Chapter Fourteen
Across The Alföld
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, summer 1933.
"Friedrich, darling, there must be something we can do".
"I don't see what".
"Perhaps ... Perhaps there's someone we know. Someone who might be able to help".
"Well, I can't think of anyone. Can you?"
For a while, Edith said nothing.
"No," she said at length; now sat dejected, staring into space.
The tenor of the conversation, let alone the situation in which they now found themselves, placed yet further strain on Sybil's already frayed nerves. She knew she couldn't sit here a moment longer, as to do so risked bursting into tears. And that would never do. For the sake of the children, she had to remain strong. She rose to her feet.
"I really think I should go and look in on Danny".
Sybil knew, of course, that it wasn't necessary. For, as well as caring for the rest of her young charges, Nanny Bridges had said she would keep a special eye on Danny; would let Sybil know immediately if there was the slightest change, or if he appeared to be in any discomfort. Nonetheless, Sybil knew she had to keep herself busy.
When she had last seen him, despite having his head bandaged, Danny's lamp lit bedroom had been a haven of calm. Well, not quite that. Not with Robert and Max sitting together on his bed; young Max impatient to learn what had happened out at the Old Tower. And, despite having told her two nephews not to tire Danny unduly, when Sybil left the room, the three boys were talking in hushed whispers. nineteen to the dozen. Not that Sybil was surprised. It was ever thus when they were together, even if with Max still on crutches, Danny with a battered and bruised head, young Robert was the only one of the "Three Musketeers" who, at least for now, was both hale and hearty.
"Darling, if you don't mind, I think I'll come with you and see if Max has settled down". Then, trying to lighten the mood somewhat, Edith did her best to summon up a smile. "Knowing him as I do, somehow, I rather doubt it!"
"No, of course not".
But sooner or later, the older children would have to be told something of what had come to pass. Exactly what that was remained to be seen; in a sense, it was in the lap of the gods, but for the present, and thankfully so, all were blissfully unaware of what was unfolding there across the border in Hungary.
Having left Sybil at the head of the main staircase to first go along and see Simon, then thereafter Danny, Edith had turned the other way; trod softly down the carpeted corridor, as far as the door to Max's bedroom. Having once reached it, without the slightest sound, she turned the handle, and stepped swiftly inside. If darling Max was fast asleep, which she thought to be unlikely - tonight here at Rosenberg, both among the adults and the children, even if for different reasons, sleep was something that was in rather short supply - she did not wish to disturb him.
Keleti Railway Station, Budapest, Hungary, the following afternoon.
Irrespective of their size, or indeed their locale, railway stations the world over are very much one and the same: often places of joyous greetings and, sometimes, of equally tearful farewells. And, today, here at Keleti, it was no different. An ornate, imposing structure, the booking hall decorated with frescoes and wall paintings, with statues of George Stephenson and James Watt adorning the front façade, surmounted by a sculpted figure representing Steam, and with an arching, overall glass roof, the station lay some distance from the Hotel Britannia, on the south side of Budapest, just off Baross tér.
That they should take an earlier train than originally intended had been Manfred's suggestion. Quite why, remained something of a mystery. Apparently, it was to do with who else would be staying at Rózsafa; all of which seemed to come as no great surprise, either to Matthew, or indeed to Tom. Not that the slight change of plan caused any undue difficulty, with the manager of the Britannia making all of the necessary arrangements which the re-arranged time of departure had involved. And, said Tom, while they were walking down the stairs to the lobby of the hotel, to be driven to the railway station, the sooner they reached Rózsafa, the sooner they would return to Rosenberg. At this, Matthew and Mary had exchanged amused glances. That Tom was missing Sybil and the children was only all too obvious. And, if the truth be told, despite the fact that Mary would never admit to it, she and Matthew were both looking forward to seeing their own brood again too.
Shortly after midday, with Tibor's military duties detaining him up at the Palace, thus preventing him from being at the railway station to bid them all adieu, it was Ilona, along with Pal and Sarita, who came to Keleti to see Matthew, Mary, and Tom board the midday express which would take them southwards to Gyula. The three of them arrived just as Matthew and Tom had returned from a stroll down the platform to look at the locomotive. The boys, said Matthew, by whom Mary supposed he meant Danny, Robert, and Max, would never forgive them if they failed to do so, and then rendered an account of the same when they all had returned to Rosenberg.
Of course, Mary could not own to knowing that Tibor would not be there to witness their departure. So, when Ilona now apologised on his behalf, before presenting Mary with a bouquet of red roses purchased, she said, by her brother from one of the several flower sellers down on the quays beside the Danube, Mary had to feign surprise, at the same time blushing a shade akin to the colour of the flowers themselves.
