by Alma Boykin
As he studied the papers and letters, István found a letter from the archduke on top of the stack of mail on his desk. He looked warily at the seal. Wishing will not make it go away. He opened the letter, unfolded the lighter-than-usual paper, and read. He skimmed through the customary formal greeting to the meat of the matter. Then he set the missive down and stared at the green-and-brown wallpaper. Was there anything the Germans and Russians touched that they did not do wrong? The Germans were still talking about redrawing the borders, “rationalizing them,” as the archduke quoted, and trying to incorporate Silesia and Russian Poland into Germany proper, after relocating the current residents. And they insisted that Austria stage an all-out offensive against Russia to distract the Entente from the Germans’ own summer offensive. “It appears,” Rudolph had written, “that the Germans are not aware that we, too, are fighting a two-front war, an unexpected two-front war, as well as feeding them, and attempting to cope with the British blockade as well. Although I suspect that the Germans fear of an overland attack by the British through the Balkans is greatly over-exaggerated, given the latest news from the Turks.”
If the British think they can march through the Turks, up the Balkans, and into Austria, they are welcome to try, István snorted. The Slavs in the Balkans and the Afghans of the Northwest Frontier shared similar habits—including shooting and robbing anything that was not related by birth or marriage, and even those limits were open to debate should the occasion for loot or revenge arise. Well, they’d both picked the idea up from the Mongols and Turks. On the other hand, the British naval blockade had shifted from a minor problem to a major one, especially once the British took over from the Italians in the Mediterranean. Neutral shipping had faced few difficulties before the British moved in, but the last ship to pass through the Pillars of Hercules had slipped through in January. And the British had started impounding and rationing goods to neutrals “to prevent re-export,” in clear violation of international law. He returned to the letter.
“The Italian situation remains problematic.” Another delightful understatement, István knew. “It seems that the Italians are developing a real army, and have called up their second and third groups of reservists and conscripts. We, as you are aware, do not have that luxury, even with the men we’ve rescued from the Russians.” The red battle mist blurred István’s eyes and he had to stop and calm down.
Over a hundred thousand men had been captured by the Russians during that first terrible onslaught in 1914-1915. Thus far only half had come home, and many of them suffered from starvation, untreated wounds, overwork, exposure, and other abuses. Of the others, most had been sent to Siberia, something expressly forbidden by the laws of war. To make things even worse, some of the Czechs and Ruthenes had switched sides, fighting for the Russians against the Austrians and Germans. That had caused major internal security headaches, and dark mutters about reliability from the Army staff, but that wasn’t István or Rudolph’s problem for now. No, holding the land together and keeping the Houses safe, those were the archduke’s and count’s concerns.
“This year, I suspect, will be the hard point. Something must give. His Majesty believes that if we can hold through to 1917, we will survive.” The letter finished with the customary formalities and Rudolph’s cramped but legible signature. The writing always amused István. As flamboyant and free as the archduke acted at times, you’d think his signature would be large and flowing. No, it hunched on the page, a little clump of letters that seemed almost to apologize for taking up space. István shook his head again, then looked up as he heard footsteps and his mother’s voice, demanding to know where he was. He unlocked a drawer, pushed the letter and envelope inside, and then locked it before she sailed into the office.
“There you are, István Joszef! What are you doing? You should be with your wife.” Dowager Countess Marie Eszterházy frowned at her eldest son. She wore black, and he suspected that she would remain in mourning at least until the end of the war.
“I would be, but she and her daughter and son are sleeping and I do not care to wake them, Mater.” He got to his feet and bowed a little.
“Oh.” That soothed a bit of her indignation. “Where is Mátyás?”
“Still working, Mater, making certain everything is correct so that we can pay the taxes in full.” Unlike some people I can think of. Alas, the Hungarian nobility’s tax-exempt status had been erased after 1867, thanks to a few stupid idiots who had wagered on the Germans. And the House’s business would not have been exempt anyway, just the Eszterházy family’s personal property. Now was not the time to suggest a tax reduction for those involved in the war effort, since that included every able-bodied adult, or so it seemed. It should have, except for all the damned exemptions that kept appearing. István felt himself tensing and reminded himself that his mother did not need to see him losing his composure. He changed to a different line of thought. “Barbara, Imre, and Erzsébet were all sleeping, and I was encouraged to let them rest.”
“Well, then.” Marie appeared calmer. She looked around his office. “Have you begun the birth announcements yet?”
“No, Mater, I have not. I—forgive me, but I wanted to make certain Erzsébet and Barbara passed the first days without difficulty before sending out cards.” He also needed to go through the list and see who preferred not to receive notices. Some families had turned away from those with new children while they mourned the deaths of their sons, brothers, and fathers. István did not quite understand, but he refused to force them to acknowledge what they preferred not to.
“Ah.” She considered his words and did not object. “When will the christening and celebration be? April ninth will be two weeks before Easter, and that gives sufficient time to send invitations and make preparations. Who will the godparents be? I know I asked . . .” she rattled off a string of names, and István’s head threatened to ache. “That should be small but appropriate, I believe. No more than fifty guests, seventy-five at most.”
