A Place to Stand

by Ann Bridge

  The attendant came in with the Vichy water and a glass, and set them on the tiny table under the window. Hope engaged him in talk, asking a number of foolish questions to which she already knew the answers: why did the Germans want to catch Poles? why were there Poles in Hungary at all? At last she ventured on one to which she really wanted the answer—“And this cordon you speak of, when did they put that round the town? This morning?”

  “Ah no, Madame—that was latish this evening, so I heard. And tonight they are going through the city with a fine comb, they say, hunting them out like rats!” He spoke with a ghoulish relish.

  When the man had gone for the second time Hope slipped into her berth; though the cars were well-heated she felt chilly. But she made no attempt to sleep. She must think, and think fast. I must know, was the main burden of her thought at first; I can’t go away, for ever, without knowing what has happened to him. No, she couldn’t do that. And then her small face hardened as another thought struck her. “I must get them out,” she thought; “I’ve done all the other things for them—I won’t leave the job half done.” But how? Ah, that was another question. But she must, somehow; she must, she must!—she remembered what she had seen on the platform at Kelenföld, and shuddered. Leave them to that?—not on her life! And quite quickly, the first part of what she had to do came to her.

  Hope knew this night express down to Belgrade well. It always stopped at Kecskemét, a biggish town rather more than an hour’s run from Budapest. Mr. Kirkland, who never fussed as a rule, had nevertheless been rather nervous about this journey, and had insisted that both his wife and his daughter should put a whole package of dollar bills into their handbags, in denominations from ones to twenties, and some dinars too—“just in case”; moreover he had warned them both not to hand over their passports and tickets to the Wagons-Lits attendant, as was usual. “I’ll fix him; you keep your tickets and passports with you,” he had said. Hope glanced in her bag, checked that the money and everything else was there, and blessed her Father. Somehow she was enormously cheered by the fact that she hadn’t got to ring for the sleeping-car man and make him give her back her passport, which she would need to get into Budapest again through the Gestapo cordon—it was the first fence, and though it was a small one, she was over it already.

  She looked again at her watch, and began, hurriedly, to dress once more in the clothes she had only just taken off; quickly, sketchily, she re-did the face from which she had been taking off the make-up while the train stood at Kelenföld Junction. When all was done, and her little grey lambskin cap perched on her pretty head, she repacked her dressing-case, locked it, and left it on the berth. She toyed with the idea of leaving a note for her Father, but decided against it. He and her Mother would be in tortures of anxiety when they found she wasn’t on the train at Belgrade in the morning, but that was just one of those things—if they had a clue as to where she was they would start telephoning and God knows what, which might hamper her freedom of action. She couldn’t risk it; this thing that she had to do was far more important. Curiously, as she thought that a phrase from Dickens came into her mind; the good nuns had been very strong on Dickens—“It is a far, far better thing that I do”. Well, it was a far far more important one, anyhow.

  The train began to slow down; this must be Kecskemét. She looked out of the window—yes, it was. Glancing round her sleeper her eye was caught by all those boxes of chocolates piled up under the window—Litka and Mme Moranska could do with some of them! She picked up the two largest and tucked them under her arm. The sweets put her in mind of the flowers, and stepping up on to the bed she pulled an enormous bouquet of scarlet and white carnations, Tibor’s final tribute, down off the rack—old Mme Moranska loved flowers, she might as well have these. As the train finally came to a standstill she peeped cautiously into the corridor. The attendant was at the far end, standing at the door of his little cubbyhole; while she watched he stepped out and went round to the entrance of the coach, out of sight. Quick as lightning Hope slipped out into the corridor, closed her door carefully, and ran along into the next coach—sped down it, and got off at the far end. Just in time—as she stepped down on to the platform the whistle shrieked. There were few people about, and she hurried towards the exit, pushing impolitely in front of a large man; she didn’t want the Wagons-Lits attendant to catch sight of her on the platform. How right the horn-faced woman had been about the noticeableness of her grey lamb coat! But there hadn’t been time to change. Making herself as small as possible, she stood in a fever of anxiety while the great train slowly drew out; cold as it was, the perspiration sprang out on her skin. But the long express gathered momentum steadily, and as she reached the ticket-gate she heard it roar off into the night, over the dark Hungarian plain.

