Chapter Thirty Two
Abschied von Österreich?
Rózsafa, Kingdom Of Hungary, summer 1933.
Here in the lengthening shadows, in the half empty stalls of the stables, where the handful of Mezőhegyes English full bloods for which the estate at Rózsafa had once been famous, snorted, whinnied, and stamped the ground, Tibor could scarcely see his friend's face.
"What I expect – indeed our ambassador in Budapest is of much the same opinion - is this". Matthew's voice had sunk to little more than a whisper. After all, even stable walls had ears and here, as indeed elsewhere, it was difficult to be sure that no-one else was listening, that what one was saying, wished to impart, remained private. Matthew paused.
"Which is?" prompted Tibor.
"That however things may turn out here, if somehow we both manage to come through all of this alive, is that at some point Horthy will propose you begin keeping a watchful eye on our activities here in the Kingdom of Hungary. If he does as I suspect, then dissemble, prevaricate, at least enough for form's sake, but in the end, agree, seemingly reluctantly, and without giving anything away. Promise anything …"
In the gathering gloom, Tibor's smile went unobserved; was evident only from the tone of his voice.
"And then, when the coast is clear, nothing will have changed. What, if I remember correctly, you British call a double bluff". Tibor laughed.
"In a sense, yes. And, despite everything, it would seem that your position as our most important agent here in the Kingdom of Hungary has not been compromised. At least not yet. Oh, thanks to the plotting of those on the Wilhelmstrasse and the intriguing of a certain German officer, there may well be suspicions. But while much may be suspected of you, nothing has been proven. So, let's keep it that way and, in order that things stay just as they are, in due course, a few choice morsels of information fed by us to you and in turn by you to the authorities in Budapest should suffice to stifle any further suspicions about where your loyalties lie. Then it will be merely a question of ensuring that you take the very greatest care not to give yourself away. But then, of course, you've proved yourself extremely adept at that already".
"Merely a question of ensuring my own survival, I do assure you. It serves to concentrate the mind quite fearfully!" Now it was Matthew who laughed.
"I don't doubt it does. Now, one thing more, your code name ..."
"Yes?"
"I've been giving the matter some thought and what I suggest is ..."
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, several days later.
Given what had happened, following the visit of Captain Iselmann and the men of the Bundessicherheitswachekorps to the house, despite what Conrad had promised Max, it was agreed that the sooner the two pilots were away from Rosenberg, and out of Austria, the better it would be for all concerned. It was no time to linger. So, with Edith having made own her farewells to Wyss and Salvatore, while she remained up at the house with the children, accompanied by the Bransons and the Crawleys, the two pilots, made their way down to where the Junkers yet stood waiting in the flower strewn meadow. Here, once again, Matthew, Mary, and Tom were profuse in their thanks for what the two men had done in helping to effect their rescue from Hungary. Then, following heartfelt handshakes all round, the time had come to say goodbye.
With Salvatore having climbed up onto the wing and into the cockpit to start the engine, just as Wyss made to follow him, Mary untied her Schiaparelli silk scarf which Matthew had bought for her in Paris on their honeymoon, and which he knew meant a very great deal to her. Now, without further ado, she presented it to Wyss.
"For luck!" she said, giving Wyss a smile which she reserved for very few.
"Dear lady, I shall treasure it always!" Then, having bestowed upon Mary a perfect baisse-main, Conrad knotted the colourful scarf jauntily about his throat, making him look for all the world like some aeronautical knight errant. Following in Salvatore's footsteps, he clambered up on to the wing where he paused; looked down at them all and grinned. "If ever you're in Bucharest, come and look us up!" He had to shout to make himself heard against the roar of the engine.
"You know, I might just do that!" laughed Mary. Indeed they all did; knowing it was unlikely that any of them would ever meet again.
As the 'plane moved off, Matthew and Mary linked arms companionably.
"That was very kind of you". Matthew smiled.
"Hm?"
"The scarf. I know it meant a very great deal to you".
Mary also smiled.
"Oh, that!" Mary was dismissive. "It just seemed like the right thing to do".
"There's no denying that".
"And besides, darling, you can always buy me another!" Gazing straight ahead, Mary bit her lower lip; a moment later, dared a hasty, sideways glance at Matthew all the while waiting for him to say something pointed about the expense, but, for once, in this she was proved wrong.
"I'll happily buy you a dozen!"
"A dozen? Darling, do you know what they cost?"
"No," said Matthew promptly. "Well, make it a half dozen!"
"I'll hold you to that!" Mary laughed.
"So be it".
Arm in arm, and side by side, the two couples stood together to watch the 'plane depart; saw it taxi down to the far end of the meadow, where having turned the Junkers about, Wyss opened up the throttle. A moment later, the 'plane began to move forward, at an ever increasing speed, until its wheels lifted clear of the ground, and the Junkers soared away into the blue of the afternoon sky bound for distant Bucharest.
At the foot of the terrace steps, while Tom and Sybil went on ahead, Matthew and Mary paused. Looking back, and up into the sky, Matthew saw that the Junkers was now but a pinprick of silver on the far distant horizon. A moment later and it had vanished completely out of sight. He turned back to Mary.
"You know the other day, when Robert and Max came back from helping Wyss and his chum, Robert told me that when he's older he'd like to join the RAF".
