Tilsit, East Prussia
Kohler's reports were as useless as the man himself. For all his dogged attempts to reinforce their border lines with troops, almost none of his assessments made it into the actual report. Instead they were detailed in correspondences — Gilbert tried not to think complaints — to the sergeant-major. Only one mention was made of the smuggler's near apprehension and the fact he had been wounded, but not how or where — information that would have been useful, Gilbert seethed. He only remembered the man had been shot from Kohler mentioning it at the tavern a few weeks ago. And then seeing the way Tauras' cousin had been holding his arm. He was no doctor, but being in the army, he was fairly acquainted with injuries and how long they could take to heal.
In the days following, he split his time between reviewing Kohler's reports and calling on local doctors to see if anyone had come in within the last two months or so with an injured arm. There had been a few factory workers whose hands or fingers had been mangled by machinery and a boy who had broken his arm falling out of a tree — but none matching the smuggler's injury.
Gilbert rubbed his head and sighed. Kohler was due back at his border post today. The sergeant-major intended to ride out to welcome him back as a show of goodwill. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Although, if Kohler had used his leave to further his cause for unseating Gilbert from his garrison commander position, the sergeant-major had not gotten wind of anything yet. And he was quite certain, given the lack of information in Kohler's reports, he had all the proof he needed to show just how much of an ineffectual commander the man would be. Gilbert smiled grimly to himself, put on his tinted lenses, and went to the stables to retrieve his horse.
.
o
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Eduard sat at the small desk in his room, staring at the letter. It had arrived shortly after their payment from the professor. Just two more runs and his order of twenty-five books would be complete. Two more runs and he and Tauras' smuggling operation would be at an end. For a time. No more risk. No more adventure. Just...settling down and helping his cousin run a barely profitable print shop. Which, given all that had happened, was not such a bad trade, he mused, rubbing his shoulder.
But the letter. Oh the letter held such possibility. One final thrill before hanging up his con artist hat. One final chance for a decent payout.
Eduard wet his lips, running a hand through his hair. While Tauras had been away, he had been responsible for running the shop — which also meant recording sales and expenses in Tauras' ledger. They had been breaking even for months. Coasting by on what felt like nothing but a stream of luck, their heads just above the surface.
He skimmed the letter again. It was from Jan. Asking for help on a job back home in Leipzig. It didn't go into specifics, but knowing his stepfather the payout would be sizable — enough that they could invest it in the shop, get some better equipment to compete with the Prussian printers in the city's center. Going to a steam-powered press could increase their output by thousands of pages a day.
Eduard let the fantasy play out in his head, a shallow daydream distracting him from the deeper thoughts beneath...
Jan was sick. He didn't want help. He needed it. He needed Eduard there.
Tauras would be furious. An unnecessary expense added to their list. (It wasn't like Eduard had even told his cousin about Jan having tuberculosis). Tauras did not need to know. Not yet. And if — no, when — this job was successful and Eduard had the money, Tauras could eat his words.
Eduard smirked as he stood, folding the letter and tucking it in his breast pocket. He had a train ticket to buy.
.
o
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Tauras was in the upstairs sitting room, going over the map — or, more precisely, staring at it. At the town where Feliks now lived. Where Feliks now acted as administrator. Where his chances for apprehension were now just as great as returning to Tauragė. He twirled the little cross on its thin golden chain, then stopped, remembering Feliks' last words to him. He unfastened the necklace, gripping the cross in his hand until the edges dug in. Feliks did not understand. The one person whom he thought might...
That cross on your neck — you might want to think about selling it.
Tauras closed his eyes a moment. He couldn't then, but this time he might. It had been a beacon, a way to know Feliks was alright. And in the end, he had never needed it. Feliks was fine — would always be — relying so much on his status, his connections, his family name, while turning his back on his country. On Tauras.
He shoved the necklace in his waistcoat pocket as the door to Eduard's bedroom opened. The grin on his face faded the moment he saw Tauras. Eduard glanced at the window. It was closed to the early spring air, but he could still hear shouts of dockworkers through the panes, mid morning light casting the room in crisp blue colors.
"Not working today?" Eduard said, clearing his throat.
"No, I just...needed a quiet moment. To think."
Eduard lowered himself onto an armchair, perching on the edge with his elbows resting on his knees. "Only two more to go."
