Goodbye to Budapest

by Margarita Morris

  *

  For two nights in a row, Dorottya sits beside András, applying cold compresses to his forehead. During the day she treats the fever with a mixture of elderflower and chamomile from her store cupboard. She naps herself whenever he’s resting quietly. But tonight is the worst of it. His temperature has risen to fever pitch and in his delirium he tosses and turns, moaning out loud and calling for a girl named Hanna, whoever she is. Probably his sweetheart before he was arrested. What are the chances that she’s waiting for him to return? Dorottya dips her cloth into the bowl of cold water, wrings it out and presses it firmly over his head.

  ‘There, there,’ she says. ‘Quiet now. It’s going to be all right.’

  He reminds her of the son she once had. The son she lost to the war. She doesn’t know why András and the other men were sent to the labour camp at Recsk and she doesn’t care. She assumes they are political prisoners, but she’s not interested in politics. She’s lived long enough to remember the days of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, two world wars, fascism and communism, and she doesn’t have time for any of it. She has lived her life surviving on the land and bartering with her neighbours in the nearby village. A jar of honey in return for a string of onions. Eggs in return for flour. She collects mushrooms in the forest and dries them so they will keep through the winter. She picks wild strawberries and blackberries and turns them into preserves. So long as she has her cow, and her chickens, and her patch of land she can manage. She knows she doesn’t have long left for this world herself, but if she can make András better and see these men on their way then she will have done something worthwhile.

  The men return her hospitality by doing jobs for her during the day. Béla mends her roof where the rain drips through; Lovas uses his carpentry skills to carve a bowl and wooden spoons out of an old log; and Márton reinforces the chicken run so that the foxes can’t get in.

  The fever reaches a peak in the early hours of the morning. As András drops in and out of consciousness, his eyes rolling in their sockets, Dorottya fears for his life. She works tirelessly, applying cold compresses to his head, chest and feet, doing everything she can to bring his temperature down. Just before dawn the fever breaks and András lies still, his breathing returned to normal. She sits with him for another twenty minutes, but the danger is past now. As the birds begin their morning chorus, she crawls into her own bed for a couple of hours sleep.

  The next day András is able to sit up and eat some potato soup, always a good sign in Dorottya’s book. A young man like that should have a healthy appetite.

  Márton comes into the cottage to enquire about the boy’s health as he has done every day since they arrived.

  ‘He’s over the worst,’ she tells him. ‘He’s sleeping now. He needs a few more days to build his strength up, then I expect you’ll want to be on your way.’ The guards at the camp must be looking for them and could arrive here at any time. Still, Dorottya will be sorry to see the men go. Especially András who she has developed a soft spot for.

  ‘We thought we could go into the forest and collect more firewood for you,’ says Márton.

  ‘Thank you, that would be very kind.’

  She watches the men set off and then she starts her daily chores, milking the cow and collecting eggs from the chickens.

  She’s peeling potatoes at the kitchen table when a knock on the door makes her jump. She isn’t expecting any visitors.

  ‘Dorottya, are you in there?’

  She sighs. It’s Anika from the village. The woman is a dreadful gossip but harmless enough. Still, she doesn’t want Anika to see András sleeping in front of the fire. Anika won’t be able to keep her mouth shut.

  Anika raps on the door a second time. ‘I have your jar of honey here.’

  András stirs awake and sits up. He must have heard the knocking. He looks at the door and she can see the fear in his eyes.

  ‘Quickly,’ she whispers. ‘Behind the curtain.’

  He nods his understanding and crawls to the space behind the curtain where her own bed is. She goes to unbolt the door.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ says Anika, stepping uninvited into the cottage. She’s carrying a jar of honey from the bees she and her husband keep. Dorottya will give her half a dozen eggs in exchange. That’s the agreement they have.

  Anika is a big woman – it’s all the honey she eats – and seems to fill half the available space. She puts the jar on the table and stands looking around. She’s clearly not in any hurry to leave.

  ‘I’ll fetch your eggs,’ says Dorottya. She takes six freshly laid eggs from a straw-lined basket and places them in a bowl. She has already given the biggest eggs to the men this morning in return for all their hard work.

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ asks Anika.

  ‘I haven’t heard anything.’ There’s no radio in the cottage. Dorottya prefers it that way.

  ‘There’s been a break-out from the camp in Recsk.’ Anika is slightly breathless telling her this, as if it’s the most thrilling thing to have happened in their neck of the woods for years.

  ‘Is that so?’ Dorottya tucks a cloth around the eggs so that they won’t break.

  Anika nods her head. ‘Of course, you’re so isolated out here, Dorottya, you don’t get to hear what’s going on. But I thought I should warn you. The escaped prisoners could be dangerous.’

  ‘I’m perfectly safe here. Here are your eggs.’ She holds out the bowl, hoping Anika will just take it and leave but she suspects the real reason for Anika’s visit is to gossip about the escaped prisoners. Anika will be hoping for some information she can pass on to her husband and the rest of the village.

  Anika takes the bowl but makes no move to leave. ‘Is that mint and lavender I can smell in here?’ she asks, wrinkling her nose.

