The Musician's Daughter

by Susanne Dunlap

  “It wasn’t until I got back here and Zoltán intercepted me before I reached my door that I realized things hadn’t quite gone to plan. Although when I never heard the shot, I should have known something had gone wrong.”

  I did not want to tell him that I had, in fact, fired the pistol as planned, but not with the hoped-for result. Instead I said, “I have something else to tell you about Herr Schnabl, but right now, I need to find Zoltán. Do you know where he is?”

  “He left early this morning as soon as he realized you were not here. He was going to join Danior and his men.”

  I prayed Zoltán had not decided to return to his own apartment first, where he would most certainly have been apprehended by the guards. No point in worrying my godfather about that, though. “The important thing is that Toby is now safe. We found him, in my uncle’s cellar, with eight or ten other boys. I still do not know what they were doing there. Toby couldn’t say much. We got him out through the sewers. The other boys—I’m afraid for them. We could not bring them all.”

  At that moment my breakfast arrived, and I had to stop talking and eat. Never had plain, warm bread, butter, and eggs tasted so good. I drank an entire cup of chocolate while my godfather sat in silence opposite, gazing off into space.

  After a time, he spoke. “I fear that, to add to everything, I have no hope of being able to complete the work for Artaria. This will mean ruin for the cause. One cannot fight the nobles without money.”

  “Oh! I nearly forgot! That’s what I wanted to say about Schnabl. He may have been the one who took your portfolio.” I described how I had met the old musician on my way out of my uncle’s house a few days ago.

  “How very odd. I simply can’t imagine why he would do such a thing—if indeed he did. He’s been here for so long. He’s quite devoted to the prince.”

  “To the prince,” I said, “but what about to you?”

  Haydn rubbed his hand over his head, then took off his spectacles and cleaned them on a large handkerchief, frowning all the while. “I have always treated him kindly. There are those who say he felt that he should have been given the job of Kapellmeister instead of me, but he certainly seemed content enough to remain in the orchestra. Perhaps I should have spoken to him more, done something for him …” His voice trailed off.

  “Could he have discovered what you intended to tell the prince about the Hungarian serfs?”

  “No. No, I do not believe so. I do not want to believe so. He is too loyal to create such difficulties.”

  “Perhaps he thought he was being loyal—to the prince.” I could see that my godfather was not prepared to hear anything bad about one of his musicians, and did my best to cast the matter in a light that would give Schnabl some honorable motive—if he were in fact involved. In any case, what Haydn said about him confirmed my suspicions. Now I needed to alert someone to Schnabl’s potential treachery, making it even more important that I find Zoltán and tell him about everything that had happened, especially about Toby and the other children in my uncle’s cellar. I feared there was some connection between the boys and the efforts of Zoltán and his friends to lay the case for the Hungarian serfs before the emperor.

  I was also convinced that we had very little time to accomplish our goals. I had no doubt that my uncle would be quick to use his influence to punish those who had injured him and the guards in his pay.

  I stood and bowed to my godfather, my boy’s clothing making a curtsy unsuitable. “Thank you for breakfast, but I must leave you and find Zoltán to inform him about Schnabl. I think I know where he is.”

  “Can I not persuade you to stay here in safety? I blame myself for allowing you to be exposed to such danger. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

  I kissed his papery cheek. “No, Godfather. I must do this. It’s important. For Papa’s sake.”

  He nodded. Before I left, he gave me another cloak and some mitts. As I ran off away from the city and toward the Gypsy camp, I felt as if the maestro had his kind arms around me, keeping me warm and safe.

  CHAPTER 24

  I was surprised how quickly I reached the forest on the banks of the Danube near the Gypsy encampment. It had seemed longer in a closed carriage. It occurred to me that before, the horses would have had to travel at a walking pace because of the rough ground, and that now I was probably running faster than that, leaping over the deep ruts, fear pushing me on despite my fatigue.

