surprise and she stopped swaying. Erzsébet started crying again and Barbara shook a little, swaying once more. “Blessed St. Michael. I though he was in his sixties.”
István nodded. “I suspect he thought he was in his 60s as well, even though he was Franz Josef’s youngest brother. No,” he caught himself. “He was a cousin on the paternal line. But raised in the imperial household in Vienna, so he seemed more like a brother than a cousin.” Which explained why Franz Josef had not trusted him with the army at first, even though he’d done very well in Italy in 1867. Never a brother or nephew in command, that was the Habsburg rule, which was how we almost ended up with Conrad in charge of the war. “I don’t know what’s more impressive. That he lived so long, or that he died with all his teeth and perfect vision.”
Barbara smiled and shook her head. “I’d say teeth.” The baby seemed to have fallen asleep, and she set the little bundle back in the cradle. As she did, her shawl slipped a little, giving her husband a glimpse of white skin and breast. István looked away, trying to stop his reaction. He wanted her so much, oh but he wanted her. He’d been celibate for almost a year, and he did not care for it one bit. But he could not risk getting her pregnant, not until Erzsébet was strong enough to do well off the breast. Little Imre managed on goat milk and bits of oat biscuit, at least for now, although he seemed small and quiet compared to other babies. Magda had assured him that Imre just happened to be a calm child and not to worry, but István worried nonetheless.
Barbara interrupted his thoughts, taking his hand. “When can we go to the mountains?”
“March, my love. Not until March, because of the snow and the lack of supplies.” The wet winter continued, although not as sodden and stormy as October and November had been. The winter wheat had not rotted on the stem—not yet.
The next morning István saw the headline in the newspaper and wondered if they should go to the mountain sooner, snow or no snow. “Mayor of Vienna Murdered! Dies in his soup!” István read on, and for once the sensational headline proved correct, although how it had gotten past the censors he really had to wonder. Richard Weiskircher had been dining at one of the finer establishments in Vienna when a young man shot him. He had collapsed into his beef broth with leberknodel, a tragic waste of food in István’s opinion. Ach, stop that. If Weiskircher can be attacked, then anyone can. He was popular. That made two politicians murdered while eating—the Minister-President of Austria, Graf Karl von Stürgh, had been killed the previous fall. Unlike the earlier murder, this one appeared to be the work of a madman, because the shooter kept screaming about Weiskircher trying to kill the Pope and the Emperor, and getting secret instructions from the Italians and Americans.
István turned the paper so Barbara wouldn’t see the headline if she came to breakfast before he finished. His mother now slept until eight, thanks be, giving Jirie and Clara a little peace. Jirie served as his mother’s secretary, taking notes as Lady Marie dictated letters to friends long dead. He almost envied his mother—almost. She’d begun treating Barbara as if she were her sister and not her daughter-in-law. Occasionally Lady Marie asked where her husband was and Jiri or Barbara would assure her that he was away on House business and would return. That would satisfy her, and she would return to whatever she’d been doing or talking about. István offered another quick prayer for his family and finished the sad excuse for a meal that was his breakfast, washing down the dry rusk with a tisane. He refused to buy the mysterious compounds sold as ersatz coffee or to buy coffee on the black-market.
The next day, as his train chugged west toward Vienna, István stared out the window and wondered if there were any way to get more food for the House and for his family. Unlike many others, House Szárkány had cash reserves enough to buy additional food since most of its members escaped the highest fuel expenses. But could he? Rationing spread the pain across all the empire’s citizens and gave the most food to those who needed it: farmers, nursing mothers, small children, and war workers. The grumbling among the Hofrats in Vienna, and their colleagues in Budapest and Prague, about how the bureaucrats deserved better stirred little sympathy in István’s heart, not when his own stomach growled. Social station be hanged, the empire needed armaments and food more than forms and papers, at least until the war ended.
A few people also complained about the year’s meager pre-Lenten social season, but Emperor Josef Karl stood firm, according to the newspaper resting in István’s lap. How did he manage it, István wondered. His Majesty appeared to be walking a tightrope while juggling the nobility, the commoners, and the Houses, all while fighting the war and simultaneously trying to find a way toward peace. Although, everyone agreed, Russia seemed ready to leave the war by simply falling apart where it stood. The Tsar had taken personal command of the war effort, something even Josef Karl refused to do. And while he’d rather take orders directly from the Emperor, István knew in his bones that tying the government so tightly to the fortunes of the army would lead to nothing good. As it was, people grumbled quietly about the food-favoritism shown to the army and the lack of any gains since 1914.
They seem to forget that the enemy has a say in matters. István hid a bitter grin at the truism. Life would be easier if the British and French kept their noses out of Austrian business, but no. He’d rather deal with the blessedly predictable Russians. The damn British mouthed the American president’s lines about “self determination of nationalities” even as they shoved their colonial troops into the front lines. Just how much “self determination” did the Indian and South African men in the trenches have? Or the Irish? István knew the answer.
“I don’t care w
ho hears me. I said, I want to know why the so-called Father of the People isn’t driving the Jews back into their holes where they belong,” a shrill voice said, cutting through his reverie. István looked over the back of the seat facing him. Two rows closer to the front of the carriage, a woman in a slightly shabby hat with a black plume said, “God rest him, Franz Josef should never have let the Jews get into business. They’ll starve us to death.”
The man and younger woman sharing that set of seats murmured something that did not carry over the sound of the wheels on the rails. The black hat bobbed forward, feather shivering in rhythm with the clack-clack of the train. Then it snapped straight upright once more.
“Jews, Russians, Bohemians, all of them foreigners that his Majesty should have sent home years ago. We would not even be in this war if it were not for that nasty Slav with the Italian name who murdered poor Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his sainted wife.”
István glanced at the windowpane, half expecting it to crack from the piercing tones cutting through the first-class car. Did he want to correct the woman? Judging by the embarrassed expression on the face of the man seated across from her, her companions did not share her opinions. The smaller hat beside the speaker leaned in, as if trying to quiet the flow of disparagement before someone official took offense. István knew that he should do something, but couldn’t muster the energy. And he didn’t care to get into a fight with a woman who might well be deranged. Apparently the war had shattered the nerves of a number of high-strung ladies, or so Barbara reported that his sister Judit had heard. No, he’d let someone else deal with the woman. He watched the fields go by and stared at the enormous size of the Danube, swollen by the rains. A few minutes later, the older and younger woman walked past, probably going to the dining car. The white-haired woman muttered to herself, her eyes darting back and forth, her lips moving too fast for normal speech. Mad then, bless her soul. May St. Dymphnia take pity on her.