Graz.
—I don’t recall him mentioning you.
—I said I knew the man, said Piedernig with a wave of his hand. —I didn’t say we cared much for each other.
A brief quiet followed. Voxlauer scuffed his bootheels in the dirt. —What were you before? he said. —Some sort of schoolmaster?
—About as much as you’re a gamekeeper, said Piedernig. He smiled.
They walked on until they came to the opening of the clearing at the top of which the beehouses leaned together like a row of stoved-in boats. —Those cabinets are in sorry shape, said Piedernig. —I don’t think old Bauer ever opened them. Afraid of getting stung, most likely.
—Did you know him well?
Piedernig shrugged. —Well enough, poor devil. His daughter worked under me when I was gamekeeper, in a manner of speaking, to fair Niessen’s pride and hope. He spat cheerily into the dirt. —Well enough to hazard these bees weren’t altogether smothered by his attentions.
Voxlauer smiled. —They don’t seem to have suffered too much for it, anyhow.
—How’s that?
—Well, said Voxlauer. —I was saying—
Piedernig looked at him sharply. —Would you know a happy bee from an unhappy bee, Herr Voxlauer?
—I’m not sure I’d know a live bee from a dead one.
—Pay us a visit at the colony this week. Piedernig stopped and laid a sun-spotted brown hand on Voxlauer’s shoulder. —Our bees are in a perpetual state of bliss.
Voxlauer watched him as he gathered his robes together and stepped carefully over a puddle of runoff and disappeared into the spruce plantation. Not until he’d been gone for some minutes did it occur to Voxlauer to ask about the figure.
Arriving in Czernowitz, the last station on the civilian line, I left my smoking-car acquaintances behind as quickly as I could and made my way to the drab little center of town in search of news of the fighting and, if possible, a ride east to the front. I was told by the postmaster, a sad, dignified-looking Jew from the capital, that the fighting had ended three weeks before as far north as the town of Lemberg on the Polish border, six hours away by train, and the only soldiers left were deserters from the Hungarian Civil Guard. Why I’m still here I have no idea, he murmured, wagging his head side to side, as though to keep from falling asleep. In response to my torrent of questions about the east he exhaled soundlessly time and again and shrugged his shoulders, sliding small heaps of mail from one corner of his massive eagle-emblazoned desk to another. He barely looked up to acknowledge me as I wished him a safe return to Budapest and left.
Already I noticed a change in the Hungarians around me, most of them speaking German grudgingly, as if questioning my right to ask it of them. The Empire was fading quickly now, like a lamp running out of oil, and with it the last of the delusions that had kept everything comprehensible. No one seemed particularly surprised when I asked for transport to the border of the Ukraine. Some assumed I was a deserter, others a spy; nobody seemed to care very much one way or the other. In spite of this, I was taken on more and more reluctantly the closer we came to the border, riding the length of a few fields, then getting down and walking, often for hours, until the next cart passed. No one seemed to know any German now at all; I felt I was forgetting it with them.
At Jzerneska I forded the Dniester on a barge hauled across the water on sagging iron cables and midway across the river it dawned on me that I was free. The heavy gray water was tumbling and folding over on itself along the left side of the boat, sloughing over into the hull, and the sheer weight and stubbornness of it seemed to testify to my escape. The idea that I’d crossed bodily over into Bolshevik territory, territory that to me represented the opposite of everything I’d left, made me light-headed and breathless to get to shore. I allowed myself a few thoughts of Maman and Niessen but
—I don’t recall him mentioning you.
—I said I knew the man, said Piedernig with a wave of his hand. —I didn’t say we cared much for each other.
A brief quiet followed. Voxlauer scuffed his bootheels in the dirt. —What were you before? he said. —Some sort of schoolmaster?
—About as much as you’re a gamekeeper, said Piedernig. He smiled.
They walked on until they came to the opening of the clearing at the top of which the beehouses leaned together like a row of stoved-in boats. —Those cabinets are in sorry shape, said Piedernig. —I don’t think old Bauer ever opened them. Afraid of getting stung, most likely.
—Did you know him well?
Piedernig shrugged. —Well enough, poor devil. His daughter worked under me when I was gamekeeper, in a manner of speaking, to fair Niessen’s pride and hope. He spat cheerily into the dirt. —Well enough to hazard these bees weren’t altogether smothered by his attentions.
Voxlauer smiled. —They don’t seem to have suffered too much for it, anyhow.
—How’s that?
—Well, said Voxlauer. —I was saying—
Piedernig looked at him sharply. —Would you know a happy bee from an unhappy bee, Herr Voxlauer?
—I’m not sure I’d know a live bee from a dead one.
—Pay us a visit at the colony this week. Piedernig stopped and laid a sun-spotted brown hand on Voxlauer’s shoulder. —Our bees are in a perpetual state of bliss.
Voxlauer watched him as he gathered his robes together and stepped carefully over a puddle of runoff and disappeared into the spruce plantation. Not until he’d been gone for some minutes did it occur to Voxlauer to ask about the figure.
Arriving in Czernowitz, the last station on the civilian line, I left my smoking-car acquaintances behind as quickly as I could and made my way to the drab little center of town in search of news of the fighting and, if possible, a ride east to the front. I was told by the postmaster, a sad, dignified-looking Jew from the capital, that the fighting had ended three weeks before as far north as the town of Lemberg on the Polish border, six hours away by train, and the only soldiers left were deserters from the Hungarian Civil Guard. Why I’m still here I have no idea, he murmured, wagging his head side to side, as though to keep from falling asleep. In response to my torrent of questions about the east he exhaled soundlessly time and again and shrugged his shoulders, sliding small heaps of mail from one corner of his massive eagle-emblazoned desk to another. He barely looked up to acknowledge me as I wished him a safe return to Budapest and left.
Already I noticed a change in the Hungarians around me, most of them speaking German grudgingly, as if questioning my right to ask it of them. The Empire was fading quickly now, like a lamp running out of oil, and with it the last of the delusions that had kept everything comprehensible. No one seemed particularly surprised when I asked for transport to the border of the Ukraine. Some assumed I was a deserter, others a spy; nobody seemed to care very much one way or the other. In spite of this, I was taken on more and more reluctantly the closer we came to the border, riding the length of a few fields, then getting down and walking, often for hours, until the next cart passed. No one seemed to know any German now at all; I felt I was forgetting it with them.
At Jzerneska I forded the Dniester on a barge hauled across the water on sagging iron cables and midway across the river it dawned on me that I was free. The heavy gray water was tumbling and folding over on itself along the left side of the boat, sloughing over into the hull, and the sheer weight and stubbornness of it seemed to testify to my escape. The idea that I’d crossed bodily over into Bolshevik territory, territory that to me represented the opposite of everything I’d left, made me light-headed and breathless to get to shore. I allowed myself a few thoughts of Maman and Niessen but
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