  At the gate itself there was a check which she hadn’t foreseen. The man who was taking the tickets peered at hers in the rather faint light from the single bulb overhead, and then spoke in slow, countrified astonishment—“But this ticket is for Istanbul!”

  “Yes—” Hope was rather staggered. “I know it is,” she said, collecting herself, and speaking more firmly; “but I’m stopping off here, and going on later. That’s allowed on these trains, I know.”

  “It is very unusual,” the official said, staring hard at Hope.

  “But do let the little bride alone!” the stout man behind her intervened. “Why should she not stay in Kecskemét? We at least wish to get to our beds!”

  It had not occurred to Hope that she looked like a bride, but with her bouquet no doubt she did. Muttering to himself, the collector clipped her ticket and let her through. The stout party got into a car and drove off; the few other passengers appeared to be walking. A solitary taxi stood outside the entrance; she got into it. “Where to?” the man asked.

  “To the hotel,” Hope said, clearly enough to be heard by the ticket-collector; she wasn’t going to discuss her destination in front of him. Grinding its gears ominously, the cab drove off. When they were out of sight of the station Hope tapped on the glass.

  “What is it?” the man asked.

  “Can you take me to Budapest?”

  “To Budapest? But you have just come from Budapest!” the taxi-man objected, pulling up.

  “Yes—and now I wish to return there.”

  “Well, I can’t take you—I haven’t enough petrol, and my headlights aren’t good enough for a long drive like that, on a dark night,” said the man. This last was obviously true, and it was a dreadful old taxi.

  “Then please take me to some garage where they will have a car with good lights,” said Hope firmly.

  “They will all be asleep by now, and few will care to turn out at this time of night,” the taxi-man said. “Why not go to the hotel, as you said, and go back in the morning?” And he started to grind his gears once more.

  “No. That will not do—I must return at once,” Hope said. “Please drive me to the largest garage.”

  Grumbling to himself, the man drove on, while Hope sat worrying about what to do if the garage people really wouldn’t turn out. She must get back at once. But surely they would do it for dollars—everyone wanted dollars. Fumbling in her bag in the dark she found the package of notes, counted off a small part, replaced those in her bag and tucked the rest down the front of her dress. No good getting robbed!

  The taxi pulled up outside a garage; the driver hooted rather feebly, and then got out and knocked on the door. Hope peered out—there were two petrol-pumps, but no German guards; that was something. Nothing happened, however. “They are asleep,” said her driver.

  “Well, knock again,” Hope called back. “They must wake, that is all.”

  After a lot of banging, during which Hope got more and more worried and more and more chilled, sitting in the dank fusty-smelling taxi, there was a sound of bolts being shifted, and a door was drawn back. “Who is it, and what do you want, at this hour?” a voice called.

  “There’s a lady who wants to drive to Buda
pest, now,” the taxi-man said. “Can you take her?”

  “No. The big car is out, gone down with some Jews to the frontier.” The owner of the voice began to push the door to again.

  “A small car will do,” Hope called from the cab. “I will pay well.”

  “No—I can’t spare the small car,” said the voice, and the big door was slid back into its place; she heard the bolts shot again.

  “What did I tell you?” said the taxi-driver. “No one will want to go to Budapest tonight.”

  “Go to another garage,” said Hope, with a confidence that she was far from feeling—there was something nightmarish about the deserted streets of this sleeping town.

  At the next garage Hope got out herself, and when the driver’s knocks produced no result, she pressed hard on the horn.

  “Hey, you’ll wake everybody up,” protested the driver.

  “So I wish to do,” said Hope. “The garagist, at least, shall awake!”—and she hooted again. A window was thrown up overhead.