"Schoolboy nonsense, darling. After Ripon, Robert will go to up to university. Either Cambridge, or else Oxford. Then, once he's done with his studies, he'll return to Downton, help you run the estate, marry some local gal, settle down, and have a family".
Matthew laughed.
"You have it all mapped out for him, don't you?"
"No. It's just the way things will be".
"And what if there's a European war, say in five or six years from now. Have you thought about that?"
"I don't want to. Anyway, there won't be".
"Really? Then Robert would be nineteen, in fact, near on twenty. Old enough to join the RAF ..."
"Trust me darling, that will never happen".
On The Terrace, Rosenberg, later the same afternoon.
Howzat!
On hearing the exuberant, shouted cry, which reminded her instantly of the Annual House v. Village Cricket Match held at Downton each August, here beneath the branches of an arching Linden tree, Mary woke from an unpleasant dream, the precise details of which eluded her, although it had been something to do with a war. Opening her eyes, she now inhaled deeply. The scent of the Linden's creamy-yellow star shaped flowers - an intoxicating mixture of honey and lemon peel - was heavenly. By rights, at least according to Edith, the tree should not be in bloom this late in the summer but for some reason here at Rosenberg it always was. Something which Edith attributed to its sheltered position. Not that Mary really cared why; the scent of the flowers was utterly divine.
It had been hot down there earlier in the meadow when the 'plane had taken off and there seemed to be no end to the heat. Nor, indeed, to the high spirits of the three children as, from down below had come the repeated sound of leather striking willow, then that spirited shout of Howzat! and finally a ragged round of applause, marking at last the end of the game of cricket, umpired, with the strictest impartiality, by both Matthew and Tom. While Edith was busying herself cutting flowers for the house - at Downton Mary left the gardeners to do that sort of thing - glancing in Sybil's direction, Mary saw that she was feigning sleep. She had to be. No-one could possibly have slept through all that racket.
Mary sighed, closed her eyes, intending to resume her interrupted nap, but in this she found herself thwarted.
"No, she won't," said Simon, shaking his head decisively as, a short while later, with the cricket match now over, the three children appeared at the top of the terrace steps.
"Of course she will. That is, if we ask her very nicely," retorted Saiorse.
"Well, go on! Ask her, for sure!" urged Bobby in a stage whisper.
"Ask who?" asked Edith, snipping off blooms of sweet smelling lavender to go with the roses she had cut but a short while earlier.
"Mama," explained Simon.
"Oh, I see".
"Ask me what?" asked Mary, now wide awake and sitting up in her wicker chair, immediately suspicious. Please God, she thought, surely they don't want me to join in another hunt for blasted lizards. As far as Mary was concerned, she had seen more than enough of the little creatures earlier on; enough, in fact, to last her an entire lifetime.
"We want to play Poohsticks," announced Saiorse promptly.
"Poohsticks?" echoed Mary faintly from her chair. It really was far too hot to contemplate doing anything ... other than resting here quietly beneath the cool, spreading shade of the Linden tree.
Saiorse nodded her head excitedly.
"Yes, Aunt Mary. We all want to go and play Poohsticks. Down on the bridge".
"Which bridge?" asked Mary; then wished she hadn't.
"The one Aunt Edith showed us when we first arrived here. You remember".
"Oh, that one".
"Yes, Mama". Simon likewise nodded.
"And we want ya to come with us!" Bobby beamed.
"Me?"
"Yes, Aunt Mary, ya!"
"No, I couldn't possibly. It's ... well, for one thing, it's much too hot. And besides …" For Mary, salvation now appeared to be at hand as she saw Nanny Bridges pushing a perambulator holding Dermot and Kurt, and Rebecca, walking slowly towards them across the terrace. "I think ... er ... I really ought to read Rebecca a story".
"Sis can come too, Mama" said Simon guilelessly.
"Who? Sis? Oh, your sister. No, Simon. It's … far too far for her".
For the first time ever in his young life, Simon now dared to contradict his mother.
"No, it isn't, Mama. Not if we all walk slowly".
Mary grimaced; made another mental note to herself. This being that when they returned to England, should Robert and Simon continue being difficult - she had a nightmare vision of being asked to go looking for slow worms or even snakes of which she had a real horror - she would have a serious talk with Matthew about packing them both off to boarding school in the autumn. In this, Mary was being somewhat disingenuous, having found the lizard hunt much more fun than she would ever have expected.
"Oh, please, Aunt Mary! Only ya can do the voices!" wheedled Saiorse.
"There's no answer to that!" laughed Matthew who, along with Tom, had just arrived back on the terrace on hearing what was afoot.
"For sure!" Tom chuckled.
Mary pulled a face at both her husband and brother-in-law who, despite having been out in the afternoon sun playing cricket on the lawn, looked infuriatingly, impossibly crisp and cool.
"You two needn't look so amused!"
"Oh, please, Aunt Mary!" pleaded Saiorse.
"Very well then, I will!" Mary picked up her sun hat from the table and rammed it on her head. "That is on one condition ..."
"Which is what?" asked Sybil who, as Mary had surmised, was not asleep but who so far had refrained, perhaps wisely, from taking any part in the on-going discussion regarding Poohsticks.
"We all go!" said Mary gleefully.
