Lunch with a Soldier

by Derek Hansen

  Dedication

  For my wife, Carole,

  who has been pushing me to write Neil’s story

  ever since Neil first opened his mouth.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  FIRST THURSDAY

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  SECOND THURSDAY

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  THIRD THURSDAY

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  FOURTH THURSDAY

  Chapter Twenty

  FIFTH THURSDAY

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  SIXTH THURSDAY

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt from Lunch with the Generals

  Excerpt from Lunch with Mussolini

  Excerpt from Lunch with the Stationmaster

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Derek Hansen

  Copyright

  FIRST THURSDAY

  Chapter One

  Gancio glanced across the bar towards the table where the four friends would soon gather for another afternoon of storytelling. His restaurant had already begun to fill, mostly with regulars and their guests, and he’d shown them to their tables with his customary charm. He had a good head for names and faces and a way of making his customers feel not just welcome but important, as though they were personally responsible for the success of his restaurant and its ambience, described by one reviewer as ‘calculated to encourage the sharing of confidences and promote the clever retort’. But, in truth, Gancio was preoccupied with one of the empty tables. For the first time in nine weeks it had been set for four. In a moment of foolishness he’d considered making a Hungarian dish, but common sense soon prevailed. If the four friends wanted a traditional Hungarian meal, why would they come to an Italian restaurant?

  Gancio glanced through the list of reservations, confirming what he’d already established many times over. He had one table free, which he was inclined to leave free in case any of his regulars decided to try their luck without a reservation. It was a courtesy that had paid off many times over, and rare was the lunch or dinner that passed with the ‘free’ table unoccupied. Gratitude, he’d learned, was bankable. The list also told him who would be late and who liked to linger over pre-lunch drinks — customer habits which were welcomed because they spread the load on both kitchen and staff.

  ‘So I’m first here? Damn! It’s my turn to tell a story and I’d planned on making a grand entrance.’

  Gancio spun around. He’d developed a sixth sense that had him opening the door just as guests reached for it, but for once his instincts had failed him.

  ‘Neil, my apologies. I didn’t see you coming.’

  ‘No worries, mate. I just fired my PA. She didn’t see it coming, either.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Fired my PA. Discovered she’s been sleeping with the enemy, a rival developer who’d just love to know what new projects we’re considering. It’s a bugger. She’s been my PA for ten years.’

  ‘Would you like me to show you to your table?’

  ‘Why? I know where it is.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to wait at the bar?’

  ‘What do the others do when they’re first here?’

  ‘They go straight to the table.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll wait at the bar.’

  ‘I’ll get you a Peroni.’

  Neil pulled out a bar stool and sat down. He glanced at his watch. He was early. Ten minutes early, courtesy of a nearby parking spot and a desire to get away from an office filled with tears and recriminations. Gancio placed a cold frosted glass in front of him and slowly poured a perfect beer.

  ‘You do that better than anyone I know,’ said Neil wistfully. ‘You sure you’re Italian, not Australian or German?’

  ‘Italians drink lots of beer,’ said the restaurateur. ‘Now, please excuse me, I have more guests to seat.’

  Neil studied his beer before slowly raising it and savouring the first mouthful. He had a story to tell which would demand his full concentration but he still couldn’t clear his mind of the morning’s drama. He’d thought it would be something easily resolved. He’d given his assistant a fair choice: her lover or her job. He’d pointed out that the job was hers for as long as she wanted it, but her relationship with his competitor would only be for as long as he wanted it, and his competitor’s past record with women suggested that would be for about as long as it took ice-cream to melt. Neil thought her decision was a no-brainer. He was stunned and even a little hurt to discover she thought otherwise.

  ‘A Peroni. Only an Australian would fill up on beer before a meal.’ Lucio sat down heavily on the stool next to Neil.

  ‘One beer doesn’t begin to fill an Australian, Lucio.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll join you.’ Lucio caught the eye of a waiter. ‘The ability to drink large quantities of beer comes with Australian citizenship. We swore allegiance then sat down to a typically Australian meal at the local Chinese restaurant. No wine, just beer.’

  ‘How come you’re so early?’ said Neil.

  ‘Nine weeks is a long time on a diet of short stories, however entertaining. I want meat, Neil, substance and a healthy serve of deceit. I have enjoyed our lunches without Milos, but I enjoy them more when we’re all together.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Bloody hell, here comes Blind Pugh.’ Neil checked his watch as Gancio guided Ramon to the bar. He took the blind man’s hand and shook it. ‘Lucio and I were just saying how much we’ve missed Milos and our regular stories. Seems you have as well. It’s not like you to be early. Punctual, yes; early, no.’

  ‘The absence of any one of us diminishes us all,’ said Ramon. He shook Neil’s hand and took Lucio’s. ‘Neil, I take it you are well? You too, Lucio? Gancio tells me you are drinking Peronis.’

  ‘Would you prefer wine?’

  ‘No, thank you, Gancio. If my friends are drinking Peroni, I will drink Peroni. Perhaps we can raise our glasses to the return of our absent friend?’

