The Tightening String

by Ann Bridge

  ‘Does the ten-months’ year pay?’ she inquired.

  ‘Yes, well enough; there is always a profit. It would be larger on a twelve-months’ year, but that would disrupt the village economy; there must be labour for the harvests. Hermann thinks he has found a solution, here – Rudolf and Alex and Tommie are all doing the same on their places.’

  ‘I think so too’ Rosina said thoughtfully – ‘an ideal solution.’ She was struck by this recurrent theme among Hungarian country land-owners about adjusting employment to local conditions being more important than making the extra two and a half per cent, or whatever it was; she remembered Prince Willie’s refusal, for that very reason, to build big hotels at Devis. Why didn’t other employers think thus imaginatively in terms of their employees’ moral well-being? Oh well, there was Port Sunlight, of course, where the pretty workers’ houses had so startled that set of Russian visitors – nothing would convince them that they were not the residences of directors!

  At tea Mrs Eynsham observed that her daughter looked even paler than usual, and was extremely silent – she guessed at the reason, for young Baron Hugo too was noticeably abstracted, and took a seat as far as possible away from Lucilla at the big table. In fact Lucilla had passed a rather uncomfortable afternoon. She had not made up her mind which would be kinder – to stall Hugo by telling him of her engagement to Hamish, or to let him declare himself, and then say No; so often it seemed to do young men good, in some curious way, to allow them to strip their emotions bare, rather than cause them to leave these decently stifled. However when Hugo invited her to a round of golf on the small private links, that seemed safe enough; she could postpone her decision till later who would propose on a golf-links? Hugo would, and did. There were occasional seats for onlookers beside the fairways, and at one point, throwing his clubs aside and taking hers from her, he led her to one, and holding her hands in his rather diffidently asked her to marry him. Could she bear to marry a foreigner? Did she mind his being a Jew? How would she feel about becoming a Catholic? ‘My children must be Catholics.’ And he spoke of the uncertain future for Jews in Europe – ‘Now, I can offer you everything I- but who knows what is to come?’ It was all beautifully done – elegantly, considerately, though with a controlled passionate earnestness that left the girl rather shaken; but he also spoke very fast, there was no chance to break in. At last, still holding her hands, searching her face—

  ‘Na?’ he asked.

  Lucilla found that solitary little syllable of inquiry quite heart-breaking.

  ‘Oh dear dear Hugo, I can’t’ she said, tears coming into her big grey eyes.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I am engaged, fiancée, already.’

  ‘Not to Endre?’ he asked, a flash of anger in his pale handsome face – Hugo was a fair Jew, and over six feet tall. He dropped her hands as he spoke.

  ‘Goodness no! To an Englishman – I mean he’s Scotch – a soldier. He’s a prisoner of war in Germany’ Lucilla said incoherently. ‘Oh Hugo, I am so sorry about this.’

  He looked at her ringless hand in surprise; then, with an obvious effort, tried to pull himself together.

  ‘I think beautiful girls who are fiancées should wear a special costume, to indicate their status’ he said, trying to speak lightly, but not altogether succeeding. ‘In our villages here they do this. It is more fair.’

  ‘Oh much more fair’ she agreed. ‘Only one would feel rather silly going round saying to every young man one meets – “I’m engaged, you know.” I mean, they might not be interested.’ Somehow she could not explain Hamish’s objection to her wearing a ring just then.

  He laughed at that, unwillingly.

  ‘You never thought I should be interested?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I did’ she replied frankly. ‘In fact on the way down I was thinking of telling you before you got a chance to propose – I never dreamt you’d catch me while we were playing golf!’

  At that innocent admission the young man laughed again.

  ‘Oh Lucilla, no one is like you! You are so true.’ (He meant truthful.) Then he turned sad again.’ This makes it still worse to lose you’ he said, and covered his face with his hands.

  Lucilla let him be for some moments. At last she said –

  ‘Well, there it is, Hugo dear. You see there’s nothing to be done. If you were a prisoner in enemy hands you wouldn’t much like to get a letter saying – “I’ve met another charming young man, so our engagement is all off,” would you?’

  He took his hands from his face.