Hearing this, Matthew and Tom exchanged horrified glances. After cricket, what each of them had wanted was a glass of cold lemonade, followed by a lengthy snooze on the terrace before tea which, in their view, was infinitely preferable to what the children now had in mind. Not that they appeared to have any say in the matter as Bobby darted forward, grasped his aunt by the hand, pulled her to her feet, and began dragging her across the terrace.
"Good for old Aunt Mary!"
Hearing Bobby's words, an image of her late grandmother, clutching in one gnarled hand her ebony cane, passed fleetingly before Mary's horrified eyes.
"Dear Lord! I'm not yet in my dotage! So we'll have no more of the old if you please, young man!" Not that Bobby even noticed his aunt's rebuke.
"See, told ya she'd come!"
"Grand!" laughed Saiorse.
"Oh, thank you, Mama!" exclaimed Simon. Promptly and without further ado, he took charge of Rebecca from a slightly startled Nanny Bridges. After all, usually neither Master Robert nor Master Simon ever took that much interest in their little sister.
"What it is to be popular!" laughed Edith setting aside her basket of freshly cut lavender and roses as, led by Bobby still holding his Aunt Mary firmly by the hand, adults and children now set off for the distant bridge.
Left behind on the terrace, unobserved by one and all, having helped herself to a glass of cold lemonade, with the babies fast asleep in the perambulator in the shade of the scented Linden tree, Nanny Bridges settled herself down in one of the empty wicker chairs, sighed contentedly, and likewise drifted off to sleep.
Later, on The Bridge, Rosenberg.
"So, what do we all have to do?" asked Tom who, entering into the spirit of the game, had taken off his jacket, draped it over the rail of the wooden bridge, and rolled up his sleeves; Matthew doing likewise. Seeing this, Mary and Sybil exchanged amused glances. At times their husbands behaved just like a pair of overgrown schoolboys.
"Sticks first," said Bobby, looking about him.
"If it's sticks you need, then you'll find plenty in the trees over there. By the old summerhouse". Sybil pointed directly towards the island before realising too late that she had said rather more than she should.
"And just how do you know that?" asked Mary.
"Oh! Didn't I say? Er, Tom and I ... we walked this way earlier on".
"Did you now?" Mary gave Sybil a knowing glance that spoke volumes.
"Yes," said Sybil, promptly averting her sister's gaze, and instead looking steadfastly down into the still waters of the lake for fear that her face would otherwise betray her.
Royal Palace, Budapest, Hungary, that very same day.
In the afternoon heat, the tall windows of the room stood open. From down in Pest came the distant, incessant roar of motor traffic and the clang of trams, while up from the river there drifted the sound of hooters and sirens of the craft plying their trade as they passed up and down the Danube.
"I think," said Horthy contemplatively, seemingly to no-one other than himself, "that a solution does indeed present itself".
Not, despite the bland assurances of Chilston vicomte, that the Regent trusted the British any more than he did the Germans, especially not now with the Fuhrer parading up and down the Unter den Linden in Berlin, much as Il Duce was strutting about the Piazza Venetia in Rome. But political necessity made for strange bedfellows. And Csáky could prove useful, even Gömbös had said so, despite the fact that the Prime Minister, who hated the Habsburgs with a vengeance, also detested the country's aristocracy, of which Csáky was a member.
Tibor said nothing; merely waited patiently while the Regent continued with his own deliberations and, as the silence in the room again lengthened, watched as dust motes danced in a ray of sunlight.
"Ah, yes, where were we?"
"A solution …" prompted Tibor hesitantly.
Horthy nodded. Then something seemed to claim the Regent's attention for he abruptly turned away and walked over to one of the windows where he stood in silence. Tibor did not fail to notice the continuing use in this audience of the regal we; something which was rightfully the prerogative of kings.
Ten years ago and more, here in the Kingdom of Hungary, some had said, indeed some - those who yet wanted a restoration of the Habsburgs - still said, that back in October 1921 the real reason the Regent had denied the throne to the last emperor when, in accordance with his Coronation Oath taken atop the steps of the Holy Trinity Column but a stone's throw away from here, Károly IV had tried to re-claim his birthright, was that Horthy, who had only been appointed as Regent the previous year, in but a very short space of time, had grown covetous of the regal splendour associated with the vacant throne. That not for any price would Horthy have given up the position he now held, not even if the ghost of St. Stephen himself had appeared before the Regent in the empty Throne Room of the Royal Palace and told him to do so. Had instead conspired with Gömbös who organised the forces of the new National Army to keep the king from taking back what was rightfully his and his alone. It was for this, if for no other reason, that Tibor felt no conflict in what he had done; in what he would continue to do. For his true loyalties lay not with Horthy but with the Kingdom of Hungary and her rightful ruler: Crown Prince Otto who, one day, God willing, would succeed in that wherein his late father had failed.
And it was now, almost as if in answer to Tibor's unspoken prayer, drowning out all the other sounds, from close at hand, from just beyond the Fisherman's Bastion, from the Coronation Church, where the last emperor had been crowned king of Hungary back in December 1916, there came a growing discordant jangle of bells. Perhaps, despite the failure of the attempted coup, the day Tibor longed for was far closer at hand than he had thought.
Horthy spun on his heel.