Tauras nodded. He folded up the map. "Where are you off to?"
Eduard blinked, momentarily taken aback by his cousin's observation. He quickly recovered, though, leaning back in the chair, arms resting on either side — a guise of nonchalance.
"Jan wants me to join him for a job. And...I think I'm going to do it."
Eduard crossed an ankle over a knee, waiting for Tauras' response. But his cousin continued to stare at the folded map, silent.
"Well?" Eduard pressed. "Nothing to say?"
Tauras lifted his eyes up. "Like what? Do what you wish. You always have."
A lump settled in Eduard's throat at that as years of buried resentment bubbled to the surface, his face growing hot, because how dare he — how dare Tauras accuse him of being selfish when everything he had done had been for his cousin. He swallowed it down, blinking a few times as he rose.
"Thank you for your blessing, Father Laurinaitis." Eduard clasped his hands together in mock prayer. "I'll get my ticket and be on my way in a few days' time."
He swept past Tauras, heavy feet shaking the floor as he went.
"Ed — wait!" Tauras called. "I'm sorry — I didn't mean it like that — "
"It's fine. I think some time apart will do us good. I've been cooped up in this damn shop for too long. I need this. And the payout will be big, knowing Jan, so..."
He thundered down the stairs, hand pausing a moment on the door. It had been a few years since his last con — a solitary operation hardly on par with some of the jobs he and Jan and their crew used to pull. His last big heist was at least a decade ago. A part of him worried he would be too rusty, too out of practice to help pull this off. Not to mention he had come to realize, while Tauras had been away, he had a mind and a knack for running the print shop, for devising ways to improve their profits. But still the fact remained, Jan needed him. He would not have written otherwise. Making his decision, Eduard opened the door and began the walk to the train station.
.
o
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It was just after midday by the time Gilbert arrived at the border outpost. Kohler was in his tent, leafing through a small book bound in a simple brown cloth cover.
"Good afternoon, sergeant-major," Kohler drawled, not taking his eyes off the book. "Checking in, I see?"
Gilbert ignored the comment. "How was your leave?"
Kohler snapped the book shut without an answer and handed it to Gilbert. "The Russian commander had this dropped off with my men a few days ago, part of a contraband raid. They think it might be related to the smuggler they almost caught."
"And they want us to do what with it? It's a book."
Kohler smirked. "Can you read Lithuanian? It's not just a book, sergeant-major. It's subversive. Coming from Berlin, I know you may think us provincial, but even the smallest spark can still make a fire. Who knows what these people are writing and passing back over the border. It's a pity someone as broad-minded as you can't see that."
Gilbert's jaw clenched. The situation was getting away from him, was getting out of his control. Had he allowed it to? Had he been too indifferent in his dealings with these people? Admittedly, his attention had been elsewhere. Both at home and the larger world stage. As he had told Kohler in correspondences countless times, the situation with France grew even more tenuous by the day. It was little wonder their commanders paid their petty smuggling concerns any attention when anyone could see war was looming. And Gilbert only hoped that meant he would get called to serve again. Called to leave this backwards town and do something meaningful once more.
Never would he have thought nations would be squabbling over books when there were far bigger matters at hand. But, when it all came down to it, was there anything more powerful than that of the written word?
Gilbert flipped open the book, turning each page with a gloved hand.
Kohler leaned back on his cot, resting on his elbows. "The commander thinks the printer responsible might be in Tilsit."
Gilbert's stomach sank at that. The other thing. The one that had been pricking in the back of his head. The one he knew with almost certainty but did not yet want to admit: that somehow Tauras and his cousin were connected to this.
Gilbert swallowed, closed the book, and put it in his coat pocket as he made to leave. He paused at the tent entrance, turning his head a fraction. When he spoke, his voice was low, hoarse: "If the commander has any more information, I want to be the first to hear of it."
.
o
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Dusk had fallen by the time Gilbert arrived at the garrison. He stabled his horse then made his way to his office, the small book thumping the side of his leg with each step. He lit a fire, warming the room against the damp chill of the spring night, and sat at his desk. Taking the book out of his pocket, he ran his fingers over the coarse brown cloth cover, then opened it. No printer marks, not even a title. Just text in a language he did not speak. The typeface was a serif, not the blackletter that dominated many of his own books. Though that was not surprising considering many other countries, the Catholic ones especially, preferred this Roman type...
