The Star of Kazan (15 page)

Zed had suggested that Annika should ask her mother if she could learn to ride.

‘You’d do less harm than Hermann,’ he had said.

But when Annika had put the question to her mother, Edeltraut had shaken her head.

‘Not at the moment, dear. There’s only Hermann’s horse just now and he has to be able to ride whenever he needs to so that he will be able to keep up at St Xavier’s. But it will all change soon, I promise you.’

Annika had also asked if she might go out in one of the boats, if she stayed near the shore.

‘I can swim,’ she said, ‘and I’d be very careful. Maybe Hermann would come and we could fish?’

But there were only two punts; one leaked and was dangerous, the other had to be kept free for Uncle Oswald.

Because she had fared badly over the riding and over going out in a boat, Annika had been careful not to ask if she could go to the farm. She would never have disobeyed her mother, but the days, with no school and no real occupation, were long, and down there she was happy. Zed not only did not mind her helping, he refused to let her stand about and watch with idle hands. She had taken over the egg collecting and he was teaching her to milk.

‘Why does nobody go to school here?’ she asked him, for she had seen children with satchels making their way down the lane towards the village.

Zed was stirring swill for the pigs. ‘Hermann doesn’t go to school because he’s not allowed to mix with the common children, and nor is Gudrun. I don’t go to school because there’s no one to do my work if I go. And you don’t go because you have to learn to be a stuck-up von Tannenberg instead of a servant girl.’

‘My mother isn’t stuck-up. She’s—’

‘All right, I know. You’re quite right to defend your mother. I’d be the same with mine if she was still alive.’

Though he answered general questions easily enough, Zed had told her very little about himself. Now though he said, ‘She was a gypsy . . . a Romany.’

So Hermann had been telling the truth.

‘There are a lot of Romanies working in Vienna, mostly playing in the cafes,’ said Annika. ‘They’re marvellous musicians.’ She sighed. ‘I miss music . . . not that I could play anything, but we used to sing at school, and there was always music coming out of the buildings.’ She grinned. ‘And of course Aunt Gertrude’s harp.’

‘Well, you’ll hear some music next Friday. You’re going into Bad Haxenfeld and there’s a bandstand there.’

‘Are you sure? Nobody’s said anything.’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

Sometimes now, when no one was waiting for her, Annika went back with Zed to Bertha’s little house, watched by the storks, who had laid their first egg and were more wary now, but however much she asked, he wouldn’t let her see the dog she heard out at the back.

As far as she could see, Zed and old Wenzel did all the work of the farm and it was unending. Not only did the animals have to be fed and mucked out and milked, but this was the time of year when fences had to be repaired and ditches cleared and logs cut and carried to the house. Zed worked without complaint, but it was when he was with Rocco that he relaxed and was happy.

He exercised the horse every morning, he saddled and bridled him for Hermann when he had to, but whenever there was a spare moment he went to talk to him, or walked with him through the lanes as one would talk and walk with a friend.

To Annika, who had only seen horses ridden formally in the Prater, the way that Rocco and Zed played together was amazing. Rocco came to Zed’s whistle in an instant; he chased after Zed in the paddock like a child playing tag. When Zed rolled on his back in the grass, Rocco copied him.

‘He’s special, isn’t he?’ asked Annika.

‘Yes, he’s special. I know you think I’m saying that because I’ve looked after him all his life, but it isn’t so. Some horses stand out . . . it’s their action; the way they hold their heads . . . You can tell from the start. My father could . . . so could the Master; that’s why he bought him.’

Zed was silent, remembering the stud at Zverno, and the foal caught in a ray of sunlight, coming so eagerly towards them.

‘Horses like that want to learn things. There’s nothing you can’t teach them if you handle them right. But they’re easily spoilt, especially if they’re young. If you tug at their mouths or hit them or give the kind of signals that don’t make sense, you can turn the best horse into an enemy. Rocco’s only just four; you have to go gently with him.’

‘Is that why you don’t want Hermann to ride him?’ asked Annika, who had seen the change which came over Zed when he had to get the horse ready for her brother.

Zed had been scratching Rocco behind his ears. Now he stopped for a moment and the horse turned his head and looked at him reproachfully.

