CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVEMy grandfather was laid to rest with his ancestors in the family vault. Despite the troubled times, his neighbours turned out in force to honour him. The peasants, silent, sullen, watched from a distance: few of them — if any — had loved the old Count; he had been the representative of an unjust regime under which they had toiled all their lives, a tyrannical and irritable lord. And yet, I had the impression that they were shocked, as if his death had left an empty space. Something stable had left their lives — even if it was only a symbol of hate. They had lost the major scapegoat for all their ills.
Though in his grief István threatened it, none of them, Hungarian or Romanian, were blamed for the old Count’s death. It was as well, for they had troubles enough without