"Oh, really! The silly boy! He shouldn't have!"
Nonetheless, secretly, she was delighted; try as she might, could not recall the last time Matthew had bought her flowers. Now, raising her head from inhaling the scent of the roses, Mary's eyes met those of Matthew; saw that he was faintly amused. As she supposed well he might be. A moment later, having asked to be remembered yet again to Tibor, their final thanks having been given, and their last goodbyes said to Ilona, as well as to both Pal and Sarita, with the Chef de Bord standing erect and straight beside the door to their carriage, respectfully touching the gold braided brim of his cap, and bidding them welcome, Matthew, Mary, and Tom boarded the midday express.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, the previous night.
Here within Max's bedroom, all was silent, all was quiet, and, save for the faint glow coming from the night light standing on the bedside table, all was in darkness.
The glimmer of light illuminated but slightly the dozen or so little, wooden aircraft, all of them painstakingly assembled and painted by Max with help from his father. Or rather, each carefully put together and liveried by Friedrich ... with a little help from Max, to be strung on different lengths of white cotton thread and hung from the ceiling directly over Max's bed.
Among them was a red painted Fokker tri-plane bearing the serial number 425/17, an exact miniature of the machine which had belonged to The Red Baron, Manfred von Richthofen. There was also a Lohner B. VII, as flown by one of Friedrich's friends, Stabsfeldwebel Julius Arigi, Austria-Hungary's most decorated flying ace, who in one engagement had shot down five out of half a dozen enemy aircraft.
But taking pride of place was a model of an Albatross D-III, of the type flown by Friedrich during the Great War, more especially in his famous skirmish above the Isonzo river high in the Julian Alps.
Above Edith's head, faintly moving, on account of some slight draught, ghost like and silent, Max's little aeroplanes cast flickering shadows on the plaster ceiling. Fastened stoutly to the wall just above the bed, not without some misgivings on the part of Edith, was fixed the unusual present Max had received at Christmas 1931, from Kapitän Conrad Wyss; just after he had intervened to save Edith and young Max from what might have proved to be a very nasty encounter with a group of Jew hating soldiers of the Heimwehr at the Westbahnhof.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, Christmas Day, December 1931.
At least for the family, Christmas at Rosenberg had been a decidedly leisurely affair. A late breakfast, followed by the servants being given their presents in the hall beside the Christmas tree after which Friedrich, Edith and Max had all adjourned to the Drawing Room to exchange their own gifts in private. But, of all the presents young Max received, the one with which he was most delighted, was that to which Kapitän Wyss had alluded so enigmatically on Christmas Eve, just as Edith and Max were about to board the Salzburg express.
What that now turned out to be was a wooden propeller from off an Albatross D-III; the 'plane to which it had belonged having long since been broken up, at the the end of the Great War so said Papa, when the surviving machines of the Austro-Hungarian Air Force had been surrendered to the victorious Allies. Quite how the propeller had escaped destruction, and then come into the possession of the Kapitän, remained something of a mystery.
But survived it had.
And, having acquired the propeller, knowing young Max's fascination with all things aeronautical, with no children of his own, Kapitän Wyss had given it to Friedrich and Edith as a Christmas present for Max; where it would be displayed would, said Friedrich, need some careful thought. Max had a prompt answer for that; on the wall above his bed.
"Perhaps," said his father, "if the wall is strong enough to hold it".
At that, Edith smiled; sparing a thought for Sybil who, in one of her recent letters, had mentioned in passing that eleven year old Danny's bedroom was cluttered with bits and pieces from off several old motors: a brass lamp, a wooden steering wheel, and so forth. Predictably enough, wrote Sybil, Tom saw no harm in it. She, on the other hand thought Danny's room looked like a scrapyard. And when she had said as much to Tom, he had been absolutely no help at all ...
Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, late June 1931.
Sybil cast a decidedly disapproving eye over Danny's latest prize; a battered radiator from off some motor.
"It's unique, Ma!"
Sybil had never heard Danny use the word before. Clearly he must have learned it from his father which only served to reinforce Sybil's suspicions that Tom had played a part in Danny's newest acquisition.
"I agree. It is. In fact, I've never seen anything quite so rusty! Unique or not, it stays outside. In your Da's workshop".
"Oh, Ma!"
It was at precisely this moment that Tom wandered in from the garden. While Danny explained to him that Ma had said the radiator would have to stay in the workshop, that she wasn't having his bedroom looking like a scrapyard, husband and wife stood facing each other across the kitchen table, Sybil with her arms folded, Tom with his right arm placed protectively around his son's shoulders.
