by Neil Maresca
Besides, it was impossible to stay angry with Ambrose for long. His good humor was infectious. He stood in front of the panting Lukas, smiling, offering him his hand, urging him to rise.
“I smell food!” he said enthusiastically. “Come on, I’ll race you to the house. Winner gets first dibs on the food.”
Lukas took Ambrose’s hand, and as he was being hoisted to his feet, he pulled Ambrose forward so that he fell away from the house, allowing Lukas to get a running, laughing head start.
Lukas ran up to the house, tripped up the steps and tumbled head-long on to the floor in front of a surprised and amused elderly couple. Ambrose arrived almost immediately after, and the two old people rose in great excitement, stepping over Lukas to greet him, folding him in their arms, and exclaiming in a language that Lukas could not understand.
Lukas sat on the floor and watched as the old man enthusiastically hugged Ambrose, while the old woman stroked his cheek and cried. Although this was a scene that Lukas had never witnessed before, he recognized it immediately. These were Ambrose’s mother and father, who were obviously delighted at their son’s sudden appearance. Lukas loved his father and mother, and he was sure they loved him, but never, never, had they greeted him like this!
Lukas stared in disbelief at the extravagant display of emotion. He had been taught to keep from showing his emotions—emotions were unseemly; emotions were for women. Men, especially men of his class, kept their emotions under control, tucked away where they couldn’t embarrass and betray you.
Apparently, Ambrose and his family had no such inhibitions, because they stood in the middle of the room for a full five minutes, crying and laughing all at the same time, completely unconcerned about how they might appear to Lukas.
As he watched the happy scene, Lukas was reminded of his own situation, of his father’s death and his mother’s desperation; tears threatened to break through the stoic veneer that he had adopted since that terrible evening when he watched László Farkas kill his father.
But they weren’t tears of sorrow that threatened to overcome Lukas, but tears of anger and rage. Lukas saw, in the loving embrace of father, son and mother, the elemental harm that had been done. László Farkas had not only killed his father, but he had killed happiness; he had struck a blow at man’s most cherished, most fundamental relationship. Lukas saw, in the way that young children see and understand things; that is, emotionally, not intellectually, that the Eden that Ambrose loved was an illusion. Ambrose and his family would be driven out, not by an angry God, but by men like László Farkas.
Of course, Lukas could not have put words to his feelings at that time, and had refused to later in life, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself. Eden, once lost, he believed, could never be recovered.
Doctor Rosenfeld would later write in his notebook that this had been a pivotal moment in the young boy’s life, the moment when his character formed—no, he crossed out ‘formed,’ and wrote ‘hardened.’
When they had enough hugging and kissing, the old couple turned their attention to Lukas, who was still sitting on the floor. Although he couldn’t understand their language, which sounded like a string of grunts, he could easily interpret their meaning from the looks they cast in his direction. They nodded attentively while Ambrose explained the situation, constantly shifting their gaze from their son to Lukas and back again, and occasionally, sharing a serious, worried glance.
Ambrose motioned Lukas to his feet, and presented him to his parents, Zadar and Misha, introducing him as “Count Lukas Károlyi de NagyKárolyi.” It was the first time that he had heard his title acknowledged openly, and it momentarily stunned him. Misha beamed and made an inexpert courtesy. Zadar nodded at Lukas, began to extend a hand in welcome and then withdrew it, unsure of the proper protocol.
All four stood awkwardly, nobody quite sure what to do next, until Ambrose rubbed his hands together, and called out “Hrana!” The room immediately became a beehive of activity; Zadar ran around picking up chairs, inspecting them and putting them down, while Misha went into a frenzy, pulling open drawers, extracting pots and pans, chopping and cleaning vegetables.
Lukas looked to Ambrose for an explanation.
“Hrana,” Ambrose said. “Food! Papa is looking for a suitable chair for a prince, but I’m afraid that this is a very humble home, and you will have to make do with the sturdiest wooden stool available.”
