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  Uncle Sandor opened the door and reached his arms forward. Leo caught one dreadful glimpse of black eyes, black whiskers, and scowling black brows. Then he could see no more for he closed his eyes. To his astonishment Uncle Sandor dropped him on the ground and a moment later Jozsef was placed beside him.

  “Go. Play,” Uncle Sandor rumbled.

  When they felt their legs could carry them they walked away from the coach, found a log by the side of the river, and sat on it, their arms linked in misery, not only for comfort but because the late afternoon had grown a little cold. Leo was shivering. His damp clothes hadn’t bothered him before, but now they were clammy on his body.

  “What will happen to Malie, Jozsef?”

  “Papa will punish her,” whispered Jozsef.

  “Will we ever see Karoly again?”

  “No.” Jozsef shook his head. “I don’t suppose he will ever dare come to the house again.”

  Uncle Sandor came towards them with a great armful of wood. He knelt down, placed some large stones in a circle, then criss-crossed the wood on top. With his tinder he caught a twig and then fed small chips into the flames until they were strong enough to place a log on top. Then he sat down on the other side of the fire. They watched him warily to see what he would do next. Tears were still coursing down Leo’s fat cheeks, although he wasn’t really crying.

  “Mustn’t cry. Play,” growled Uncle Sandor.

  In unison they shook their heads. There was no play in the world that would entice them now. Even on a good day, a bright, smiling, happy day, the sole presence of Uncle Sandor would have destroyed their spirits.

  Uncle Sandor took a bundle of cloth from his pocket and unrolled it. Inside was a hunk of grey bread, an onion, and a slab of szalonna. He unstrapped a knife from the side of his boot and sawed off a slice of the bacon fat. Then he peeled the onion and bit into it, as though it were an apple. Fascinated, the little boys watched him munch, swallow, and bite again. They had never seen anyone eat an onion like that before. Uncle Sandor sliced another lump of szalonna, impaled it on his knife, and passed it across the flames to Jozsef, who nervously reached out his hand, took it, and ate. Another piece came over for Leo. Then two hunks of the grey peasant bread. They weren’t really hungry, but there was comfort in the shared food, and when they started to eat they realized how delicious it all was. They never had grey bread and bacon fat at home.

  “Do you think,” whispered Jozsef, “that I could have a piece of your onion, Uncle Sandor?”

  Uncle Sandor didn’t cut the onion. He knew it wouldn’t taste the same that way. He passed it over so that Jozsef and then Leo could plunge their teeth into it Then he sawed off two more pieces of bread to try and stop their eyes from watering.

  “Time was,” said Uncle Sandor, sawing and munching, “time was I would have given my life for szalonna and bread and onion like this.”

  The little boys stared.

  “Out on the great plain, with the sun beating down and fifty thousand of the King of Prussia’s soldiers waiting to ride us into the ground. Yes, what I would have given for bread and onions then!”

  Absent-mindedly Leo held his hand out for another piece of bacon, and the old soldier pressed a lump of dirty fat into his hand.

  “No food for four days, our bellies hollow with hunger. Seventy leagues we’d ridden, and the lieutenant comes and says, ‘Men, there’s food for you. The first for four days, and likely to be the last for many more.’”

  He threw another log on the fire, nodded, and picked a piece of bacon fat from his teeth with his knife.

  “So we are led to a shepherd’s hut. And there is a meal, a great pot of meat and beans and peppers. ‘Eat,’ says the lieutenant. ‘Eat well, because this is your last meal of good Hungarian mutton. From now on you will be eating your horses.’”

  The little boys stopped chewing and gazed awestruck at the man who had ridden seventy leagues without eating for four days.

  “So we eat. And when our bellies are full, do you know what the lieutenant says? Do you know?” He suddenly slapped his great hand down hard on his thigh and roared. “‘Men,’ he says, ‘I will tell you. You have just eaten your first meal of horse, not your last of mutton!’”

  Their mouths dropped open. Before them sat Uncle Sandor, who had eaten a plate of horse and beans and peppers. They glanced over at the carriage horses, nice fat cosy black horses gently pulling at odd tufts of grass around the coach.

