“He was a prophet, Tillie,” Ferenc says quietly. “He told your President Wilson, ‘I am the last European monarch of the old school.’ Now he is dead, and our empire is dying along with him.”
“So much grandeur is dying, and so much beauty,” I say.
“And yet it had many problems. Its passing makes way for other opportunities, the way that your revolution did when America became independent from England. America became a great nation with a new way of doing things.”
My noble husband, the head of one of the great houses of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, is telling me about the benefits of a republic. Perhaps even more strangely, I do not completely agree with him.
“But the Americans also lost their connection with a long history of art and culture, Ferenc. It will take many centuries to create the quality of art, of music, and of literature from which they severed themselves.”
“But they will have the freedom to create it if they so choose, Tillie.”
“And if they do not so choose?”
“Then they will choose to live as peasants, and would not in any case have appreciated those things they have lost. This is a choice.”
Marriage is indeed a mystery. It has taken time and patience, but it appears that now Ferenc can see through the eyes of my experience, and I through his.
*****
DECEMBER 1917
(ONE YEAR LATER)
Tata, Hungary
America, my homeland, has declared war on Austria-Hungary. Ferenc says that it has to do with his country’s alliance with Germany.
Of all the trials and suffering this war has brought, this is the hardest to accept. Will my countrymen come here, to my husband’s homeland, to kill people? Will his go to mine? How can this end?
Life here in Tata has steadily declined. Thankfully few actual battles have taken place on Hungarian soil and those have been at a distance from here, but our enemies have succeeded in harming us nonetheless.
To begin with, we are isolated. Since some time before this declaration of war, for close to two years, I have not been able to communicate with my family in San Jose—mail vanishes into the air. I wonder about Amelia and her family, about Joseph and Gus, and even more I fear that they worry about whether we are safe, or even still alive. I hate feeling so helpless. At least Anya has Ferenc and me, and we her—family means everything in such times as these. Only two domestic servants remain to cook, serve, and clean for the frail countess, so we help as we can with her personal and business affairs. It would be better for her financially and physically to move to one of the tenant houses, but she will not hear of it, and to compel her would demoralize her terribly. The great lady will stay in the great house, even if it is falling down around her.
Other than Anya and occasionally Earl Miklos who is now quite elderly and frail, we see almost no one. We know no other painters and very few people even with interest in the arts in this small city.
What is of far more grave concern is that we are all very hungry. Steadily hungry and increasingly hungry. I have heard that the stomach shrinks and we want less food when we eat less, and even so we are always hungry. Even the modest harvest we expected this year has been poorer than we had hoped, and the blockade keeps the most basic supplies from reaching us. A cruel war this is, in which one civilized nation attempts to starve the civilians of another. Anya’s storerooms are nearly depleted, but she has not stopped sending me to feed the townspeople in the square. As long as the few field servants, along with Ferenc and me, are able to dig in springtime, we have the heartier vegetables—onions, potatoes, and beets—enough to last the winter. The result on most days is soup, sometimes with bread from the precious store of flour. For this, each time I am tempted to complain, I give thanks.
I was serving soup in the town square last week when I saw Countess Csilla Tamás, a friend of Ferenc’s family, near the back of the line. I smiled and waved, but she only looked startled and did not respond. I returned to my task of ladling soup and when I looked up again she was gone, no doubt to return home to sleep on an empty stomach because she was so embarrassed. As an American, I think this degree of propriety is senseless, but when I told Ferenc about the incident, he shook his head and said that a woman bred as she was could not behave any differently. She was taught always to hold herself above the people and to serve them. Regardless of hunger, to be given charity in public was more than she could bear. We made up a box of simple supplies, put it by her door, rang the bell, and left immediately. It was not there when we passed by again.
When I was a girl, I once asked Papa why many of our neighbors in Franklin, Tennessee, had slaves and we did not.
“I have two hands to do work, Tillie. God gave us work to humble us from our ignorant pride, and at the same time to teach us and lift us up by showing us that we, like Him, can create. We do not want to renounce that commission by chaining our brother to do the work that is ours.”
Austria-Hungary has never had slaves that I know of, but the nobility were so high and many others so low. Decades before the war, Ferenc walked away from the courtly life, choosing to work with his own hands. I do not condemn the life of the nobility—in fact, I admire its grandeur—but I do not think that I am in accord with it anymore. Perhaps it is good that this system is changing. It seems to have been a great weight on both high and low. Perhaps this is part of a needed change that will take place for many who are not free to live as they choose.
*****
JULY 1918
(SEVEN MONTHS LATER)
Tata, Hungary
The Russian royal family has been murdered by revolutionaries, as Archduke Franz Ferdinand was murdered. The Bolsheviks were not content to overthrow the empire. It was not enough that they forced the tsar to abdicate, that he and his family were living quietly and humbly under guard in the country. They took him, his wife, his four daughters, and his little son to a cellar in the middle of the night and shot them. I am sure the Bolsheviks would say that it is complicated, and offer reasons that make perfect sense—to them.
