Chapter Thirty

Rendezvous At The Riesenrad

On board the Budapest Express, Kingdom of Hungary, summer, 1933.

Following his surrender to the forces of the Regent at Erdőtelek, Tibor's first concern had been, quite naturally, in equal measure, both for his men and for his distant kinsfolk, the Waldsteins. Assured of the fact that none of them would come to any harm, that Erdőtelek itself would be spared the awful fate which had befallen Rózsafa, although he had no way of knowing whether this was true, Tibor had been brought back to the capital under guard. However, at the same time, he had been treated with every courtesy; had even been allotted a First Class compartment, all to himself, on the express from Gyula to Budapest.

On board the train, his wonts, such as they were, had been attended to, and promptly, while his military escort, under the command of a young subaltern, whom Tibor thought looked scarcely old enough to be shaving, had been conspicuous by its absence. To the extent that, had he been so inclined, on any one of the several occasions when the express had slowed to a virtual crawl, with the door to his compartment left unlocked, Tibor would have had no difficulty whatsoever in slipping off the train and making himself scarce, in the vastness of the Great Hungarian Plain.

However, each time the opportunity to do just that had presented itself, something had prevented Tibor from doing so. Maybe it was to do with his belief in Providence, for as the featureless, flat landscape of the seemingly limitless Alföld slipped away, Tibor found himself recalling what Matthew had once said. That, if given half a chance, Providence would see one through. So, when several hours later the express finally steamed into the terminus at Keleti, Tibor was still sitting in his comfortable corner seat by the window of the First Class compartment.

Back in Budapest, what was so striking was that, as far as Tibor could tell, as he was taken by motor at a speed of which his sister Ilona would have approved, from the terminus at Keleti, down through Pest and across the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, over which he had driven Mary on the night they had visited the Arizona, and thence up onto the Var, was that life here in the capital continued as it had always done. On the train, while he had been permitted to read a newspaper, he had been unable to find any mention of what had unfolded in the far south eastern quarter of the country. It was as if the nightmare of Rózsafa had never even happened. Now, from his observation of the streets of the capital, the roads thronging with motor traffic, the pavements and the yellow tramcars crowded with pedestrians, the coffee houses and the cafés down on the quaysides fronting the river burgeoning with patrons, here in Budapest all seemed to be blissfully ignorant of the failed coup.

Rosenberg, Lower Austria, summer 1933.

With Matthew, Mary, and Tom safely back in Austria, here at Rosenberg, life began to resume its daily rhythm. Indeed, there was no denying that, up until the three of them had left for their ill-fated trip to Hungary, the time the Bransons and the Crawleys had spent with the Schönborns had been something of an idyll for all concerned. The weather had been positively glorious and, despite the odd contretemps, everyone had rubbed along just famously.

Then, of course, once details of what was afoot in Hungary had leaked out, there had come several days of anxious waiting for those who had remained at Rosenberg, increasingly desperate for news of their loved ones. However, now, whatever had happened there at Rózsafa was, to all intents and purposes, over and done with, and the house burned to a blackened shell. Even if there remained, as yet, no word of what had become of Manfred and Eva, let alone befallen Tibor and young Micky Waldstein.

On The Terrace.

Not long after Friedrich and the three boys had left to board the mid morning express at the small wayside station of St. Johann, bound for Vienna, later the same morning, out here on the terrace, seated in a pair of wicker chairs, Mary, with Matthew beside her, even if her mind was, betimes, elsewhere, lazed contentedly in the warm sunshine; adjusting once more to the leisurely pace of life as it was lived at Rosenberg.

Not that it would be for long as, in but a matter of days, their time here would have come to an end, with the Bransons and the Crawleys returning to Calais; thence by steamer to Dover, and so up to London where their paths would diverge. The Bransons would be travelling westwards from Paddington, as far as Fishguard in Pembrokeshire in southwest Wales, from where they would catch another steamer, this time bound for Rosslare in County Wexford, and so onto Dublin and Blackrock. For their part, the Crawleys would travel north to Yorkshire by express train from King's Cross, onto Ripon, and thence to Downton.

Thereafter, both Tom and for Sybil would resume the daily grind of their working lives, he at his desk in the offices of The Independent on Talbot Street and she on the wards of the Rotunda Hospital on Dublin's Northside. Across the Irish Sea, over in England, in Yorkshire, Matthew would once more take up the reins of running Downton, pursuing his seemingly never ending quest to set the estate on a secure financial footing and make it pay. For Mary also, albeit, in a different way from the others, life would return to its customary path, with an endless round of committee meetings, patronages and charities, which Mary had inherited from her mother by virtue of the position Mary herself now held as countess of Grantham.

With Edith inside the house, whence she had gone to discuss with Frau Eder this evening's meal, shading her eyes, down below her, and now some distance off, Mary espied Tom and Sybil, hand in hand, like a pair of village lovers, strolling among the sweet smelling roses and lavender scented borders of Edith's lovingly planted English Garden. Easing herself out of the wicker chair, Mary rose and went and stood beside the balustrade. The balmy summer air indeed smelt heavenly.