  “Whose horse was it?”

  “A Prussian horse.”

  That was all right then. A Prussian horse.

  Jozsef stood up and moved round the fire, next to Uncle Sandor. “Did you have anything else after that?” he asked. “Did they give you anything to eat after that?”

  “One day a dead sheep, out on the plain. It was thin, as thin as we were, but we took water from our flasks and made a little soup.”

  “A dead sheep,” breathed Jozsef in admiration. He was leaning against Uncle Sandor’s legs now. The fire was warm and that and the largeness of Uncle Sandor offered a kind of comfort. It was possible to forget for a little while that Papa had come home.

  “Uncle Sandor,” said Leo suddenly, “could I borrow your knife? I have bacon in my teeth.” Uncle Sandor didn’t even hesitate, the way any other grown-up would have done. He passed the sharp knife across the fire, and Leo scraped the blade experimentally against his teeth a few times.

  “The very knife I skinned the sheep with,” mumbled Uncle Sandor.

  Leo looked at it with added respect. Then he brought it round the fire to Uncle Sandor and pressed close to his other side.

  “It is good to have a fire,” said Uncle Sandor, nodding. “There will be no wolves while we have this fire.”

  They gazed around them, at the peaceful river with trees along its banks, at the cultivated fields (theirs on this side, Uncle Alfred’s on the other), at the peasants in the distance who were cutting a field of late hay.

  “Wolves, Uncle Sandor?” asked Leo, wriggling with pleasure. “Are there wolves here?”

  “Bears too, and wild boar, but the fire will keep them away.”

  Leo reached up and hugged Uncle Sandor’s arm. Uncle Sandor lifted him up and sat him on his huge black knee. He felt very safe sitting there. At the back of his mind he knew he had to go home, but Uncle Sandor would be with them.

  “Do you think,” asked Jozsef, “that when we go home I could sit on the box with you, Uncle Sandor? I would get in the coach before we were near the house,” he added hastily.

  Uncle Sandor rumbled a bit. He smelled of onion, and his hands were greasy from the bacon fat and dirty from the fire. “I think there is room for two more there,” he growled.

  They sat for a few moments, watching the friendly flames that were keeping the wolves away.

  “Now it is time.” Uncle Sandor stood up holding Leo, who was nearly asleep in his arms. He pushed them up onto the box, then clambered up beside them. As he flicked the horses they each gripped a great arm with their two hands, and then the coach moved off.

  “I wish we could stay here with the fire,” said Jozsef mournfully.

  Leo, through a sleepy haze, thought how nice that would be, to stay on the river-bank, watching the sun go down and building the fire up against the perils of the night. But as he clung to greasy, strong-smelling Uncle Sandor, he found his dread of going back to the farmhouse mitigated by a tiny ray of comfort. Uncle Sandor would be in the stables, sleeping in a little cupboard just by the door. The horses would be strong and big and warm, and so would Uncle Sandor, who had fought the Prussians and eaten a dead sheep. Papa had never done those things, and Papa had never eaten an onion as though it were an apple or cleaned his teeth with a sharp-bladed skinning knife.

  “Will you say our names this evening, before you sleep? Say our names and we will say yours, Uncle Sandor.”

  It made a moment of hope in what was going to be a bad, bad evening. They would be sent directly to bed, of course, but
Papa’s anger would be apparent in every room and corner of the house. And there was tomorrow. Tomorrow Malie would be punished, and Mama and Eva too. The thought that Uncle Sandor, in his cosy stable cupboard, was saying their names gave them a secret point of sanity that would help them bear the night.

  “I will say your names,” he promised, and with that they had to fortify themselves for the return to Papa.

  6

  At first there was concern solely because of the bank. The assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand, said Uncle Alfred, could well provoke some international disturbance on the stock market. Papa assured Alfred that he had anticipated this and had done everything within his power, including telegrams to Switzerland and Berlin, to ensure stabilization. There might be fluctuations, but with firm control right from the beginning there were unlikely to be long-lasting repercussions.

