You’d think someone was giving away prime lumber at— What’s that?
He heard a sound of yelling and shouts from the street and got up from the desk to hobble to the door.
“Get him!”
“Grab the damn Jew!”
“Jewish swine!”
He just had time to see Jenö Gereb running up the street, a bunch of young toughs coming behind. István opened the door and Jenö ducked in. As he did, István drew the pistol he kept in his coat pocket and held it where the gang could see. The men slowed and stopped.
“Where’s the Jew?” a scruffy youngster at the front of the ten or twelve men demanded. “You hiding him?”
“If you mean my Catholic business manager, he is inside. I have no Jews in my employ.”
“Then why do you have that gun?”
István pulled his full rank and anger around him like armor. “Because eager young men sometimes act without thinking.”
Another voice from the group called.
“H e looked like a Jew, and he runs like one.”
“And you have never run from a group of angry strangers?” István gave the group a stern look, telling his heart to quit racing. “Mr. Gereb’s father is pure Magyar, if you must know, and unless something changed overnight, he looks nothing like Steresman or Itzak Cohen.” The head of the Communists.
“We’re wasting time,” someone from the back of the group grumbled. “The Jew-lover’s not going to back down.”
No, I’m not. Jewish mother or not, Gereb’s too valuable to replace.
István stood his ground until the young men grumbled and muttered their way back up the road and around the corner. Then he returned to the office, put the revolver back in his pocket, and sat. His hands shook and he forced himself to relax.
Gereb appeared in the doorway, looking mousier than usual. A cloud of nervous twitches seemed to surround him, and István wouldn’t have been surprised if he grew whiskers and began grooming a thin tail.
“A little trouble, I see.”
The brown-and-grey man bobbed his head in a rapid nod.
“Yes, my lord. A crowd of toughs has started waiting at the trolley stations, trying to catch anyone they think is not pure Magyar. I managed to avoid them, but they followed a woman behind me and then saw me.”
And just how do you find a pure Magyar? We’ve been marrying Slavs and Germans since we got to the Plains a thousand years ago.
“Were the men part of a political group that you could tell?”
“No, my lord, although I suspect they follow the Black Arrows and Cross. I’ve heard others like them complaining about French Jews and Communists.” Gereb shook his head, mirroring István.
“As popular as Jews are in France right now, I’d think they’d be muttering about the British and German Jews. Well, I’ll have a word with Szapolyai and see if he can find something to keep them occupied.”
The police commissioner owed István a small favor, after all. Gereb sighed.
“I fear that is the problem, my lord. There is so little for the younger men to do, so little work, that they create mischief.”
“Or their mothers’ pampered them and now they don’t want to soil their hands with honest work.” Their mothers and those so-called new teachers. Filling children’s heads with nonsense about being doctors and lawyers and politicians when they should be learning skills and trades. “Be that as it may, you are here and I suspect we need to be preparing for an increase in business soon.”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”
Gereb disappeared into his office, leaving István with the books and his thoughts about hot-headed young men and the younger generation.
Three weeks later, István and Weronica enjoyed a dinner party at Count Gabor Attila’s Budapest residence. Gabor and his lady, Margit, proved to be genial hosts, and all the guests seemed determined to have a pleasant evening, even though the weather insisted on bucketing rain. Talk centered on society, who had married, who had been seen where, and who might not be invited back to the royal court once the season truly started in October.
“No,” Weronica inhaled, eyes wide, one hand on her pearls. “I cannot imagine doing such a thing.”
“I’m sorry to say, she did. In front of her entire family, including Duchess Alice, who fainted from shock.” Lady Sarah Salman lowered her voice a touch and waved her ornate blue and silver fan. “Terrible scandal, as you well can imagine, devastated her parents. Whatever was she thinking?”
“I suspect she was not thinking at all,” Dowager Duchess Szecheney stated. Her eyes briefly flashed brilliant violet, then faded to blue. “Heart before mind and let the young man’s words carry her away. The younger generation has no understanding of proper restraint and forethought.” Her tone left no room for argument. “On a happier note, I understand Prince Ranier of Savoy has asked their majesties for Anna Marie’s hand.”
A wave of little gasps, cooing, and other exclamations swept through the distaff side of the room, and István smiled a little to himself. Earlier they’d been commiserating about the difficulty of hiring good staff. Some things will never change, no matter what goes on in the world. Aside from the women’s dress, he could have been eavesdropping on one of his grandmother’s teas. Not until after dinner, when the men had retired to the smoking and billiards room, did István feel as if he were in 1935 instead of 1905.
“What do you know about that Hitler fellow?” Count Gabor asked.
“The corporal from Austria who claims to be a Socialist and nationalist?” Count Tarn asked. “Nothing worth mentioning.” He lit a cigarette and picked up his glass of plum brandy. “Prince Taxis assured His Majesty that General Hindenburg and the other magnates could keep him under control, his overheated speeches aside.”
