The Star of Kazan (14 page)

‘But why can’t he go to St Xavier’s if he’s so keen?’

‘I’m not sure . . . my mother won’t talk about it. But she says it’s all going to be different very soon. There’s a plan, only I’m not allowed to know what it is.’

They had taken a path which led downhill from the house. Annika had expected to see clearings with patches of bilberry leaves and bubbling streams, but the forest was not like the ones she knew. It was tangled and dark and difficult to walk through; logs had fallen across the path, briars caught their skirts. It was wild and should have been beautiful but it was not.

‘My father’s going to get it cleared,’ said Gudrun. ‘When . . . when he can get the men.’

They passed a wire enclosure with a number of wooden kennels and heard the sound of excited barking.

‘Can we go and see them—’ began Annika, but Gudrun shook her head.

‘They’re hunting dogs. Papa doesn’t like them to be fussed over.’

Then she stopped suddenly in the middle of the path and turned to Annika. Her face was flushed and she spoke with a kind of nervous excitement. ‘Is it true that before you came here . . . that at the place where you were before . . . they treated you like a servant?’

Annika met her eyes. ‘They did not
treat
me like a servant. I
was
a servant,’ she said clearly.

Gudrun poked at a fir cone with her shoe.

‘Then why are your clothes so nice?’

‘Sigrid made my clothes. The housemaid. She was a very good needlewoman.’

‘And that scarf?’ She pointed to a red-and-white kerchief which Annika had knotted round her neck. ‘She didn’t make that?’

‘No. It came from a shop in the Karntner Strasse.’ Annika looked up and found that Gudrun was looking at it with a kind of desperate hunger. ‘Would you like it?’ she asked.

Gudrun flushed again. ‘Well . . . yes, I would. I haven’t had anything new to wear for ages.’

So Annika unknotted the scarf and tied it round Gudrun’s neck. ‘It looks very nice on you,’ she said, though actually it looked rather like a distress signal – a handkerchief tied round a telegraph pole to show where someone had left the road.

Back at the house, Hermann was waiting impatiently.

‘I have to move my lancers at four,’ he said, opening his silver pocket watch with the von Tannenberg crest on the cover.

Fortunately just then the adults came out of the study and Annika looked up eagerly. Being away from her mother was still difficult. But she came out ahead of the rest, looking serene and resolute, and behind her came her sister, muttering, ‘Well I hope you’re right, Edeltraut, that’s all I can say. Because if it doesn’t work—’

‘It will work,’ said Edeltraut. She caught sight of the three children and it was to Annika she went first, not to Hermann. ‘You have been waiting so patiently, dear. But it’s time to go home now.’

They were climbing into the carriage when an appalling scream was heard, somewhere in the forest. The scream was followed by a string of blood-curdling oaths, which seemed to come from beneath the ground.

Someone had fallen into the bear pit – but it did not seem to be someone one could eat.

Z
ed had watched the carriage, with Uncle Oswald at the reins, turn down the road to Felsenheim, and felt a pang of pity for Annika, facing her first lunch with her new aunt.

Then he saddled Rocco and rode off down the lane that skirted the lake, to the little village of Marienbau. He was still on Spittal land; the houses belonged to the von Tannenbergs and the church on the edge of the green had housed the graves of the family for generations.

Zed tied Rocco to the hitching post and made his way between the tombstones to a large sarcophagus, standing on its own. The Master had wanted a simple grave, but his daughters had insisted on this edifice of stone.

Zed took off his cap and bowed his head. Then he sat down on the turf, out of sight of the village street, with his legs drawn up and his back against the cold stone. His mother’s people, the Romanies, liked to play music and dance on the graves of the people they had loved, but he could not dance on this great stone box.

‘Oh, why did you have to die?’ he said to the Master.

He had heard that Edeltraut’s long-lost daughter was coming to live at Spittal and thought nothing of it. The rumours were of a timid kitchen child who would be overawed by the grandeur of her new life. In any case it had nothing to do with him; his future lay elsewhere.