That thought gave him an idea.
He snatched up the book, doused the fire, and set off for home.
Dashing up the stairs and ignoring his housekeeper's scolding or being late for dinner, Gilbert went to his study, rifling through the assortment of papers in his desk. There, at the bottom of the last drawer lay what he was looking for. Remembering the Bohemian girl who had helped nurse him in that church after the saber wound, he had taken something from there the day he left — a prayer card. One that depicted the same arrow-pierced saint from the painting. Nothing of value, nothing that would be missed. Just a small, simple card strewn about among the debris in the nave. While many of the other men were busy looting art and crystal and gold, he had stooped to pick up what amounted to a piece of trash. An odd souvenir.
Gilbert flipped it over. On the back was a prayer. Again in a language he could not speak. But the typeface was similar to the one used in the book...
.
o
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Leipzig, Germany
Eduard curled his hand around the steaming mug of coffee. He was sitting at the dining table in his mother's house. Jan sat to his left, at the head, and around them were the three other members of their crew. On the table, a hand drawn map was laid out, showing the location of their next heist and the safe house where the group was to convene following completion. Eduard's other hand was propped up on the table, resting against the side of his face as he studied the map with an inscrutable look.
"A manor house." His eyes cut a sideways glance to Jan.
"You don't like it," Jan stated.
Eduard let his hand fall. "No, I don't. We've never taken on one of these. We're talking about more than just a family with a maid. This place is bound to have a whole staff, plus a kennel, and — "
"You're giving them too much credit," one of the men cut in. "It's little more than a large farm — "
"And guns. This place is going to be armed." Eduard curled his left hand reflexively into a fist. "Rich folk in the country have nothing better to do than hunt for sport — "
"This isn't the country — it's just past the suburbs," another pointed out.
Eduard sent him a withering glare.
"He's just scared they're gonna make him a chambermaid if he gets caught," the third sneered. "Go back to emptying out shit pots like he used to."
The men roared with laughter. Eduard's chair flew back as he stood, one hand drawing back, ready to strike, but Jan beat him to it, grabbing the man by the collar and lifting him out of his seat.
"Anyone insults my son again, they'll have me to answer to, understood?"
The man nodded fervently as murmurs of assent swept around the table. Jan let go of his collar and he fell back into his seat.
"Eduard's concerns are valid," Jan continued, his sharp eyes looking at each of them. "But they've also been taken into account. The family is going out of town. They don't have much in the way of staff, and — " A rumble was building in Jan's chest. He took out a handkerchief and coughed into it just in time. He tucked it back in his pocket and sat, his face noticeably paler as sweat beaded along his brow. He and Eduard exchanged a glance before continuing. "As I was saying, what little staff they have are going with them."
Eduard looked around the table. Only one of the men he recognized, having worked a few jobs with him before. That was the one who had insulted him — Louis or Lucas or something — a member of their early crew, and one Eduard never liked. He was glad when Louis or Lucas or whatever his name was had left to start his own operation. It must not have been successful though, if he was back working with Jan. The rest of the men were all new to him. Eduard sipped his coffee, eyeing Louis or Lucas. The man was studying his stepfather with a strange little smirk as Jan went over the plan — the tiniest quirk to his lip and lift to his brow. If Eduard had not been watching him, he doubted he would have caught the change in the man's face.
Jan saw everyone out once the meeting had ended. Eduard lingered in the hall, one shoulder leaning against the wall with arms crossed, frowning.
"You still don't like it, do you," Jan said.
"No. I like it even less after watching that Louis or Lucas guy — "
"Louis," Jan corrected him.
"Yeah, him. He's up to something."
Jan started to laugh, but it became a low rumble again. He coughed into his handkerchief. "He's just full of piss and vinegar. Don't let him rile you."
"Why are you working with him again?"
"He came to me with this one. Was dating one of the servant girls up at that manor house. Apparently the mistress has quite a temper if something's not done quite to her liking. The poor girl had been knocked around a few too many times, accused of stealing when the mistress misplaced something, so finally she quit. Got a factory job. Well, good riddance to that family. So she tells Louis about it and Louis comes to me."
"Why didn't he just take the job himself?"