  By the time I approached the clearing, I was doubled over, gasping for breath, feeling as if the entire breakfast I had consumed at Haydn’s house would soon be emptied from my stomach. I gulped some air and calmed my racing heart before crouching low to approach the camp. I thought it prudent to stay out of sight. I huddled behind a bush to watch and make sure it would be safe for me to enter.

  Only a few sleepy women and children wandered around among the huts and wagons. A cauldron of gruel bubbled and steamed over an open fire. I was relieved to see Durril seated by it, wrapped in a thick blanket, head hanging. Perhaps he was sleeping. As I watched, Maya came out of her tent and crouched down beside him to whisper something in his ear. Soon after that, two other men led an old fellow in a torn uniform out from a hut into the clearing. His hands were bound together and he was gagged, but I recognized him as the general who had tried to purchase my favors at the ball. His eyes were fearful, but he did not look otherwise harmed. After all that had occurred, I wondered how long that would remain the case. I was almost surprised at how strong an impulse I had to leap forward and scratch his eyes out. It wasn’t like me to feel like harming someone. I restrained myself. He was valuable to Zoltán as he was. My one hope was that he would be punished for what ever part he had played in the entire wicked plot.

  “Give him something to eat; then we must move him. It’s too dangerous to keep him here now.”

  I heard Zoltán’s voice before I saw him. I was so relieved to see his handsome face and tall body that I suddenly felt weak. I wanted to call out to him, to run into the clearing and fling my arms around him, sob into his shoulder and tell him all that had happened the night before. But something held me back. Maybe I just felt ugly in my ill-fitting boy’s clothes, or maybe I didn’t want to see him in front of all these other people. Perhaps, I thought, if I just waited, I could signal to him and no one would notice.

  I watched Maya offer the general some gruel, but as soon as they removed his gag and held a bowl to his lips, he spat it out and started yelling. They stopped his mouth again immediately. Then Zoltán and the others got him onto the back of a horse, although he struggled against them. Once he was mounted, they tied his hands to the pommel of the saddle. Zoltán himself mounted another horse and took a lead line from the general’s bridle, nodded a salute to the now bustling little community, and trotted away toward Vienna. Why is he going that direction? I thought. I wanted to run after him and yell out, “Wait!” But I knew that I should not do such a thing.

  Still, watching Zoltán ride into the distance when I had just been so happy to see him again was almost more than I could bear. Something about the sight of my friend made me feel safe. I noticed how cold I had become only after he had passed out of my view around a bend in the path.

  Now I didn’t know what to do. I had found Zoltán, and he was gone again. There was no sign of Danior here, but I’d seen Durril, who no doubt told what had happened in the cellar. But still Zoltán did not know about Schnabl. I guessed that I might as well show myself to the Gypsies and stay with them. It would be safer than going home, and perhaps they had a new plan. There were only so many places to hide the general. Some action must occur soon to bring everything out in the open.

  Just as I was on the point of standing up and walking out from behind the holly bush that had been sheltering me from sight, a commotion arose all around me. The thunder of hooves approaching fast sent me scurrying into a deeper thicket, scratching my face in the process. The Gypsies dropped what ever they were doing and started to rush a
round, trying to uproot themselves just as I had seen them do once before when I was in their midst. Only this time, they had no warning from their own men. Before even a single hut could be broken down, the camp was surrounded by guards on horse back, their swords pointed at the huddled community. I caught sight of Mirela, her deep brown eyes wide open and terrified. She wore only a shift and a skirt, obviously having still been asleep until she was awakened suddenly by the raid, and she stood shivering and vulnerable. I wished I could spirit her into my thicket and protect her from harm. As it was, I had to clamp my hand over my own mouth to prevent any involuntary exclamation from escaping. I watched one group of soldiers bind everyone—men, women, and children, including the proud Danior—and rope them together into a mass while another group ransacked the huts and wagons.