But Annika was a person. She was real and she was nice – and she would lose the battle. They would turn her into someone who thought she had a God-given right to rule others. In a few weeks or months the friendly, helpful girl would become a stuck-up little madam; she would speak like Herman, and stamp her feet if she didn’t get her way.

‘And I can’t help her,’ said Zed to the old man who lay beneath the stone. ‘You know I can’t.’

If the Master had been alive Zed could think of no better place to grow up than Spittal, but now . . .

He sat there, thinking, till Rocco whinnied and it was time to go.

When Hermann was born, his mother was not living at Spittal. She had married a year earlier and gone to live on her husband’s estate, Borwald, which was some fifty kilometres away. Mathilde too had married, and their father, the Freiherr von Tannenberg (whom everybody called the Master) ran Spittal on his own, which suited him well.

He was a huge man with broad shoulders, big hands, greying hair and very blue eyes – one of those men who never needed to raise their voice to be obeyed.

Under his rule the farm prospered, the tenants were well cared for; he was on good terms with his neighbours, as they were with him.

When his grandson, Hermann, was born, the Master was pleased and proud. He rode over to Borwald and was shown the baby. Hermann was handsome and healthy, a worthy heir for the von Tannenbergs, and as he grew into a toddler and then a sturdy little boy, the Master started to look out for a horse that the boy could grow up with, and train, and be trained b y.

So he travelled by train to a famous stud farm on the edge of the Hungarian plain: a place of wind and grass and men who seemed to be born and to die in the saddle, like the Mongols of old. The plain – the puszta it is called – goes rolling on eastwards towards the steppes of Russia; gypsies travel there unhindered, as do horse-herders and aristocrats riding with their servants to feasts or hunting parties. And of course as always there are the peasants who herd their geese and tend their flocks and do the real work of the land.

The Master knew the stud, which was called Zverno. It was linked with Lipizza, near Trieste, where the white stallions were bred for Vienna, and had provided some of the best riding horses in Europe. And there he consulted a man he knew, Tibor Malakov, who had come west from Russia, buying and selling horses, and had ended up as manager of the stud.

Tibor liked the Freiherr, the Master of Spittal. He knew him to be a man of honour, and he liked the idea of finding a horse for his grandson. He took him round the paddocks, where the colts frisked and skittered, and through the big stone barns, where the mares waited for their foals. There were greys bought from Lipizza that had been crossed with Arab and Berber mares, smaller, sturdy horses from Mongolia, Irish hunters . . .

Tibor led the Freiherr on slowly, pointing out the special qualities of this animal or that and the Freiherr asked questions. Nothing was said about any particular horse.

The Freiherr had the feeling that they were waiting for something and he was right. Presently, down the straight white road which led from the village, a small figure appeared, looking even smaller under the weight of the school satchel on his back.

‘My son, Zed,’ said the manager. And to the child, ‘Are you sure about what you told me yesterday?’

‘I am sure,’ said the boy, doffing his cap, shaking hands with the Freiherr.

The boy couldn’t have been more than eight years old, and looked less. He was very dark – and burnt darker still by the sun, so that his strange light-flecked eyes were very noticeable.

‘Then get changed quickly and take Herr von Tannenberg to see him.’ And as the boy ran off, ‘His mother was a gypsy . . . and you can say what you like, they’re not like us. The boy has . . . I don’t know what it is. An instinct . . . He had it almost as soon as he could walk.

But I don’t want you to be influenced – if you disagree . . .’ He looked at the huge man standing relaxed beside the paddock gate and broke off. To influence this old aristocrat would be difficult.

The boy came back without his satchel, dressed in a pair of breeches and an old jersey. Without his cap he seemed even smaller.

‘You’ll find me in my office,’ said the manager. ‘I’ve got a rather good bottle of Tokay.’

Though he was so small, the child was not shy. He took the Master’s hand and led him with absolute assurance to a part of the farm the old man had not seen before, and into a stone barn with clean whitewashed walls and high windows through which the sun shone on to the deep yellow straw. About twenty mares were tethered in a line along the walls, resting or suckling their foals. The foals wandered freely among them; the more curious ones came up to the Freiherr and the boy, exploring, nuzzling their clothes.

