Interlude I.
University of Saint Michael the Archangel, Olomouc
Present day
Živana turned around as she felt a tap on her shoulder. She saw there facing her Cecilia Bedyrová, her round face flushed with excitement. She was a touch out of breath, as though she had come up behind Živana at a run.
‘You signed up for Dr Weissfeld’s class too?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ Živana grinned. ‘When
that many upperclassmen recommend it, you really can’t turn it down, can you?’
‘Do you believe the
rumours?’ asked Cecilia in a whisper.
‘What, that he’s tough? Sure. I don’t remember anyone getting above a 2.0 in his class. And some of the senior boys say he flunked them with a 5.0.’
‘Not
those rumours, dummy,’ Cecilia gave her friend a clout and lowered her voice yet further. ‘I mean the…
other rumours. Where do you think a professor like that got a
black 603? The only people who drive those are ŠtB agents!’
True enough, Živana had seen Dr Weissfeld’s car. Despite being black, it did rather stand out. It was obvious how much love the professor lavished on the sleek, chrome-plated, immaculately-kept classic 60s jalopy that was parked outside the history building at Saint Michael’s. And it was true that the Tatra 603 had long been a favourite among secret police and other high government officials. But Živana wasn’t sure she entirely bought the rumours about Weissfeld having been a secret policeman.
The two of them entered the seminar room together and took their seats, slinging their bookbags over the backs of their chairs. There were already thirteen other students in the class, and from their appearance it seemed they were anticipating their professor as much as Cecilia had been. There was a plate of
palacinky on the table by the door, that looked fresh and smelled delicious – but no one had taken any yet, it seemed.
It wasn’t long before the man himself arrived. In a word:
frumpy could be the word used to describe Professor Weissfeld. His frizzy hair, grizzled black and grey, was matched by a pair of thick, bushy brows and a rough goatee of the same hue. He wore a long jacket of an indeterminate colour and pants and a button-down to match, round spectacles that sat low on his bulbous and slightly-aquiline nose, and he carried a black leather briefcase which he set down on his desk. He then looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, took a long thin metal pen—or what looked like one—and began running it on its edge along the top and sides of the windows, then pointed it around the room.
One boy raised his hand nervously. ‘What are you checking for?’
‘Nothing,’ Dr Weissfeld grumbled. ‘Nothing to concern you, anyway. Just… some people have long memories; can never be too careful. At any rate, welcome… to History 625.’
The Consolidation of the Moravian State
1468 – 1751
Such were the words that were already written on the whiteboard.
‘I am, of course, your professor, Viktor Doubnich Weissfeld. You can call me Viki. And, fair warning:
any jokes at my expense about either Wikipedia or Rakuten will result in an immediate 5.0.’
There was an exchange of glances through the room and a couple of nervous, stifled titters.
‘That was a joke,’ he clarified. ‘You
are permitted to laugh in this class. Occasionally.’ He turned his head a thought away from the whiteboard as he continued to write on it. ‘If I’m in a good mood. As you can see—the theme of this class is the foundation of the modern nation-state of Moravia, prior to the revolutions of the 1750s. Quick show of hands: how many of you have taken Ed’s Medieval class?’
Živana and Cecilia raised their hands. So did Ľubomir, reluctantly, and Ladoslav. So did a couple of other upperclassmen seated around the room.
‘Mphm,’ Viktor harrumphed. ‘Well. And what was the theme of his class? Yes—you with the red hair.’
Živana lowered her hand. ‘It was largely about the two Moravias: one in Olomouc which faced east but expanded west, and one in Velehrad which faced westward. A big chunk of it was about the power struggle between the Rychnovský family and the Mojmírovci, which lasted until about the 1380s.’
‘Ah, Ed,’ Viktor chuckled. ‘Still teaching your “Great Men” and that doddering long-mouthed old Icelandic reactionary Carlyle, are you? Well, at least one of your students was paying attention. Hm, true. Up until Radomír the Fourth’s…
insistent invitation to Duchess Ctislava Mikulčíková to take an early retirement to a garden-level studio apartment in Olomouc Castle in 1381, the Middle Ages
were about military families and patronage and personalities, and the Rychnovských and the Mojmírovci were the two big names… though you also had the occasional Přemyslov, Bijelahrvatskić, Balgarsko or Koceľak nudging their way in. And oh, ho, those court intrigues could get downright nasty. Do you know there was a rumour that Bohodar the Second was behind a successful plot to poison his own grandson with sugared apricots? As a result, it’s
still a custom among the old families in Dresden
only to offer plain, fresh fruit to guests – no jam, no candied fruit – and let them sample the house’s sugar themselves before they, ah, dose it. Um…
palacinky, anyone? Made them myself this morning. Feel free to just, you know, come up and grab one anytime…’
Several of the students exchanged grins as Weissfeld himself took one of the thin rolled-up crepes, bit into it, and passed the plate around invitingly.
This was the reason that students took Professor Weissfeld’s class despite no one ever getting a 1.0. His knowledge of historical trivia – particularly when it came to the strange, macabre and unexplained – was unrivalled among the Saint Michael’s faculty.
‘Anyway, personalities – still important in this era – I
defy anyone to examine in depth the cutthroat, centuries-long, blood-soaked feud between the Rychnovský main branch and the Rychnovský-Nisa cadets and then claim otherwise. But they
do begin to take a back seat. Why?’
A hand shot up. Weissfeld raised one bushy eyebrow.