"Darlin' have yous ever seen a scrapyard, for sure?" asked Tom and with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, while at the same time hugging Danny to him.
"No," said Sybil flatly.
"I could take yous to see Donnelly's yard this afternoon, if yous like". Tom grinned.
Honestly, thought Sybil, if darling Papa had still been alive, why, at this time of the year he would have been offering to escort Mama to Ladies' Day at Ascot or else to accompany her to view the Royal Regatta at Henley while here was Tom proposing that he take her to see a bloody scrapyard!
Sybil stood her ground; now pointed to the radiator standing propped against the wall by the back door.
"That! Outside. In the workshop!"
Sybil looked mutinous; much, thought Tom, as General Nivelle must have done, at Verdun, during the Great War, when famously he declared of the Germans, "Ils ne passeront pas!"
And the radiator?
It stayed outside.
In Tom's workshop.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, summer 1933.
Like Friedrich, Conrad Wyss had lost his wife in the epidemic of Spanish 'flu which had swept across Europe in the aftermath of the Great War. But, unlike Friedrich, he had never found anyone to replace his Elisabeth. If, however, he had chanced to meet Edith before she had met Friedrich, then perhaps he ... But life is full of regrets, upon which it really does not do to dwell.
For her part, Edith rather liked Conrad; in modern parlance, they "rubbed along" and she was equally very well aware how attracted to her he was. When last they had heard from him, Conrad was in Bucharest, in Roumania. He had not remarried.
Now, as she approached Max's bed, in the dim, grey light, Edith saw that it was empty. And not only that. Heavens! The bed itself had been stripped clean of all its pillows, covers, and sheets, leaving only the bare mattress. What on earth was going on? And, just where was Max?
Having found both Bobby and Simon sound asleep, Simon with Oscar tucked in beside him, a few moments later Sybil had let herself into Danny's bedroom. Saw that he too was fast asleep. And, also, with a distinct sense of shock, that Danny was not alone. Behind her in the darkness, Sybil heard a slight movement. Turning, she saw that it was Edith.
"Max isn't in his bed ... I don't know where he can possibly ..." whispered Edith, clearly worried.
Placing a forefinger to her lips, Sybil shook her head and smiled. Taking Edith gently by the arm, she turned back to the room, indicated the scene before them. Next to Danny's bed, his head resting on a pillow and covered with a blanket, both of which Edith recognised immediately as having come from off Max's bed, Robert lay fast asleep in an armchair. With his crutches propped neatly in one corner, on an improvised bed made from the remainder of the bedclothes and the other pillow from his own bed, sprawled on his tummy, hugging the pillow to him, stretched out on the floor, Max likewise lay sound asleep. In spite of everything else that had happened here tonight, the two sisters found themselves smiling.
Tous pour un et un pour tous
It had been thus with these three ever since their shared adventure in the Alps last summer. Understandably, neither Edith nor Sybil had the heart to disturb the three sleeping boys. Instead, they stole softly out of Danny's bedroom, quietly closed the door, and slipped silently away.
At the top of the stairs, Edith suddenly stopped dead in her tracks; so much so that Sybil all but bumped into her.
"Of course! Dummkopf! Call me slow witted, if you will!" she exclaimed.
"What on earth is it?" asked Sybil.
"Conrad!" exclaimed Edith promptly.
"Just who is Conrad?" asked Sybil, clearly mystified.
"Yes, Conrad, repeated Edith to herself, before realising that the name would mean nothing at all to Sybil; that an explanation was in order. "There's absolutely no time to lose. I'll tell you downstairs".
Somewhere in south east Hungary, the following afternoon.
From up ahead there came the shrill scream of a whistle. A moment later, yet again, indeed maddeningly so, the express began to slow down. Seated across from her, Mary saw Tom pull out his gold pocket watch and glance at the dial.
A superb example of the watchmaker's craft, the heavily embossed watch had, as Mary herself knew, been a gift from her late father, to mark Tom's appointment as Deputy Editor of the Irish Independent back in '29. At the time, Robert's congratulatory telegram had been so effusive in singing Tom's praises that, when he had recovered from the shock of the adulation being heaped upon him, Tom had it framed; the telegram taking pride of place on the wall behind his desk in his office in Talbot Street in Dublin. Much to Sybil's own amusement, her father's subsequent telephone call to the house in Idrone Terrace had been just as laudatory.