Duke Szecheney shook his head. “I hope they can. He’s too much like Kuhn, and Condreanu in Romania. The people need a strong leader, and Hitler at least acts like he could be one. Hindenburg is the real power, but people only see Hitler and hear him on the wireless. And he says what many people want to hear.”
“Which is?” Tarn sipped his drink as István played with an unlit cigarette.
“That Germany has been punished enough. That the Germans, blood Germans, have a noble heritage and civilization, and should stop moping and acting like women. Should ‘cowboy up,’ as the Americans would say.”
István snorted. “The Americans who are having food riots in the streets and who make such terrible movies? Who prattle on and on about everyone having self-determination while pretending that Africans and Red Indians are only three-fifths human?”
The other men chuckled, although it sounded forced. Tarn stabbed the air with his cigarette.
“Well, one thing these past ten years have proven: people want and need firm leadership. Democracy may work for the Brits and Yanks, but Hungarians prefer leaders who have been trained from birth in how to lead and to care for their people.”
Szecheney shook his head. “But how do we show them that? The papers and radio are full of populists claiming that ‘the people’ know what is best for the nation, or that experts trained at some university will solve every problem if ‘the people’ vote them into office.”
“I seem to recall that all the Bolsheviks are University-trained,” a voice said from the depths of one of the wing chairs by the fireplace.
“Too educated for their own good,” István opined.
“Hear, hear,” several of the others agreed.
“And what advantage do blood Germans have that blood Magyars, or Slavs, do not? At a certain point, pure breeding leads to problems, be it with horses, dogs, or men,” István continued. “Does Herr Hitler propose building a wall around Germany to keep out foreign influences?”
Count Gabor countered, “No, but he has encouraged more sterilization of idiots and others who would only drag the race down.”
“Which can be appropriate, I fully agree, under certain conditions,” István said, noddin
g. “But there is a vast difference between sterilizing a mongoloid, say, and toughs beating up a Catholic because they say he looks Jewish.”
“And did they say what a Jew looks like?” Lord Salman leaned forward, his blond hair and blue eyes making him look like Szecheney’s cousin, or even brother.
“Short of stature, slight of build, with glasses and a nervous disposition, apparently. I suspect it had more to do with my manager’s close resemblance to a field mouse than his Jewishness or lack of it.”
The others nodded and Lord Salman shook his head a little. “That sounds right, my lord. And all Jews have fat purses.”
“They probably wanted to redistribute his wealth,” Count Tarn chuckled.
“Speaking of which, have you heard? Florian Horthy is working to be head of the Socialists again,” Salman said, a mean little grin on his expressive features.
A chorus of disbelief rose from the men.
“No.”
“He what? That fool.”
“Speaking of congenital idiots.”
“His Majesty won’t allow it.”
Gabor smiled broadly.
“This should be interesting. The Black Arrows are talking about having Admiral Miklós Horthy stand for election.”
István rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “Well, it should confuse two-thirds of the voters at the very least.”
“Indeed,” Gabor agreed. “When does your son report for duty?”
“He’s already rejoined his regiment. Last week.” I’d rather he had not gone into artillery, but I suppose it is better than logistics. An Eszterházy in with the powder Jews! Great-great-grandfather must be pacing purgatory and wondering what went wrong.
Late that night István lay in bed, looking at the ceiling and wondering about the world. How would His Majesty balance the Commonwealth and crowns if the nationalists gained more power? And how would the Houses respond? There will be more splits and divisions, like Starhemberg endured. And we may have more True-dragons fleeing to the remaining Houses. The Germans have gotten stranger, more like the British and French.
István closed his eyes and wondered how he was supposed to keep the House together—and thanked the Lord that he was not King Josef Karl von Habsburg.
István looked at the clock again. How could an hour, or even a minute, not have changed since the war? It felt as if time sped faster and faster, like a runaway horse, ignoring the rider’s commands as it rushed through the fields. Already the calendar said All Saints, and Christmas and Fashing loomed very close behind.
István folded the newspaper. If I turn the clock backward a few hours, will all this go away? He dimly remembered a children’s tale where that worked. But only in the story, and only for the young prince and princess—kings and queens never received that blessing. He glanced back at the newspaper and wondered what could have gone so wrong.
CORRUPTION IN HIGH PLACES!! the headline screamed. In place of the usual detached coolness of a proper news story, breathless accusations filled the front pages. Fiodor Frankopans, head of the Crown and Land Party and former minister of finance, stood accused of stealing money from the government to support a mistress. The paper hinted at other, even less savory accusations as well. His Majesty had not commented, but the heads of both the Black Arrows and the Communists demanded Frankopans’ imprisonment, and possibly his execution as an enemy of the people, although if “the people” meant Magyars or proletarians the paper did not say. The Social Democrats called for a full investigation, repayment of all funds, and other penalties. As István read the story again, he felt the skin between his shoulder blades twitching.
