Chapter 1584 - 1490: Bread and Banknotes
Chapter 1584: Chapter 1490: Bread and Banknotes
Rolf Adorno pinched the three five-kroner banknotes in his pocket, pondering how to allocate the bread he would buy when he returned.
Karen one and a half pounds, Gretel one pound, himself two and a half pounds...
He shook his head.
Dieter, the neighbor’s child, was about the same age as Gretel, yet half a head taller than him. Better give the child one and a half pounds—Karen was ill, if she ate any less, her health would surely collapse.
Then, he would only have two pounds left for himself.
He didn’t know if eating so little would allow him to sustain a day’s work. Yesterday he ate two and a half pounds, and when he got home at night, he was already too hungry to stand steadily.
But he had no other choice, just hoped the war in Switzerland would end soon, so there would be no need to pay the "special war tax," as said on the notice posted at the street corner. Life should be much easier then.
He sighed, once again regretting his decision to give up buying land and come to Vienna to make a living. Even though that would mean bearing a huge debt of 8,000 florins, the crop yield in the fields was assured, unlike the ever-changing weekly prices at the city bakery.
Thinking of this, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy.
What if Mr. Hebert decided to raise the price again, how could they live?
At dawn, a long queue had already formed in front of the Hebert Bakery.
People were rushing to buy food for the day before heading to work.
"Hey, potato grower, you’re here."
A man with a fierce scar over his left eye waved at Adorno.
Adorno responded with a nod.
This one-eyed man was named Favre, a cobbler, quite kind-hearted, but he had a foul mouth and never called Adorno by his name.
It was said that he used to be a second-class technician at the cobbler guild, with five apprentices under him, whose monthly commissions alone amounted to 20 florins. This was enough income for a family of three to live comfortably.
Later, the government suddenly announced the abolition of the guild, and not only did the apprentices no longer have to pay him, but even the workshop deemed him too old and sent him home—now workshops could freely hire young people who could work, rather than requiring certified technicians from the guild.
Favre naturally couldn’t accept such an outcome, so he went to protest at City Hall with the guild members, resulting in a clash with the security team, and he was slashed blind in one eye.
Now he lived day-to-day by mending shoes for neighbors, even worse off than Adorno.
Luckily his wife died earlier in the year, and his eldest daughter could do some odd jobs, so the family’s livelihood could barely be maintained.
The cobbler pulled Adorno to line up behind him, grinning: "Guess today’s price."
He was naturally talking about the price of bread.
Adorno hated this "game" the most, guessing correctly yielded no reward, guessing wrong meant buying less bread.
"I don’t know." He responded casually, peering at the queue.
Fortunately, people at the front were already moving, signaling the bakery’s opening.
"It should still be three kroner a pound," said the one-eyed cobbler, "Yesterday, officials were going from bakery to bakery ordering them not to raise prices arbitrarily."
"I hope you’re right."
Sounds of arguing seemed to come from the front of the line but soon diminished, and when Favre reached the shop door, he pointed at the wooden sign with some pride: "See, I told you."
Adorno couldn’t read, but he knew the number on the sign was the price per pound of bread. Still three.
Just as he breathed a sigh of relief, he heard the cobbler yell: "You got it wrong! Twelve kroner should be four pounds, but this is only three and a half pounds!"
The shop assistant glanced at him dully and tossed back a couple of crumpled banknotes: "Then pay with silver coin."
"Silver coin?" Favre handed the banknotes back again, "The government mandates using banknotes now..."
The shop assistant nodded: "Then you can only buy three and a half pounds. Next."
Adorno’s heart sank.
At this price, his money would only buy four pounds and six ounces...
Which meant, even if he ate two pounds, Gretel would only get six ounces.
The person behind him nudged him: "What are you standing there for?"
Adorno numbly handed over 15 kroner, hoping against hope: "Buy five pounds of rye bread."
"Banknotes only buy four pounds six ounces. Do you want it?"
Adorno nodded helplessly.
The shop assistant handed him the weighed bread, casually said: "There’s no helping it, the mill owners aren’t willing to take banknotes anymore. Lucky for us our boss has good relations with several estate stewards. Next."
"I’m going to report you!" The one-eyed cobbler was still protesting.
But Adorno headed briskly towards home with his head down. If he was late for work, tomorrow he’d have even less money to buy four pounds and six ounces of bread.
At the entrance of the sewage-ridden street where he lived, he saw the old Host’s house seemed to have its door open, and he couldn’t help but frown.
At this time, if Host was still at home, he would certainly be late for work.
As he took a few more steps forward, turning his view to see inside the door, his pupils instantly contracted.
Two men were taking someone down from a rope hanging at the vestibule, one even complaining: "Jesus, this old man made a mess."
Adorno didn’t see the face of the person on the rope, he had no time to care, otherwise, in a few days, he might be hanging from something himself.
He pushed open his own door, placed the bread on the table, and instructed his young son: "The smaller portion is yours. The other portion is for Mom. Remember to change her cold towels often."
The young boy was about to respond but was interrupted by a shout from next door, "Did you see this clearly? This is the Grand Cross Medal, how can you only offer 10 florins?"
"It’s just a lump of iron." A cold voice replied, "If it weren’t to get rid of my stubborn uncle, I wouldn’t even bother buying it."
Adorno frowned, his neighbor Siegfried had always treasured his medal, not even willing to let others get a glimpse—he earned it on the Italian battlefield years ago, faced the French volley fire, and shot the enemy officer, saving the entire Scattered Soldier Camp.
He didn’t know why he suddenly wanted to sell it, but he must have encountered a serious predicament.
Siegfried’s voice carried a sob: "Please be kind, because of the Swiss war, I haven’t received a pension for over three months. Can we agree on twenty florins..."
Adorno dared not tarry further and turned to walk out of the house.
The last words he heard were Siegfried saying, "The army-issued boots are worth fifteen florins, if only it could be that much..."
Adorno’s eyes were filled with coldness.
He had heard Favre brag about how, back in the day, the pair of boots he made for the General Supplies Department cost five florins each, and he could earn half of that.