A moment later, she felt Matthew's arm encircle her still slender waist. In a few months ... Mary sighed; she was still not at all sure how she felt the forthcoming addition to the family, with, if all went well, the baby due in the spring of next year. While she enjoyed the bed sport that had led to the creation of their children, Mary knew in her heart of hearts that she was not possessed of the same maternal instincts of either Edith or Sybil. Why that was, she didn't know; nor would she even try to hazard a guess.

Mary turned her head; looked directly at Matthew.

"And?" She arched a brow.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"I'm fine; perfectly fine". Mary bit her lower lip.

"Now we both know that isn't true ..." Catching sight of Tom and Sybil, Matthew grinned; nodded in their direction. "Just like Hansel and Gretel!" He laughed.

Mary ignored his levity.

"Darling, you would tell me, wouldn't you? If there was any news ..."

"Of course".

"Whatever it was?"
Matthew nodded.

"Promise me now".

"I promise".

Hearing yet more laughter, both turned.

Behind them on the sun-baked flag stones of the terrace, on their hands and knees, Simon, Bobby, and Saiorse were once again hunting for the lizards. A moment later, just like an overgrown schoolboy, Matthew had joined them, down along with the children, all four searching for the elusive little reptiles.

Mary smiled, quietly indulgent. Hearing the sound of the piano being played, she began to walk towards the house.

"I think," she said, " I'll go and find Edith; perhaps see if she would like to go for a walk".

Not that her words elicited the slightest response.

In The English Garden.

"Roses, yes. But never wild flowers". Tom raised Sybil's right hand and brought it swiftly up to his lips.

She never ceased to marvel at his unexpected store of knowledge. They had been talking about flowers, when Tom made his pronouncement, about which could be cut or picked and which should not. Arm in arm, they had now walked as far as the wrought iron gate at the end of the garden which opened onto one of the several paths leading to the lake and the bridge from off which, earlier that same morning, Rob had dived, and little Fritz had pushed his snout through the railings.

The weather was beautiful, with bright sunshine gilding the tips of the distant Alps, dappling through the canopy of the trees, and sparkling on the calm waters of the lake. Here, midst all the beauty and tranquillity that was Rosenberg, it seemed to Tom that what had happened there across the border in Hungary had all been a bad dream; the memory of which was beginning to fade.

And yet ...

South Tower, Stephansdom, Vienna, about the same time.

The dark, damp, musty smelling interior of the South Tower of the Stephansdom would not have been at all to young Fritz's liking: the reason for which was not hard to fathom. There were steps, more steps, and then even more of the blasted things! On and on they went, up and up, and with this being so, it was just as well that, while Max had wanted to bring Frittie along, the irascible little dachshund had been left behind at Rosenberg.

So, with Danny leading the way, followed by Rob, then Max, and Friedrich bringing up the rear, up they all went; round and round the corkscrew of the narrow, stone, spiral staircase. Although lit by electricity, the steps were still dark, the echoing, fustian gloom punctuated only occasionally by glimpses of daylight afforded by means of small, narrow windows which, by peering through them, gave both the boys and Friedrich some idea of just how high they were from off the ground. Yet despite the fact that outside it was a hot summer's day here within the confines of the spiral stair it was both chill and cold. And, also slightly creepy.

Behind them in the gloom, several times, Friedrich thought he heard footsteps but when he paused on the stair to listen more intently, there was nothing to be heard. Ahead of him, round the curve of the spiral, in the fug of darkness, Friedrich now heard another sound: Danny acting the fool, groaning and moaning, calling out to Rob and Max, telling them that the tower was haunted.

"Is it, Papa?" Max asked, casting a nervous look back over his shoulder at his father, so that he almost stumbled on the worn treads of the stair.

"Max! Careful! Remember what I told you!" Friedrich reached out a steadying hand to prevent Max tripping and falling, something which would prove disastrous. "Are you all right?"

Having regained his balance, not wishing to be thought an invalid, especially in earshot of his two cousins, with a none too good grace, Max cast off his father's restraining hand.

"I'm fine, Papa! Don't fuss!" he hissed, repeating the very same words he had heard Danny utter after his accident out at the Old Tower. Friedrich chose to let Max's rudeness pass; replied instead to Danny's question as to whether the tower was haunted.

"Not that I have ever heard tell! However, if it would be to your liking then, later tonight, back at Rosenberg, I will tell you of some of the strange happenings I experienced when I was out in Arabia".

Robert could not contain his enthusiasm.

"Yes, please, Uncle Friedrich!"

"Yes, please, Papa!"

"Very well then".

From several steps up, Danny too nodded his assent.

"Only so long as Ma doesn't find out, for sure!"

"Why ever not?" asked his uncle.

"Because ..." Danny paused.

"Because what, my boy?"

"Well, one Hallowe'en, while Ma was at the hospital, Da read Saiorse, Bobby, and me, some ghost stories. Later that night, Bobby wet his bed, and when Ma wormed it out of him why he was so frightened, she was mighty mad at Da. I heard her, Uncle Friedrich! Going at him like a banshee, she was!"

"What's a banshee?" Max asked. He had never heard the word before.

"A ghostly, wailing woman," explained Danny with a nod and assuming a knowing air. Not that Max was any the wiser. Aunt Sybil was very much alive and, to the best of Max's recollection, he had never once ever heard her wail.

