The Star of Kazan (24 page)

‘No, I don’t. And you’d better not ask too many questions – stay away from the farm, I would.’

‘But what about Rocco?’ Annika asked. ‘What will happen to Rocco?’

Old Wenzel looked down at the ground.

‘He’s taken Rocco,’ he said.

W
hen he left Spittal, close on midnight, Zed had taken two saddlebags and nothing else. One was packed with a change of clothes, a loaf of bread, such money as he had, a map, and the compass given him by the Freiherr. The other contained a halter and rope for Rocco, a supply of oats, a brush and a hoof-pick. The horse had been shod recently, but with a journey of more than 700 kilometres ahead of him, he would need to be alert.

He had ridden without stopping; all he wanted was to put as much distance between himself and Frau Edeltraut as possible. Her accusations and the threats of her brother-in-law had at first only angered him, but the anger was quickly followed by fear. He knew the power of the von Tannenbergs. They could have him imprisoned or deported and they would not hesitate to do so. No one would believe his word against theirs.

Ye t at Bad Haxenfeld he had halted. His road south led past the station, it skirted the town. He was in a desperate hurry; he had certainly not stolen Annika’s trunk, but he had taken Rocco. He felt no guilt about this. He could not have left the horse at Spittal at the mercy of Frau Edeltraut’s whims, but in the eyes of the law he was a thief.

All the same, he had turned off into the town and ridden Rocco into the stable yard of the Majestic and now, as he left the spa behind, he was glad because he knew the truth.

He leaned forward in the saddle and urged Rocco on and the horse broke into a canter on the grassy verge. There was a thin moon in the sky and the air was still. He was free – free of the von Tannenbergs with their snobbish grandeur, free of the endless jobs on the farm . . . free to join his mother’s people on the great Hungarian plain with its poplar trees and its wind-powered wells and its herds of wide-horned cattle.

And he was free of Annika and her troubles.

There was nothing he could do for her. Annika worshipped her mother. Even if he could bring himself to tell her the truth she would never believe him.

So why did he keep remembering silly and unimportant things? Annika the first day he had met her, asking if there was more mangel-wurzel . . . Annika running her fingers through Rocco’s mane . . . and barrowing feed for the sheep in the rain, her pigtails turning to sodden ropes of moisture . . . He could see her trotting down the lane to the farm, pulling down a branch of witch hazel and sniffing it . . . and her streaming eyes as she chopped onions for soup.

He pushed the memories away. She was a gallant girl and he liked her, but that had nothing to do with it. He was bound for his mother’s people and a new life if he escaped, and it would not be easy. Zed knew enough about the gypsies to realize that the dream of freedom and companionship had its dark side. There were thieves among them as well as people with big hearts; and women who let their children go filthy, with lice and matted hair. Old Izidor was honourable and so were his immediate kinsman, but others were not.

But they were his people now. He would throw in his lot with them, at least till he was old enough to manage on his own, and they would be good to Rocco. That was what mattered. A place where no questions were asked and the horse was safe.

Just before dawn he came to the river he would follow south towards its source. He dismounted and walked Rocco up and down before he let him drink.

There was grass by the bank and an oak tree, its branches hanging over the water. He tethered Rocco so that he could crop the turf. Then, using the saddlebag as a pillow, he lay down and slept.

Next morning the map showed him the route he had to take, across the wheat fields and orchards of central Germany and into Moravia – part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire – which he would have to cross to reach the Danube.

The distance was awe-inspiring; he only had enough money to buy oats for Rocco and a little food for himself and the horse was too young to be ridden hard.

But gradually he found himself enjoying the journey. Rocco’s alert ears, his steady high-stepping gait affected Zed. He rode him through woods, scattering herds of wild boar, and along streams where herons stood, one-legged, waiting for prey. Sometimes they had to take busy roads, jostled by donkey carts and drays, but mostly Zed found bridle paths and quiet lanes. There were bad days when the rain came down steadily and other days where there was nowhere to buy food and Zed watched Rocco graze with envy in his heart. Once a man in a loden cape stopped to question him, suspicious of a shabbily dressed boy on such a fine horse. Once they were followed by two infuriated dogs, great shaggy Komondors guarding a flock of sheep, but Rocco broke into a gallop and the dogs turned back.

