Novels online

Chapter 1490: Bread and Banknotes

The southern suburbs of Vienna.

Rolf Adorno squeezed the three five-kreuzer banknotes in his pocket, mentally calculating how to distribute the bread he was about to buy once he returned home.

One and a half pounds for Karen, one pound for Gretel, and two and a half pounds for himself...

He shook his head.

Their neighbor's child, Dieter, was about the same age as Gretel but stood half a head taller. It was better to give the girl one and a half pounds as well.

Karen was currently ill. If she ate any less, her health would surely collapse. That left him with only two pounds for himself.

He didn't know if eating so little would allow him to endure a full day's labor. Yesterday, he had eaten two and a half pounds, and by the time he reached home in the evening, he was so lightheaded from hunger he could barely stand. But he had no other choice. He could only hope that the war in Switzerland would end soon. If it did, they would no longer have to pay the Special War Tax—at least, that was what the posters plastered at the street corners claimed. Life should be a bit easier then.

He sighed, once again regretting his past decision to forgo the land buyout and move to Vienna to make a living. Although that would have saddled him with a massive debt of eight thousand florins, the harvest from the fields was guaranteed. It wasn't like the city bakeries, where the prices changed every single week.

At that thought, his heart tightened.

The sky was just beginning to brighten when a long queue formed in front of Hiebert's Bakery.

People needed to buy their food for the day before their shifts began, then rush off to work.

"Hey, potato planter, you're here."

A man with a hideous scar over his left eye waved at Adorno.

The latter grunted in response.

The one-eyed man was named Favre. He was a shoemaker, and though he was generally kind-hearted, he had a foul mouth and never addressed Adorno by his actual name. Word was that he had once been a first-class master in the shoemakers' guild, with five apprentices under him. Just the cut he took from his apprentices' earnings amounted to twenty florins a month. That was enough for a family of three to live quite comfortably, and he could earn another thirty florins in wages on top of that.

Later, the government suddenly announced the abolition of the guilds. Not only did his apprentices stop paying him, but the workshop even kicked him out for being too old. Now, workshops could hire any capable young man they wanted instead of being forced to employ guild-certified master craftsmen.

Favre naturally couldn't accept this. He had gone to City Hall with others from the guild to protest. The situation turned into a clash with the gendarmerie, and he had been blinded in one eye by a saber strike.

Now, he scraped by a miserable existence repairing shoes for the neighbors, living even more wretchedly than Adorno.

Fortunately, his wife had passed away at the beginning of the year, and his eldest daughter could find odd jobs. Only then was the family's survival barely maintained.

The shoemaker pulled Adorno into the line behind him, grinning. "Guess what the price is today."

He was, of course, referring to the price of bread.

Adorno hated this game. Guessing correctly brought no reward, while guessing wrong meant they would be getting even less bread. "I don't know," he replied dismissively, leaning out to check the queue.

The people at the very front had started moving, which meant the bakery was open.

"It should still be three kreuzers a pound," the one-eyed shoemaker remarked. "Yesterday, officials were visiting every bakery, ordering them not to raise prices arbitrarily."

"I hope you're right."

There seemed to be an argument at the front of the line, but it quickly died down. When Favre finally reached the storefront, he pointed triumphantly at the wooden sign hanging there. "See? Told you."

Adorno was illiterate, but he knew that the number on that sign represented the price of a pound of bread. It was still three.

Just as he breathed a sigh of relief, he heard the shoemaker shout, "You've made a mistake! Twelve kreuzers should get me four pounds, but this is only three and a half!"

The shop clerk glanced at him listlessly and tossed several crumpled banknotes back. "Then pay in silver coins."

"Silver coins?" Favre pushed the banknotes back. "The government decreed that everyone has to use paper money now..."

The clerk nodded. "Then you can only buy three and a half pounds. Next!"

Adorno's heart skipped a beat.

At that rate, his money would only be enough for four pounds and six ounces...

That meant even if he only ate two pounds, Gretel would only receive fourteen ounces.

There were sixteen ounces in a pound.

Someone behind him shoved him. "What are you standing there for?"

Adorno numbly handed over fifteen kreuzers, hoping against hope. "I want to buy five pounds of black bread."

"Banknotes only get you four pounds and six ounces. Do you want it or not?"

Adorno nodded helplessly.

The clerk handed him the weighed bread and remarked casually, "Nothing we can do. The millers won't accept paper money anymore. We're lucky the boss has a good relationship with the stewards of several estates. Next!"

"I'm going to report you!" the one-eyed shoemaker was still protesting.

Adorno, however, kept his head down and walked quickly toward home. If he was late for work, he wouldn't even have the money to buy four pounds and six ounces of bread tomorrow. As he reached the entrance of the sewage-drenched street where he lived, he noticed that old Horst's door seemed to be open. He frowned. If Horst was still home at this hour, he would never make it to work on time.

As he walked a few more steps and his line of sight moved to see inside the door, his pupils suddenly constricted.

Two men were taking a person down from a rope hanging in the foyer. One of them was even complaining, "Stinks like hell. This old bag really made a mess of himself."

Adorno didn't get a clear look at the face of the man on the rope. He didn't have time to care; otherwise, in a few days, he might be the one hanging from something. He pushed open the door to his own home, placed the bread on the table, and instructed his younger son, "The small portion is yours. The other is for your mother. Remember to change her cool towel frequently."

The boy was about to answer when he was interrupted by a shout from next door. "Can't you see? This is an Order of the Fleur-de-lis! How can you only give me ten florins?"

"It's just a piece of iron," a cold voice replied. "If it weren't to appease my stubborn uncle, I wouldn't even consider buying it."

Adorno frowned. His neighbor, Siegfried, had always treated his medal like a treasure, not even letting others catch a glimpse of it. It was a medal he had earned on the Italian battlefield, where he had braved a French volley to shoot an enemy officer, saving his entire Skirmisher Battalion. Adorno didn't know why he was suddenly selling it, but he must be in dire straits.

Siegfried's voice carried a hint of a sob. "Please, have a heart. Because of the war in Switzerland, I haven't received my pension for over three months. Would twenty florins be alright..."

Adorno didn't dare linger any longer. He turned and left the house.

The last thing he heard was Siegfried saying, "The army-issue boots alone are worth fifteen florins, maybe you could at least give me that much..."

Adorno's eyes were cold and hollow.

He had once heard Favre boast that the boots he made for the Quartermaster General's Department cost five florins a pair to produce, and he made a fifty percent profit on them.