‘Hermann’s hands are bad. He hauls at his mouth and kicks much too hard – and you can’t trust him with a whip. Any other horse would have thrown him.’ He turned away and Annika only just caught the words he said next: ‘When I take Rocco up for Hermann I feel . . . as though I’m betraying the horse.’

The next day Annika had the chance to see for herself what Zed had meant.

Hermann was in a gracious mood. ‘You can watch me ride,’ he told Annika after breakfast. ‘The boy is bringing my horse round at ten o’clock.’

And punctually at ten Zed led Rocco to the mounting block in the courtyard. Annika had expected Zed to look sulky and sour and he did, but the change in Rocco was what surprised her. His ears were flat against his head, he walked slowly like a horse going to the slaughterhouse after a life of toil, and when Hermann, dressed like a miniature cavalry officer, got on his back, he shivered and skittered and rolled his eyes.

‘I hope you’ve tightened the girths properly,’ said Hermann. ‘And where’s my whip?’

‘You don’t need a whip,’ said Zed.

Hermann glared at him, but he said nothing and dug his heels into Rocco’s flank.

‘Forward!’ he commanded. ‘Come on, you lazy brute.’

But it wasn’t till Zed gave Rocco a firm slap on his rump and told him to move that he set off reluctantly towards the field where Hermann liked to practise what he called his riding drill.

Zed went back to the farm; he couldn’t bear to watch, but Annika stood patiently at the edge of the field. Hermann was her brother and she wanted to be fair.

But after half an hour she too returned to the house. You did not have to know anything about riding to see that what was going on in the field was both dangerous and wrong.

The following day the first letters came from Vienna. There was one from Pauline, one from Stefan and one from Ellie, which Sigrid too had signed.

Pauline wrote that they had tried to go to the hut without her and it had been no good. Stefan had brought his brother Ernst and Pauline had found a really good story called ‘Androcles and the Lion’.

It’s about a lion who was put in an arena in ancient Rome to eat Christians, but when the first Christian came in the lion recognized him because he had once taken a thorn out of the lion’s paw and he refused to eat him or anybody else, and the emperor was furious and there was a riot. You’d think it would have worked
, wrote Pauline
. The story, I mean, but it didn’t and we’ve decided to give up acting and just use the hut as a meeting place.

Stefan’s letter was very short. He missed her and so did his mother. The baby was teething and cried a lot. They kept asking about her at school . . . everyone thought she should come back . . .

Then Ellie’s letter. Everything was fine, and they were sure she was having a lovely time. Professor Emil had tried to give up chocolate for Lent, but the doctor had said this was a mistake because he needed the iron for his blood. Professor Gertrude had ordered a new concert-grand harp from Ernst and Kohlhart and was very excited. Loremarie’s governess had said she would rather beg her bread in the streets than look after Loremarie one minute longer and had gone back to England. The flower lady said to tell Annika that the first gentians had come from the mountains . . .

She read Pauline and Stefan’s letter twice and Ellie’s over and over again. She had just finished when her mother came in.

‘I saw you had letters from Vienna. Is everything all right there?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘They don’t mention anything that has come for you? Anything that needs to be sent on?’

Annika shook her head. ‘I don’t think there’ll be anything. Ellie got my other coat back from the cleaners just before I left.’

‘No . . . I just thought . . . Well, never mind. If there is anything, be sure to let me know.’

Annika had got used to the sound of Uncle Oswald shooting at dawn, but the noise that woke her the next morning was a different one. It had rained again in the night and what she heard was the sound of drops of water plopping from the ceiling.

They were not plopping fast but they were plopping steadily, and a small puddle had formed on the floorboards by the window.

She looked about for something to catch the water and remembered a large Chinese vase which had been on a shelf inside the lacquered tallboy, but the vase had gone. It had definitely been there the day she came, but it was not there now, so she washed quickly, and carried her bowl over to the place where the crack in the ceiling had formed.

Her shoes were still wet from the day before, but she forced her feet into them and went down to the dining room, where she asked her mother if she could fetch a bucket from the scullery to take to her room.

‘Oh no!’ said Frau Edeltraut dramatically, passing her hand across her forehead. ‘Will it never stop?’