"Very well then. You have certain contacts which we" - there it was again - "feel it would be advantageous to employ. That being so, what we propose is this …"
Not that Tibor was really listening. Thanks to Matthew, he had been forewarned of what was to come; moreover he knew straight way what his answer would be.
On The Bridge, Rosenberg, Lower Austria, summer 1933.
This, thought Simon, standing here on the bridge in the warm sunshine, was how Poohsticks ought to be played, just as described in The House At Pooh Corner. That it would prove to be the greatest fun, he had no doubt. Of course, there had been that time last summer, before the Bransons and the Crawleys left for Italy, when Simon played the game with Danny and Rob who thought it would be an enormous lark to throw their sticks off the wrought iron bridge at Downton and then chuck Oscar Bear in to the water too and see which made it to the other side of the bridge first. However, save for that one occasion, back home in England because Robert usually refused to play, Simon often resorted to playing Poohsticks on his own with only Oscar Bear for company.
Now, while young Oscar undoubtedly wanted to join in, being but a stuffed bear, not that Simon ever mentioned this, at least not within Oscar's hearing as to have done so would have undoubtedly hurt his feelings, there was, understandably, a very great deal the little bear simply could not do. He couldn't for example cheer, nor clap his paws, nor could he choose his own stick, this task falling to Simon who always chose two sticks, one for each of them, before throwing them simultaneously into the water from off the little bridge where the Wath Beck flowed into the lake.
Just as here the stream flowed into the lake at Rosenberg beneath the wooden bridge which led over to the island from whence Bobby and Simon had returned but a short while since with a goodly collection of sticks, enough for everybody, including Mama, who was thoroughly enjoying herself, so much so, that Simon began to wonder if, even beneath her straw hat, the afternoon heat was proving too much for her.
With everybody assembled together on the bridge, it fell to Simon to explain the rules of Poohsticks to one and all. Normally nervous in company, for once, Simon was in his element. Readily assumed a role of a speaker as if he was born to it; which in a sense he was, following in his father's footsteps, Matthew being well known for his quiet ability to hold a crowd in his hand be it a gathering of tenants on the Downton Abbey estate or a session of members of the League of Nations in distant Geneva.
"Now, everyone listen. You must all drop your stick into the water upstream of the bridge …" Simon cast around for a suitable landmark. "Yes, over there by that willow tree. And you must drop your stick, not throw it, and there must be no helping your stick along. Whoever's stick appears first on the other side of the bridge is the winner".
Finally, by common consent, Oscar Bear was appointed as honorary referee - Tom explaining what that meant to Bobby - to arbitrate any dispute which might arise. A matter of moments later everyone had dropped their sticks into the stream before hurrying en masse down to the bridge as the little flotilla of sticks bobbed and swirled their way towards the lake. In due course, the winner of this particular round, much to her delight, was Saiorse.
There now followed a series of competitions, first between the adult Bransons and the Crawleys, Edith tactfully staying aloof from the proceedings on the grounds that she was a Schönborn, then another this time between Saiorse and Rebecca and Simon and Bobby. And before they all trooped back up to the house for afternoon tea, there was one final contest; this between Tom and Mary
"Piece of cake," said Tom smugly.
"You think so, do you?"
"For sure I do!"
"Well then, Mr. Branson, let's see!"
"May the best man win!" laughed Tom.
"Or woman," added Mary archly.
"Tactics," said Tom with a smirk.
"Is that what you call it? I call it cheating," said Mary primly.
Tom grinned, having tossed - he had hoped unobserved - a handful of pebbles into the water just below the willow, in order to help create an eddy and so speed his own stick on its way to the lake, the result being that Mary's stick had ended up grounded in the shallows on the muddy bank of the rill just above the bridge.
"I think," said Mary, doing her best to sound serious, "we should ask Oscar Bear to adjudicate in this, don't you?" Without further ado, she knelt down beside Simon who, with Oscar seated in his lap, was now sitting with his back against the wooden rail of the bridge. "What's your opinion, Master Bear? What's that? Mr. Branson is disqualified for cheating. And I have won? If I may say so, I think that's an excellent decision, Master Bear".
Edith and Sybil laughed, while Matthew shook his head in disbelief. None of them could ever recall Mary entering into a children's game, let alone playing it with such gusto.
"Jaysus! I'll never live this down if any of the lads on the Indy ever get to hear of it. I mean disqualified by a feckin' stuffed bear!" chuckled Tom; Simon promptly covering little Oscar's ears with his hands, so as to spare his feelings. Whereupon Tom bent down and gathered Oscar up in his hands.
"C'mere, Master Bear, I want a word with ya". At which point, Tom caught sight of a small label sewn into the little bear's fur. "What's this? Merrythought. Made in … England. Well, now, Master Oscar's hardly an impartial judge, for sure. I shall appeal his decision on the grounds of English bias … to the High Court of Justice in Ireland!"
Mary laughed and Matthew clapped Tom warmly round the shoulders.
"You know what you are, my fine friend?
"What?"
"A bad loser!"
Tom contrived to continue to look disgruntled.
"Never mind, darling, better luck next time!" giggled Sybil.
That game of Poohsticks played on the wooden bridge at Rosenberg towards the end of the long hot summer of 1933 was one of those occasions which those who had taken part in it never failed to remember while mention of it, even years later, was always guaranteed to raise a smile on their faces.
Later, on The Terrace.