Hearing all this about Sybil from his Irish nephew, Friedrich had to smile. He loved his younger sister-in-law dearly; admired her greatly, well aware that she and darling Edith had far more in common with each other than with the aristocratic Mary. However, Sybil was slight of build and Friedrich was more than a little amused to hear at first hand how she managed to put the fear of God into her men folk - young or old. Not, of course, that Friedrich would ever believe her to be a termagant. Nonetheless, Edith, too, had her moments, but these days they were comparatively rare; usually born out of the continued stress of coping with Max's repeated bouts of ill health as a result of his haemophilia.

Rosenberg, a short while later.

Quite unexpectedly, there came the sound of a gunshot, followed swiftly by the report of another. Then a third. No doubt it was just hunters in the woods, either that or else perhaps poachers, but whichever it was, the sound was enough to send Tom scurrying for cover behind the trunk of the nearest tree, crouching down, and covering his ears with his hands.

Sybil was beside him in a moment; she kneeling, her arms about him, holding him close as if her physical presence could somehow shield him from whatever it was that had so frightened him. Only once before could she recall seeing Tom like this, and that had been years ago, in the aftermath of his return from the nightmare of what had befallen him at Allihies during the Irish War of Independence.

"Oh, my poor darling! Whatever is it?" When Tom didn't answer, she cupped his face between her hands; looked into his eyes. ""There are things to tell me, aren't there?" While her words had the semblance of a question, they were in fact a statement of fact.

Tom didn't answer her; seemed unaware of her presence. Without saying a word, he stood up; held out his hand to her which she took unquestioningly. Let him lead her forward in silence down the path through the tress, as far as the middle of bridge over the lake where, letting go of her hand, Tom leaned forward on the wooden rail, staring out into the middle distance, oblivious both to her and his immediate surroundings, with his own hands clasped together, so tightly that his knuckles blanched. After fourteen years of marriage, Sybil knew him too well. Her hands closed over his.

"Tell me," she whispered.

On The Bridge.

When, at last, Tom made an end of things, having finished telling Sybil all that had happened involving Fergal, she stood in silence, aghast at what she had learned, of just how close all three of them, Matthew, Mary, and her own precious darling, had come of being within a hair's breadth of never returning to Rosenberg. When, before, Tom had told her it had been bad, had hinted that there were things he had not said, never for a single moment could Sybil have imagined any of what she had now heard. So, for a while, standing there beside him, she said nothing. When she did it was to try and make him see that what had so nearly come to pass was not his fault; that in no way was Tom himself to blame.

"Tom, darling, there are rotten apples in every barrel. From what you've said, for whatever reason, it seems to me that your cousin only finds pleasure in the unhappiness of others. But it's not your fault. None of it is. You're not responsible for how ..."

Royal Palace, Budapest, Hungary, summer 1933.

"The question still remains, therefore, as to what is to be done with him". The Regent drummed his fingers impatiently on the top of the mahogany desk.

"Your Serene Highness, forgive me, but the remedy rests with you. Surely ..."

Seeing the grim look that had descended on Horthy's face, Fergal, realising that he must have sounded at best presumptuous, at worst impertinent, paused; stopped what he had been about to say. All the same, the fact remained that, with Csáky now back here in Budapest and under close arrest, what Fergal had expected to be done, and in short time, was for the meddlesome captain to be put up against a wall and shot. Whether or not the government of the Kingdom of Hungary then chose to give out that he had died heroically in defence of the Regent and his government and afford him the public spectacle of a State Funeral was a matter of supreme indifference to the Nazi officer.

"Surely?" echoed Horthy. "Surely, what, if you please?"

"I was about to say, sir, that an example should be made of Csáky. In order to serve as a warning to others who ..."

"Perhaps. But now I think ..." Horthy glanced pointedly at the gold pocket watch lying on the desk, signalling obliquely that the audience was at an end.

Displeased, decidedly so, taking care to mask his rising anger, Fergal stood, clicked his heels, saluted, turned, and left the room in a high dudgeon.

Once outside, in one of the several courtyards of the palace, Fergal paused beneath an archway to light a cigarette. He was singularly unimpressed. To have been cheated out of a reckoning with Branson and the Crawleys was bad enough but now it looked as though Csáky was slipping through his fingers too.

Nonetheless, while Fergal would have been only too happy to have had Tibor taken out and shot, would, if he had been asked to do so, without any hesitation whatsoever, gladly have commanded the firing squad, he was also, if only grudgingly so, well aware that there were other considerations to be taken into account.

Not least was the fact that in the Foreign Ministry on the Wilhelmstrasse in Berlin the view was very much the same as it was in the Foreign Office in London: that, at least for the present, the government of Admiral Horthy was the best chance Hungary had of avoiding the growing threat of Bolshevism from the east. Drawing attention to the fact that there had been an attempted coup would do nothing to convince those opposed to the Regent's continued stranglehold on power that he was secure; indeed, quite the contrary and might yet tempt them to try again and, in the process, do the regime irreparable harm in terms of its prestige both at home and abroad. So, while for many the installation on the vacant throne of St. Stephen of Crown Prince Otto might well seem an attractive proposition, it was open to question as to whether, having become king, the young man would be able to unite all of Hungary behind him; for their were those here equally opposed to the return of the Habsburgs.