‘You know it will stop, Edeltraut,’ said Uncle Oswald under his breath. ‘And you know when. If you don’t weaken.’

It was still raining when Annika got down to the farm. She found Zed in the little house, whittling a new bolt for the barn door, and as she came in he looked at her sharply. Her clothes were soaked – one pigtail had escaped from under her hood and turned from gold to a sodden brown. He could hear the water squelching in her shoes, and she looked tired.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘It’s just . . . I had letters from home. I mean from Vienna – and they went round a bit in my head in the night, you know how they do.’

Zed, who never got any letters, said he did know. Then he put down his knife and said, ‘Come on, we’ll see what sort of a mood Hector is in.’

‘Hector? The Trojan warrior?’

‘That’s right. Hermann likes heroes. Wait here.’

He went out of the door at the back, and returned with the dog he had stolen from Hermann.

They came slowly because Hector, in spite of Zed’s hand on his collar, was not certain whether he felt sociable or not. The hero of the Trojans walked with an irregular gait, a kind of lurching movement, and the reason for this was simple. He only had three legs; the back leg on his left-hand side was missing. His tail was missing too and the jagged stump which was all that remained did not, at this moment, feel inclined to wave. As he turned his head, growling softly in his throat, Annika saw that one of his eyes was useless, filmed over and completely blind.

She looked at him in silence.

Then, ‘You’re wrong,’ she said angrily to Zed. ‘You’re completely wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said I wouldn’t want him. You said I wouldn’t want a dog like that.’

Zed was stroking Hector’s back. ‘I didn’t know you then,’ he said.

The dog had stopped growling and positioned himself so that he could see Annika clearly. She put her hand up very slowly, and he allowed her to scratch his head before flopping down on the floor.

‘Please tell me what happened to him,’ said Annika. ‘I won’t say anything . . . I won’t even think anything. But I’d like to know.’

Zed had squatted down beside the dog. When he spoke he did not look at Annika.

‘Hermann wanted a dog, so the Master went to choose one. It was his last present to Hermann before he had his stroke. He went to see a friend who bred water-spaniels – the ones that come from Ireland. They’re marvellous swimmers and . . . well, they’re wonderful dogs. I was there when he brought the puppy home for Hermann. He was six weeks old and he had this tight woolly coat all over and black eyes and his tail never stopped going . . . About a week later the old man had his stroke and Bertha and I were kept busy nursing him, and Hermann looked after the dog.’

Zed stopped and stared in front of him, but his hands went on rubbing Hector’s back. ‘At first it was all right, when the puppy was small, but then Hermann began to train him. He wanted him to be a proper army dog who wasn’t afraid of gunfire – you know what he’s like about being a soldier. At first he just blew up paper bags and exploded them in the puppy’s ear – well, they do that sometimes to gun dogs so that they won’t be gun-shy. Then he wanted him to do more and more tricks . . . and then he thought he should be trained so as not to mind explosions and . . . fire. So he waited till everyone was out and then he tied firecrackers to his tail and his leg. He thought they would just go off like ordinary fireworks, but something went wrong . . . Water-spaniels have very tufty tails; the tail caught fire and it spread down his leg and then a spark went into his eyes. Hermann threw a jug of water over him and ran away; he didn’t come back till after midnight. Your mother thought we should have the dog put down, it seemed the kindest thing, and she told her brother-in-law to come and shoot him, but Bertha and I brought him down here . . . and as you see, he lived. Only you can’t rely on his temper. Mostly he’s fine, but when he gets nervous he begins to shiver and then he bites.’

Annika was silent. Hermann was her brother; he had been much younger then, only a little boy. Boys did these things. She tried to imagine Stefan or any of his brothers tying fireworks to a dog’s tail – and failed miserably.

‘Can he swim still – with three legs?’

‘Like a fish. And he’s a marvellous beachcomber. He’s got quite a collection; he’s got the head of a decoy duck and half an eel trap and a sock-suspender which was washed up from the lake. He keeps them in his kennel and if anyone touches them he turns quite nasty – especially the sock-suspender. I try to see that he gets to the water for a time every day. You wouldn’t notice there’s anything wrong with him when he’s swimming.’