"Honey?" asked Edith, eyebrows raising, clearly surprised by her Irish nephew's unexpected request. "Bobby, darling, I'm not sure. I don't think so". Seeing the little boy looking decidedly downcast, his aunt smiled. "I'll find out". On hearing this, Bobby brightened visibly. Edith gave him an amused look before calling Katharina back to the table to ask if there was any honey to be had down in the kitchen. Katharina said she wasn't certain either but said she would go and find out from cook. And off the maid went, at the same time muttering under her breath, something inaudible, about the decided eccentricity of the mistress's present house guests.
"Stands the church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?" quoted Matthew with a smile. As if to contradict him, now, from down below in the valley, born on the drowsy heat of the summer's afternoon, the clock of St. Florian's church sonorously struck four.
The three older children exchanged bemused expressions, with Simon looking sceptically at his wristwatch, given him by his parents this year on his tenth birthday. No, the time displayed on the dial matched that told by the church down there in the valley, namely four o'clock. So what on earth did Papa mean by saying it was now ten to three?
According to Rob, Danny had told both he and Max that at times grown-ups behaved rather oddly; indeed, on occasions acted decidedly queer. Quite how Danny knew this to be so was itself something of a mystery, one which he had never satisfactorily explained. Pressed by Simon, Rob said he had never thought to ask but presumably it was as a result of something Danny"s own parents had done. However, never once, not in all the times Simon had met them had Uncle Tom or Aunt Sybil ever behaved oddly. Then again, maybe they had, and either he had been singularly unobservant, or else they had been very clever at keeping it all hidden. Of course, this was entirely possible for according to Rob, Danny had said too that adults could be slippery customers. This being so, Simon found himself thinking this might be one of those occasions of which Danny had spoken.
The more he thought about it, the more Simon began to wonder if after both cricket and playing Poohsticks, his father had had too much sun. Not that it ever seemed to trouble Papa back at home in England where he was often out in all weathers, come rain, come shine, on foot, or else, even though he was not as a confident rider as Mama, on horseback, and more recently in his J type MG - Mama said Papa drove far too fast - doing his rounds of the estate. However, just this past term at school in Ripon, one of Simon's pals had regaled him and others in their class about what had happened to an Englishman, living in India, and who, having been foolish enough to go out in the heat of the day, had gone completely bonkers, stripping off his clothes, running around stark naked, and frothing at the mouth. As proof that this had actually happened, Higgins minor had ended his lurid account by singing falsetto part of the song which at the moment was quite the rage up in town:
Where the sun beats down
To the rage of man and beast …
Mad dogs and Englishmen
Go out in the midday sun.
To be truthful, Papa did look a little flushed in the face, but fortunately it seemed no more than that and, after all, he was very fair in his colouring. However, he had been known to say in the past that he and the sun didn't get on. Quite what Papa had meant, Simon had never thought to ask. Only now, he found himself wondering if he ought to have done so, if the remark masked an unpleasant reality. After all, on nights, when the moon was full, a werewolf was known to prowl the high moors around Downton; at least according to Barrow, who had assured Simon that the tale was perfectly true. So, if a man could change himself into a wolf, it was equally plausible that another might be driven mad by the sun. With this in mind, Simon began eyeing his father with mounting concern.
Fortunately, there was no sign of Papa frothing at the mouth. At least not yet and, so far, he had not shown the slightest inclination to start tearing off his clothes. Of course if he did, no doubt Mama would have something to say about it. Perhaps Papa was just biding his time. Waiting for a chance to … Of course, Aunt Sybil was a qualified nurse so, if Papa did start behaving queerly, then maybe there was a chance that she might step in and so prevent things from going too far. But then, what if Danny was right, and she started behaving oddly herself? Simon sincerely hoped that did not happen. All the same, perhaps if he said something himself, then maybe …
"Papa …"
"Rupert Brooke, The Old Vicarage, Granchester, replied Tom; his comment drawing an approving nod from Matthew.
"Exactly; although I wouldn't have thought that Brooke with his unabashed patriotism was quite your cup of tea, old boy. That apart, the poem encapsulates much of the essence of England and Englishness".
Tom smiled.
"For sure, it does. But for all t'at, Matthew, it's still a grand poem".
"Indeed it is". Matthew turned to Simon. "Yes, my boy?" With increasing nervousness, Simon watched open-mouthed as his father dabbed repeatedly at his face with his linen handkerchief. "Phew it's really warm sitting out here in the sun". Simon glanced across at Aunt Sybil; wondered if now was the time for him to say something.
Save for Friedrich and the three boys, who were not expected back from Vienna until quite sometime later, everyone else was now seated together round the table on the terrace and, with it being the time it was, afternoon tea was about to be served.
Here was the usual selection of sandwiches of thinly sliced cucumber, egg mayonnaise, and smoked salmon, as well as those containing various pastes, crab and shrimp, and potted meats such as beef, chicken, and turkey. There was bread and butter too, along with several preserves: strawberry, raspberry and gooseberry. And slabs of fruit cake, dainty pastries, and small sponges covered in fondant icing which Simon knew Mama called called fancies which were hardly ever served at Downton and certainly never in the nursery. Not forgetting three varieties of freshly brewed tea: Assam, Ceylon, and Darjeeling, the last being a particular favourite of Matthew, all piping hot in bone china teapots. And for the children, there was a jug of ice cold cold lemonade.
