Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  Any anger that Jozsef had built up on the way home dissipated the instant he entered the cottage and heard Tibor’s news.

  ‘I think I know what’s happened,’ he said grimly. ‘Quick, get your coats and boots. And put on some dry socks.’

  They set out for Tokaj Street in silence and it wasn’t until they’d been walking for a kilometre that Milos dared ask the question that had been consuming him ever since Tibor had come home.

  ‘What’s the matter, Dad? What’s happened?’

  Jozsef sighed wearily. He was involved in his own thoughts but the boys deserved an answer.

  ‘A train from Sarospatak is scheduled to connect with one heading to the Russian front in six days’ time. All I have been told is that it is a transporter of some description. God only knows where they’re getting the carriages from because I don’t. I suspect Balazs has been ordered to board that train.’

  Milos felt a sense of dread envelop him, but he was puzzled. He was aware of his uncle and aunt’s fears for Balazs. Throughout Hungary, all eligible men of military age were being hastily mobilised to rush to the aid of the German army bogged down by Russia’s winter. Balazs was a prime candidate for conscription, but for the fact that he was Jewish. Jews were no longer permitted to serve in the armed forces.

  ‘Is Balazs joining the army? Is he going to be a soldier?’ he asked.

  ‘Soldier!’ his father scoffed. ‘They don’t give Jews guns. They give Jews other things. Shovels, spades, axes.’

  ‘How can Jews fight with shovels?’ Milos asked.

  ‘Someone has to build roads and bridges,’ said Jozsef bitterly. ‘Someone has to make camp. Someone has to dig ditches and clean latrines. Someone has to do the work so others can fight.’

  ‘Will they give Balazs a shovel?’ asked Milos.

  ‘Probably,’ said Jozsef. ‘It’s good that we’re discussing this now because I don’t want it discussed in front of your aunt. Or in front of Elizabeth or Gabi, you hear?’

  ‘Will I have to go to Russia?’ asked Tibor.

  Jozsef put a reassuring arm around his elder son. ‘No, you have the good fortune to be too young. So does Milos. But if the war goes on …’ He stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowed. ‘If the war goes on, we’ll just have to make other arrangements.’

  ‘What kind of arrangements?’ asked Tibor.

  ‘I don’t know. Almost anything would be preferable.’

  ‘Can Balazs make other arrangements?’ asked Milos.

  ‘It’s too late,’ said Jozsef sadly. ‘He should have become Christian like you did. Like our fathers should have. No, like our grandfathers should have. It’s all too late now!’

  Elizabeth answered their knock on the door and Milos could see instantly that she had been crying. She all but ignored him and Tibor and threw her arms around Jozsef. Sobs caught in her throat as she spoke.

  ‘Father and Balazs are waiting for you in the dining room. Mother is with them. Tibor and Milos will eat in the kitchen with Gabi and I.’ Elizabeth wiped her sleeve across her eyes. ‘We thought if they came it would be for Balazs. For poor Balazs! But this … nobody expected this!’ She collapsed sobbing on Jozsef’s shoulder.

  ‘Tibor! Take Elizabeth with you and look after her. Make her a hot drink. Milos, you look after Gabi. Go. Now.’

  Jozsef gently eased Elizabeth away and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. ‘Go now with Tibor. Let me talk with your father, see if we can sort something out.’

  Jozsef smiled, and stayed put until Elizabeth and his sons had disappeared through the doorway at the opposite end of the corridor. His face darkened immediately. Not Balazs? Then who? The only alternative hit him like a blow to the head. It was so obvious! But if it had come as a shock to him, how much of a shock had it been to them? He slowly opened the door to the dining room and entered.

  ‘Thomas, Katica, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘They need doctors at the front,’ said Thomas. He rose wearily from his chair to take Jozsef’s hand.

  Jozsef turned and embraced Katica.

  ‘Why my Thomas?’ she said. ‘Look at him. He is not a young man!’

  ‘I thought my age would have excluded me,’ said Thomas. ‘Besides, I am a doctor not a surgeon. It’s surgeons they need not old, rural doctors.’