  I had been concentrating so hard on watching this horrible spectacle that I had not noticed another smaller group of riders approach. I gasped when I saw my uncle among them, seated atop a large warmblood, holding the reins in one hand. His left arm was bandaged and hung down at his side.

  “Do you see your assailants here, Councilor?” asked one of the guards.

  My uncle scanned the Gypsies with his heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth turned down at the corners. “There’s the ringleader!” he exclaimed, pointing so violently in Danior’s direction that he nearly fell out of his saddle. “He shot me. He’ll hang, on my word of honor!”

  So, my uncle had, after all, seen Danior in the struggle down in the cellar. But why did he claim that Danior had been the one to pull the trigger, and not me? Alida was right to have been so distressed. My uncle knew that Danior had not fired at him, yet he claimed it, no doubt to ensure that he would be hanged. How could he get away with such a thing! It was Theobald Wolkenstein who was the villain, not the good Danior. I wanted to run out, pull my uncle to the ground, and hammer him with my fists. But I knew that I would pay with my own life if I did that. I stuffed my fingers into my mouth and swallowed my bitter tears. I would run immediately to Alida after this. Surely there would be something she could do. She always managed to do something.

  In the meantime, the ransacking guards had made a pile of house hold effects, personal possessions, and a few rough weapons—mostly knives and clubs—to one side of the clearing. I watched with horror as a guard tossed Danior’s fiddle on the top of the pile as if it were a cooking pot. Although not quite as beautiful as my father’s Amati, it was a fine instrument, now no doubt damaged by its rough treatment. I saw Danior give it no more than a glance as the guards herded all the Roma in the direction of Vienna. Children had begun to cry, and the women started wailing and pulling on their hair. The commander of the small force removed a pistol from his sash and fired it into the air. This silenced everyone.

  Somehow Mirela had ended up on the edge of the roped-up group. I saw her glance left and right and wait for a moment when everyone’s attention was engaged elsewhere. Then, so quickly I hardly noticed it—and I was watching her—she slipped under the rope and slithered into the space beneath a wagon whose wheels had been removed. Once there, she was so still she could have been a mound of dirt.

  In the meantime, the guards had herded the rest of the community along, all clinging to each other for warmth and comfort. As they shuffled away through the cold, the commander yelled out to one of the guards who had been pulling all the Gypsies’ belongings out of their huts, “Did you find them?”

  “No, there’s nothing but rubbish here. Only a few pistols, and our men have them,” he responded. “What shall I do with it all?”

  “Burn it.”

  My God! I thought. Surely they couldn’t intend to destroy the entire encampment. I wanted to stop them, most of all to yell to Mirela to get out of her hiding place and give herself up rather than risk being roasted alive. Yet I could do nothing. I watched as three of the guards yanked wooden supports from the huts and held them in the fire until they became huge torches, then touched them to each wagon and lean-to in turn, including the one that sheltered Mirela. Last of all, they ignited the pile of odds and ends, a mound of clothing, tools, even books—and Danior’s violin.

  As the heat rose from the fire, the soldiers withdrew, leapt on their horses, and followed the others. I was no longer cold. One of the burning huts was near enough to where I hid that it would put me in danger if I remained there. But that was not my main concern. First was to get Mirela to safety. I called to her, but the roaring fire drowned out my voice. The wagon she hid beneath was small and old, and the wood had caught quickly, but only on one side, the one whose opening was wide enough for her to slide under. She would never get out from the other side unaided. I took a deep breath and held it, clutched some snow in my hands to keep them cool, and ran as low to the ground as I could. The heat was intense. I reached the wagon, lay flat on the ground, and peered underneath. I saw Mirela rigid with fear, but still alive.

  “The guards are gone! Give me your hand!” I yelled over the increasing roar of the fire. At that moment, the side of the wagon that was ablaze collapsed, and the space through which Mirela would have to crawl narrowed even further. I grabbed hold of her and pulled her as she inched snakelike along the ground. My eyes stung and I didn’t know how long I could stay there, but I pulled as hard as I could. She was halfway out, and the wagon settled again.