As with her English Garden which, after Edith came to reside at Rosenberg, she had created just below the terrace, down the years since she had left Downton in the immediate aftermath of the Great War, despite the fact that the undoubted cosmopolitan nature of her life had been far more adventurous than that lived either by Mary or even Sybil, for Edith some things never changed. So, here at Rosenberg in Lower Austria, when the Schönborns were in residence, afternoon tea served as it was in England had become something of a ritual. And it was now, with this about to happen that, quite suddenly, out of the blue, darling Bobby had asked if there was any honey to be had, supported eagerly in his request both by Simon and Saiorse.
"Why on earth do you all want honey?" asked Sybil, it never being served at home in Idrone Terrace.
"I think," said Mary with a laugh, "that I'm to blame. Or rather, perhaps Mr. Milne is!"
A short while later the children were delighted to see Katharina returning to the table with a pot of honey, and tea was then served, it proving to be a delightfully convivial affair. As for Simon, with Papa seated at the table sipping his Darjeeling, eating sandwiches, and partaking of the odd fancy, it seemed that all of Simon's worries over his father were now at an end.
All the same, given what Rob had said Danny had told him, one never quite knew ... with adults.
St. Johann, Lower Austria, sometime later.
With the clouds hanging low, as the Mercedes climbed effortlessly and sedately up into St. Johann, en route to Rosenberg from the railway station down in the valley, from the activity in the single street, if street it could be called, it was immediately apparent to Friedrich that all was not as it should be.
Save for several farms, backed by a thick, dark green tapestry of pine trees, and with distant views northwards to the snow capped Alps, the normally sleepy hamlet of St. Johann was the only sign of human habitation hereabouts. In reality it was little more than a huddled collection of pastel painted cottages and houses, some balconied, some half timbered, some both, all nestling under steeply pitched, shingled roofs, their shuttered windows presently closed against the heat of the afternoon, but nonetheless made a riot of colour owing to their colourful displays of geraniums. All the same, the hamlet often seemed to be completely deserted, it being unusual to see more than the odd person about.
However, this afternoon there was a whole host of people milling about the tiny, cobbled square in front of St. Florian's Church, some seated on the several benches in front of the largest of the houses, the Gasthaus owned by the Mullers, while yet others sat on the steps of the balustraded, ornate, Baroque fountain with its statue of the Holy Trinity, much like the one on the Graben in Vienna which Friedrich had shown the boys earlier today, only somewhat smaller, and which, here in St. Johann, had been a gift centuries ago from one of Friedrich's forbears. For while St. Johann itself did not form part of the patrimony of the Schönborns, nonetheless, most of the villagers worked on the Rosenberg estate for the family who lived up at the schloss.
Friedrich rapped smartly with his knuckle on the internal glass partition which divided the saloon from the front of the motor. Reaching behind him with his gauntlet covered hand, Weisman slid the window silently open.
"What is it, Weisman?" Friedrich asked.
"I'm not quite certain, sir. When I brought the motor down from the house, the village was much as you see it now. Thronging with people".
"Be so good as to stop the car in the square. Then go and see if you can find out what on earth's going on".
"Very good, sir".
A moment later, Weisman brought the Mercedes to a stand beside the ornate fountain, clambered out, and went over to speak to the gaggle of men sitting on the stone steps. It was as he did so that, in an alleyway beside the Gasthaus, Friedrich saw the motors belonging to the Bundessicherheitswachekorps. Knowing the way things were heading here in Austria, Friedrich had a very low opinion of the Bundesgendarmerie as well as of the Bundessicherheitswachekorps, both of which he considered to be infiltrated with supporters of those pressing for a union with Nazi Germany. Their presence here in the ordinarily peaceful hamlet of St. Johann did not bode well. Indeed, it did not; as Friedrich himself was very shortly to learn.
A matter of minutes later, Weisman returned to the motor but instead of climbing into the driver's seat, he came round the car, to stand beside Friedrich's door. Sensing that something was decidedly amiss, Friedrich wound down the window.
"And?" he asked. Weisman nodded silently in the direction of the three boys.
"Sir, if I might have a word ... apart?"
"Yes. Of course". The chauffeur opened the door and Friedrich climbed out. Having closed the door, watched by the three boys, as well as by the young men seated at the foot of the fountain, the two men walked towards the church where they stood deep in conversation.
Inside the motor, it fell to Danny to put into words what his cousins were likewise wondering.
"What on earth is going on?"
Rob shrugged his shoulders, while Max, playing with the tinplate aeroplane he had won back at the shooting gallery in the Wurstelprater, shook his head.
"Search me," he said. An English phrase which he had learned from Rob.
Here in the small Marktplatz, the village square, the Mercedes quickly attracted its own fair share of onlookers in the form of a group of village lads all of whom had known Hans Muller. Seeing Friedrich and the chauffeur still standing some way off, the local boys took the opportunity to have a closer look at the motor. Unfortunately, Danny, Rob, and Max did not sense anything was at all amiss until it was too late. Roused to fury by what they had heard a short while ago outside the Gasthaus concerning the death of their friend, seeing the three boys seated within, the local lads began banging on the roof of the motor with the palms of their hands, rocking the car from side to side, pressing spittle flecked chins and hate filled faces hard against the glass of the windows, all the while swearing and yelling obscenities.