  Dorottya has been infusing mint and lavender leaves in boiling water to help soothe András. The aroma is calming.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I find it relaxing.’

  ‘I noticed on the way in that you’ve mended the chicken run,’ says Anika. ‘My husband could have done it for you.’

  ‘I managed,’ says Dorottya. Anika’s husband is always promising to do things and never getting round to them.

  Anika’s eyes flit to the rug in front of the hearth where András was lying only moments ago. There’s a kink in it. Then her eyes dart to the curtained-off area. Dorottya wills András to stay silent and not cough. His cough is much better than it was, but sometimes it still catches him out.

  She moves towards the door, hoping that Anika will take the hint and leave. ‘I’m sorry I can’t ask you to stay for tea, but I’m rather busy.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Anika. ‘Don’t let me keep you. Goodbye.’ She looks around the cottage once more and then takes her leave.

  Anika knows, thinks Dorottya, or at least she suspects, and that’s just as bad. Tomorrow, the men must leave. It’s not safe for them here anymore.

  *

  That night Márton lies awake, unable to sleep. When they returned from from the forest with enough firewood to keep Dorottya warm for months, she told them about Anika’s visit.

  ‘I’ve known her for years but I wouldn’t trust her as far as I can throw her,’ she told them.

  ‘Then we’ll be on our way,’ Béla said. ‘We don’t want to put you in any more danger.’

  They turned in early and Béla was soon snoring gently. Lovas nodded off too. It seems that Márton is the only one who can’t sleep.

  It’s clear to him that they can’t possibly make it all the way to Austria on foot. There isn’t going to be a Dorottya every twenty miles willing to give them food and shelter. They will need to find some form of transportation. But how are they going to do that without giving themselves away? And they need to get out of these wretched old army uniforms.

  He must have drifted off to sleep at some point because he’s suddenly awoken by the sound of dogs barking. He sits up, looking around. In the grey light of dawn he can see that
Lovas is also awake, looking around in alarm. Only Béla continues to snore, the dreamless sleep of the innocent.

  ‘Béla, wake up!’ Márton leans over and gives him a gentle shake.

  ‘What the…?’ He comes to with a grunting sound.

  The barking is coming closer. It sounds like three or four large dogs, the sort you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. A flapping and clucking starts up in the chicken run and they hear the cow getting to its feet and letting out a long bellow. The dogs are in the yard now and there are stomping boots and men’s voices.

  Silently, Béla points to an old tarpaulin that’s lying in the corner of the loft. Moving as quietly as they can, they crawl underneath and lie flat. If they keep as still and quiet as possible then maybe the guards won’t find them. But they’ll find András in the cottage, thinks Márton. He feels responsible for the boy as if he was his own son. He can’t let them take András. The boy has his whole life ahead of him, whereas Márton has already lived over half of his.

  Suddenly the cow starts stamping its feet and lowing in distress. The men and dogs have entered the barn and are now standing directly beneath where the men are hiding. Scenting their prey, the dogs are going berserk, their barks reverberating like gunshots.

  ‘Search up there!’ orders a voice.

  Márton holds his breath as he hears footsteps on the ladder. On one side of him, Béla is rigid like a statue, but on the other side, Lovas is trembling. At least the dogs can’t climb the ladder, otherwise they’d be found out in no time. There’s a thump on the floorboards as the man hauls himself into the loft. Then the unmistakable tread of heavy boots – the regulation boots worn by members of the Secret Police. The boots recede for a moment whilst the guard explores the other end of the barn. But then the boots come closer. Márton can practically smell the polished leather. His heart is thudding so hard he’s sure the guard must be able to hear it.

  Suddenly the tarpaulin is ripped from above their heads and the game is over. The guard calls out to his superior that he’s found the prisoners, but the words die in his throat as Béla rises like a Colossus and shoves him backwards towards the hatch opening. For a moment they tussle, but Béla is the taller of the two and the guard can’t see where he’s putting his feet. With a grunt, Béla gives him one last push and the guard falls through the opening and lands on the ground with a thud.

  For a fraction of a second, even the dogs are stunned into silence. And then all hell breaks loose. A stream of bullets are fired into the loft, peppering Béla who is still standing near the opening. Márton watches in horror as his friend’s body goes limp and topples through the hatch like a sack of corn.

  ‘No!’ shouts Márton, but he can hardly hear himself over the noise of the snarling dogs, and the terrified cow, and the angry voices. He collapses on the floor in shock and horror.

  Another guard appears at the top of the ladder. ‘If you two don’t want to end up dead like your friend, then you better surrender yourselves now.’

  Márton is heartbroken. Béla was a true friend. It was his cunning and bravery that enabled them to escape in the first place. If it hadn’t been for András’s illness, they would have been far from here by now. But he can’t blame András for this. It’s not the boy’s fault he fell ill.

  Márton and Lovas climb down the ladder and are seized by the guards. The guard who fell first is sitting up, rubbing his head and arms. He’ll be bruised and have concussion, thinks Márton, but otherwise he’ll be all right. Béla, on the other hand, is lying sprawled in a heap, blood from his many wounds pooling on the floor of the barn.