  “Argghhh!”

  Her scream was unearthly. She was lodged there. I did the only thing I could. I started to dig with my hands beneath and around her. The heat of the fire had softened the ground, thank God, and I soon made enough extra space to free her body. She was near to fainting when I pulled her to her feet. She leaned on me heavily as we hobbled to the cover of the woods. We had gotten no more than five paces from the wagon when the flames engulfed it in a whoosh, and it crumbled into itself like a piece of paper in a stove.

  Once we reached the cover of the woods, Mirela collapsed, gasping for air. “You... saved... my life,” she said.

  “Just be calm, and then we must get away from here.”

  But Mirela lifted her head and stared at the encampment. The look of horror on her face was painful to see. With great effort she pointed toward the pile of belongings. “The violin!” she whispered. “Get the violin!”

  I followed her gesture. The mound crowned by Danior’s beautiful violin was starting to burst into flame. Soon the heat would start to melt the varnish on the instrument. Then it might as well be destroyed, for it would never be the same again.

  Not fully realizing how foolhardy my actions were, I ran to the pile of house hold goods, looking for a place around the edge where the flames had not yet started to lick up and catch. Smoke curled out from the middle of the heap, and I knew that I had only moments to act or it would be no use.

  I found a spot and scrambled up, grabbed the neck of the violin, and leapt from the top to the icy ground beyond the flames. My ankle twisted when I landed, but not badly. The bottom of my cloak had caught a spark and started to smolder. I quickly scraped snow off the ground to douse it, then crawled into the forest on my knees and one hand, holding the fiddle out of harm’s way with the other.

  I made my way back to where Mirela lay, still wheezing from the smoke. I stopped to calm the beating of my heart and examine the violin. From what I saw, it appeared unharmed. I plucked a string, wanting to reassure myself with its rich sound.

  Clunk. That’s what I heard.

  I plucked again. Clunk.

  This fine instrument offered no resonance at all. What had happened to Danior’s fiddle? I peered inside the F holes, angling the violin so the slanting sunlight illuminated the interior.

  There I saw the cause. Wedged up inside and pressed against the body of the fiddle was a wad of papers. I could see that they were covered with writing. I could also see that I would not be able to remove them without taking the violin apart.

  I crawled back to Mirela.

  “You see,” she said, her voice a little recovered now that she had been breathing the cold,
winter air, “that’s why the fiddle is so important. We must get those papers to the emperor somehow, now that everything has gone so badly wrong.”

  Mirela’s shoulders began to shake and tears poured from her eyes, tracing paths through the soot on her face. She started to shiver. I removed my cloak and wrapped it around her.

  Now I began to put all the pieces together. Zoltán had told me that my father had recently found documents that proved the atrocities against the Hungarian serfs and that he had hidden them in his fiddle case. He said that he was to give them to Danior on the night he died. Danior would have secreted them inside his violin until they could be safely taken to some other stronghold. It would have been the final transfer of papers, he told me. Danior must have kept the others somewhere in his hut, and decided—perhaps because of the increased danger, with the capture of the general and our failed excursion last night—that he should hide them for the moment inside his instrument again. But how could we know if the papers Papa had found were among these? Surely they were not. If Danior had them all along, why would he have said nothing to Zoltán?

  I shuddered when I thought of how close complete disaster had been. If the fiddle had burned, we would have been left with no written evidence to lay before the emperor—assuming we might be granted the opportunity.

  “How are you feeling now?” I asked Mirela. She had stopped crying and sat up.

  “Better, I think. I can breathe.”

  “Are you hurt? Can you stand?”

  The two of us leaned on each other for support and rose to our feet. Together we took a few steps. My ankle was a little sore, but I could bear it.

  “My back hurts a bit. I think mainly I scraped it.”

  “Show me,” I said.