Lukas smiled, and at Zadar’s insistence, took a seat at the head of the table. Misha bustled around the small cottage, producing plate after plate of food, seemingly conjuring it up out of the increasingly pungent air. She never sat, and neither Zadar nor Ambrose seemed to expect that she would. So while she worked, the men ate; Zadar talked to Lukas in Croatian, speaking slowly, and sometimes thunderously, as if shouting would help Lukas understand. Ambrose, as usual, smiled and laughed, but made no attempt to translate.
For the second time that day, Lukas ate more than he should have, and would have eaten even more if Misha had her way. She fussed over him, placing dish after dish in front of him, and urging him to eat. Finally, however, the men pushed contentedly back in their chairs, and Misha stood, wiping her hands in her apron, surveying the empty plates with satisfaction.
“Mali brat,“ she said, smiling at Lukas and nodding her head vigerously up and down, “Mali brat.“
Lukas turned to Ambrose for help.
“Mali brat, it means ‘little brother,’“ he said, and when Lukas still looked confused, he added. “She means that you are the little brother I always pestered her for when I was a child.“
The thought pleased Lukas, who had always wanted an older brother. Ambrose seemed pleased too, but grew serious after Zadar pointed out that the day was growing short.
Ambrose told Lukas that they had to get started back to the monastery if they were to arrive before dark. This puzzled Lukas. “We have plenty of time,” Lukas said. “I saw the towers of the monastery along the ridge line when we were outside. It has to be only a few kilometers down the road.”
“The road is for those who have the proper documents, and no need to hide,” Ambrose replied. “Father Márton cautioned me in the strongest terms to keep your presence here a secret, so I’m afraid that for us, it’s the long way home—back down to the lake and up to the monastery.”
Lukas buried his head in his hands and groaned, while Zadar and Misha, not understanding a word that had been said, smiled and nodded.
Father Márton returned to the shoe store as instructed, and found the little man waiting outside. “Do you have the diamonds on you?” he asked when Márton was within earshot.
“Do you think I am a fool?” Márton replied.
“I just meant that things would move more quickly if you had the jewels on your person. We could conclude matters this afternoon.”
“We will conclude matters this afternoon, one way or the other.’
“As you wish. Follow me.”
The small man led Márton out of the commercial center of town into a residential neighborhood, and from there into an area marked by small dark alleys lined with brick and frame warehouses. Márton walked in silence, all his senses pitched to their highest level, alert to any suspicious sound or sight. He had no doubt that the little weasel leading him would not hesitate to hire a band of ruffians to rob him of the diamonds that he made sure to tell him were not on his person.
The little man stopped in front of an unmarked door, next to the driveway entrance to a warehouse. It appeared to Márton to be the door to the warehouse company’s office—when there had been a warehouse there, but given the forlorn, unused, empty look of the place, he doubted there was any company in operation there any longer.
“This is it,” the little man said. He motioned to the door, but made no move to enter.
“Aren’t you going in?” Márton asked.
“No. This is a far as I go.”
Father Márton was no coward, but he paused outside the door. He knew that t
o go inside might mean his death. That he had not been assaulted along the way was only mildly reassuring. Who knew how many men might await him beyond the door? If it were only a couple of hoodlums, he had no doubt he could take care of them, but if they were more, or if they were armed—what then? And once inside, there could be no hope of rescue from a passing patrol—no place to run, no place to hide.
He blessed himself and slowly pushed open the door. The room was, as he expected it would be, unfurnished and dimly lit. A man stood in the shadows next to a door at the far end of the room. Márton couldn’t determine if he were armed or not. No one else was present.
So far so good, he thought. Only one.
He walked steadily and purposefully toward the man, who remained at his post and made no motion either offensive or defensive. Márton assessed him as he approached—a large, strong man, of the working class, beer-drinking variety, a little older than Márton, and—Márton concluded, not nearly as fast. He walked up very close to the man, and placed his larger frame directly in front of the man, who flinched slightly.