‘Now let’s not start with the whole teacher’s-pet routine,’ he grumped. ‘I hate it. But—yes? Frilly dress.’
Petra Simkovičová put her hand down, taken a bit aback by the professor’s brusqueness and speaking a bit tepidly as a result. ‘This is when we start to see the beginnings of a shift in material relations. Personal connexions to land, personal fealties to lord become less important than the cash exchange, the written contract, the charter. You start seeing the rise of the
bourgeoisie as a class, to replace the landed aristocracy.’
Weissfeld was nonplussed. ‘Right, right. That’s the Theory. Good little
komsomolka. But since my Party card likely outdates your conception by a good decade or so, let’s assume that we’re both in good standing and try to keep the slogans down to one per class. Deal?’
Petra didn’t know whether to be chastened or amused, but a slight softening at the corners of Weissfeld’s eyes gave her the courage to turn up the corners of her lips. Weissfeld went on.
‘But—yes. Olomouc started becoming more and more important as a political centre. Cities like Prague and Bratislava rose in prominence. Nobility clustered. Bureaucracy entrenched. Moravian traders got rich and powerful in Pest and Wien. Ambitious clerics reformed the Orthodox Church. Marriages between Rychnovský men and Khovansky, Oskyldr-Baranovič and Enikeev women were replaced by formal treaties with Ruthenia… and, later, Ryazan. All driven by economic shifts, formalisation of property rights, rise of the
bourgeoisie and so on. This being a history class, the economics are important and we will discuss them here.’
Weissfeld moved around the corner of his desk and opened his briefcase. The students in the class who were nearest him leaned forward to try and sneak a peek inside.
‘Ah, ah! No! Noses out!’ Weissfeld scolded them. ‘I swear, it’s like dealing with three-year-olds when you’re opening the cookie jar…’
Then, Weissfeld removed an object, which – some students were a little crestfallen to observe – was quite small and fit neatly into the palm of his hand.
‘Now, when we speak of Róbert Rychnovský—AJP Taylor was an excellent historian, but I refuse to use his cutesy little “Robin” nickname—what is the one iconic thing which appears in all of his portraits?’
‘His war-hammer Pazúr,’ Dalibor offered.
Viktor chuckled. ‘Ha ha… you would think so. Yes, his hammer is certainly iconic. Named weapons usually are. But it doesn’t accompany him in
all of his portraits! Out-of-place in domestic scenes. No… I’m talking about this.’
Viktor held up what he had in his hand for the class to see. It glinted in the light. Again the students leaned forward and the professor simply smiled complacently at their surprise and delight. The bauble, small but compact and solid, was silver and slightly tarnished. The students could see that it was a cross-bottony pendant in the Byzantine style, but it was inlaid with ornate geometric patterns – overlapping eight-point stars, interweaving palm-fronds, crescent and sword motifs – that might easily have belonged on a piece of Islâmic art.
‘The original,’ Viktor clarified. ‘Actually, one of two originals: the other he gave to his wife, Ilse Vasa. These were given to
him by the Patriarch of Antioch when he visited the ruins of the Dome Church. Róbert Rychnovský
loved Syria. Made four voyages there in his life: two as a pilgrim in peacetime, and two as an ally of Orthodox states at war. Came back to Europe and wrote an impassioned plea – remarkable for its time – for Europeans to respect Arabic and Greek Christians as equals and to embrace religious tolerance and pluralism. Kept this silver pendant around his neck always. There, you can—pass that around. Just, be careful with it, clean your hands and… keep the
palacinky away from it, please. Now, why do you think I am showing you this?’
‘To show us you have connexions with the history museum?’ asked one student in the back.
Viktor gave another chuckle. ‘Oh, you have no idea. But no. Yes – blonde, blue blouse?’
Cecilia had raised her hand again. ‘To show us how global-minded Róbert was?’
‘Mm,’ Viktor stroked his goatee. ‘Global-minded. Explain.’
Cecilia cleared her throat. ‘Róbert had a strong interest in other cultures, peaceful exchange, an orientation toward new ideas and art styles.’
‘Hm,’ Viktor gave something which might have been the beginning of a smile. ‘But so did Bohodar
slovoľubec. So did Bohodar 3. So did Radomír 4. What set Róbert apart from these ancestors of his? Here’s a hint,’ he told her as the pendant came to her. ‘Look at the obverse.’
Cecilia considered. ‘Is that… a guild-mark?’
‘Venetian,’ Viktor clarified. ‘
Gastaldi da puovolo. Bankers’ and silversmiths’ guild. Already active in the thirteenth century and
skyrocketing by the fifteenth. Power nearly rivalled the Doge’s.’
‘It’s
recycled silver,’ Cecilia marvelled. ‘From the growing trade across the Middle Sea. And it ended up in the hands of the Antiochian Church, was recommissioned as a pendant and given to the King of Moravia as a keepsake.’
Viktor took the pendant back and held up the front gravely. ‘A symbol of Róbert’s faith, on one hand.’ He turned it over. ‘A testament to the growing power of trade and
hard cash, on the other. A two-sided artefact of a very two-sided age.
That—is the major theme of this class.’
It turned out that, despite his gruff manner, Weissfeld did take the trouble to learn all of their names. The
palacinky were delicious. And the class was engaging, with Viktor dropping in all manner of historical apocrypha. By the end of the first class, if any of the students had any doubts about signing up for his class, Weissfeld had put them all to rest.