  Uncle Alfred also put forward the view that there was bound to be a punitive expedition into Serbia.

  “Absolutely imperative,” he stated flatly. “We none of us liked Franz Ferdinand and certainly he was no friend to Hungary, but there is the honour of the Monarchy to be considered. Once we allow the subservient races to believe that acts of aggression will be overlooked, we shall have revolution and anarchy within our frontiers.”

  It was so strange. They were all there, just as they had been invited. Only Karoly and Amalia were missing, and in a little while Roza would bring in a huge dish of meats and cheeses and eggs, all arranged on a bed of red and green peppers. She would offer cake and coffee, all the things that had been prepared for the little party that had been planned. But instead of a party they were sitting round the table, the green-shaded oil lamp hanging low from the ceiling, and talking about the bank and Franz Ferdinand being killed by the Serbians.

  “All indications point to a show of strength,” Uncle Alfred continued. “My young cousin, Karoly Vilaghy—been recalled to garrison duties immediately—telegram waiting for him this afternoon when he returned.” He darted a quick look at Papa, then hurried on. “Wouldn’t have been recalled if Vienna wasn’t considering some sort of military protest.”

  It was the only time reference was made to Karoly during the evening, and Papa ignored it. It was as though Uncle Alfred had never spoken. Just for one fleeting moment his face was touched by fury, but it instantly disappeared, blown away in a discussion between Uncle Alfred and the Kaldy boys about the possibility of using force against Serbia.

  The women said nothing. They were all subdued, even Aunt Gizi, and they made no attempt at conversation, not even among themselves. Eva had smiled brightly at Felix once or twice, but the smile lacked confidence and fitted ill with her red, swollen eyes. And Felix—surprisingly—appeared to be concerned in the masculine conversation that was in progress. He had returned Eva’s smile with his own tender, charming one, but then the smile had been replaced by a frown of concentration as he listened to Uncle Alfred and Papa.

  A large moth droned in through the open window and homed directly towards the lamp. It hit the shade, hummed loudly, hit it again, and began a process of alternately circling and hitting. All eyes turned towards it and yet did not really see it.

  “They should have been taught a lesson before,” Alfred said, rapping his hand on the table to emphasize his point. “Last year they should have been crushed. We should never have let them beat the Bulgars back behind their frontiers. We should have stepped over the border and shown them Imperial discipline!”

  Everything was strange and uncomfortable. Mostly it was because of Amalia and Karoly, but in some unaccountable way that was not the whole of the unease about them. The Crown Prince, who was universally disliked throughout the Empire, had been killed and there was an air of unreality about the evening. All the familiar things about them—the rugs hanging on the walls, the rush and mahogany chairs, the well-known night shapes of the trees seen through the unshuttered windows—all these things were alien. It was as though they had never been seen before. And yet, after Papa and Uncle Alfred and Adam and Felix Kaldy had discussed the international situation, looking carefully at every aspect and possible development, there seemed nothing to fear.

  When the supper was brought in Adam tried to introduce a softening of the atmosphere, tried to bring the women out of their unhappy silence and make them talk.

  “Amalia not here?” he questioned lightly. “Is she unwell, or has she just decided she does not like us this evening?”

  The close atmosphere of the summer night grew more oppressive. No one answered him.

  “Can someone not destroy that moth?” Papa snapped. “It is extremely irritating.”‘

  Gizi rose in her chair, cupped her hand over the insect on the shade, and took it to the window. All eyes followed her, then followed the moth as it was thrown into the night.

  Just as they were leaving, Kati drew Eva to one side on the porch. “Karoly told us,” she whispered. “He wanted to stop here on his way back to the garrison. He was desperate to say good-bye to Malie.” Her eyes were glowing with the drama and excitement of Karoly’s love for Amalia, and Malie’s doomed fulfilment of that love. Kati was completely and utterly involved in all the sweetness and poignancy of their emotion for one another, an emotion she could never hope to experience for herself. “Oh, Eva! He was so angry, and so sad. He was talking to Papa while he was packing. He was crying, really crying, and shouting at the same time. He said your papa was a monster! Oh, Eva, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have told you that, but if you could have seen poor Karoly you would understand.”