Fergal himself was ambivalent about the whole institution of monarchy. His experience of it in Ireland, when the country had been under British rule, had not endeared him to it, even to a constitutional king. In Fergal's adopted homeland of Germany its last Kaiser continued to live out his life in exile in the Netherlands, just as he had done for the past fifteen years, with little or no prospect of the Hohenzollern dynasty ever returning to the throne; decidedly less so now that the Fuhrer had assumed the mantle of supreme power in Germany.

All the same, there was yet one glimmer of light. Although the initial attempt to silence Schönborn had proved abortive, from his contacts there in the Austrian capital, Fergal had learned a further attempt would be made in Vienna on the morrow: at the Riesenrad.

And this time, there would be no mistake.

South Tower, Stephansdom, Vienna, Austria, the following day.

At length, and at a dizzying height, although there were, in due course, still yet more steps for them to climb, the spiral stairs brought Friedrich and the boys briefly outside the ornate face of tower, onto a short, narrow, balustraded, stone gallery from which was to be had a spectacular view over the streets, squares, spires, and rooftops of the north eastern quarter of Vienna.

While the three boys gazed down over the city, Friedrich pointed out for them several of the landmarks which were visible, including the huge sprawl of the copper green roofs and domes of the Hofburg, one of the many palaces that, formerly, had belonged to the Habsburgs. There, equally far below, was the Graben, which they had crossed but a short while earlier on their way here from the Central Café. Perhaps the most famous street in all of Vienna, with its fountains and lamp posts, the busy pavements of which were lined with shops, their canvas awnings lowered to their full extent to try and ward off the heat of the day. Visible too, much more so than it had been from the ground, was the cathedral's distinctive, polychromatic roof, made up of thousands of colourful tiles, along with a proliferation of statues and gargoyles, barely visible from the ground.

It was as they left the gallery and went once more inside the tower, to view the Pummerin, the largest bell in the Stephansdom, that, while as before he said nothing to the boys, Friedrich thought again he heard footsteps behind them. However, no-one emerged on to the gallery and so he assumed that this time it could only have been the echo of their own footfalls.

Royal Palace, Budapest, Hungary, summer 1933.

Of course, Captain Tibor Csáky of the Regent's Escort had stood in this palatial room many times before, but never once could he recall doing so in such unusual circumstances. In the bright mid-morning August sunshine, here in the Throne Room, on the first floor of the empty Royal Palace, looking out of the window at the scene spread out below him, Tibor thought the pale red domed bulk of the parliament building fronting Kossuth tér, Kossuth Square, and stretching for all of some 268 metres along the east bank of the Danube, looked even more impressive than it did usually.

The view from up here on the Var, the ancient citadel, situated at the very heart of Óbuda - old Buda - down over the upstart town of Pest - it and Buda had only been joined together as recently as 1873 so as to create the new metropolis of Budapest, was truly magnificent. Below, the slow moving, sluggish, grey waters of the Danube sparkled in the sunlight. The surface of the river was alive with all manner of craft, both commercial - this, principally, in the form of lighters, together with slow moving, heavily laden barges - and pleasure steamers.

Chugging its way self-importantly southwards, and now passing directly below where Tibor was standing, was a large patrol boat belonging to the Magyar Kirali Folyamőrség, the Royal Hungarian River Guard, under the command of the Interior Ministry, and which monitored traffic on the Danube, the longest river in all of Europe. At one time, Tibor had feared he himself might have been forced to suffer the ignominy of enduring an aimless, desultory military career in the ranks of the River Guard, the existence of which was one of the ways the regime of Admiral Horthy had sought to circumvent the strictly circumscribed limits of soldiery permitted to the Kingdom of Hungary after the end of the Great War. As the patrol boat nosed on its way, and disappeared out of view downstream in the direction of the Erzsébet bridge, hearing the door open behind him, Tibor turned away from the window.

"Captain Csáky?"
Tibor nodded curtly at the adjutant standing in the open doorway.

"If you would follow me, please, sir ..."

"It would seem that you have a benefactor," Horthy observed drily, holding out a letter upon which, while he could not read its contents, Tibor glimpsed briefly the royal coat of arms of the United Kingdom.

"Your Highness?" Tibor's face was a mask of inscrutability.

Horthy nodded. He set down the letter, laced his fingers together, looking down the length of his nose, seemingly at the at the surface of his desk.

"Oh, yes, decidedly so. The letter is from the British Ambassador, Chilston vicomte, with whom I believe you are already well acquainted?"
"Highness?"
"No matter. In it, His Excellency the ambassador makes it abundantly clear that sparing your life is a price that must be paid for this country to continue enjoying the favour of Great Britain. So be it. But then, just what am I to do with you?"

Rosenberg, Lower Austria, about the same time.

"Why, darling, that's perfectly lovely," said Mary now coming to stand beside Edith at the grand piano in what she supposed must be the Music Room. Edith had called it something like that, or so it had sounded, when she had shown it to them upon their arrival here several weeks ago. Like most of the principal rooms at Rosenberg the furnishings were swathed in dust sheets; save that was for the grand piano at which Edith was now seated.

Edith paused in her piano playing, looked up from the keyboard, and smiled a smile of singular sweetness.