But it was not the mishaps or dangers that troubled Zed; it was his thoughts. He still found it difficult to dismiss Annika from his mind. Memories of the silly Viennese song she had hummed when she polished the floors at Spittal, the look in her eyes when she first saw Hector, wouldn’t leave him.

There was nothing he could do for her, he told himself again and again. He had only known her a few weeks. She would be all right; she would manage.

It was just that she had been – a
friend
.

The last week of the journey was desperately hard; both he and Rocco were getting very tired. As they stumbled over the steep hills and through the rocky gorges of Moravia there were times when Zed thought he could not let the horse go on.

Then one morning he rode down from the hills between fields and orchards coming into blossom, and saw before him the wide, slow-moving Danube, with its barges and pleasure steamers and tugs. This was the most important waterway in Europe. The towpath east led to Hungary and the plain where his gypsies were camped.

The towpath west followed the river to Vienna, where the Danube flowed through the city’s heart.

Zed dismounted and stood looking at the water. He stood there so long that Rocco became impatient, gently butting Zed with his head.

‘All right,’ said Zed to his horse, and got back into the saddle. ‘Let’s go.’

I
n Spittal it had started to rain again. The frogs trod on each other’s backs and however many the storks ate, or the cats killed, there were always more. The season for shooting ducks was over, so Uncle Oswald shot land animals instead: hares, rabbits and what he called vermin, which seemed to be anything that got in the way of his gun. Gudrun missed Hermann and mooched about, waiting till she could go back to the hunting lodge. The new servants were efficient but unfriendly.

Annika was lonely. She had been sure that the farm would be put right now that there was money again, but she was wrong. No new livestock was bought in, none of the buildings were mended. Wenzel had a boy from the village to help him, but there was less and less to do. There were rumours that Edeltraut was going to buy a motor and the carriage horses would be sold. The stork house stayed empty.

A week after Zed had run away, Bertha’s brother came to collect the three-legged dog. Hector travelled in style, lying on a pile of sacking, his head resting on the sock-suspender, his eel trap by his side.

Annika ran down to say goodbye, leaning over the side of the cart to stroke Hector’s woolly head.

‘Is Bertha well?’ she asked, and the old man said, yes, and she had sent her love.

He didn’t mention Zed and nor did Annika. No one, she found, was talking about Zed.

‘The poor dog is going away?’ said a voice behind her, and Annika turned to find a girl with flaxen plaits wound round her head, and large blue eyes. She was carrying a pail with her lunch in it and was on her way to the village school at the head of the lake. Annika had met her often on the road and smiled at her. Her name was Frieda.

Annika sighed. ‘Yes,’ she said sadly. ‘Everyone’s going away.’

Frieda looked at her with sympathy. ‘Why don’t you come to our school? It’s nice. We’re going to make wreaths to decorate the church for Easter.’

‘I’d love to come. But . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Perhaps I could ask again.’

It was from Frieda that Annika had learned what was to happen to the farm.

‘There will be no animals, my father says. They’ll all be sold and there’s going to be sugar beet instead. Lots and lots of sugar beet.’

Annika had not heard this. ‘Really? Are you sure?’

Frieda nodded. ‘There’s a lot of money in sugar beet. It goes to the factory in Posen to be squeezed and sugar comes out.’

She picked up her pail again and trotted off, leaving Annika with her thoughts, which were not cheerful. She had heard a lot about sugar beet from Professor Julius, but nothing that had made her feel it would make up for living animals.

It was extraordinary how much she missed Zed. After all he had stolen her trunk and lied about it and fled in the night, taking a horse which did not belong to him. How could she miss him so badly?