“Mater, where will we find food for fifty guests, let alone seventy-five? I understand that Erzsébet should be presented to a reasonably sized gathering, but so long as his Majesty is encouraging modesty and restraint, I am not certain a large gathering would not cause some unhappy comment.” To put it mildly, and that’s just from our circle. I do not want to risk a public scene. The baptism will be fraught as it is, if what Mátyás and Imre are hearing is true.
“This is different,” she said, brushing his worries away. “There will be no difficulties, István. I’ll make the list and will send for the proper papers and wax and postage.” She swept out of the room before he could protest.
Which was worse, he wondered, her screaming at him or her assuming that the war had changed nothing and that life continued on the exact same track as before? Either way, he needed to write Archduke Rudolph. Then get supper and, only once he’d eaten, decide how best to deflect the dowager countess from her plans. He suspected that a party during Lent, even on Sunday, would be considered bad form. Maybe he could drop a word with Father Gellért when he came by.
“So much for the coronation truce,” István sighed to himself a week and a half later. He sat in one of the visitor galleries in the Hungarian Diet’s House of Magnates. He should have been on the floor with the delegates, but recognition of his request to be seated in his late father’s place had been delayed by various administrative matters, including a two-week protest by anti-Magyar Croatian delegates in the lower house who had blocked all legislation. He listened with one ear as one of the Magyarországi Szociáldemokrata Párt, the Social Democrats, continued his harangue about the need for land reform and the nationalization of property. István glanced around but did not see his cousin Imre in the galleries. The man sounded just like Imre.
“. . . And furthermore, the crown’s conduct of the war is unconscionable and an affront to all workers and common soldiers.”
István sat up, as did most of the men in the room. This is going too far,
unless he’s . . . no. He’s gone too far.
“The time has come to sue for peace, peace with dignity and honor, before the nations of Central Europe are ruined and the working people crushed beneath the wheels of the great industrialists and the Magnates—Magnates who are exempt from the war.” A rising growl from the Magnates and calls of “Objection!” and “You lie!” only made Count Mihaly Széchenyi continue louder. “My family has led the way in returning the land to those who truly own it, those who work for their bread, those who are fighting. It is not their war but the crown’s war, not the worker’s war but the Magnates’ war!”
The growl turned to shouting, and Mihaly smiled—a smile that wavered as soldiers appeared at the corners of the chamber. István got up and left the gallery, threading his way through the maze of corridors and chambers to the office that had been his father’s and that would soon be his. There he found Jozef Meciar waiting for him. István glanced at the clock by the door, concerned about being late.
“I apologize for being so early, my lord,” Meciar said. “The Social Democrats are being stubborn again.”
“Indeed they are. Count Széchenyi is living up to family tradition.” By custom and convention, István could say no more than that about the ongoing fight on the chamber floor.
“Ah. Perhaps, my lord, there is something to the notion that ideas, as well as appearance, run in the blood.” István’s assigned courier opened the door for the two men, bowing as István walked into the office.
István settled into the chair behind his desk, propped his bad leg up slightly, and waved for Meciar to be seated. If temperaments ran in the blood, then anyone with a bit of sense or knowledge of history would steer clear of Mercier, István thought—not for the first time. The Protestant delegate to the House of Representatives from Kassa always reminded István of the pictures of Mongols—small, dark, with almond eyes and an air of casual barbarity about them. Meciar dressed plainly but well. He shared common interests with House Szárkány, and he and István’s father had worked together in their respective Houses of the diet to protect the timber industry and property holders.
“Perhaps,” István allowed. “Or he feels that arts and letters is not a broad enough field in which to make a reputation.” Or, more likely, István thought, he’s too incompetent to do well in that area. “How fares the budget?”
Meciar made a resigned gesture, not a shrug but sort of a one-handed sigh. “The Social Democrats are being themselves, the peace faction is starting to raise its head again, and tempers have begun to flare. I look forward to Holy Week, my lord.”
To everyone’s surprise, the Magyarországi Szociáldemokrata Párt, the Social Democrats, had blocked the proposed one-time war tax gift to the Crown. “We bear no animus to his Majesty, but the only just tax is one on land holdings over five hectares, and double on those families without men in the military or who are under exemption. It is with regret that we are not able to support this measure at this time.” Or so the head of the Social Democrats, Manó Buchinger, had announced. Neither István nor Meciar believed the protestation, or at least, not that the MSP’s general secretary regretted anything that would cause trouble and misery. The chaos that had ensued in the Hofrat, Austrian Parliament, and Hungarian Diet offended István’s sense of propriety and order.
“I suppose next they will call for a general strike.”
“My lord, that is exactly what they are going to do, timed for Easter, or so the papers claim. They are trying to bring in the railroads, armaments workers, and lumbermen, as well as the main unions.” Meciar picked his dark felt hat up off the side table and began turning it in his hands. “I do not like it. The mood in the city is wary and angry both.”
“The housing shortage is not helping, at least not here in Budapest.”