  “Who is it? What is the matter?” said an elderly man, putting his head out. “Do you want to wake the whole town?”

  “I want a car to drive me to Budapest at once,” said Hope. She had decided to do the talking herself this time.

  “To Budapest?—at this time of night?”

  “Yes.”

  “She has just come from Budapest, on the train, and now she wants to go back again,” said the taxi-man needlessly. Hope rounded on him.

  “You would oblige me if you kept silent,” she said sharply. “It is I who wish to hire a car, and it is I who shall pay for it—in dollars.”

  “Dollars, eh?” said the head at the window. “How come you to have dollars?”

  “Because I am an American.” Hope thought fast—she had been taken for a bride; she would act the part. “My husband missed the train—I must go back to him,” she said piteously. “At once.”

  “He will doubtless come on by the next train,” said the man at the window, helpfully.

  “There won’t be a next train to Belgrade—this is the last. They said so. I must go back,” Hope repeated urgently.

  “The last train, eh?” said the man at the window. “That sounds bad. What is happening up there?”

  “The German divisions have gone,” said Hope; “and the Count Teleki is dead, as you know. There is nothing else; all is quiet. But I must get back to my husband.”

  “I wish I could help you,” said the man. “You say you pay in dollars; that is good—dollars are always good. But you see it is my son who drives, and he has a congestion.”

  Hope said politely that she was sorry to hear that. But the magic word “dollars” had clearly produced an effect on the elderly man—he now addressed her driver.

  “Listen, Geza—you know my nephew-in-law, Istvan, in the Tisza utca. He has a fine, big car. Go to him at once: ring the bell on the small door, at the side, and tell him what the lady wishes. He will certainly take her. Istvan is a splendid driver, and has a wonderful car—with him you will be comfortable, and safe,” he said, now addressing Hope. She thanked him, got into the creaking old taxi again, and once more they drove off through the sleeping streets of Kecskemét.

  Istvan, the last garage-proprietor’s nephew-in-law, was successfully roused by several rings on his small side door, and eventually produced a rather modest touring-car in which he agreed to take the lady to Budapest there and then. This time Hope did her bridal act from the start, and stood bouquet in hand while she made her bargain: 125 dollars for the trip. In those days 125 dollars represented twenty-five pounds sterling, and goodness knew what in pengö, the Hungarian coinage; it was a huge price, but Hope offered it and stuck to it, with a judicious mixture of pleading and firmness—and at length, when the nephew-in-law had dressed himself and filled up the tank, they drove off.

  It was now well after 2 a.m. The express had arrived late at Kecskemét, owing to the long wait at Kelenföld Junction, and the business of finding a car had taken a long time. Hope looked at her watch by her cigarette-lighter, and began to reckon. By day, in her Father’s big Chrysler, it was about two hours’ run from Kecskemét to Budapest; the car she was in was not nearly so fast, but on the other hand the roads were completely empty at this hour of the night. She leant forward and urged the driver to hurry; he responded by treading on the accelerator and bouncing over the potholes in which the road abounded in a terrifying way. The wind whistled round Hope’s ankles as she sat, cold, nervous, and empty, in the back of the car. Why should she feel so hungry?—she’d had dinner, after all. Perhaps one just was hungry at night if one remained awake; usually, if one stayed up, one was eating and drinking. The drive seemed very long, though the nephew-in-law drove quite fast; Hope must have fallen into a doze, for she was roused sharply when the car pulled up with a jerk, shooting her forward.

  “What is it?” she asked, bewildered.

  “The Germans!” said the driver.

  Of course—the cordon! Looking out Hope saw that a pole of some sort had been propped on wooden crates to form an improvised road-block just under an arc-light; a young officer and a group of soldiers stood beside it, and an N.C.O. was walking over to the car. In his own tongue this individual curtly addressed her driver—who was he, and where was he going?

  “Can the lady speak with him? I understand nothing!” said Istvan the chauffeur nervously.