While Robert and Tom never would agree on matters political, the earl of Grantham was inordinately proud of his Irish son-in-law's success as a journalist. So much so, not that Robert ever admitted this to anyone, not even to Cora, but following the signing of the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1922, he asked Carson to ensure that, along with the Times, a copy of the Irish Independent was sent up to the abbey on a daily basis from old Barnes who ran the newsagent's down in the village. Unlike the copy of the Thunderer, which was brought to the breakfast table in the Dining Room, that of the Indy was to be placed on Robert's desk in the Library for his own personal perusal. Perhaps not unsurprisingly, Robert never read any edition in its entirety, choosing instead to seek out the articles penned by Tom. These were culled dutifully from the paper and carefully pasted into an old leather bound photograph album, the cuttings copiously annotated in Robert's own hand with remarks both critical and complimentary, along with a positive flurry of exclamation and question marks.
Now, if at the time it had been made, Tom had learned of Robert's private arrangement, he would gladly have taken it upon himself to see that a copy of the Irish Independent was sent to his father-in-law gratis each and every day. However, Tom never found out what had been going on until a couple of years later, namely in the summer of 1931, when, following Robert's death, Barrow had asked Matthew if, as the new earl of Grantham, he still required a copy of the Irish Independent to be sent up to the abbey each and every day.
Replacing the watch carefully back in the pocket of his waistcoat from whence he had drawn it, Tom nodded contentedly. Seeing Mary's eyes were upon him, he smiled.
"A while yet, for sure," he drawled and which indeed proved to be the case.
British Legation, Budapest, Hungary, earlier that same day.
"And moreover, what I have to impress upon the both of you most of all is that should you run into difficulties, there is nothing, I repeat nothing, that the Government of His Britannic Majesty can do, or will do, to help you".
Given what the British Ambassador had told them, what they would find when they reached Manfred and Eva's country estate at Rózsafa was anyone's guess.
A short while later, standing on the pavement outside the British Legation, just before he had set eyes on Tibor's motor, having adjusted his hat, Matthew turned to Tom.
"Thank you for what you said in there. All the same, there's still time for you to walk away from this".
"Where yous go, I go, for sure!"
"Good man. I knew I could count on you".
South east Hungary, later that same day.
As the midday express steamed southeast towards Gyula, here in the opulence of their First Class compartment, Matthew and Tom were now deep in discussion; their conversation wide ranging, although concerned principally with the plight of Hungary following the signing of the Treaty of Trianon, the betrayal of the last Habsburg emperor by the Regent, and also with what both of them agreed wholeheartedly was the rapidly deteriorating political situation here in central Europe.
Matters political, and foreign politics at that, were of no interest whatsoever to Mary. Besides which, with Matthew and Tom being remarkably well informed upon the subject presently under consideration, much of their discussion quite went over her head. So, rather than try and attempt to take part in their conversation, upon issues with which she was not cogniscant, which she did not understand, and, to be perfectly frank cared about not one whit, with other matters clouding her own mind, Mary was quite content to leave the two men to their discussions. So, seated next to the window, she sat gazing out at the countryside passing beyond the carriage.
At Rosenberg when, at Sybil's prompting, Manfred had proceeded to tell them all something of his homeland, he had spoken of the glamour and sophistication of Budapest, had waxed lyrical on the immensity and wide vistas of the Great Hungarian Plain, it had seemed, at least to Mary, that he must in some way be exaggerating. However, what he had told them concerning Hungary, both of the splendours of its capital and the limitless expanse of the Alföld, had proved to be just as he had described.
With Budapest now left far behind, the scenery presently unfolding outside the carriage window was unlike anything Mary had ever seen before. It took the form of one gigantic plain, above which even the sky itself seemed limitless. And beneath the immense, cloudless, azure vault, shimmering in the stifling heat of high summer, as far as the eye could see and then beyond even that, there stretched a flat, illimitable sweep of grassland, dotted about with grazing flocks of spiral horned sheep, as well as herds of long horned, ash-grey cattle.
At one point, where the train had slowed to little more than a crawl, close to the railway line, the mounts of two drovers attracted Mary's attention. The men, both of them dressed identically in black felt hats, white linen shirts and baggy trousers worn loose over black knee length boots, were watering a herd of grey cattle down in the river; the air itself thick with the lowing of beasts. As for the horses, they really were quite splendid, one a chestnut, the other a roan.
As the train puffed slowly past, the cattle spooked. In an instant they were off; thundering across the plain, intent on getting as far away as possible from the steaming monster which had disturbed their watering hole at the river.