  There are four guards in total and four big, black dogs, growling and baring their teeth. Márton and Lovas are chained together by their wrists and marched into the yard. Dorottya and András are also there, having been brought out of the cottage. András, although over the worst of his illness, looks utterly defeated. But the diminutive Dorottya has a look of defiance on her face.

  When the guards try to put chains on her, she kicks and spits at them. ‘You can kill me,’ she shrieks, ‘but you’re not taking me to one of your blasted camps.’

  ‘Fine,’ says the one in charge. ‘If that’s what you want, it will make our lives easier.’ He lifts his gun and shoots her in the head. She crumples to the ground like a rag doll.

  The sight is too much for András who falls to his knees and vomits.

  ‘On your feet,’ shouts the guard. ‘Now.’

  András is chained to Márton and Lovas and then the three men are shoved into a truck and driven back to the camp.

  At the sight of the barbed wire fence, Márton wants to fall to the ground and weep. For three glorious days they were free. And now they have been brought back to this hellhole. There is no further hope of escape now. He sees a line of fellow prisoners on their way to the quarry, looking even more wretched and ragged than he remembered them. Márton, Lovas and András are taken to the camp commander. He gives them a lecture on how they have shown themselves unworthy of socialist re-education and will be sorely punished.

  ‘You will spend the next two weeks locked in solitary confinement and will spend two hours each night in short chains.’

  They are taken to the prison block and each put into a tiny cell. It reminds Márton of the cell he occupied at Andrássy Avenue when he was first arrested. That night he learns what is meant by ‘short chains’. The guards bind his wrists to his ankles, pulling the rope so tight that it cuts deep into his flesh, restricting the circulation. It’s agony to sit hunched in this position for more than ten minutes. He weeps with the pain. He’ll be like this for two hours.

  Chapter Nine

  The months pass. Katalin is often surprised when she realises how much time has gone by since her father’s arrest. She thinks about him constantly, but Zoltán tells her that her father would want her to carry on with her life, not spend it moping. Still, it’s hard. Whenever she hears a favourite piece of music, she thinks how much her father would have enjoyed listening to it. When she looks at his books on the bookshelf, she can’t help picturing him in his reading chair, absorbed in the pages of a novel. When she goes to Feri’s café, he gives her an extra large slice of cake, in honour of her Papa.

  She hasn’t seen Tamás since he came to tell her that her father was being sent to a labour camp. That was before Christmas, before the winter brought the bone-penetrating cold and the long, dark nights. Throughout the winter she can’t bear to think of her father in some remote camp goodness knows where, being made to do slave labour. Her only hope is that he has made friends amongst the other prisoners. If he is still alive. In moments of despair, Zoltán holds her tight and tells her that she mustn’t give up hope.

  And then, almost imperceptibly, winter releases its grip on the city and people re-emerge as if from a siege. The days lengthen, the last pockets of snow melt, and the flower sellers reappear on the street corners. Róza will soon be qualified as a doctor; Petra complains that Tibor is growing out of all his clothes; Zoltán continues to put in long hours at the factory and has read his way through most of her father’s books; Csaba Elek delivers the daily lecture from A Free People; Feri is a little greyer but still makes the best cakes and coffee; József shuffles around in his patched cardigan, watching everyone’s comings and goings from the building. Katalin continues to teach at the school, the children march and sing on a regular basis, and Piroska Benke, the school secretary, keeps her attendance records immaculate.

  And then in March, when the first buds of spring are starting to sprout, something so shocking happens that life comes to a juddering halt. The trams and buses grind to a stop; schools and offices are closed; shop owners pull down the shutters; factory workers clock out early. People assume expressions of stunned disbelief. Some seem to be genuinely grief-stricken. For Stalin, the leader of the communist world, has died.

  ‘Actually dead?’ The woman in front of Katalin in the bread queue is full of disbelief, as if Stalin was somehow immune from
mortality.

  ‘It can’t be true,’ says her friend.

  ‘My husband heard it from official sources,’ says a third woman, full of the self-importance of those in the know.

  ‘But what will happen to us now?’

  Katalin holds her tongue. Do these women know what they are saying? Stalin was a monster, yet they are talking about him as if he was a god. Or is it just a trick to catch out people who are not sufficiently grieved by the news? She puts on a doleful face and tries not to smile.

  That evening she and Zoltán join the crowds at the City Park, not because they mourn Stalin’s passing, but because they understand that this is a momentous occasion in their country’s future. What it will mean, no one yet knows. But it is impossible for it to mean nothing.

  There are more people in the park than on a summer’s afternoon. Crowds throng the foot of Stalin’s giant statue, moving silently, each lost in their own thoughts, not daring to say what they are really thinking, even now. On the edge of the square AVO officers stand, watching.

  An eerie quiet has descended on the city. Everything has changed, but in some ways nothing has changed. Mátyás Rákosi, General Secretary of the Hungarian Communist Party, is still alive and well, and as dangerous as ever. The vast network of agents, spies and Secret Police is still in place. You still have to be careful.