"Why, thank you, darling. Yes, it is. It's called Suo Gân. A friend in Vienna, a Miss Henderson, who teaches both English and the piano, taught it me".

Mary nodded. By the title, clearly not an English piece and which, she assumed, must therefore be German.

The top of the grand piano was littered with framed photographs. She saw Edith glance at the one nearest to her, this one framed in ebony, and which stood slightly apart from all the rest. It was of Max but a year or so younger, Mary supposed, than he was now, sitting atop the terrace wall at the rear of the house, and smiling broadly. A moment later, still looking at the photograph, Edith began to sing:

Huna blentyn ar fy mynwes,
Clyd a chynnes ydyw hon;
Breichiau mam sy'n dynn amdanat,
Cariad mam sy dan fy mron;
Ni chaiff dim amharu'th gyntun,
Ni wna undyn â thi gam;
Huna'n dawel, annwyl blentyn,
Huna'n fwyn ar fron dy fam

Edith fell silent; the gentle, lilting notes faded away. Yet, for all that, something like an echo of the tune, still lingered here in the room.

"It has the quality of a lullaby. German?"

"No, Welsh actually. And, yes, it is a lullaby. I used to sing it to Max when he was an infant and a little boy. At times, I still do ... when he's unwell". Mary smiled down at her sister. In that one sentence, quite by chance, Edith had managed to encapsulate just how different she and Sybil had been from Mary in their approach to the rearing of their children; how different their experiences had been from her own.

Edith looked once more at the photograph of Max. Now, with her eyes still fixed steadfastly upon it, she spoke again.

"It's odd, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"That you and I have never really hit it off ..."
"Darling, this is hardly the time to ..."
Edith nodded.

"Agreed; but all the same we both know that it's true. That being so, it's one of life's greatest of all ironies that you have become so very fond of darling Max and because of that, there's something which you should know. However, I must have your promise, Mary, that you won't breathe a word of what I'm about to tell you. Not to anyone. Not even to Matthew".

"Darling, I ..."

Edith waved her into silence.

"Promise me, now". An echo of what Mary herself had said a short while earlier to Matthew.

"Of course, if that's what you want".
"It is".

"Then, I promise".

Edith paused; as if she was making up her mind about something.

"What you have to understand is that ... recently ... Friedrich and I were told by a specialist ... one in Vienna ... that for Max, twenty, or thereabouts, would be a good age. Beyond that ..." Edith continued to stare at the photograph.

Mary was appalled. While she knew that darling Max had to take the very greatest care of himself so as to try and avoid all manner of even minor mishaps be it a bump, a knock, a fall, even a cut knee and which for any healthy boy would have caused no problem whatsoever but which for Max could prove fatal. Of course whatever Friedrich and Edith tried to do, accidents still continued to occur: witness what had happened here at Rosenberg out at the pool. All this apart, Mary had assumed that, as he grew into manhood, Max would eventually come to lead a more or less normal life. Never for once had she suspected that he would not live a normal span.

"Does ... does Max know?" she asked hesitantly.

"He knows what's wrong with him, yes. As for the rest, no. And he must never know!"

"No, of course not. But surely there must be something more that can be done".

Edith shook her head.

"Perhaps one day, in years to come, a cure will be found. But, for the present, no".

Mary now sought desperately to try and change the subject.

"Darling, I don't think I've heard you play the piano since ... not since the war".

Edith smiled.

"No, and these days, what with the children, with Max especially, and now with Kurt, with Friedrich, with Rosenberg, and with all my other activities, I find I don't have the time. But you're right ... that would have been at the concert we gave at Downton, for the wounded officers, when Matthew and William came back unexpectedly from France?"

Mary nodded. Briefly, the passing years rolled away and in her mind's eye she saw again the Drawing Room as it had been on that occasion; the rows of seats occupied for the most part by patients from the hospital which had been set up within Downton's magnificent ground floor rooms. Saw Granny and their parents too and Sybil in her nurse's uniform standing at the back of the room. And beside her, smart in his chauffeur's uniform, darling Tom. And then, Matthew and William Mason appearing unexpectedly through the open doorway ...

Edith trilled out the first few notes of the tune, If You Were The Only Girl In The World, and which, at the time, back in 1916, had only just been written. "Remember?"

"How could I ever forget ... the Crawley sisters!"

"Nor I. Nor what you said ... about us both pulling together".

"Oh, my pleasure, it was nothing". Mary saw Edith look once again at the photograph of Max.

"Friedrich and I both agreed that we shouldn't wrap him up in cotton wool but all the same, when we're apart, I worry, even though I know Friedrich will take the very greatest care to see that ..."

"Of course you do. Your his mother. I wonder what there doing now".

"No doubt having a whale of a time, with Friedrich spoiling them rotten. Before they left here, he said something about taking the boys to the Central Cafè for hot chocolate and pastries".

South Tower, Stephansdom, Vienna, about the same time.