In the newspaper photograph, no doubt taken before the revolution, the royal family is at home, relaxing with one another. The tsarina and the daughters are unadorned in simple white dresses and the tsar and the little son wear sailor suits. The beauty of their faces is burned into my memory—too much beauty for what this world has become.
*****
NOVEMBER 12, 1918
(FOUR MONTHS LATER)
Tata, Hungary
We are eating breakfast with Anya at the deteriorating great house when a servant brings the newspaper and Ferenc makes the announcement.
“Dear ones, the Great War is over. Germany finally signed an armistice yesterday.”
Anya looks from Ferenc to me and back again. “Qu’est-ce que cela signifie pour nous ici?”
“Yes, what will it mean for us here, Ferenc?” I echo. It is he who studies the newspapers and talks with Earl Miklos and others endlessly about events and their implications, which have little interest for me. The world has made itself horrible and they cannot fix it. I simply want to know how we all can live in spite of it.
Ferenc nods and answers his mother briefly in Hungarian before turning back to me. When we are with Anya, we try to speak French, a language we all understand, but this discussion is too complex for our limited vocabulary, and at eighty-seven Anya will want only a simple explanation.
“I think very little will change here in Tata for a long while, Tillie. The empire has collapsed—all the empires have collapsed—and we do not know yet what will replace them. The economy will stay depressed until other systems are in place, and that could take years.”
“But the soldiers who have survived will be coming home, and they can start growing crops so that this city can start eating better,” I say.
“Yes. The soldiers will come home. They can go back to their fields and start growing crops again or back to their shops and start selling merchandise again now that the blocka
de is lifted. There will be gradually less hunger here. This, too, will take some time, but it will be possible to progress slowly.”
“We are not at war with America any longer. My family and I will be able to write to each other again.”
Ferenc gives me a sad smile. “Try to be patient, Tillie. Don’t expect much just yet.”
*****
LATE MARCH 1870
(FORTY-EIGHT YEARS EARLIER)
Nevada, the Forty Mile Desert
“Many people have died in this desert, children, and we must be careful not to follow them.” Papa looks intently from Paul to Gus to me. “By now you know the rules of the wagon train and you understand that their purpose is to protect us. We have a new rule now, and it is to be very sparing with water. We will not wash until we reach the Carson River, and that will take us four to five days. We will not be able to refill our water containers in all that time. You will not help yourself to water, but Mama, Amelia, and I will give you what you need. If you feel very thirsty or weak between times, ask one of us, and we will help you as we can. We may come across some water in the desert—you must not drink it. Gus, I want you to tell me you understand this and that you will obey.”
“Yes, Papa,” Gus answers, wide-eyed.
“Good. Paul, why must we not drink the water we find out there?”
“It is alkaline, like the soil that made some of the animals sick. It would make us sick or even kill us.”
“Correct. Tillie, do you understand this?”
“Yes, Papa.”
After having lost our twin brother and sister to poisoned water, we are not about to disobey this directive, but there are so many other rules. We must wear hats and speak as little as possible to save our strength and the moisture in our bodies. We must eat only a little, for the same reason, and though our hunger makes it welcome, the steady diet of johnnycakes with sparse sips of water is not satisfying. But the most difficult adjustment proves to be, not the care with water, but the strange hours.
It is not just that the days are too hot; the nights are also too cold, so our travel is broken up into periods of a few hours at a time. We rise long before dawn and travel until midmorning. By this time, the sun is so hot that we must take cover in the wagon and try to sleep. Though by this time we are very tired, sleeping is not easy in full daylight, even when we wrap our coats around our heads with only our noses and mouths free to breathe. Whether or not we have slept, though, we must rise again hours before sunset to continue our journey until it is too cold to go on and we retreat again into the wagons for a few hours of sleep. This we do for five exhausting days.
And yet, the desert holds its own barren beauty. The hills and valleys of sand look pure and otherworldly under the cloudless sky. Sunset, when it finally comes, is magnificent with its brilliant reds, oranges, and golds.
For the first two days and more, we see no animals except the vultures circling overhead. I should not find the sight of them so welcome, since they are surely waiting for us to die, but their circling movement fascinates my weary eyes. I would like to draw them, but it is not possible—Paul and I are too tired, too dusty and thirsty to draw, and besides, we are always either trying to sleep or walking. Only little Gus and occasionally Mama may ride in the wagon during this crossing, since the journey through sand and dust is so difficult for the thirsty oxen.
Then in early evening of the third day, we move toward the hills to avoid the alkali bog of the Humboldt Sink. Now we slow down, going only some five or six miles each day. If we are this exhausted, how are the oxen that carry us forward faring? Some of the families have pulled furniture and clothing from their wagons to lighten them, and their belongings look so sad lying behind us in the middle of nowhere. In the foothills we also begin to see a few animals—long-eared rabbits, snakes (against which the wagon master has cautioned us fiercely), and once a coyote in the higher hills above us.