  ‘Am I, to you, a charming young man?’

  ‘No – that was a silly expression, “Charming” usually means professional womanisers, like Endre. You are frightfully nice; something quite different, and much more important. But nice or charming, I can’t marry you, Hugo, because if the Germans don’t starve him to death I’m going to marry Hamish.’

  ‘Haymish’ he repeated. ‘What a curious name. I never heard it before.’

  ‘It’s Scotch – it means James.’

  ‘And you love him so much? No, I should not ask that. Of course you do.’ He was silent for a moment or two – so was Lucilla; she could think of nothing to say.

  Hungarians are almost completely lacking in those English ideas of ‘not meeting’ when a man has proposed and been refused.

  ‘At least I shall often see you, and talk With you’ Hugo said then. ‘That will be something.’

  ‘Of course – so long as you know, and it doesn’t upset you.’

  ‘Upset, please?’

  ‘Make you unhappy.’

  ‘To see you? This must always be a happiness, for me. But unhappy I think I shall be, always. Always’ he re-^ peated.

  The reiteration of that word, reminding her of the night of her engagement, and the young man’s sad sincere face, caused the girl to burst into tears.

  ‘Oh don’t! Let’s go home. Oh, I am so sorry.’

  ‘Now I have ‘upset’ you. Forgive me – I am selfish.’

  ‘No you’re not! You forgive me. Bring my clubs.’ She got up and walked hurriedly away, crying and wiping her eyes as she went.

  They sat down thirty to dinner that night, and thirty to breakfast on the following morning – at ten, after the devout Weissbergers had attended early Mass. Breakfast on Sunday in those big comfortable country houses was something to remember. The hot freshly-baked snow-white rolls sprinkled with poppy-seed, and the loaves of fresh rye-bread, with its odd malty taste; cold home-cured baked ham, spiced and tender; home-made paté de foie gras and, in the autumn, a huge raised game pie with partridge, pheasant and hard-boiled eggs set firm in a strong jelly inside the decorated crust; cheese, and best of all Hasenpastete, a great oblong block of hare mousse, softened with pork fat and strongly flavoured with herbs and garlic. In fact an Elizabethan English breakfast, including beer (as well as coffee) for those who had been out riding since 6 a.m. Rosina Eynsham tucked into the Hasen-pastete, and secured the recipe from her hostess.

  Later in the morning she had a long talk with Baron Hermann about the parcels for the prisoners-of-war. Like everyone else he asked if the British Red Cross was not contributing?

  ‘Well not yet – they seem to have their own ideas. But they’re not getting their parcels through, so far – and meanwhile those wretched men are cold and half-starved, and our parcels are reaching them, within a week or ten days now. So we want to send all we can.’ She went into details – for one thing, how could she get all that Jugoslav flannellette made up into shirts and pyjamas? Was there a firm who would do it?

  His reply, careful and thorough, gave Rosina a frightening glimpse of what the Nazi attitude meant to the Jews of Central Europe. No, not a large firm; her order was not big enough. ‘But many of the smaller Jewish concerns are closing down; their owners are trying to get away while there is still time, so numbers of expert seamstresses and shirtmakers are becoming unemployed. Consult Baron Schonheim; he is in a big way, but he is concerning
himself with their welfare, and I am sure he will arrange it for you. It will be a boon to those women and girls, who are mostly Hungarians; they have nothing to fear but the loss of their wages.’ He paused, and she looked at him in dismay. What exactly did he fear, this short bent man – Hugo and Emmi got their height from their Mother – who looked more like a don than an industrialist, with his square lined face and intelligent eyes? ‘But if the Red Cross does not help,’ he went on, ‘excuse me, but how will you finance all this?’

  ‘Well, that is a worry. So far we’ve just been begging, and the officers’ relations send cheques, of course. But naturally we are sending to the men as well, and their relations don’t have cheque-books.

  ‘It is strange that the English Red Cross does not finance you. I hear that they are sending their parcels to Lisbon hundreds of tons of them, where they lie on the quays, immobile.’

  ‘Good gracious, why on earth to Lisbon? And how do you know that?’

  He smiled finely.