Back inside the tower, Friedrich and the boys found themselves in a lofty room with a high ceiling in which they stood to stare in wonderment at the massive bell known as the Pummerin. Adorned with religious figures depicting the Immaculate Conception, St. Joseph, St. Mary, and St. Leopold bearing, as Friedrich explained, the arms of Austria, Bohemia, Hungary, and the Holy Roman Empire, the bell, rung only on very special occasions, and so presently resting on two huge wooden beams, with a diameter of well over three metres, the Pummerin, having been cast in 1705 from canons captured from the Turks following the Second Siege of Vienna in 1683, was truly enormous. According to Friedrich, on the handful of occasions that the bell was rung – on the Feast of Corpus Christi, on Christmas Eve, and on the Feast of St. Stephen, the cathedral's patron, and so forth - only the clapper was swung, the bell itself remaining stationary for fear that if it was swung the massive vibration of the bell risked bringing down the whole of the South Tower.

"Have you ever heard it rung, Papa?" Max asked.

"Several times, my boy; the last some years before you were born, back in 1916, during the Great War, when it was tolled for the funeral of the late Emperor, Franz Joseph".

Their viewing of the bell over, on the four of them went, climbing yet more steps, up and up, and further still, as far as the Türmerstube, the Watchman's Chamber, the highest point in all of Vienna, which in times past at night was where a man resided, charged with the important task of keeping watch over the sleeping city during the hours of darkness, ready to raise the alarm in case of fire.

In all directions, the views from the tall windows of the Watchman's Chamber out over Vienna were truly breath taking, Friedrich pointing out to the boys some of what they could see; buildings, landmarks, and so forth. To the north again the Prater, then southwards the wide expanse of the Karlsplatz, and on the horizon the dark smudge of the Wienerwald, while to the east the two palaces of the Upper and Lower Belvederes, and out to the west the dome of the Peterskirche, the roofs of the Hofburg, the ornate towers of the Rathaus, and the twin spires of the Votivkirche, the last built in thanksgiving for the survival of Franz Joseph, when a man had tried to kill him.

"So, what did the man try and do?" Danny asked eagerly.

Friedrich smiled. Boys always wanted to know the gory, grisly details of such events. He could empathise with that having been just the same when he was the age Danny was now.

"He tried to stab the emperor with a knife, while he was out for a stroll on the glacis, the open area surrounding the old city. Fortunately, the emperor was saved from any serious injury by the high collar of his military uniform which deflected the knife and also by the quick actions of the officer accompanying him, Count Maximilian O'Donnell ..."

Danny's ears pricked up immediately.

"O'Donnell? Why, that's an Irish name".

"Indeed. The count was of Irish descent. He struck the assassin down with his sword. Then, later, in gratitude for saving his life, the emperor made the count a member of the Austrian nobility".

Danny nodded.

"Da says yous can always depend on an Irishman!"

Friedrich smiled.

"No doubt".

"For sure. He's my Da!"

A moment or two later, hurried footsteps sounded close on the uppermost stairs.

"Herr Schönborn?"

Hearing first the footsteps, and then the calling of his name, Friedrich, while not a fearful man, half turned, glanced towards the doorway at the head of the stairs, at the same time placing his right arm protectively about his young son's shoulders, drawing Max close. Sensing his father's concern, the boy glanced up.

"Who is it, Papa?" he asked.

"I don't rightly know. Danny, Rob, if you please, quickly now, over here, yes, by Max and me".

Clearly mystified, nonetheless, the two boys did as they had been asked, leaving the window from where they had been standing gazing out over Vienna, hurriedly crossing the room, and coming to stand beside their uncle, now likewise gazing towards the open doorway.

A moment later and two men, neither of whom were known to Friedrich, came forward into the Watchman's Chamber.

Friedrich looked questioningly at them.

"What do you want of me?" Friedrich asked, trying his best to keep his voice neutral. The nearer of the two smiled, walked forward, holding out his right hand in friendly greeting.

"Herr Schönborn, we meet at last. There is an English phrase, I believe, is there not? Something about friends and enemies? Shalom!"

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," attributed to Machiavelli, or so it is said," observed Friedrich drily; introductions now having been swiftly made by the two men, Felix Herzog and Joachim Klein, who, it transpired, were friends of Goldstein and the others of the Jüdische Selbstwehr and likewise hailed from Leopoldstadt, the Jewish quarter situated in the Second District of the city.

"Indeed. And also please to bear in mind, too, just how innocently children chatter. Die Wände haben Ohren. As I told you, a moment ago, walls have ears". Herzog paused. "Even in your own household".

Friedrich was appalled by the revelation which showed openly in his face.

"You mean it was one of my own people ..."

"Quite so".

"But, the servants at Rosenberg are beyond reproach. Most of them … all in fact … they and their forbears … have served my family for generations. Who among them would ever do such a thing?"

Herzog looked at Klein who quickly shook his head.

"Given that the problem has now been dealt with, it no longer matters who it was". The stress Herzog placed on the very last word was faint but there nonetheless. And, besides …" Herzog nodded towards the three boys.

Friedrich understood; was only too well aware of how Goldstein and the others had dealt with the would-be assassin on the hillside several nights ago. So, Herzog did not need to go into further details. Certainly not with Danny, Robert, and darling Max all within earshot of what was now being discussed. Friedrich smiled at the boys. Then in order to be able to speak more freely, he and the two Jews drew further apart. They came to a stand over by the doorway at the head of the tower stairs.

"Are you absolutely sure about all of this?" asked Friedrich, hollow voiced.

"Let me ask you, Herr Schönborn, has our intelligence ever been found wanting in the past?" Klein asked.