But she did. It was impossible to believe that she had known him only for a few weeks. He had taught her so much; as soon as she was with him life became interesting: there was work to do and a future to think about. Sometimes she even wondered if what he had done was so terrible. If the little gypsy girl who had wanted to give her a kitten was now wearing Great-Aunt Egghart’s fake earrings, was that such a crime? And then Annika would reproach herself, because theft was theft and could never be excused.

Her nights were strange now: sometimes she woke and thought she could hear Rocco’s hoofs as he galloped past the window. And once, as she drifted off to sleep, she had the dream she’d had so often in Vienna: a carriage drew up outside and a woman got out, grandly dressed in furs. ‘Where is she?’ she said. ‘Where is my long-lost daughter?’

But after that everything went wrong because when she came forward into the lamplight, she turned into a dumpy woman in a cheap woollen overcoat and a brown felt hat, and she did not smell of exotic perfume but of vanilla and green soap and freshly baked bread.

When she had this dream Annika felt guilty and ashamed, especially as her mother was being so loving to her, and seemed to understand exactly how she felt about Zed.

‘My poor darling, I know so well what you are going through. I too have been betrayed by people I was fond of and trusted.’

‘My father?’

‘Him too – and my husband. He has written to tell me that he will never return to Spittal.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Edeltraut shrugged. ‘One must be brave. You must use what Zed has done to make you strong. And perhaps he is best where he belongs.’

‘With the gypsies?’

‘Of course. Learning to make his living in all sorts of disreputable ways. Rocco must of course be brought back – we cannot allow him to steal a valuable horse and go unpunished – but after that . . .’ She sighed. ‘I told my father you couldn’t tame a gypsy boy, but he wouldn’t listen.’

During these lonely days Annika spent more and more time wondering about the surprise her mother was planning for her. It was getting closer, Edeltraut said, very close, but there were preparations to be made which could not be hurried.

‘Oh, I do hope I can bring it off,’ she said. ‘It will be so wonderful for you!’

Sometimes when she was alone with her mother, Annika would try and guess.

‘We’re going on a journey to Africa to see lions?’ she would suggest, and her mother would smile and shake her head.

Or: ‘I’m getting a little boat with a red sail to take me over the lake?’

Or: ‘My friends are coming from Vienna on a visit?’

But always her mother would shake her head and say, ‘No, it’s better than that!’

Then came the day when Gudrun and her parents moved back to the hunting lodge and Annika and her mother were alone.

And at dinner that night, Edeltraut raised her glass to drink a toast. Her eyes sparkled, she was flushed with excitement.

‘ To your surprise, my dear,’ she said, stretching her hand across the table to lay it on her daughter’s. And as Annika looked at her, she said, ‘Yes, my darling child, I’ve done it! I was so afraid I’d have to disappoint you, but they’ve agreed. Come upstairs where we can be quite private. Oh, Annika, you’re going to be so
pleased
!’

E
llie was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the black recipe book which had belonged to her mother and her mother’s mother before her.

She’d got the book down because she wanted to check the quantities of sugar that were needed for some apricot preserve she was making. She had found the amounts almost at once, but now, some ten minutes later, she was still sitting with the book in front of her, and the page open at the entry that Annika had copied in on Christmas Eve.

‘A pinch of nutmeg will improve the flavour of the sauce,’ she read, for perhaps the hundredth time since Annika had gone.

Easter was over. On the Thursday before the holiday weekend, the emperor had given out purses to the poor and washed the feet of the twelve needy gentlemen who had been brought to him from almshouses in the city. Some of the needy gentlemen had enjoyed having their feet washed by the emperor, and some had not, but that was neither here nor there because the feet-washing was a tradition and had to be carried on.

After that, on Good Friday, the paintings and crucifixes in the churches had been shrouded in purple and the sounds of the street became muffled while the citizens mourned the death of Christ. And then on Easter Sunday the bells had pealed out joyously, there was music everywhere, the sun shone and everyone in Vienna seemed to have a new hat.