"Judenliebhaber!"
Two of the lads even tried to pull open the rear doors of the Mercedes but in this they found themselves frustrated as Danny and Rob were quicker; locking the doors from within and as an added precaution holding fast to the handles. While he was no coward, seated between his cousins, Max shrank back against the leather upholstery. Of the three of them he alone had seen something like this before; in Vienna, on Christmas Eve, 1931, when Mama had gone to the aid of three Jewish students being chased by Nazi thugs.
Learning what he had, Friedrich was appalled. And it showed.
"You are quite certain about this? All of it?"
"Yes, sir. That's about the sum of it. An ugly business and no mistake. If I may speak freely, sir". Friedrich nodded. "For all that the eldest Muller boy was a bad lot, into the wrong sort of company, for it to have come to … Sir!"
A moment later, seeing what was happening, the two men were running hard, pounding across the square towards the Mercedes. At their approach, the local lads scattered in all directions. Without further ado, with Friedrich back inside the motor, having ascertained that the boys, while shaken by what had happened, were all unharmed, Weismann drove out of the village at speed, onwards to Rosenberg.
What Friedrich had told Sybil, that he was an Austrian, that whatever came to pass here in his homeland, he had no intention of leaving the country, was true enough. All the same, things were going from bad to worse as shown only too clearly by what had just happened back there in the village square. For Friedrich, the safety of Edith and their two boys was paramount. But, while Friedrich had property in Switzerland as well as a chateau on the banks of the Loire, if the Schönborns found themselves with no alternative but to go abroad, this would be no mere moonlight flit, leaving with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. They would need funds at their disposal to enable them to leave Austria in comfort, as well as to support them in their self-imposed exile.
However, things such as the transfer of monies, even of movable property, could not be done overnight; they took time to arrange, especially where there was the need for the utmost secrecy so as to avoid alerting the authorities as to what was afoot. Given what he had now learned here in St. Johann, later tonight, after dinner, perhaps he would have another word with Matthew. They had spoken before about the deteriorating situation in Austria, with Matthew urging Friedrich to make plans to ensure that if the family had to leave the country that they were in a position to do so; if necessary at a moment's notice. And while Friedrich was loathe to admit it, what with the two attempts on his life, maybe the time had now come to consider what had once seemed unthinkable.
A short while later, as the Mercedes rounded the very last bend, at the side of the road, just ahead of him, Weismann saw Gunter, the post boy, pedalling furiously along on his bicycle. Since the road led nowhere other than to Rosenberg, he was obviously heading for the schloss, which meant there were letters or else a telegram for the house and at this time of the day it was more than likely to be the latter. So, as the motor now came abreast of the boy, Weismann slowed, and wound down the window. Gunter drew to a stand and saluted.
"Here, lad, I'll save you the bother of riding all the way up to the house. Whatever it is, give it me".
The boy smiled. Having given what it was that had brought him thus far into the chauffeur's outstretched hand, Gunter now turned his machine about and began pedalling just as hard back the way he had come.
It was indeed a telegram; addressed to the master, which Weismann duly passed over his shoulder to Friedrich; the three boys, still talking about what had happened back in St. Johann, paying it no particular attention. After all, the delivery of telegrams were of regular occurrence, if not at Idrone Terrace, then certainly both at Downton and at Rosenberg.
Friedrich tore open the envelope.
"Good God!"
"What is it, Papa?" Max asked, but his father didn't answer him; rapped once more on the glass partition.
"Weismann, be good enough to step on it!"
"Sir!"
The chauffeur nodded, pressed his foot down on the accelerator, and purring like a cat, the motor shot forward in a cloud of dust.
Dated yesterday, and sent from Oradea in the Kingdom of Roumania, the telegram bore no greeting, comprised but a handful of hastily scribbled words confirming, if its content was to be believed, that, somehow, Max and Eva had escaped the destruction of Rózsafa, were both now safely across the Hungarian border, and in Transylvania.
On The Terrace, Rosenberg.
With afternoon tea now over, out here on the terrace, Matthew and Tom contented themselves leafing through a selection of Friederich's newspapers and periodicals, Matthew seeing in particular what the French and German press had to say in copies of Le Figaro and the Völkischer Beobachter respectively. The latter he knew, as did Friedrich, to be the newspaper of the Nazi Party which, following Hitler's election as Chancellor in March, had seen to it that all other newspapers in Germany, such as the Münchener Post which had for years opposed the Nazis, had been brutally and ruthlessly suppressed. For his part, Tom was left with no option but to read The Times and The Daily Telegraph from the previous day, as, much to his feigned disgust, Friedrich had regretfully been unable to procure for him a recent copy of the Irish Independent. But not in a single one of the papers could either of the two men find any mention of an attempted coup against the regime of Admiral Horthy. Seated beside Matthew and Tom, Mary, Edith, and Sybil drowsed contentedly in their chairs, while the children once again hunted for lizards, did a jigsaw, or else played hopscotch on the flagstones.