Friedrich's eyes twinkled; he shook his head.

"No, indeed. Quite the opposite. Although, speaking purely for myself, you understand, your warning a few nights ago, was delivered somewhat late!"
Klein grinned.

"It may surprise you to learn that, here in Austria, our organisation does have other calls upon its time". Herzog smiled.

Now it was Friedrich's turn to smile.

"Why on earth are you doing this for me? After all, it's hardly the first time …"
"As I think Goldstein once told you, for what your wife did for some of our brethren here in Vienna. And also because, with what is coming, for all of us here in Austria, but especially for us Jews, you have certain contacts who, in the future, may prove useful: the earl of Grantham for one, as well as your other brother-in-law, the newspaperman".

"Herr Branson".

"Just so. And there are others too. For example in the Archaeological Institute".

"Really? With what is coming, Forgive me, but it sounds to me very much as if you have some prior knowledge of what is to happen here in Austria? Do you?"

"If only that were true!" Herzog sighed. "But no. It is merely a question of keeping our eyes and ears open, as well as reading between the lines. Especially now that jumped up little corporal has come to power over there in Germany".

"And the purpose of what you have proposed is …"

"To make them show their hand …"

"Lure them into the open?"

"If you that is how you choose to view it. Then, yes".

"And after? Will they then desist?"

Herzog shrugged.
"Who knows? However, they, whoever they maybe, have already lost two men in the previous attempt made on your life the other night. Once this business of today is over and done with, I suspect they will leave you alone. After all, they have, if you will pardon me for saying so, far bigger fish to fry than you. Dollfuss, for one".

Friedrich nodded. That the diminutive Dollfuss, the chancellor of Austria, should be firmly in the sights of those opposed to him and his newly created Vaterländische Front, founded a matter of months ago, and with Austria heading towards becoming a one party state, came as no great news to Friedrich. What did amaze him though was how Dollfuss had managed to survive for so long.

"Can you be sure of that?"

"As certain as one can be of anything these days".

"Indeed; as for those on the political right …" began Klein.
"By whom I presume you mean the mean the National Socialists here in Austria".

"Perhaps. But whatever they may call themselves, be it the Vaterländische Front, the Österreichische Legion, the Nazis, to us Jews they are all one and the same. Hakenkreuzler!"

While the Vaterländische Front was not openly anti-semitic, Friedrich could well understand why Klein felt as he did.

"What about …"
He nodded towards where Max and his cousins were still standing over by the window.

"They will come to no harm. You have our word on that".

"All the same, after your English and Irish relations have left Austria, it would be for the best if you do as you intend and travel out to Palestine to take charge of the excavations at Samaria when they resume next month".

Friedrich could not conceal his surprise.

"How the devil do you know that? Why, confirmation that I was to lead the excavation there was only communicated to me this morning by telegram. I haven't even yet had a chance to discuss it properly with my wife".

"Herr Schönborn, we have all manner of contacts, including some that might surprise you". Klein smiled.

"Now, it is essential that you board the Riesenrad, precisely at two o'clock".

"But what if others should try and board the same …."

"They won't. The attendant on duty will be one of our own men. And, after all, the Riesenrad is Jewish owned".

Friedrich nodded. Everyone in Vienna had heard of the Jewish entrepreneur, Gabor Steiner, who had made the Wurstelprater what it was today - even if in doing so he had been bankrupted several times over.

"Herr Schönborn, we would not be asking this of you were it not absolutely necessary; if we did not have every faith in your ability to see this thing through. Nonetheless, it is imperative that you board the Riesenrad, exactly at two o'clock, and then all remain seated in the gondola. Is that clearly understood?"

"But can you be certain that …" He glanced nervously in the direction of Max and his cousins. Friedrich was taking an enormous risk and he knew it.

"Provided that you do exactly as we have said, then no harm will come, either to you, or the boys".

"Very well". Friedrich swallowed hard. He was not sure about any of this, but there seemed no other option other than to do exactly as Herzog had said.

"In that case, we'd all best be on our way. And while it will take us a while to descend the stairs here, it will be better if we are not seen leaving here together. One never knows who may be watching. So, I suggest that you and the boys leave now. Klein and I will follow on in due course".

Again Friedrich nodded; what Herzog proposed made perfect sense. All the same, Friedrich knew that if anything went awry, Edith would never forgive him were, God forbid, any harm to befall either Max or his cousins. Nor, would any of the others staying at Rosenberg, all of them blissfully unaware of what was now unfolding here in the bustling, thronging metropolis of Vienna.

A short while later, Friedrich and the boys had reached the door at the bottom of the worn steps leading down from the Türmerstube atop the South Tower, and from where they now emerged into the warmth of the afternoon sunshine.

"Papa?"
"Hm?"

"Who were those two men? What did they want?" Max asked.

Friedrich looked down fondly at his son, ruffled his sandy hair, and smiled.

"Friends," he said crisply before, and he hoped not too obviously, promptly changing the subject. "Now, boys, let's find the tram to take us out to the Wurstelprater".

Wurstelprater, Second District of Vienna, a short while later.