‘Watch,’ said the boy.

They stood still in the middle of the barn for what seemed to be a long time. There were foals of all colours, dappled greys, roans, bays, some new-born, others already confident on their long legs.

After a while the boy turned his head to look at the Master. ‘Do you see?’ he said.

‘There are several which—’

‘No,’ said the little boy, and the assurance in his voice was almost comical. ‘There is only one.’

The Master went on watching. He was beginning to see what the boy saw but he was not yet sure. Zed waited till the foal came closer.

Then, ‘That one,’ he said.

The foal was tawny with big lustrous eyes, curious and eager. There were other foals almost as curious, as eager and trembling with life. Almost, but not quite.

‘He’s the best,’ said the child. And then, ‘If your grandson is nice. His name is Rocco.’

Rocco was not ready to leave his mother, nor to make the long journey by train to Spittal. The Master left a deposit, drank a glass of Tokay and waited. In the event it was nearly six months before the colt could be sent to Spittal. The Master went to the station; the guard opened the door of the van, the groom led the horse down the ramp. In a dark corner, a pile of straw moved and a small head appeared.

‘I came too,’ said Zed.

‘Where is your father?’

The child turned his face away.

‘He died.’

The groom explained. ‘He tried to stop a fight . . . there were knives.’ He shrugged. They were so common, these pointless drunken fights. ‘There’s a woman at the stud who’s happy to adopt the boy, but he wanted to come to you.’

The Master nodded. He examined the colt, shook hands with Zed.

They went home.

The first two years Zed spent at Spittal were happy ones. He lived with Bertha in a flat above the stables in the courtyard, he worked with the horses, he made himself useful on the farm and went to the village school. But often in the evening the Master took him into his room, showed him his books and his maps, or told him stories between puffs on his long-stemmed pipe. Bertha looked after the boy as she had looked after the Master, but really he needed very little care.

And the colt grew and became tame and was handled, ready for Hermann.

Then everything changed. Edeltraut’s husband, Franz von Unterfall, sold his estate and she brought him and her son back home to live at Spittal. When Hermann came, Zed, who was two years older, thought it was his job to help and protect him, but Hermann soon made it clear that he didn’t want a stable boy for a friend.

A year after Edeltraut’s return, the Freiherr had a stroke. He lived for two more months, unable to speak, helpless. Bertha and Zed nursed their Master, willing him to recover, but he got steadily weaker. They were both at his bedside when he died.

After the funeral, Bertha and Zed were sent to the hut in the farmyard, allowed to work in the big house but not to sleep in it. A few weeks later, Edeltraut’s husband sailed for America. From then on she dropped her married name and ran the estate on her own.

A
nnika had been at Spittal for a nearly a week. It was still bitterly cold, both outside the house and inside, where the only stoves that were lit in the morning were in the kitchen and her mother’s boudoir. The last of the ice had thawed from the hollows, which meant that not only the fields but most of the paths were flooded, and Annika’s feet were permanently wet. She had resisted all Ellie’s efforts to buy her waterproof overshoes in Vienna – no one who cared how they looked could wear galoshes. But now she decided to ask her mother if they could buy a pair the next time they went to the shops.

More birds had come from Greenland – skeins of wild geese and flights of teal, for which the red-bearded Oswald waited each dawn in his punt. He was a good shot – seldom bringing in fewer than half a dozen birds, which were hung in the outside larder and cooked, sometimes still full of lead shot, by the only other servant who worked in the house, a sulky silent girl called Hanne from a village on the other side of the lake. Hanne had been taught to bang the gong in the hall loudly before each meal, but when the ear-splitting noise had died away, the food that awaited them in the dining room was always the same. The charred legs of geese, stewed duck, pieces of blackcock fried in lard, made up both lunch and dinner, sometimes with turnips and potatoes, sometimes alone.

The family from the hunting lodge came over often, usually for lunch, and ate hungrily. Mathilde still looked desperate and tried to take her sister, Edeltraut, aside to whisper in her ear.