“No, my lord, but it is more than that. Some of the Liberal delegates seem to be listening to the MSP, as are a few of the Catholic Party delegates.” Meciar shook his head. “The last general strike turned into a mob.”
István sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. “You are right, and I am not comfortable, either. I suspect the MSP is pushing as hard as they can so they can see if His Majesty will stand up to them or if he will make concessions in the name of domestic order. The propaganda from outside about his weakness and youth is likely encouraging them.”
Meciar snorted a little. “Since when have they needed encouragement to be rash? I seem to recall that these ideas about the Brotherhood of All Workers sprang from their own fevered imaginations, my lord.”
“That it did. In the perfect world, which is not this one, all are brothers and live in harmony. Here?” Both men made similar gestures. Meciar followed a Calvinist tradition that made István’s Catholicism look latitudinarian and soft by comparison. “So, is there any progress on the rationalization of the timber and forest laws?”
Meciar perked up. “Yes, my lord there is. There is a bill being considered in the Forestry Committee that would start comparing all four law codes currently in effect, drawing the most reasonable statutes from each one to present to the Hofwaldrat for approval.” They discussed the possibilities and problems for almost an hour before Meciar stopped, head tipped to the side, listening.
The commotion from the House of Magnates seemed to be spilling out into the halls. Raised voices in Hungarian, Croat, German, and Latin echoed down the corridor. István’s secretary got up without being asked and locked the door. Invective flowed, and accusations of stupidity and declarations of disgust with the other side rolled past the door. Charming, truly charming. Remind me again about the brotherhood of all workers and the unity of man? The voices faded and Markus unlocked the door. “Thank you.”
Jozef Meciar took his leave shortly after that. István stared out the small window at the boats going up and down the Danube. Pigeons, though not as many as before the war, swirled past the window. Their meat fell outside the voluntary rationing quotas, and if austerity meant fewer of the nasty birds then István supported austerity in all its forms.
That evening, he and Barbara read over the list of people Lady Marie wanted to invite to the christening. “No,” he sighed. “As much as I want to, no. We are in Lent, we are supposed to be setting an example for the lower orders by restraining ourselves, and inviting sixty-five couples to the christening party is too much.”
Barbara nodded as she nursed Erzsébet. “We’ll lose social status no matter what we do, or so Mother says. Half the people will be affronted that we did not invite them, and the other half will be upset because we are having such a lavish affair. And Father Gellért has already said that while christening during Lent is encouraged, excess celebration is not.” She shifted the baby to the other side. “What about a harvest party and introducing Erzsébet and Imre then?”
“I think it is a good idea, but my honored mother will have the vapors.” István had begun to wonder if his mother suffered from some disease. She’d never acted so foolish before the war started.
“What does the House say?”
The question made him blink. He had not asked and should have. “Ah, I do not know. I will ask, but not now.”
“No, because I need you to hold your daughter, please.” Barbara offered him the now-quiet bundle, and he carefully took the baby. Erzsébet seemed content for the moment, making little smacking sounds and squinting up at him. With Rose’s help, Barbara adjusted the pillows and accepted a towel, then took the baby back to burp her. His wife’s insistence on taking care of their children herself still shocked István a little. Well, he had not wanted a society wife but a helpmeet, and now he had to deal with what he’d gotten.
Later, after supper, Lady Marie went out visiting, and István had a quiet moment to himself. He settled into a chair in the parlor and closed his eyes, making his shoulders and other muscles relax. Reaching the House from Budapest required total concentration, and he ran his fingers along the tree-shaped piece of jade on his watch chain, using it to help him focus
. Then he reached down and north, establishing a link with the House. He felt the House members in Buda helping him and used their strength to steady the connection between himself and the rest of the House. After some groping, the link solidified and he felt the rest of House Szárkány-Karpatok answering his query.
Christening celebration now or harvest festival later? was the core of what he sent. He included his concerns and the sense of tension in Budapest. The reply took far less time than he’d anticipated—apparently he was not the only one to be uneasy with the mood on the plains. Harvest festival and thanksgiving came the reply, with a strong undertone that he needed to return to the House lands as soon as it was safe, and bring Barbara and the children, especially the Heir.
István thanked the House and asked about any other concerns. The collected House members sent none, other than the same sense of tension and a vague worry about trouble in the cities. The creature he knew as the Power of the Matra stirred as well, adding a sense of wariness about Galicia and the creature that resided there. István crossed himself without thinking, recalling what he’d sensed in 1914-15. The Matra’s Power agreed and urged him to return, at least to the border of the House’s territory if not to its heart. István sent assurances that he would bring the family back as soon as he safely could. The House acknowledged it and released him.
The walls of the parlor swayed in and out of focus, making the stripes on the wallpaper dance. Ugh, that paper needs to go—but not at this moment. István closed his eyes again and played with the amber lump on his watch chain, his other hand stroking the carvings at the end of the chair arm, grounding himself in his body and its current location. He felt wet, damp with sweat despite the cool evening. He also wanted to eat an entire cow, or at least a whole ham if a nicely aged side of beef did not appear in the kitchen before he reached the dining room.