In a jingle of harness and a clammer of horns, whistling to a pack of long haired dogs, the two men wheeled their mounts neatly about, spurring their horses forward in pursuit of the fleeing cattle. Catching up with the bawling herd, the pace of which had soon slowed to a shambling dawdle, the drovers proceeded to cajole the errant cattle into some semblance of order, barking commands to their dogs, rounding up the strays, prodding them back into the herd, with long, whisper thin goads.
Occasionally, Mary glimpsed clumps of trees, unless, of course, they were a mirage which, according to what Manfred had told them, was sometimes the case. Apparently, it was something to do with a trick of the light. Among the endless fields of wheat, Indian corn, and what Tom said was tobacco, there now reared the white stucco, straw thatched buildings of yet another farm, with its T shaped sweep well out in the courtyard, while all around the huddled buildings, the surrounding fields stretched away into the middle distance.
The far-flung peaks glimpsed on the horizon were, Mary presumed, those of the Carpathians, of which Tibor had spoken when he had been telling her about his family's lost estate at Serény. And with that, Mary fell to thinking once more of what had passed between them.
When Sybil had pressed her on the matter, if only to keep the peace, Mary had agreed that there never had been anything between Matthew and the beautiful Alice, comtesse de Roquebrune. All the same, a small part of Mary still refused to accept this was so. Moreover, unlike Sybil, Mary had seen that photograph: the one sent to her anonymously, inscribed Vive l'Entente Cordiale and signed from A Well Wisher. The picture had been taken in Geneva, by the shores of the lake, and showed the earl of Grantham and his companion, strolling, arm in arm, along the water's edge.
So, had what passed between Tibor and herself been simply on account of her continuing suspicions?
Perhaps.
But then, if that was so, it did her no credit.
None whatsoever.
It would mean that however much Tibor had wanted her, still wanted her, that she had used him shamelessly.
For when he had wanted to make love to her, she had been unable to go through with the physical act itself.
And just why had that been?
Because she was afraid?
Because of the scandal?
Because of the whispered rumours?
No.
Not for any one of these reasons.
But because, despite all that had happened, she loved Matthew.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, the previous evening.
Back in the Drawing Room, Edith now proceeded to explain just what it was she had in mind.
"Darling, I think I know who can help us".
"Who?"
"Conrad!"
"Conrad? Why on earth Conrad?"
"Don't you remember? He's living in Roumania".
"When last we heard of him, yes. In Bucharest. As a flying instructor to the air force there. But I still don't see ..."
"Don't you?"
"No, I don't".
"Like you, he was a pilot during the war".
"What of it?"
"Have you forgotten?"
Edith sounded like someone who knew she held a trump card. Friedrich was intrigued; wanted to know just what that was.
"So, what is it that I have forgotten?"
"That Rózsafa lies just across the border".
"And?"
"There's a landing strip there".
"Of sorts. Yes".
"A 'plane flown from Roumania could be over the border, land at Rózsafa, pick up Matthew, Mary, and Tom, and be back across the frontier in no time at all".
"You can't be serious!"
"Why ever not? It's perfectly feasible. If need be, I'll even fly the damned thing myself!"
"Edith, this is utter madness".
"No, it isn't. Not where our family is concerned. I'll risk anything, do anything, to keep them safe!"
Friedrich knew that when Edith was in this frame of mind there was no reasoning with her. Yet for all that, what she had proposed might just work. He rose to his feet.
"Where on earth are you going?"
Friedrich paused; for one long moment he stood looking down at his wife; then he smiled.
"Where do you think? To put a call through to Conrad in Bucharest".
Railway Station, Gyula, south east Hungary, late the following afternoon.
To a cacophony of church bells, the late running express finally pulled into the station at Gyula and, for Matthew, Mary, and Tom, the long journey from Budapest, all the way down here, close to the border with Roumania, was now at an end. Looking out of the window, Mary saw, standing on the platform, ready to greet them, Manfred and Eva, both all smiles. Behind, slightly apart from them, all but lost in shadow, there stood a young man.
While the porters busied themselves seeing to all of the luggage, Manfred and Eva moved forward along the platform and greeted their newly arrived guests. This done, Manfred turned to introduce the young man standing behind them beneath the station canopy.
"And this, I think, is someone you know already".
Smiling broadly, Captain Tibor Csáky stepped smartly forward into the brightness of the late afternoon sunshine.
Author's Note:
Opened in 1884, despite being badly damaged in WWII, Kereti station is once again much as is described.
Nineteen to the dozen - an English phrase meaning to do something rapidly.
The Thunderer - the nickname given to The Times.
The mirage to which Mary refers is known as a Fata Morgana.