A Place to Stand

by Ann Bridge

  “Say eleven tomorrow,” said his wife.

  “O.K.” Mr. Kirkland made a note in his diary.

  “I don’t know what we’ll eat off tomorrow, but I daresay Kálmán will fix something,” said Mrs. Kirkland resignedly.

  When one leaves what has been one’s home for eight years at a day’s notice, there is really quite a lot to be done. Mrs. Kirkland jotted down the servants’ names on a pad while she ate her dinner, and then jotted down the names of the people to whom she must say goodbye in person. There proved to be so many that she saw it would take too long on the telephone—in the end, when her husband had hurried off to the office again, late as it was, she gave the list to Kálmán, who spoke English, and told him to call everybody on the telephone, and ask them in to cocktails late the following evening. “The train only goes at midnight, and if we aren’t packed by then we never will be,” she observed. “And there’s no sense in leaving all this drink in the flat. I don’t much want the Germans to have it.”

  Hope laughed, and again, unexpectedly, admired her Mother; she had never seen her so Napoleonic. In fact daughters—and husbands too—seldom do realize how many of Napoleon’s qualities are often exercised, day in and day out, by the woman who so smoothly runs the house in which they live.

  The evening was frenziedly busy. Hope, still under the influence of Stefan’s behaviour to his Mother, tried to help her own, putting her private concerns with clothes and friends aside: she carried silver into the hall, and made lists of the pictures and china in a way that rejoiced Mrs. Kirkland’s heart. This was the old loving Hopey! But all the time, while she worked away, Hope was wondering how long the Moranskis had had in which to clear out of the house at the end of the lime avenue, and what they had done with their family silver. They had no Consulate or Legation in which to deposit it for safe-keeping—and if they left in a car they couldn’t take much with them. In fact, all they had taken seemed to be the three or four canvases by old M. Moranski, and the little fruit-knife with the crest.

  At ten she sent her Mother to bed, and helped by Berta she worked away at her own packing till midnight. Berta kept on bursting into tears. “Oh, this lovely dress that Miss Hope wore to the Silvester Party at the Countess’s!”—and each time that Hope, finding her boxes too small for all the things that had to go into them, gave Berta another frock or suit, the little maid wept afresh. Indeed all the servants were going about their unwonted and unwelcome tasks with red eyes, and sniffing loudly. The Hungarians are an emotional people, and become devotedly attached to those who are good to them; the Kirk-lands had been kind and considerate employers, and were felt as a personal loss, quite apart from the loss of a good job, and the general sense in Budapest, just then, of being adrift and astray on stormy seas, with the beloved and trusted helmsman, Teleki, gone overboard. This atmosphere of distress, added to her private anxieties, really wore poor Hope down; she almost fell into bed soon after twelve, but though she was quite tired out, for some time she could not sleep—all her thoughts were in the Radolny utca, wondering what was happening there, and above all what had become of Stefan.

  On the next day, their last in Budapest, Mr. Kirkland withdrew his ban on going out; the Panzers had passed through the city, and only the German control of petrol-stations and telephones remained—so far as anyone knew. What there might be in the way of Gestapo pressure no one but Hope was interested in, apparently, and she took good care to make no further enquiries of her Father. But it was an enormous, really a quite inexpressible relief to her to hear him say, over their last breakfast together in the sunny morning-room—“If you or your Mother have any last chores or errands you want to do in town today, I don’t see why you shouldn’t go ahead and do them. Those god-damned Boches are all gone through by now.” She could hardly finish her rolls and coffee; then she flew to her Mother’s room to ask if she wanted anything fetched or ordered, quoting her Father’s permission.

  Mrs. Kirkland did in fact want quite a lot of things: flowers for Countess Teleki in the Szanatorium, and for other friends; chocolate and tinned foods for the journey. “You don’t know what it will be like; it may be all right, or it may be all wrong,” that lady said wisely, while she wrote out a list. Hope mean-while used her Mother’s bedside telephone to order her car to be sent round from the garage—this seemed to present no difficulties, and when she got downstairs her Dodge was at the door.