"Probably because they could connect it back to him if something goes wrong. He's just the inside man on this one. He got the girl to draw up some diagrams of house's interior so we know which rooms to hit. Louis isn't gonna actually be there for this one."
"He's just getting a cut even though we're doing to dirty work," Eduard deadpanned.
Jan gave a noncommittal shrug. "Looks that way."
"I still don't like it."
.
o
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Tilsit, East Prussia
Raivis sat at the work table, practicing his new alphabet. He and Mr. Laurinaitis could now converse, albeit in short simple phrases, in his master's native language. When he was done, Raivis then moved onto writing out what words he knew and their German equivalent as Mr. Laurinaitis pulled a print from the press.
"You shouldn't have that out," his master gently scolded him.
"But we're not busy. And I don't have anything else to do," Raivis said, realizing his mistake a moment too late.
"Oh really?" Mr. Laurinaitis smirked.
Raivis' eyes widened. "Please don't make me clean and organize the letter drawers again! I already did that yesterday morning."
But before Tauras could assign his apprentice a task, a shadow passed before the window. A moment later, the door opened as sergeant-major Beilschmidt entered.
Raivis tried to cover what he had been writing, but Tauras shook his head, saying "Leave it," in Lithuanian.
The sergeant-major looked at Tauras a moment, but he kept his head down, pointedly ignoring the gendarme.
"What do you have there?" Gilbert asked, going over to Raivis.
Cheeks flushing, the boy showed him. "Mr. Laurinaitis has been teaching me," he murmured.
"Oh! That's kind of him." Gilbert caught Tauras' eye as he pulled another print. The Lithuanian laid it on the table, dropping his gaze.
"The boy wanted to learn."
Gilbert adjusted his uniform and removed his helmet. "I'm sure it will be useful here." Tauras' eyes flicked up then back down. "How was your trip, Mr. Laurinaitis?"
Tauras blinked, momentarily wrong-footed.
"Your cousin said you had to return home? To see to a family matter," Gilbert continued.
Tauras swallowed. "Fine. It was fine. My sister is getting married in June."
"Oh. Well, that is happy news — "
"Is there something I can help you with, sergeant-major?"
Gilbert set his helmet on the table as he approached the Lithuanian's press. Tauras stepped back, wiping his hands on his apron.
The sergeant-major let out a low breath, then took a book out of his coat pocket — one Tauras recognized instantly.
"I need you to print something for me. A sampling, please, of your serif typefaces."
Tauras' jaw clenched, this throat tightening. "...May I ask why?"
"This book was found in a contraband raid across the border. The Russians believe the books are being printed in this city and smuggled over."
Gilbert held the book out. Tentatively, Tauras took it, feeling the rub of the brown cloth against his skin — so familiar for the number of times he pulled and stretched it to get the binding right, the callouses on his fingers.
"There are no distinguishing marks to tell me who printed it, so the only thing I'm left with, save for turning every print shop in this town inside out, is comparing typefaces to find one to match. Yours is the last shop for me to visit," Gilbert said quietly, his gaze locked on Tauras.
Tauras lifted his eyes to meet Gilbert's. The gendarme removed an envelope from inside his coat. In it were samples from the other printers in town. Of those printers, Tauras knew of only three that also printed material in his language. He was surprised to see a few others had his alphabet as well. But that knowledge alone was not enough to save him. It was only a matter of time now. Tauras shifted his shoulders, wishing Eduard was here.
"And when do you need this?" he asked, his mouth barely moving.
"Now, if you please."
Tauras shut his eyes briefly and nodded, slipping the book in his apron pocket. "It will be a moment while I get everything set up. Would...you care for anything while you wait? Some tea, perhaps?"
Gilbert bowed his head. "Of course." He pulled up a stool and sat, leaning an elbow on the work table and stretching his bad leg out.
Tauras turned away, remembering that night and the morning after, the jagged gash running the length of Gilbert's thigh. "Raivis, would you please make some tea for the sergeant-major?"
The boy nodded, eyeing Tauras and the gendarme briefly before slipping into the kitchen. A strained silence fell over the shop as Tauras arranged metal letters in a composing stick. Gilbert lightly drummed his fingers on the table, then stood and began strolling around the shop, hands clasped behind his back in a would-be casual manner. He stopped to examine what Raivis had been writing, his mouth silently trying to pronounce the words.
