Chapter 1491: Awakening
A month and a half later.
Adorno leaned against a crumbling, stain-streaked wall, glancing up toward the direction of his home. His skeletal frame couldn't stop trembling.
He wasn't sure if it was from the gnawing hunger or the sheer terror of what had happened earlier that day.
He worked at a timber mill, tasked with stripping the bark from freshly delivered logs with a heavy axe.
At around six o'clock that evening, his strength had finally failed him. The axe had slipped from his grasp, flying through the air and slamming into the wall, missing Javier's nose by a hair's breadth. Cold, paralyzing fear had pinned him to the spot.
'If that axe had been just an inch closer, I'd be in a dungeon right now. No one would be able to buy bread for Karen and the girls tomorrow. They would starve to death within days, or perhaps, before that happened, they would choose to follow Old Horst's example and hang themselves from the rafters...' Adorno shook his head violently, trying to banish the dark thoughts, but the motion only invited more of them to swarm his mind.
'Maybe tomorrow another worker will be too weak to hold his tool and split my head open instead.'
'Maybe one day I'll come home to find Karen already gone. Disease and hunger have already turned her into a breathing skeleton.'
'Or maybe I'll be the one to collapse first...'
Adorno felt a sudden chill. He stared down the gloomy, damp street, a low growl erupting from his throat. "I've had enough!"
He repeated the words to himself as he forced his legs to move once more.
Barely half a block from his residence, a dark silhouette emerged from behind a stone pillar and walked straight toward him. Adorno didn't react. For one, he had no energy left to fight, and for another, he was certain he possessed nothing worth stealing. To his surprise, the man didn't rob him. Instead, he thrust a piece of paper into Adorno's hand, whispered the words "For freedom and bread," and turned to leave.
Adorno's first instinct was to throw the pamphlet away. He knew it was the work of the Liberals trying to incite trouble. The officials had plastered the streets with notices warning that anyone caught with such people would be thrown into prison.
But for some reason, the word "bread" the man had uttered resonated deep within him.
He hesitated, lifting the paper slightly. "Will there... will there really be bread?"
The dark figure stopped and nodded. "Of course. But it is something we must seize for ourselves."
"Seize... how?"
The man glanced around cautiously and lowered his voice. "Tomorrow evening, half past six. Go to the café on Mud-Brick Street."
Adorno tried to hand the pamphlet back. "The thing is... I can't read."
He also knew he couldn't possibly go to such a place.
He needed every second of rest he could get, otherwise he wouldn't be able to finish his quota the next day and his wages would be docked.
Besides, he usually didn't finish work until well after half past six.
The next morning, Adorno went to the bakery as usual. Thank God, fifteen Kreuzer could still buy a loaf of black bread weighing about four pounds and three ounces. Karen's health was failing; she could barely manage a pound before she lost her appetite. That left enough for Gretel to at least stave off the worst of the hunger.
As Adorno took his bread and prepared to leave, he heard a young man by the roadside cry out in shock, "Defeated by the Swiss? How is that possible?!"
Another well-dressed man replied with a grim expression, "General Mikhalevich was ambushed by ten thousand enemy troops east of Moutier. We lost over seven thousand soldiers."
"Where did the Swiss get such an army?!"
"They say they were joined by men from Württemberg and Bavaria..."
Adorno's head spun, and he nearly dropped his loaf of bread.
Though he understood nothing of war, he knew one thing: if the Empire's army suffered a setback in Switzerland, the Emperor would surely send more troops to crush the enemy. And that would require more money—money from a new Special War Tax.
That was exactly what had happened the last time the Empire sent reinforcements to Switzerland.
He spent the entire day shrouded in worry.
Currently, after paying his taxes and rent each month, he was left with less than eight Florins. If the taxes increased by even twenty Kreuzer, it meant he and his family would go without food for an entire day and a half.
And the Emperor's tax collectors were rarely satisfied with a mere twenty Kreuzer...
After finishing his shift, Adorno dragged his numb, exhausted body back to the alley where he had met the man in black the previous night.
He was suddenly gripped by fear—fear that a new tax notice had already been posted at the street corner.
He didn't dare walk further. After struggling with himself for several minutes, a strange impulse led him to remember the "café on Mud-Brick Street."
It was already past seven, but perhaps the Liberals hadn't left yet.
There, perhaps, he might truly find a way to secure his daily bread.
As for things like "freedom," he didn't care much for them.
The dim café was packed so tightly that not a breath of air could circulate. The smell of tobacco and sweat hung in the air like a thick fog. Adorno estimated there were at least a hundred people inside. He chose a spot closest to the door, making it easier to bolt if the Secret Police showed up.
A young man in a dark grey coat stood atop the counter, addressing the crowd.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the explosive power of gunpowder. "Listen to me! The Emperor is throwing tens of millions of Florins into a war in Switzerland that has nothing to do with us!"
"To save his own pride, the diplomats hand out millions more every year just to please the South German states!"
"And do you know what the most ridiculous part is?"
"Those very countries take the money the Emperor gives them and use it to aid Switzerland. That's right! Mikhalevich was defeated by weapons bought with our own money!" He scanned the room. "And yet, we are expected to cough up the last penny from our pockets for these pointless diplomatic games and political posturing. We are forced to let our children starve just for the Emperor's prestige!"
"Yes, the Emperor speaks of reform. Ha!"
"You have to bribe the officials just to get into those 'free' schools. The wealthy factory owners rake in massive profits while receiving huge government subsidies—subsidies paid for by the taxes we bleed for! Meanwhile, the nobles enjoy every kind of tax exemption imaginable!"
"And we? We work fourteen hours a day, sometimes eighteen, just for a piece of black bread that barely keeps us from the grave."
Someone shouted angrily through the haze of smoke, "Damn it! It's not fair!"
"No, it is absolutely not fair!" the young man on the counter declared. "And that is why we must change it all."
He produced a booklet and held it high above his head. "This is what we seek. You may have heard of it—the 'Bible' from France. It is called the Declaration of the Rights of Man!"
"We must make the master of Schönbrunn Palace see our fury! We must make him tremble at our strength until he finally agrees to grant these rights to every single one of us!"
The young man then began to read the Declaration of the Rights of Man aloud.
After every article he recited, the café erupted in a wave of passionate, thunderous cheers.
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