  “But naturally.” For the second time that night Hope was grateful to her Father. John Kirkland believed in education, and had insisted that his daughter should learn German as well as French at the Sacré Cœur.

  “What is the matter? Why are you holding me up?” Hope said to the German sergeant.

  “All must show their papers, and state their business, or they cannot enter the city,” the man said woodenly.

  “By ‘all’ I suppose you mean Hungarians,” said Hope with dignity, at the same time opening her bag. “I am an American citizen; I can enter or leave the city as I choose.”

  “Have you your passport? That will show if you speak the truth,” said the sergeant. “Give it me, and I will show it to the Herr Offizier.” And he stretched out his hand for it.

  “That you do not do!” said Hope tartly, putting the document back in her bag. “If your officer wishes to see it, he can come and look at it.” She picked up her bouquet as she spoke; with the bouncing of the car it had fallen to the floor.

  The officer now called out an enquiry.

  “It’s a girl; she says she’s an American,” the sergeant replied.

  Hope put her head out.

  “Herr Leutnant, my shoes are thin, and it is cold. If the Herr Leutnant wishes to see my American passport himself, pray let him come and do so.”

  The young officer, seeing a pretty girl with an armful of flowers at the window of a car, and hearing himself addressed in excellent German, walked over to her. She handed out her passport; he studied it, and her, curiously.

  “And may one ask where you are going at this hour, and alone?” he asked, not uncivilly, at length.

  “To our Consulate.” (Had she better be a bride again, or what?)

  “It will not be open now,” the lieutenant said, suspiciously.

  “They will open to me,” said Hope, smiling. “I am going to get married”—she made a gesture with her bouquet. (Istvan couldn’t understand German, so it didn’t matter what story she told.)

  The officer continued to stare, now at Hope, now at the passport, uncertainly. It was American all right, but the whole business was rather peculiar—a young girl alone in a car at 5 a.m.

  “Why do you come by road, and at such an hour?” he asked.

  “The trains are not running normally,” said Hope. “But surely an American lady, a neutral, need not give so many details?—and on her wedding morning?”

  The Lieutenant gave in. He handed her back her passport, and saluted. “Drive on, Istvan,” the girl said, and the car moved off.

  “Well, you fixed him all
right,” the chauffeur said, over his shoulder—he sounded amused. “It’s a fine thing to be an American these days!” he went on, sounding rather less amused. “And now, to what address does the lady wish to go?”

  Hope glanced at her watch—it was twenty past five. She thought rapidly, and then mentioned a street intersection near the garage, where there was a point policeman on duty all night. She did not altogether trust young Istvan not to try on some tricks.

  This proved a wise precaution, for when the car pulled up at the spot she had indicated, and she got out and tendered the agreed fee of 125 dollars, the driver demanded 200, disagreeably and threateningly. Hope called the policeman; he came over at once, and she explained that in Kecskemét she had promised to pay 125 dollars to be driven to Budapest—“And now this man asks 200!”

  The policeman was urbane, and also firm; 125 dollars was a fine sum, and more than enough for the run from Kecskemét, he said; he would count the notes himself. He did so, and handed them over; and the unworthy Istvan drove off.

  So that was all right!—another fence taken. Hope breathed a sigh of relief as she ran round to the garage; she might need the car, and it would be just as well to get it out now, when hardly anyone was about—if she could get it out still. There was always a night attendant at the Kirklands’ garage—how often she and Sam had driven in there “with the milk” after a night of dancing, and then walked home in the dawn.

  There was no one to be seen as she approached; she went in, still burdened with her bouquet and her chocolate-boxes; the first thing she saw was a solitary German sentry, fast asleep on an oil-drum, his back propped against the wall. The night attendant—who knew her well, and with good reason—came out of his little glass-walled box, and greeted her with surprise and pleasure. “But I thought you had all gone?”

  “Not quite yet. I want my car, Gyury; fill the tank as full as it will hold, and put five or six cans in the back, please.”