  ‘I have my sources of information! They hoped to get them on from there to Switzerland, across Spain and France; but at the moment the Spanish railways are fully occupied with getting out their crop of citrus fruit, their oranges and lemons – so nothing moves.’

  ‘What absolute nonsense!’ Rosina said angrily – the prisoners were becoming an obsession with her. ‘Why can’t they send their parcels to Salonika or the Piraeus, and let them come on through here? Or else send us some money to buy the things we can get, and send on to the camps with no delay at all?’ This was the first she had heard of that miserable and futile mistake, sending Red Cross parcels to fester on the quays at Lisbon, and it made her furious – as it made England furious when it became public property.

  The Baron smiled again.

  ‘You said they had their own ideas! Not very wise ones, I fear. But since they will not help, please let me do a little.’ He opened his notecase and gave her 2000 pengoes, rather over £200. ‘Schönheim will give you money too, as will my brothers – and many more, especially if much of it is to be spent on employing Hungarian labour. In any case, here in Hungary we all wish to help England – she is now the only defender of freedom in Europe.’

  Just like Schiller, Rosina thought. She thanked him warmly. ‘You are good! I didn’t come here to beg, you know – I really wanted your advice.’ She paused. ‘Shall you be able to get away, if the worst comes to the worst?’ she asked impulsively.

  ‘We hope so. We have something to offer. But do not let us think of the worst. Shall we take a look at the garden?’

  Rosina longed to know what the Weissberger brothers had to offer, and how they hoped to hear when ‘the worst’, whatever it was, would come in time to make a getaway – but obviously she could not ask him. Anyhow Jews, like the Roman Catholic Church, always knew everything. (Sir Hugh, an agnostic, had for some months now been having The Tablet sent out by bag, because it gave so much more information than most other English papers.)

  But she marvelled at the way these people, so menaced, continued to carry on such a gay and lively existence, to all outward appearance quite untroubled. On the Sunday evening everyone danced to the gramophone; even Baron Hermann steered first Rosina and then his wife round in whirling Viennese waltzes. Presently someone asked for the czardas – ‘Endre dances it so beautifully.’ But Hungarians would only dance the czardas, in those days, to ‘live’ music, and gipsy music at that, so a servant was despatched to the village to bring the gipsy band up from the inn. There was some whispering apart among the young men; then Hugo said – ‘We must send for a girl too. None of you can match Endre in the czardas.’ And he and two or three of the others left the room.

  There ensued a considerable pause, during which some of the young people did half-hearted fox-trots to mechanical music, while their elders talked. Eventually the gipsies arrived, three small dark-visaged men equipped with a fiddle, a viola, and a flute – they took their seats in one corner of the big room on chairs provided by Baron Hugo; then Count Endre appeared, leading the village girl by the hand. Her appearance shocked Mrs Eynsham, A flaring blonde, her strong features heavily made up, her bosoms boldly accentuated under the peasant dress – utterly unlike the decorous maidens normally to be seen in country villages. However, in spite of rather thick ankles she danced the czardas most beautifully, as Count Endre did; the intricate steps and the restrained movements of the two bodies were as perfect as a poem, as closely-wrought as a sonnet – towards the end everyone began to applaud, in involuntary delight. Suddenly Endre threw restraint to the winds; he lifted the girl up in his arms, twirled her round in the air, showing her frilly knickers, and clapped her smartly on the bottom before, panting from his exertions, he set her down.

  ‘No but really Endre, this is wrong’ Johanna protested. ‘You must not treat her so. Who is it? ‘she asked her husband.

  ‘Unknown to me’ the Baron said, looking vexed, while the blonde girl curtsied, smirking, on all sides.

  ‘Oh yes, dear Baron, you know “her” quite well’ Count Endre said. He went up to the girl, tore off her blonde wig, and ripped open her blouse – a couple of tennis-balls fell out from an ill-adjusted brassière, and without the wig, seeing his sleek dark head, everyone recognised Dickie Werckheim, a rather youthful boy cousin of the Weissbergers.

  ‘This is what took so long, to dress him up’ Endre explained. ‘But he made a lovely girl, no?’