Gilbert's brow furrowed. He looked up to see Tauras watching him from under his brow.
"What?" the Lithuanian bristled. "Is it illegal now here, too?"
"No, I..." Gilbert sighed, dropping his head a moment.
Tauras was looking at him fully now. Gilbert took the chance and moved closer.
"You keep that part of you so guarded — your culture, I mean. Why?"
Tauras tipped his chin up, eyes narrowing. "We all have our reasons, sergeant-major, as I'm sure you're well aware." He turned back to the type case drawer, pulling out more letters.
Gilbert pressed his lips together and sank back onto his stool. "You're right. Though my reasons in no way excuse the way I acted towards you. After this investigation is over, we should have little cause to see each other again. I will do as you asked and leave you in peace."
Tauras' hands trembled as he fit the type samples in a metal frame and took it over to his press to run the proof. Raivis returned with the sergeant-major's tea. Gilbert smiled to himself, seeing it was still unstrained, and drank.
Tauras inked the letters, then set the paper. He pulled the lever, managing to make a satisfactory impression after the first try.
"The ink is dry enough," he said, covering the print with another sheet of paper, "but you should let it cure for a day if possible to prevent smearing." Tauras rolled the two pieces of paper together, tied them loosely with twine, and handed it to Gilbert.
"The book, too, Mr. Laurinaitis."
Tauras blinked a moment, forgetting he had put the book in his pocket. Fingers curled around the binding as he said a silent prayer, more out of habit than of hope the words could somehow affect his fate.
Gilbert left and Tauras immediately took his cup to the wash basin, not wanting to see the shapes his tea leaves had formed.
.
o
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Leipzig, Germany
Jan and Eduard watched the house from the tree-line. The sun had well past set; the grounds were dark save a faint silver glow from the moon above. Jan signaled to his men: now was the time to move. Four dark figures dashed across the lawn, halting at the side entrance. Eduard picked the lock, remaining behind as lookout while Jan led the other two in to loot whatever they could find.
Eduard hated burglaries. They were so unsophisticated. He preferred a face-to-face con: acting as movers for a family selling their house and making off with their valuables before the real movers got there; faking an injury as a wealthy merchant passed in his carriage; posing as a doctor. People were always so ready to believe what was right in front of their faces.
Eduard folded his arms against the damp night, wandering to the edge of the house. He peered around it, checking the front.
Something moved against the tree-line.
Eduard adjusted his glasses, squinting in the near-dark.
Again, he saw a shadow, making its way up to the front door. Eduard swore under his breath, dashed to the side entrance and in. He found Jan upstairs in the master bedroom, helping empty the jewelry case into a sack.
"We have to go!" Eduard panted. "Someone's here!"
The other man Jan was with grabbed the bag and bolted.
Jan jerked his head at the door. Eduard followed. They just made it to the top of the stairs when the front door opened. In the dim light, Eduard saw the figure of a man with a rifle seconds before the gun went off. The blast was bright, blinding in the dark house. Eduard yanked Jan by the shoulder, pulling him out of the hall, blinking the flash out of his eyes.
"Who's there?" an old man's voice demanded as he began to ascend the stairs.
"Jan, come on!" Eduard whispered, heading back to the master bedroom.
Jan struggled to his feet, took one step, then came down on one knee with a soft groan. "You go on ahead — "
"I'm not leaving you!"
Eduard helped Jan to his feet, flinging an arm around his shoulder, and together they limped down the hall.
Eduard shouldered his way through a door and began frantically searching the walls, Jan collapsing on a nearby sofa.
"Come on, come on! There's gotta be one — ah ha!" A hidden doorway opened, leading to a narrow staircase. The servants' entrance.
Eduard turned to get Jan, but by the silvery light filtering through a window, he could now see the dark stain blossoming on his stepfather's side.
Everything stopped then.
Eduard's eyes grew wide behind his glasses. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe, how to think — until something creaked in the hall, kicking his brain into action.
"Come on, Jan." Eduard helped his stepfather up, hauling him over to the servants' stairwell and shutting the door before the man with the gun could find them.
Eduard felt his way along the unlit passage with his shoulder, shuffling his feet as he went so as not to stumble, much like he used to when he was a boy, moving silently and unseen through the passages of the Laurinaitis estate.