Papa says that some of the women and children have become sick from not having enough water, and he and Mama take them a small canteen of our precious store. We are all weary beyond describing, and thirsty enough, but we are strong, and with Papa’s watchfulness, none of our family has fallen ill.
Finally, as I am wondering how I will be able to walk many more days, the announcement comes—one more day to the Carson River! We start dreaming then, and talking more than we know we should. We will jump in the river, clothes and all—men and women, boys and girls (this last from me and Mama does not object). We will drink the clean, clear water even as we bathe in it. We will splash each other relentlessly (this from Paul) and we will eat our fill of warm beans (Mama’s promise) and we will sleep through the whole night until the sun rises (little Gus’s wish).
After one more day of pushing forward, all this is exactly what we do.
As the sweet, cold water rushes around me, dragging at my skirts, pouring wonderfully over my arms and shoulders, I am thankful—so thankful—to be alive.
*****
FEBRUARY 1919
(FORTY-NINE YEARS LATER)
Tata, Hungary
Most of the soldiers who were expected have arrived home. Of the nine thousand who went to fight, only a few more than half have returned. The families of those who have not returned, and who are not on the lists of the dead, must wait, vacillating between hope and despair.
Not all who have returned are able to work—some are injured in their bodies and others in their minds—but Ferenc is marshalling all of us who can, men, women, and children. We are breeding livestock on the neglected estate, and as the weather warms, we will be able to mend fences, tenant houses, and barns. We will be able to plant the all-important spring crop and fertilize it with hope. This year we will sow corn, wheat, and barley, and coax the neglected apple and plum trees to bear. Even now, the brightest rooms of the great house shelter tiny, brightly green seedlings of tomatoes, peppers, carrots, and beans waiting for the snow to melt so they may go into the ground.
*****
JANUARY 1, 1923
(TODAY)
Tata, Hungary
I will try to be happy here, I said in Tata not so very long ago, just after we had fled here from the house arrest in Algiers. I meant what I said. Was happiness a choice then? Could it be so now?
The fire is settling into embers and Ferenc has dropped off to sleep. I am faced with my own company, and it is not agreeable.
I have been at war all my life—poisoning the waters with my thoughts, wounding with my tongue, no more blameless than a soldier with a gun. With each loss my heart has hardened more—Mattie, Tod Carter, our home, all our homes, the beauty, the visions. Sometimes I painted day and night to escape the conflict raging inside, the fury and the sorrow that became more fury. If it were not for Ferenc, I might not even have a heart anymore, but he, too, has suffered from my anger.
I have been angry at war and death, but I have been angry at people, too, so many people I have never forgiven. If I cannot forgive, how can I be forgiven? The weakness of my body is telling me that my life will soon be over. If I do not come to terms now, then when?
I have been an artist. Papa taught me that to make art is akin to the work of a doctor or a minister—to shine light on the nature of things and to make the heart more whole. If my paintings have ever done this for others, surely someone will help me now.
I look up to the images of Papa and Mama on the mantelpiece, but their faces remind me, as they always have, to lift my eyes higher. To remember that neither they nor I could do good or be good on our own merits.
I do remember. I ask the help to forgive.
*****
APRIL 16, 1865
(FIFTY-EIGHT YEARS EARLIER)
Franklin, TN
“How desperately we need Easter this year,” Papa says as we walk toward the church in the early morning chill.
Two days ago, on Good Friday, President Lincoln was shot. Even though some say that he brought the war upon us, he was the president of the United States, an
d the fact that he has been murdered is terrible and frightening.
We have dressed in our best clothes for the Easter service, but Mama says that the ground is still cold and she has insisted that we wear our heavy coats and boots to guard against a chill. These old trappings of winter feel out of place with the green buds on the trees and the sweet, muddy smell of snowmelt.
The church is a sturdy brick building, with tall steps going up to the door, so I know that I am going someplace important. I love to enter it. The inside is open and spacious, with many tall windows to invite the light and white walls to welcome and reflect it. The center of the ceiling reaches up as if to heaven. The pews smell of fine wood, like Papa’s workshop, and the little candles we are holding smell of delicious beeswax that makes me hungry for honey.
Amelia begins to play the tall pipe organ up front—it brings the music inside my body. We stand to sing a hymn:
This joyful Easter-tide/Away with care and sorrow!
My Love, the Crucified/Hath sprung to life this morrow.
I can sing now, but very softly. It is new to have a voice again. “My Love” means Jesus who rose from the dead. But Tod Carter lay in his coffin like a beautiful, pale statue. The drummer boy could have been sleeping—he wasn’t even pale like Tod—but he was too still. Mattie’s head was covered with blood and the blood leaked out of her until she wasn’t suffering anymore. All those men in our house after the battle were hurt badly; many of them were dying and were carried away dead. Jesus died, too. He must have bled like they did, and turned cold and pale and still. Then He was alive again. But Tod Carter is not alive, and the drummer boy is not alive, and Mattie is not alive.
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