  ‘And to the return of our storytelling,’ added Lucio. ‘Tell me, Neil, where are you taking us with your story?’

  ‘That’s privileged information, best kept till we’re all seated. Besides, I don’t want to have to repeat everything for Milos.’

  ‘Just a hint?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s not fair. It’s like being blindfolded and in bed with a beautiful woman. I know I’m going to have a good time but I don’t know whether I like her.’

  ‘Just lie back and enjoy it,’ said Neil amiably. ‘Here comes your beer, Ramon.’

  ‘So what is the toast?’ asked Lucio.

  ‘To a successful story,’ said Neil. ‘One that lauds me, humbles Ramon, confounds Milos and embarrasses you.’

  ‘To the story,’ said Ramon.

  ‘To the story,’ echoed Lucio. ‘I only hope it doesn’t also embarrass th
e teller.’

  ‘I hope it doesn’t, either,’ said Neil, suddenly serious. ‘I guess that’s a risk we all take when we choose to tell a story. Ah, here’s the man himself.’ He stood to greet Milos, effectively preventing Ramon or Lucio following up on his comment. ‘Welcome back, old mate.’

  Milos embraced each of his friends in turn.

  ‘Beer before lunch? At last I feel like I’ve come home.’

  ‘You’re looking well, Milos,’ said Lucio. ‘You’ve put on weight. Are you sure you didn’t go to Italy instead?’

  ‘I thought I made it clear in my last story: Hungary is not a country for the diet conscious.’

  ‘Perhaps we should sit at our table,’ said Ramon. ‘Then you can tell us all about your trip.’ He slipped his arm through Milos’s.

  ‘First you have to tell me what I have missed out on. I have nine weeks of storytelling to catch up on. What stories did you tell? Gabriella would also like to know.’

  ‘Tell Gabi she missed nothing,’ said Neil. ‘We just discussed ways in which terrorists could blow up Sydney. It’s depressingly easy. Imagine a bomb in a container in the harbour tunnel or on the harbour bridge. Are you sure your wife wants to know about this?’

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Ramon. ‘We took turns to tell each other short stories, a fresh story every Thursday. Some were better than others, but all of them left us hungry for something more substantial. They failed to satisfy. However, we are eager to hear about your trip before Neil commences his story.’

  ‘What can I tell you? Hungary was a poor country when I left it and it is a poor country still. Oh, there are more cars on the roads and people have televisions and stereos and refrigerators, but these are little things. The country is still weary from its struggle for freedom. The buildings are tired and the roads are cracked. Some people will always make money in whatever circumstances, but, for the most part, people are poorly paid by our standards. For Hungary, becoming rich and decadent will be a very slow process.’

  ‘Did you go back to Sarospatak?’ asked Lucio.

  ‘Of course, that was the whole point of the visit. The life of Sarospatak still revolves around the university, but it now has wine bars and smart cafés. We also went to Satoraljaujhely and I walked up through the hills where Tibor and I lay and watched the Jews being rounded up. Nothing has changed. Of course the town is bigger and the railway station is smarter, but nothing really has changed.’

  ‘And Tibor’s grave?’

  ‘Moved. When Aunt Klari and Andras died there was no one to take over their farm. Their children — yes, they had children, two daughters and a son — had made lives for themselves in Budapest and Debrecen. I did not mention them in my story because they played no part in it.’

  ‘What did they do during the war?’

  ‘Neil, there are some questions you learn not to ask.’ Milos sighed. ‘I come to hear a story yet it is me who is doing all the talking. A glass of wine, or even water, would be nice.’

  ‘Our apologies,’ said Lucio and waved vigorously towards the bar.

  ‘The new owners did not want the grave of a stranger in their back garden. My brother’s coffin was dug up and his remains moved to the Catholic cemetery. It wasn’t hard to find him. There was a small headstone with his name, date of birth and death, and an inscription which read, “In memory and honour of a loyal friend”. Who knows what loyal friends were responsible for this kindness. Whoever they were, railwaymen or gangsters, Gabi and I are grateful to them. Tibor’s grave was well tended, unlike those in the Jewish cemetery, which are overgrown. Perhaps such trifles shouldn’t matter, but they do.’ Milos paused while Gancio poured a pinot grigio into his glass.

  ‘Tibor was a gangster, that is a fact, and doubtless how Hungarian history will remember him, if he is remembered at all. For a while he became me and was the husband of my wife, but above all I remember the brother who loved me, who was my protector and who is the sole reason I am sitting here with you today and reminiscing. He was and will always be my hero.’

  ‘So how much of your story was true?’

  ‘The story was true, Neil. We have had this conversation before. There were embellishments, but the story was my story — mine, Tibor’s and Gabi’s.’

  ‘You never learn, do you, Neil?’ said Ramon. ‘Life is not a Hollywood movie. It doesn’t have tidy endings with everything resolved. We will never know how much of Milos’s story was fantasy and how much was fact. Your insistence on the truth only serves to shore up Milos’s fictions. You play into his hands.’