It was sometime later, hearing the sound of car wheels scrunching on gravel, recognising by the sound of the motor that it was the Mercedes, Edith glanced at her wristwatch. Saw to her surprise that it was only just after half past five. She had not expected Friedrich and the boys back here until somewhat later. However, given what had happened earlier when the Bundessicherheitswachekorps had come calling, she was more than grateful for Friedrich's prompt return. All the same, she hoped nothing was amiss, for when Max was from her sight for anything but a short while, she found herself wracked with imaginings and most of them unpleasant.
It was then that Edith felt the first drop of rain; saw more drops beginning to darken the flagstones of the terrace, and glancing up, saw too that the sky had turned an ominous, inky black. Moments later, just as the Mercedes swept into the forecourt of the schloss, there came an almighty clap of thunder, while northwards over the Alps brilliant flashes of fork and sheet lightning lit up the sombre sky, and the storm which had been threatening to break all afternoon now did so, sending all those out here on the terrace scurrying into the house. At the same time on the other side of the schloss, and in pouring rain, Kleist and one of the footmen hurried out onto the pooling gravel to meet the returning motor with a pair of sheltering umbrellas with which to convey the occupants of the Mercedes in the dry as far as the front door.
Entrance Hall Rosenberg.
Here inside the house, everyone in the family, those just back from Vienna, and those now refugeed in from the terrace, met up in the hall where, despite the fact that it was not yet six o'clock, Kleist had quickly given orders that the lamps be lit on account of the awful weather, which showed no sign of abating, the rain having seemingly well and truly set in, at the very least for the next few hours.
Given her position as châtelaine of Rosenberg, along with her sincerely held uncertainty about letting Max out of her sight, as those who had come in from the terrace now met up with Friedrich and the three boys, Edith was to the fore. At a glance she took in Friedrich shepherding the boys solicitously through the front door out of the blur of rain soaked darkness, thence the glass vestibule, and so into the lamp lit hall. Saw Max was just ahead of his cousins. Saw, too, Friedrich's hands resting gently, and Edith thought, protectively, on Danny's and Robert's shoulders. Moving forward into lamplight and warmth of family, the boys now came to a stand before everyone else here present.
To his mother, Max looked perfectly all right and, on seeing him back here safe and sound at Rosenberg, Edith breathed an unspoken, heartfelt prayer of thanks. That said, the three boys were uncharacteristically silent, their faces ashen, and, even before anyone spoke, Edith sensed intuitively, that something, was wrong.
"It … it was … horrible, Mama …" Max stammered before bursting into tears, whereupon Edith knew that whatever it was, it had to be serious; otherwise Max would never have given way to tears in public. Especially not in front of both Danny and Robert in whose company while the youngest of the three boys, although the difference in their respective ages was but a scattering of years, Max wanted both to behave and be thought of as older than in fact was the case.
Edith enfolded her son in her arms.
"Hush now, my darling. Whatever is it?" While he cried, Edith held Max against her, his face buried against her breast, muffling his sobs. At length, he straightened up, drew back, snuffled audibly several times before, clearly embarrassed, swiping angrily at his tear-stained face.
"I'm all right, Mama, thank you". Max sniffed again,
"All better now?"
It was a phrase that held a special significance for both mother and son, and, on hearing it, Max gave his mama a smile of singular sweetness, one which always warmed her heart.
"All better now," he repeated, nodding his head.
"Really?"
Again Max nodded.
Danny now moved forward; laid a comforting hand on his cousin's shoulder.
"A man died," he said quietly.
Edith looked questioningly at Friedrich.
He nodded.
"And there's more …"
Author's Note:
Abschied von Österreich - Farewell to Austria.
Elsa Schiaparelli (1890-1973) was an Italian fashion designer. Along with her great rival Coco Chanel, Schiaparelli was one of the most prominent figures in women's fashions between the two World Wars.
So, did Robert go up to 'varsity (university) or join the RAF? See my story The White Cliffs Of Dover.
And if any of you want to know what Oscar looks like, then he is a Bingie bear; this was the name given to the very first of a range of teddy bears made in 1931 by Merrythought, of Ironbridge, Shropshire, England. Established in 1930, the company is still in business it being the very last remaining British teddy bear manufacturer making its products here in Britain. Original Merrythought bears - I have one myself - are much sought after and, understandably, very expensive!
That Admiral Horthy became rather too enamoured of the splendour associated with the Crown of St. Stephen is attested by the fact that when in March 1920 he was offered the post of Regent by the Hungarian Parliament, he announced that he would only accept it if his powers were augmented to those of "the general prerogatives of the king, with the exception of the right to name titles of nobility and of the patronage of the Church".
St. Stephen - Stephen I, the first king of Hungary (reigned 1000-1038) and who established the country as a Christian state. He was canonised in 1083.
Decidedly queer - as in the sense of oddly.
Where the sun beats down ... taken from Noel Coward's revue Words And Music which had opened in London at the Adelphi Theatre in September 1932 and then ran for nearly two years.
Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) an English poet known for his idealistic war sonnets written during the Great War.
Honey is of course the favourite food of Winnie-the-Pooh.
Judenliebhaber! - Jew Lovers!
The Münchener Post (Munich Post) was a socialist newspaper published in Munich, Germany from 1888 until 1933. Well-known for its decade-long campaign against Hitler and the Nazis before their seizure of power, in March 1933, immediately after he became Reich Chancellor, it was shut down on Hitler's orders, its editors and writers arrested and imprisoned, its offices and printing presses destroyed, and its files burned.