After an age, they reached the bottom, Jan seeming to lean more heavily against him. Moments later, they reached the side entrance and were out, half limping and half sprinting across the lawn and into the trees. Eduard leaned Jan against one, shrugged out of his jacket and pulled his shirt over his head.
"This is gonna hurt like hell."
Jan puffed out a laugh. "It already does."
Eduard tied his shirt around Jan, tightening the knot where he estimated the gunshot to be.
"Christ, kid," Jan grunted. "I can barely breathe as it is."
"We've got to keep pressure on it until I can get you home." Eduard put his jacket back on and looped Jan's arm over his shoulder again.
Jan coughed, wincing. "You were right. It was a set up. Old man must've been the caretaker. Fucking Louis."
"Yeah, well the other two weren't much help either. They grabbed the loot and ran."
"Ed —"
"Don't talk. I'm taking you home and fixing you up," Eduard said, voice cracking in desperation.
"No, listen to me. I'm not gonna make it. But it's okay. It's better this way. I don't want to suffer like your mother did — "
"Jan — "
"Eduard, listen. In my desk, top drawer, is the deed to the house. It's in your name. You can — can keep it — sell it — w-whatever. It's..."
Jan's head rolled forward then as Eduard felt his lungs contract.
"Jan...Jan...dad!"
There was no response.
"Fuck!" Eduard tightened his grip and dragged them both to the house.
It was nearly a three mile trek back. Somehow he made it in just under an hour.
Eduard laid Jan on the couch, untying the shirt from his waist. He checked for a pulse just to be sure. But Jan was gone.
Eduard stripped down to his undergarments then and lit a fire, feeding the flames his bloody clothes one by one. He washed up, made some coffee, and sat at the dining table, vowing if he ever saw Louis or those men again, he would snap their necks. Though perhaps Jan had been right. Perhaps it had been better this way — quick and full of the thrill from the heist. No waiting around as his lungs gradually filled and he passed slowly the way Liese had done, aware of every agonizing moment, while his family looked on, helpless to do anything.
Still, it didn't seem fair.
.
o
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Eduard called on the undertaker the next morning, and by that evening, Jan was buried in the plot he had purchased beside his wife. The next day, Eduard packed what little he cared to take with him — the family never had many valuables, but there were things like the tintype photographs of his mother and Jan just after the wedding, the three of them two years before Liese's passing. And of course the money Jan made from the jobs he ran, hidden under a floorboard in the bedroom upstairs. He could care less what happened to the clothes and furnishings — though he did pack away Jan's coffee pot and a cup.
He found the deed in the desk drawer, just as Jan said. Clipped to it was the name and address of a developer. Eduard remembered Jan telling him about the interest in their property when he visited Tilsit with Tauras' fake travel papers what seemed ages ago. He took the deed to the address and walked out with a sizable check in his pocket. He then went to the station and bought a ticket for the overnight train home, finally giving over to his grief as the train clattered on.
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.
A/N History and other notes: As mentioned before in chapter 7, the Franco-Prussian War is just about a year away from starting. Just something to keep in mind with regards to Gil ;).
Blackletter and serif (Roman) typefaces: Blackletter (the really fancy and hard to read lettering you often see in medieval stuff) had its origins in scripts used in medieval religious texts. After the Protestant Reformation, blackletter became more dominant in Protestant countries, while serif or Roman type was more common in countries with Catholic populations. Some common serif typefaces of the time would be Garamod, Didone, Caslon, and Baskerville. They look similar but there are differences in each — more on that in the next chapter ;).
"Is it illegal now here, too?" : Tauras is referring to the use of his native language. Tilsit had a decent Lithuanian population. I couldn't find numbers for when this story takes place, but I imagined it decreased over the years as the Lithuanian population was subjected to Germanization. In the 1880s, Lithuanians formed about 13% of the town's population. That number decreased to just 4% in 1905.
Tintype: a photograph made by creating a direct print on a thin sheet of metal — they were widely popular in the 1860s-70s as they were way less expensive and easier to make than daguerreotypes (photographs printed on silver-plated copper that was polished to a mirror finish).
I think that's it. I'm gonna go eat my feelings and cry now.
No spoilers for the next chapter :) but I will say we're nearing the end...