Where were the Crown and Land members, the peasants’ parties, and the other royalists? Granted, this paper supported the Liberal Party, so it would give the opposition full voice, but why had the other parties said nothing? Were they waiting for His Majesty? That certainly seemed possible, but the Habsburg Party rarely waited for an official Habsburg statement before opining to the press. István wished he were back in parliament so he could ask his associates what they intended to do and say. To his delight, Paul Szentgyöry, former leader of the Royal Imperial Party, appeared at the House business office that very afternoon.
“I trust you saw the papers?” Szentgyörgy said after they’d exchanged greetings and Miss Kiss had brought coffee.
“Yes. The news was rather hard to miss.”
Paul nodded. He looked tired, and had gone completely grey over the past fifteen years. His worn black coat and trousers hung loosely, as if he had lost considerable weight, and István wondered if he were ill.
“None of it is true, of course.”
István started to speak, stopped, and chose his words with care.
“I would not be surprised if there are small discrepancies in Minister Frankopans’s record books. Not because I doubt his honesty, but because he cannot do math and yet refuses to allow his secretary to do it for him.”
“But he was finance minister!”
“Yes, he was. He had accountants and calculators manage everything aside from his strictly personal expenses, things like train travel and meals and holiday bonuses—the funds from his general office account, in other words.” István shook his head. He’d warned Fiodor about that at least twice, and he probably hadn’t been the only one. Szentgyörgy slumped a little. “So his enemies will find something.” He held up one hand, stopping István’s protest. “Or will find something they can use to discredit him until the papers find a different topic to chase after, at which point it will be too late to convince the crowd that Frankopans was foolish rather than dishonest.”
And people will wonder about the other accusations, since there was at least a hint of truth in the first charge. István nodded and drank his coffee. It tasted far more bitter than usual—or was he tasting his own mood?
“This will give the Social Democrats and their mob more fodder to use against us.”
Szentgyörgy surprised István by shaking his head.
“Not the Social Democrats. They are divided right now and will probably collapse before the year is over. Their Russian masters are making life too difficult, as are the Germans. Internationalism is fading away, at least at the moment, and their desire to unify all three commonwealth SD parties under one umbrella is causing them problems from the inside, or so I’m told.”
“Black Arrow and Cross, then.”
“And their counterparts in the Slovo-Croat Province, while some Hitler supporters in Austria are making noise about the idea that true Germans should all come together under one roof, led by His Majesty and Hitler—or perhaps Hitler alone, since he was born in Austria.”
István felt sick at his stomach, and not from the coffee. “His Majesty will never agree. He has worked too hard to keep the Commonwealth prosperous and intact.”
“I agree, completely agree.” Szentgyörgy poured himself more coffee. “But the Fascists are rising, and they’re promising to cure every problem in every nation through warfare and national purification.” Szentgyörgy sounded as if he were quoting someone. “Although any political party and leader who can get the Italians to act like a single nation must have considerable skill of some kind.”
“And the Devil can quote Scripture when it suits him,” István snapped.
Szentgyörgy smiled for the first time since he’d arrived.
“Touché.” The smile faded. “I do not look forward to the next days and weeks, my lord Eszterházy.”
“Neither do I. I half expected to find a reporter sitting on the doorstep when I arrived this morning.”
István had already told his staff and employees not to give any information to the press. Szentgyörgy shook his head a little.
“Not you, you are harmless, a country squire who never ventured a quotable opinion—I believe that was what Mr. Novak of the long nose called you.”
“He certainly was proud of his apparent Roman ancestry and noble profile, wasn’t he?”
One shouldn
’t speak ill of the dead, István reminded himself, but still . . .
“A little too proud. If he had not kept that nose in the air, he might have seen the trolley coming.”
“Everyone knows that horse trollies and electric trollies are the same,” István reminded Szentgyörgy with a wink. “Both stop for obstacles on the tracks.”
It had been an amusing end to the over-zealous reporter’s career: run over and killed by an electric tram. It had been the first and last time all the political parties’ leaders had agreed on one thing: that Novak’s death had been an accident.
“Thank you for informing me of the news,” István said after several minutes quiet.
“You are welcome. How is your family?”
“They are well. Yours?”
Szentgyörgy shook his head and looked mournful. “Both children are emigrating to Canada. I want them to stay, but they say there’s no future for them here.”
Damn.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You’ll be in my prayers.”
“Thank you.”
After Szentgyörgy left, István stared at the wall and the pictures of Their Majesties. Paul’s wife had died of breast cancer ten years before, and, without the children, István wondered what the retired lawyer would do.
The next day’s mail brought an invitation from Archduke Rudolph to meet with him in the Budapest palace on Friday. At least that never changed, István thought, looking at the seal and the ornate handwriting above Rudolph’s scrawl of a signature. The archduke’s script always reminded István of a worm that had crawled onto the page and died a horrible, convulsive death.
Walking into the palace atop Buda Hill felt like stepping back in time. Nothing seemed to change. Footmen in tailcoats waited here and there, servants appeared and vanished on silent feet, the furnishings remained unchanged since at least before the war. If he ignored the electric lights and typewriters, István could pretend he was still young and that the world remained predictable and simple. At least until the door opened and he heard a weary sigh and a tired voice.
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