Clara by Kurt Palka Read Free Book Online Page A

He glanced sideways at her and shook his head and grinned. “He can ride, the young master. See him sit that horse, and she still a bit saddle-shy.” He stood holding the coiled lunge line, held it in both hands halfway up as though he’d forgotten it. She saw he had the middle finger missing on his left hand.
    She watched Albert and tried to see what Breck was talking about.
    “What am I looking for, Mr. Breck?”
    “Just watch him sit, that’s the first thing you do, young miss. Watch his back. His thighs and knees and elbows. Then watch the horse and see what he’s makin’ her do and try and figger out how he did that. And you won’t see him move hardly at all, like she’s readin’ his mind. Or he hers. See how high she’s holdin’ her head? That’s a proud horse now.”
    ON THE WEEKEND before Christmas 1933 she was there again, this time with Erika and Mitzi, and with David Koren. Albert’s younger brother, Theodor, was there as well, but their parents were not.
    There was snow on the ground and high drifts of snow lay on east-facing roofs. Men were clambering up and down those roofs, roped to chimneys, calling out, “Careful below!” and pushing off snow with long-handled wooden hay rakes.
    Breck saw her and nodded. “Cold weather, young miss. Need to wear a hat.”
    Theodor drove the overland car out of the garage and folded back the top. He waved, and then like some sleigh party of nobility long gone they sat under blankets while he drove them on chained and studded wheels into the hills to the north field, and then down the slope and through windbreaks of trees toward the leeside paddock where the military horses were.
    On the way they sipped mulled wine and schnapps from cold stone bottles, and they joked and laughed and ateopen-faced sandwiches of smoked boar ham and breast of duck prepared by the kitchen staff.
    Theodor looked much like Albert and he carried himself much the same way. He was wrapped in a quilted coat over jacket and leather-seated breeches, and he wore black riding boots. When the coat parted you could see he was carrying a belt knife in a leather sheath.
    In the paddocks the snow had been cleared, and the horses were there, chestnuts and blacks working on lunge lines high-stepping and trotting. Theo stopped the car and pointed.
    “See those two blacks over there? In the red gaiters. The third Arabian is already gone and these two will be shipped to England in a month or two. Somebody guess what they’re worth.”
    “More than a cow,” said Koren. “I have no idea.”
    “More than a cow is right,” said Theodor. “Look at the long bone in the faces. See how they move. This is one of the few places in Europe that breeds them. The count can charge for them whatever he wants.” He put the car in gear.
    “What count?” said Koren.
    “The count who owns it all. Some old monarchist who lives in exile in New York. In a wheelchair.”
    “It’s too good to last,” said Koren. “With what’s happening in Europe now. You live like Russian nobility here, before the Bolsheviks.”
    “And we just work here,” said Albert from the backseat.
    “The Bolsheviks,” said Theodor. He turned to glance at his brother.
    They drove on. The car raced through snow up to the running boards while at the edge of the wood deer stood like cut-outs and watched them. Later it began to snow again. In sheepskin coats and yardhats they walked out to stock the deer-feeding stations with chestnuts and grain and hay.
    Breck saw them and he waved from the barn door. He stomped snow from his boots and called, “More snow comin’, Master Albert!” He pointed at the dark skies.
    “I see that,” said Albert. “So let’s cut back on the oat feed and get the shovellers lined up for tomorrow. I want the main paths and all access to buildings kept clear around the clock. And tell the men to use the red lifter and dump the snow behind the north shed where it’ll run off downhill.”
    THAT SUNDAY NIGHT