  ‘And I think you see games where there are none,’ snapped Neil. ‘Ever since your story, our lunches have taken on the tone of the confessional.’

  ‘This is more like it,’ said Lucio enthusiastically. ‘What is storytelling without friction? Enough of Hungary, enough of Milos’s story. It’s time to move on. I think we should call Gancio over and find out what we’re having for lunch. Then Neil can enlighten us by telling us where he will be taking us with his story. Personally, I can’t wait.’

  ‘You insulted me,’ said Neil. ‘And, by implication, you insulted all Australians.’

  He pushed away his cheese plate and replaced it with his wine glass so he could reach it more easily. He’d sat quietly through lunch while the others had probed Milos for more detail of his travels. Neil’s mood had grown more sombre as the meal had progressed and even Gancio’s signature saltimbocca with white asparagus, one of Neil’s favourite dishes, had failed to lighten his mood. He’d decided to tell a story that would replicate what he’d condemned his friends for doing. He’d thought long and hard before he’d made his decision but, once made, it was irrevocable. How would they react? Now that the time had come to commit to his story, he was beginning to have doubts. But his decision had been based on anger and a sense of injustice and he used this to strengthen his resolve.

  ‘Milos, you have said repeatedly how glad you are to be home, to be back in Australia, yet, consciously or unconsciously, you denigrate Australia at every opportunity.’

  ‘That is not true.’

  ‘Oh yes, it is, Milos, and Ramon and Lucio are no less guilty. You live in Australia and enjoy all its privileges yet you cling to and flaunt your Europeanness as though it somehow makes you superior. On that first day, when you began your story, you asked me what I was doing when I was twelve years old, while twelve year olds in Europe were being beaten up and pissed on at school. You asked if my father was plucked out of my happy home and taken away to almost certain death. You said my father was probably teaching me to play cricket while yours was teaching you to survive the Nazis. Your tone was accusatory, as though it was something I should feel guilty about. You accused me of resenting you because you had lived more as a teenager than I would in my entire life.’

  ‘You take my comments out of context. It was you who accused me of “wallowing in my past”, no? I was simply responding to your charge.’

  ‘You made these statements, Milos, and they are not out of context. Furthermore, when you made these statements your two fellow Europeans supported you to the hilt.’

  ‘I am South American,’ said Ramon.

  ‘Only by birth. In manner and habit you are European. Your Europeanness is something you have worked on so hard that your affectation has become part of who you are. You are a South American who came to Australia and adopted Europe.’

  ‘Such a broad brush,’ said Ramon.

  ‘The broad brush is a weapon of your choosing. Milos virtually claimed ownership of post-traumatic stress syndrome, as though it was a condition peculiar to Europeans who have suffered. For God’s sake! Australia is a country built on post-traumatic stress syndrome. Which country suffered the greatest number of casualties per head of population in World War I? Was it Germany? No. France? No. Great Britain, Russia? No. It was our big brown land. You asked if our fathers were dragged away from our happy homes to near certain death — well, the answer is yes. Yes, they bloody well were.

 
‘And it happened again in World War II. Our fathers were sent away to fight another European war, only to be recalled and delivered into the hands of the Japanese in Singapore by an inept British high command. Can you imagine the state of the soldiers who survived Changi and the Burma Railway? Can you imagine what went through their minds when they closed their eyes at night? Can you imagine the effect on their lives and their families? Dear God, the suffering of those survivors virtually defines post-traumatic stress syndrome.

  ‘Then, just when it seemed we might actually get a generation of Australians who hadn’t been stuffed up, Vietnam happened. As you pointed out in your story, Milos, the impact of Vietnam actually brought about the identification and naming of post-traumatic stress syndrome. Perhaps you don’t regard Vietnam as a real war because it lacked the scale of your European wars, but it was pretty bloody real to those of us who fought in it. So spare me. Please don’t any of you ever suggest that Australians have no idea of what you Europeans endured.

  ‘Then there is your conviction that post-traumatic stress syndrome is something you just have to learn to live with. You asked me what I thought sufferers were supposed to do about it. Forget about it, just because the sun was shining and the surf was up? Well, yes. That is what I expect you to do, or at least to try to do, because that is what we as a nation have done. We, as a nation, have faced our demons and got on with it. Yet you mock us. To use Ramon’s words, you diminish us and our history.’ Neil turned away from them, not so much in disgust as to rein in his anger.

  ‘I assure you, Neil, I did no such thing. If that is how you interpreted my words, then I apologise for my clumsiness.’ Milos was stunned by the vehemence with which Neil had made his points. They all were. And chastened, because there was at least a grain of truth to his accusations. This was not the Neil they knew and this was not how they had expected the day to develop.

  ‘I concede we may have gone a little too far,’ said Ramon heavily. ‘I sensed what Milos was doing, how he was setting you up in the story he told, and simply added my weight to his cause. As I recall, there was a touch of facetiousness to our comments. None of us would deliberately set out to do the things you accuse us of. The comments were made to bait you, not to cause offence.’