  Of course she went first to the Penzio. Driving down the broad Andrássy ut she was quite shocked to realize how much she was going to mind this parting. Once again she ran up those dirty dignified stairs, and passed into the little lobby with the telephone and the aspidistra on the tottery bamboo table; once more she tapped on the door of Room 11. She thought this was the last time. And there again she was wrong.

  Litka opened the door, and greeted her warmly. The old lady was sitting by the stove in the most comfortable of the few and uncomfortable chairs, a shawl round her shoulders, a rug over her knees—she looked very unwell. There was no sign of Stefan or Jurek. “Are they all right?” Hope half whispered to the girl; and—“Oh yes, perfectly; they have only gone out to see about something,” Litka whispered back.

  “Thank Heaven! I was so terrified. These last two days have been Hell!” Hope said, “I was so afraid they might get caught at some petrol-pump—you know the Germans are controlling them all?”

  “Oh yes, we know. We were told they would take them over an hour before they came in,” Litka said matter-of-factly—and Hope could only marvel once more at Poles and their ways.

  “My children, what are you muttering about there?” the old lady asked, with a quizzical face of reproof. “I was brought up to consider it impolite to whisper! Litka, will you not spare your friend a moment even in which to wish me bonjour?” It was delightfully said, though the effort she had to make to be gay was evident, and Hope, blushing, came over and greeted her hostess with profuse apologies. “I was asking about Stefan and Jurek; I have been so frightened about them.” Somehow it seemed quite natural now to use the Christian names. “I knew I must not telephone, and my Father would not allow us to go out while the Panzers were here,” she said, drawing the low stool up to the old lady’s chair and seating herself beside her.

  “You were good to be so concerned,” Mme Moranska said, taking her hand and fondling it, as Hope had often seen her do with Litka. “Really, you have quite made yourself one of us.”

  Those words, so simply and affectionately uttered, moved Hope Kirkland extraordinarily. How often she had felt, how often these impoverished Europeans with their intelligence and courage and high style had—quite intentionally—made her feel that she was not one of them, that she came from a different world. This being taken into their inner circle, and that by the oldest, and in some ways the most impressive of them all, was inexpressively sweet. She returned the pressure of Mme Moranska’s hand, and murmured something inaudible.

  “I hope your parents have suffered no inconvenience?” the old lady went on, with a degree of courtesy that quite shattered Hope.

  “No—not really. Except that we’re going away, tonight. Our Legation is asking people to leave, so my Father has decided to go.”

  “Where to?” Litka asked.

  “Well first, to Istanbul,” Hope answered—and remembered, with an impact like that of a bullet, that Sam would be in Istanbul.

  “I am sorry” Mme Moranska said. “Of course your Father is right to do as his Government wishes; but for ourselves, I am sad. You have been a wonderful friend.” Very slowly and carefully she got up out of that uncomfortable chair—the rug over her knees fell to the floor.

  “What is it, Mother?” Litka asked, hastening over to her.

  “I can do it, dear Litka. It is just a tiny farewell gift that I wish to make to Miss Hope, who has been such a friend to us all: a very small souvenir.” She went to the press, and took out the little silver fruit-knife. “Dear Miss Hope, will you accept this, to remind you of the friends to whom
you have been so good?”

  Hope was ready to burst into tears. To give her that!—the one pretty tiling of their own they had left. But she knew she must take it.

  “Dearest Madame Moranska, I don’t need anything to remind me of you all—I shall never forget,” she said, winking away the drops that in spite of her filled her eyes. “But I will keep it, always. And I thank you very very much.”

  To her great surprise the old lady put her arms round her and kissed her over and over again, murmuring, “So much you have done!—so much you have done! And for strangers! God reward you, and bless you always.”

  Hope had to go—there were still all her Mother’s errands to be done. “Has it come?” she murmured to Litka, as they also kissed goodbye.

  “No, but it must come today. Really, they should leave now—they have all their visas. They are out now, trying to get news of it. It is getting dangerous, to stay.”