Their journey out to the Prater, the large park gifted to the citizenry of Vienna as long ago as 1766 by the Emperor Joseph II, proved uneventful even if Friedrich found himself anxiously and repeatedly scanning the faces of those boarding the crowded, clanging, rattling, red and white tram for anyone who might be following them. For their part, the three boys were far too busy enjoying themselves to notice that anything at all was wrong.

Even so, as Edith had said many times before, darling Max was old for his years and, several times during their journey out to the Prater, Friedrich found his son's eyes upon him; saw Max regarding him thoughtfully.

This hot August day, here in the Wurstelprater, the long established amusement grounds which occupied but a part of the Prater, the Viennese were out in force. Crowds of men, women, and children, whether en famille, in couples, in twos or threes, or else singularly, everyone intent on enjoying themselves in the warm afternoon sunshine. Having climbed down from the packed tram, with Friedrich now leading the way, telling the boys to be sure and stay close to him and to each other, all four of them made their way from the tram stop over to the entrance to the Wurstelprater.

The boys had never seen anything quite like it.

Just as there had been no comparison between Bewley's in Dublin, the Cathedral tea rooms in Ripon, and the Central Café here in Vienna, so too with the Wurstelprater. While Da had taken Danny, Saiorse, and Bobby to several fairgrounds in and around Dublin, and Rob and Simon had gone together to the annual Statute Fair held in Downton - even if Mama disapproved, Papa saw no harm in it - none of the boys had experienced anything that matched what was on offer here in the Wurstelprater.

On entering the amusement grounds, like everyone else, they were immediately assailed, and from all sides, by a cacophony of competing noises, a kaleidoscope of colours, as well as a mouth-watering assault on their nostrils and taste buds by a multitude of competing savoury and sweet smells coming from the coffee houses, beer gardens, gingerbread bakers, and the Schweizerhaus, the Swiss House known for its wonderful menu. The numerous gaily, gaudy, painted booths and rides, the shooting galleries, puppet shows, the Hochschaubahn or rollercoaster, the merry-go-rounds, swing boats, chair-o-planes, carousels, swirls, caterpillars, cakewalks, and bowling alleys were doing a roaring trade. So too the recently extended Liliputbahn, the miniature railway, which was proving especially popular, its little carriages all but packed to capacity as the trains were pulled round a circuit of several kilometres by scaled down reproductions of two steam locomotives.

And, with everything here seeming so perfectly commonplace and nothing appearing to be amiss, in no time at all, Danny, Rob, and Max soon forgot all thought of the strange encounter with the two Jewish men in the Türmerstube at the top of the South Tower of the Stephansdom.

While the three boys continued to stand and look about them, to see what was on offer, somewhere, a band struck up with the overture to Lehar's The Merry Widow. For his part, Friedrich hoped it was not prophetic. Not that he could see Edith in the guise of a widow; far from it and certainly not a merry one. Now, glancing up he saw, as he knew he would, towering over everything, dominating the park and its numerous rides, the enormous ferris wheel, opened in 1897 during the celebrations staged to mark Franz Joseph's Golden Jubilee, and known to all of Vienna as ... the Riesenrad.

Author's Note:

Many of you will know the piano piece Edith plays to Mary as it is sung by the English boys' school choir in Steven Spielberg's loss-of-innocence film Empire of the Sun. The alcoholic Miss Henderson first appeared in my story The Snow Waltz.

Since the Second World War great advances have been made in the treatment of haemophilia so that today most haemophiliacs can lead relatively normal lives. However, there is still no cure for the condition.

For what happened to Tom out at Allihies see my very first story, Home Is Where The Heart Is.

The description of the interior of the South Tower of the Stephansdom is as it was prior to the end of the Second World War when a fire, started by looters in nearby shops, spread to the cathedral, destroyed the wooden cradle supporting the Pummerin which then crashed to the ground and shattered. Later recast from the broken original, the bell was rehung but in the North Tower where it can still be seen today.

What Friederich tells the boys about the attempt on the life of the late emperor (in 1853) is perfectly true.

At the end of the Great War, Germany's kaiser, Wilhelm II (1859-1941) fled to the Netherlands where he was granted political asylum by the Dutch government. He never returned to Germany and the house where he lived out his days - Huis Doorn - (in English, Doorn Manor) is now a museum, preserved exactly as it was when the kaiser lived there. Like young Max, the kaiser's favourite dogs were dachshunds, and five of them are buried in the park at Doorn.

Erzsébet bridge - the Elizabeth Bridge, built between 1897-1903 and named for the wife of Emperor Franz Joseph. Destroyed during WWII, the bridge was later rebuilt 1961-64 but not to the original design.

Jüdische Selbstwehr - the name of one of the Jewish organisations formed in Vienna in the 1930s to try and protect Jews from attacks by right wing para military groups such as those mentioned by Klein.

Hakenkreuzler "thugs bearing the swastika".

The Riesenrad was Jewish owned until 1938 when it was confiscated from its owner Gabor Steiner (1858-1944) the father of the Hollywood composer Max Steiner. The elder Steiner was the entrepreneur who made the early twentieth century Wurstelprater a success, by constantly re-inventing what was on offer in the way of entertainment, so that the crowds kept coming back. To this end, it was he who instigated the building of the Riesenrad in 1897. While the ferris wheel was badly damaged in WWII it was rebuilt and can still be ridden on today. It plays a prominent role in Carol Reed's film The Third Man.