His point made, Márton asked amiably, “The Maestro is inside?”
“Go in,” the man said. “He’s expecting you.”
Márton entered without hesitation, He was either going to be killed or not—he was content to let God determine the outcome, but he was relieved when the man did not enter with him. He walked into a darkened room, furnished with only one chair and an ancient desk, behind which loomed a large, hulking figure that may or may not have been human. At first glance, Márton couldn’t tell if the creature at the desk were man or large black bear, but when he moved closer, he determined that it was human—an obese man with long, unkempt, black hair that fell down and mingled with an equally-unkempt beard. Thick, black hairs grew out of his ears and nose, and equally thick, black eyebrows ran unchecked across his forehead. Peering out from under all the hair were two piercing, coal-black eyes that, despite their barbaric setting, were clearly those of an intelligent, alert, and very dangerous, man.
“You brought the diamonds,” said the bear-man in a tone that indicated it was more a statement than a question.
“I am a Jesuit, Maestro, not a fool.”
The answer threw the bear-man into a rage. “NO DIAMONDS!” he bellowed, raising his huge hulk halfway out of the chair. “Didn’t that fool of a shoemaker tell you I wanted payment in advance?”
“He told me what you wanted…”
“Then why are you here without the diamonds?” the Maestro interrupted, so angry that spittle spewed from his mouth onto his beard with every word.
.”…and I am here to tell you what I want.”
The big man, having erupted like a volcano, now dropped down in his chair, temporarily deflated.
“And what is it, priest, that you want?”
“Only what was agreed upon—two Croatian passports and two travel documents for passage to Italy.”
“And you shall have them—as soon as you produce the two diamonds.”
Márton smiled and sat down opposite the Maestro. “We seem to be at an impasse,” he said. “May I propose a compromise?” He continued without waiting for a response. “You want two diamonds before you begin your work. Suppose I agree to give you one now, and one upon the satisfactory completion of the documents?”
“But you said you do not have the diamonds with you?”
“I lied.”
The fat man roared with laughter. “What is this world coming to, when priests lie?” he said between gasps.
“The world has come to this—that a priest and a thief must trust each other. I will give you one diamond now, and you will give me two documents tomorrow at noon. If I am satisfied that the documents will pass inspection, I will give you the second diamond at that time.”
“And if you are not satisfied, or if I do not show up with the documents?
“Then we each have lost one diamond.”
The fat man roared again, and smashed a fat hand down so hard that Márton thought the desk would burst. His big belly shook, and tears trickled down his beard from the two black slits that passed for his eyes.
Márton waited patiently. The man’s passions were obviously as big as he was, but Márton had noticed, they passed quickly.
“Jesuits and thieves,” the man said between fits of laughter, “Two of a kind. I see we both wear black.”
He thought this last comment extraordinarily funny, and started in on a new round of laughter. Márton thought it all a bit tedious, and momentarily considered reaching across the desk and strangling him to make him shut up, but he prayed for patience and waited.
His patience was eventually rewarded as the fat man soon ran out of energy. “Let me see the diamond,” he said, suddenly becoming very serious. Márton withdrew the diamond from the folds of his cassock, and held it up. The fat man extended a pudgy hand, but Márton withdrew his.
“Do we have an agreement?”
“We have an agreement.”
“Then take this diamond and meet me tomorrow at noon in the Church of St Catherine with the documents.”
The fat man grunted and took the diamond from Márton’s re-extended hand. He pulled a loupe from the desk, put it to his eye, and began to intensely examine the diamond.
Márton rose and left without a word.
Sasha spent the day playing Merry Widow, and drawing Petra into her confidence. “Petra,” she would say while trying on a new dress, “What do you think of this? Will the General like it? You know him so well, and I’m afraid to disappoint him.” Petra, a simple country girl, was in awe of the Countess, who she had expected to be an older, sterner dowager widow. She had been surprised and delighted to find a woman not that much older than herself, a woman who was, apparently, still gay and lively—and, most surprisingly, a woman who talked to her, consulted her opinion, and confided in her.