  “And you?” Hope asked.

  “Oh, Maman and I will be all right—women are different.”

  Down in the street, Hope couldn’t resist running round to the Sörözö, which was only a few steps away—she left her car in the Radolny utca. No, the horn-faced woman said, her friends were not there: they had been in, but gone out again. “Any message?” she asked—and Hope was ridiculously flattered, somehow, by the question. “No, no message.” She went and got into her car and drove round the town, paying bills, buying food from her Mother’s list, ordering and paying for flowers to be sent. She took the food parcels back to the flat, leaving them with the doorman, and then took the Dodge round to the garage to put it away for the last time. Two or three German sentries were standing beside the petrol-pumps, but they did not interfere with her as she drove the car in. She handed it over to old Antal, the grey-haired attendant with a limp and a walrus moustache, who always looked after the Kirkland cars; when he had run it into position he handed her back the key which, mechanically, she slipped into her bag as usual. She gave him a big tip, and said goodbye. “Ah, these are bad days,” Antal said. “But you may be back soon—who knows? And your Father has a nice little reserve here!” he muttered, with a wink.

  Then, suddenly, he began to speak of Count Teleki. By this time the fact of the Prime Minister’s suicide was public property—indeed the news had been released officially the previous evening, for it was found impossible to hush it up. But with all the fuss of packing and departure Hope had really hardly registered it. Now she had to. “He died for all of us,” the old garage-hand said; “for our honour, and to protect us.” He took off his peaked linen cap. “The Lord Jesus said that was the best thing a man could do, to die for his friends. May his soul rest in peace!” He crossed himself. “For my part, I believe that it will,” he said, and put on his cap again. “They say the Holy Father is going to give special permission for him to have a Christian burial—by telegram.”

  “Oh, I am glad,” said Hope.

  “Yes. The whole people will rejoice,” said old Antal.

  Hope knew that she ought to go straight home, but the temptation to go round again by the Radolny utca, which was only a couple of streets away anyhow, was too strong. People are after all often to be met going in or coming out of the house where they live—Stefan might be this time—the last time. And actually he was. As she walked along under those high shabby-elegant houses towards the Andrássy ut she saw him coming from it, towards her; he quickened his steps, and they met at the big arched doorway.

  “You are coming in?” he asked, eagerly.

  “No—I was there just now, to say goodbye. I’d better not go in again—your Mother seemed tired. But Stefan, are you really going now?”

  “Yes,” he said; “we are probably off tonight. It should be here at any moment. I have heard that; so we go—if not tonight, early tomorrow. I hate leaving Maman and Litka, but they won’t interfere with them—and thanks to you, we have all our papers.”

  Hope was greatly relieved at this. For the first time, he really sounded quite positive about his departure.

  “I’m thankful,” she said. “We’re off tonight, too, more or less for good—and I should have hated to go till you’d gone. How shall you travel?—by train?”

  “Yes, probably. We can no longer use the trucks now that these gentry have arrived,” he said, with a slight grimace.

  “Oh, I am so glad I’ve seen you again!” the girl burst out. “I thought I shouldn’t.”

  He looked at her eager candid face with an indefinable expression.

  “I am glad too,” he said. “Where do you go now? May I escort you?”

  Again Hope knew that she ought to go home, but she felt that she must have a few more minutes with him. This was the end—what the Hell did lunch matter?

  “Yes, do. I want to go to the Herend shop to get a bit of their porcelain, as—as a farewell gift,” she stammered.

  “Very well.” They walked together to the Váci utca, but not talking much; there was at once so much to say, and nothing that could be said at all! He made a few formal enquiries as to her plans, and she began to give him some quite pointless accounts about her parents’ arrangements for the flat and the servants—and then remembered his own parents’ departure from the house in Poland, and fell silent. It was an embarrassed walk, shipwrecked on reefs of submerged emotions. When they reached the shop and went in, Hope was quite distraught—it had only been an excuse, she had no idea what to buy, or for whom, and could really only think that in a few minutes more she would see Stefan, and hear his voice, for the very last time. Eventually, in despair, she bought a huge china basket of the exquisite Herend porcelain flowers, of which her Mother had so many; when it was wrapped up she handed it to Stefan. “For your Mother,” she said, rather shyly—“so that she will always have flowers in her room!” She was thinking of the fruit-knife, and wishing she had something equally personal, and therefore equally precious to give.