  ‘You went to my theatrical trunk!’ Baroness Johanna said reproachfully.

  ‘Yes, and to your dressing-table! You have no rouge left.’ She smiled politely.

  ‘Did this amuse you?’ Hugo asked Lucilla later.

  ‘As a joke not much – no. But I loved watching them dance – they were fantastic, together. I do wish I could really dance the czardas.’

  ‘Nicely, you do; but really, no. For this one must begin as a child, I think.’

  The Minister had telephoned to Mrs Eynsham before the dancing began, and given her a good account of David; on their return to Budapest next morning she drove straight down to the nursing-home after dropping Lucilla and the luggage at her house, and recounted to her husband such of the small events of the week-end as she thought might amuse him. He laughed dryly at the czardas episode.

  ‘How Hungarian! For such a highly civilised nation they have the most elementary sense of what is funny. Endre’s idea, of course?’

  ‘I think so – he and Hugo and Dickie all went out together.’ Then, unwisely, she mentioned her guess that Hugo had proposed to Lucilla and been turned down.

  ‘She didn’t tell you?’

  ‘No – it was their faces.’

  ‘An incredibly silly idea of young Hamish’s, not to let it be announced,’ David Eynsham said impatiently. ‘As high-minded as you like, of course, but utterly unpractical. However, no one has ever accused Highlanders of common sense!’

  ‘Would people out here have known, even if it had been in The Times?’

  ‘Of course. How little you know, Rosina.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid that’s true’ his wife said, gathering up her handbag and gloves, and bending over the bed to give a kiss which, she sadly realised, David could quite well have done without – only she could not have done without giving it.’ Is there anything you want?’

  ‘Yes – whisky, and some more thrillers; try the Consul – I know he reads them. And gaspers.’

  ‘David, I brought you a hundred on Friday! – and Dr Mendze only wants you to smoke ten a day.’

  He grinned at her.

  ‘I give them to the nurses! You send all that down, like a good girl.’ He waved at her gaily as she went out.

  After lunch – blessed Bertha had of course unpacked everything; the dressing-table looked as though she had never left her bedroom – Mrs Eynsham went round to the Legation. The desk in her little office was piled with communications from the camps in Germany. One of the Stalags, with nearly 18,000 British prisoners, requested 500 mouth organs as soon as possi
ble – ‘and any food, clothing, and blankets that you can send. We get nothing from home.’ Another camp, apparently very cultured, wanted instruments for ‘an orchestra of 50’, and specified the instruments – ‘and any sheet music you can find. It will keep the men occupied if they can practise.’ Yet another card begged for water-colours and/or oil paints for two artists – all asked for blankets and clothing, as well as food. And there was a flood of letters from frantic wives, mothers, and even grandmothers, enclosing cheques and imploring that food and clothes, and ‘something – anything – to smoke’ should be sent to the beloved Tom, or Dick, or Harry. ‘He writes that his brother-officers are getting parcels from Budapest’ several of these distraught women wrote. ‘I have sent pounds and pounds to the Red Cross, but nothing seems to happen. Could you help? I am really in despair – he has been a prisoner for just on four months, and none of the parcels I have paid for seem to have reached him.’

  These letters made Rosina angry again, remembering Baron Hermann’s story about Lisbon. Hastily she endorsed all the cheques, telephoned down to the Chancery for a typist, dictated a letter to her bank, asking for all to be paid into her current account; and then dictated another one, saying that something should be sent to Tom, or Dick, or Harry within a few days. ‘Forty-eight copies of that, Miss Maudsley – I will write in the names, and sign them. And make me a list of the names and addresses, and the amount of each cheque, will you? I shall want that for the files.’ She glanced at the calendar on her desk. ‘There’s a bag going out tonight, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Eynsham.’

  ‘Well these must all make it. Can you manage?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mrs Eynsham. I don’t care how late I stay, to get these off.’

  ‘Good girl! Nor do I’ Rosina said cheerfully.

  ‘Oh, we all know what you do, Mrs Eynsham, raising money and all’ Miss Maudsley said enthusiastically, rather to Rosina’s dismay – she disliked adorers.