Petra had been engaged by the General expressly to spy on Sasha and report her every move back to him—a task she had no problem completing. She may have been a country girl, but she knew who paid the bills. However, the more time she spent with Sasha, the better she liked her, and she soon found herself sharing confidences with the Countess. Thinking that Sasha was enchanted with the General, Petra determined to help, so she told Sasha all she knew about him, which was a considerable amount since she had been, for a time, the General’s concubine. There was no jealousy. She had never loved the General. It had always been all about the money. In truth, she never really liked the General very much, and didn’t understand Sasha’s ‘infatuation.’ But she liked the Countess, and the General wanted her, and by helping them, she saw a way to help herself.
So she threw herself full force into the endeavor, filling the General’s ears with intimations of the Countess’ passions, while telling Sasha all she knew of the General’s tastes, habits, strengths and weaknesses. When Father Márton showed up early that evening, Petra didn’t even bother to listen at the door, convinced as she was, that Sasha’s desires were in line with the General’s, and there was no deception involved. The priest was her confessor, and in light of the hardships she had recently endured, Petra thought it proper to leave them some time alone to pray.
Father Márton began by relating his adventures with the bear man, and his hopes that the documents would be ready by noon the next day. Sasha listened patiently, trying hard to concentrate on what Father Márton was saying, but her mind kept returning to her son, and finally she could wait no longer.
“How is Lukas?” she blurted out.
“He is well cared for,” Márton responded. “I have a note from Ambrose…”
“Let me see it!”
“It’s in Latin,” Márton said, “that’s why I didn’t give it to you right away.”
“Read it to me, then.”
Márton complied, reading Ambrose’s detailed note to Sasha who alternately smiled and wept.
“I miss him so much,” she said, “and I worry about him. Von Piehl was as
king about him the other night. He said it was ‘curious’—yes, I believe that is the word he used, ‘curious’ that I did not have my son close by my side. He suspects something is wrong, but he doesn’t know what. I explained that Lukas was a 10-year old boy who needed to be outdoors and not stuck in a hotel room while I went shopping and to balls. I told the General that Lukas was safe, staying with an aunt in Opatjia, and that I planned to join him there when my business in Zagreb was concluded.”
“And how did Von Piehl react?”
“As he does to everything—with suspicion.”
“But he accepted it?”
“For the time being. But I don’t think for long. Petra says he has agents everywhere and checks on everything I say. He was questioning her about Lukas too, but I told her the same story, so he learned nothing from her. He asked her about you too.”
“What did she tell him?”
“Nothing. She knows no more about you other than you are our family confessor. But he is like a bloodhound on a scent. He doesn’t yet know what it is that he is tracking, but he won’t stop searching till he finds it.”
“Can you trust Petra?”
“To a point, yes. She likes me, and she doesn’t like Von Piehl, but she will not put herself in danger, and I will not ask her to.”
“When do you see Von Piehl again?”
“I’m dining with him this evening.”
“Do I need to be here?”
“I can handle Von Piehl. I have another task in mind for you.”
Sasha wrote a quick note to Lukas, which she gave to Márton for delivery. She had no idea how the priest would manage to get a message to her son, but she had learned not to question his methods, or his abilities. She also gave him a slip of paper with a list of clothing she would need for the next step of their journey. Feeling that Márton would be out of his depth shopping for women’s clothing, she included sizes, descriptions, and shops where the items could be found. Petra would have been a better choice—far less conspicuous—but Sasha felt that she could not trust Petra that far. The thought had occurred to her that she could travel unnoticed if she donned a nun’s habit, but discarded the idea when she thought of the picture that she and Márton would make, priest and nun, traveling with a 10-year old boy in tow. The image made her smile, the first smile that she had allowed herself since her husband’s murder.