  But he was pleased, moved. He smiled, that warm brilliant smile of his. “That is charming of you. I will tell her. And here is a little present for you, too.” While Hope dithered, Stefan had made a purchase as well, and he now held out to her one of those delicious bracelets that she had coveted for so long, minute pictures of birds on tiny porcelain plaques, threaded on an elastic.

  “Oh, how did you know?” she exclaimed, blushing with surprise, and with pleasure at a gift from him.

  “You like it? You wanted one?”

  “Yes, always—and I’ve never had one! Oh—” But really she could say no more just then.

  He slipped it over her hand and on to her wrist—“A little porte-bonheur,” he said, and kissed her hand.

  Hope was completely overcome. As they left the shop she tried to say thank-you, tried to say goodbye, but tears and emotion were practically strangling her. A taxi passed just as they got out on to the pavement; she hailed it. But as she made to get in Stefan caught her hand.

  “Hope, it is impossible!—I cannot let you go like this! I know you are terribly busy today, but how can we say goodbye here, among all these people? We must have a moment together, however busy you are.” He opened the door of the taxi. “Please get in.” Hope did as she was told. He leaned round to the driver—“The Gellért-hegy,” he said, sprang in after her, and slammed the door.

  The Gellért-hegy is the southernmost of the hills which overhang the Danube on its western bank, within the compass of Budapest itself: the old city of Buda crowns one, the Royal Palace another; a mediaeval prison-fortress tops the Gellért Hill, the last of the three, which falls more steeply to the river than either of the others. A sort of garden had been laid out on the slope down to the river where the road climbed it on the north, and at the top of this the taxi pulled up; but when they got out Stefan led Hope along a rough track round below the massive fortifications to the further side, a deserted place of rough grass and crumbling blocks of fallen masonry—utterly solitary, with only the austere stone-work behind, and the river and the great view in front.
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  Hope followed him in a sort of maze. The view from the other end of the Gellért-hegy, by the public garden, was one of the great show-pieces of Budapest; especially in the evening or at night, when all the city’s seven bridges spanning the Danube were visible at once, strung with brilliant lights. How often she had been brought up there on summer nights after dancing by some amorous young man for whom she didn’t care a fig!—and she had always gone, because she loved the Gellért-hegy and its view.

  But none of them, not even Sam, had ever brought her to this rough wild end of the hill, where no gardeners had worked to make a formal urban elegance; and Stefan—her heart told her this, loud and clear—was no mere amorous young man, a little tight perhaps: he was a true lover of hers, if ever a girl had a true lover. Silent as he had been in the taxi, his face and the pressure of his hand had told her that—oh, but she had known it before! And now she had got to face it, this new love, in all its dazzling wonder, with a thorn in her conscience pricking her on Sam’s account, and the black misery of parting looming heavy and imminent beyond.

  They sat down on a fallen block of stone, among short grass that was still faded and papery-pale after the winter. It was a cold, silvery, pale day; from their high place they looked down on the silvery Danube, threading away till it was lost to view in the mists of the great plain. From here only one of the seven bridges was visible; the single black bar of the Horthy Miklós Bridge spanning the silver ribbon from side to side. Near one end of it the old dredger lay moored to the bank, its chain of scoops hanging idle; about it little brown gnome-like figures, men in sheepskin coats, dwarfed by distance, ran busily about in the thin sunshine, working to bring it into commission again after the winter months when the great river was ice-bound, and no dredging possible. Hope watched them for a few moments; then, to break a silence that was too thunderously heavy and full of portent to bear, she said in a nervous uncertain voice, “Look!—they are getting the old dredger to work.”