  Dumbly Eva nodded. Tears welled up once more in her bloodshot eyes, and she felt only confusion and misery in her heart. What had Amalia done that she, Eva, would not have wished to do with Felix?

  “Papa tried to restrain him; it is due to Papa that Karoly did not come here. Papa explained it would make things worse for Malie. And Papa promised he would try and talk to Uncle Zsigmond, assure him there was nothing wrong with the picnics. Karoly quietened a little, and then just as he was leaving he shouted at Mama. ‘Your brother is a monster!’ he said. ‘I want to marry one of his daughters; what is so wrong with that?’” Kati’s eyes grew round as she remembered how someone had actually shouted at her mama. “And she didn’t answer him. She was so silent and white I thought she was going to faint—although Mama never, never faints.”

  Eva nodded again, longing for Kati to leave.

  “Oh, Eva! They must love each other so much! What do you think will happen? Will your papa send Malie away? He could send her to your grandparents. The Bogozys live a long way from the town, don’t they? He might send her there.”

  “I don’t know,” said Eva, slumping wearily against the sweet-smelling leaves of the vine curled round the post. A tiny cluster of hard green grapes pressed against her cheek. “I don’t know. I’m so tired I don’t know anything any more. I don’t understand why Papa is like this. Sometimes he is kind and proud of us, and then—”

  “Mama hasn’t grumbled at me once this evening.” Kati prattled on. “Did you notice how she didn’t once speak to me about my hair or the way I was sitting?”

  To Eva’s relief the Racs-Rassay coach came round from the stable. Behind, led by Roza’s eldest son, were the Kaldy horses. The good-byes were said quietly. There was no lighthearted calling through the night, no lingering pleasantries and promises of tomorrow. Aunt Gizi suddenly stood on tiptoe and kissed her brother on both cheeks. The second kiss she held for a moment, with her beautiful long fingers gripping his shoulders and her eyes tightly closed. And Eva noticed that Papa, who was so undemonstrative and lacking in affection with anyone except herself, swayed a little and allowed his head to bow towards Gizi’s. There was pain on his face, but Eva was too emotionally exhausted to feel sympathy for him. She said, “Good night, Papa. Good night, Mama,” and walked back into the house. She hesitated outside the door of Malie’s room. It was now locked, and she wondered whether to whisper through and try to tell her about Karoly leaving for the gar
rison. Then she envisaged what would follow if Papa overheard, and so she crept into the little boys’ room and lay down, fully dressed, on the temporary bed which had been set up for her there.

  During the week that followed, while Malie remained locked in her room, the news from Budapest grew more and more disturbing. Alfred’s surmisings of a military confrontation with Serbia began to sound not quite so ridiculous. The newspapers, which did not arrive until the afternoon, spoke of alarm and counter-alarm, of what might occur if this were done or that were done, of what and with whom Berchtold and Tisza and the Kaiser and Franz Josef were talking. The arrival of the newspapers became the most important event of the day. Until they came there was silence in the house. Papa spoke to no one, neither at mealtimes, nor in the yard, nor round the farm. His straight, cold figure could be seen inspecting the crops and cattle, with Uncle Zoltan a nervous and supplicating figure at his rear. Eva, Mama, and the boys did not dare leave the farm. Just once the little boys had set off with the dogs down in the direction of the river, and suddenly Papa had appeared before them, not saying anything, only staring at them in fury. Now Leo and Jozsef spent what time they had away from the house in the stables with Uncle Sandor. His small smelly cupboard became a refuge in a house of chilly madness.

  Mama and Eva tried to occupy themselves inside the house, but the constant silent presence of Papa suppressed anything but a nervous staring, either at a book or from the window or at each other. They were aware, all the time, of the locked door and the silence behind it. Papa never referred to Amalia either—at least not after the first morning when he had stared at Mama and said, “Your daughter will not be sent away until I have seen how the international situation develops. She will remain here until we know if there is to be a war.”

  “Thank you, Zsigmond.”

  “You are not to communicate with her in any way.”

  “No, Zsigmond.”