  ‘What about you, Balazs?’ Jozsef shook the young man’s hand.

  ‘We’ve rung around. It seems they’re calling up Jewish men between eighteen and forty, and some like my father who are older. They’ve even called up what few Jews there are still in medical school. They haven’t yet got to trainee teachers,’ he added bitterly.

  ‘Count your blessings,’ said Jozsef. ‘Have you considered any alternatives?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Yugoslavia. Try and link up with the partisans. Maybe make your way to Palestine.’

  ‘Who will look after my mother and sisters?’

  ‘Who will look after them when you are called up to Russia?’

  Katica gasped and put her hand over her mouth.

  ‘Isn’t it enough that they’ve taken me?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Jozsef harshly. ‘Reason? Compassion? In the middle of a war? These are difficult times and I’m afraid they will only become more difficult.’

  He paused, regretting his outburst, and turned to Thomas. ‘You are leaving for the front on Wednesday, no?’

  ‘How did you know?’ said Thomas.

  ‘There is a transporter heading east into Russia on Wednesday. I know it is not a troop train because we’re only given short notice for those. It’s somebody’s idea of security. Your train will go east through Satoraljaujhely then north to Przemysl, where your carriage will be uncoupled and connected to another train heading east. I don’t doubt the train will be carrying Jews to join the labour battalions.’

  ‘Labour battalions!’ said Katica. The tears had once again begun to flow. ‘My Thomas is being sent away with a labour battalion? But he’s a doctor!’

  ‘Are you leaving by train?’ Jozsef directed his question to Thomas who nodded confirmation. ‘There is only one train heading east scheduled for Wednesday.’

  ‘Jozsef …’ said Thomas. ‘I ask you as a friend …’

  ‘No need. I promise I will do everything I can.’

  ‘Your job with the railways … it gives you some protection. And there is the matter of religion …’

  ‘A twelve year old could do my job, but, yes, perhaps it will buy me time.’

  ‘You have been right all along,’ said Thomas. ‘You at least have taken precautions. I wish I’d listened to you.’

  ‘Then listen to me now. Send Balazs to Yugoslavia. Do it now! Do it tonight!’

  ‘No!’ shrieked Katica. ‘No … not Balazs too.’ She threw her arms protectively around her son.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jozsef. ‘Don’t wait for the knock on the door. Then it will be too late. Perhaps it is already too late. But staying here leaves you no choices.’

  ‘I choose to stay here,’ said Balazs coolly. ‘I choose to stay here and take care of my mother and sisters for as long as I can. When I am called to the Russian front I will take my chances along with everyone else. The war can’t last for ever. They can’t kill us all.’

  ‘That is your choice?’ said Jozsef.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then God help you, Balazs.’

  Elizabeth entered the room with a steaming tureen filled with chicken soup and a bowl of boiled potatoes.

  ‘Aha,’ said Thomas. A shadow of his familiar smile flickered across his face. ‘The hernia and the pneumonia. One of the advantages of extending my practice to certain peasants. They have no money and pay with what they do have. We don’t get rich but we eat well.’

  It was snowing when Jozsef gathered his two sons and left Tokaj Street. The farewells had been long and tearful and no one felt like talking. Milos’s head was awash with conflicting emotions, some of which made him feel guilty almost to the point of b
eing sick. Of course he was distraught that his uncle was being sent to Russia and his heart had almost broken when he saw how distressed Gabriella was. But he had comforted her. He had held her tightly in his arms and comforted her. He had, not Tibor. Gabriella had cried on his shoulder. She had let him dry her tears. On this most terrible of days he felt like singing. He was mortally ashamed of feeling that way, but he couldn’t help it. All the while they’d been at Tokaj Street he’d held Gabriella in his arms, promising to take care of her, to protect her, no matter what. Unbelievably, in the midst of her nightmare, his dream had come true. How was he supposed to feel?

  Milos was still alternating between shame and euphoria when they reached the cottage. His father put the key in the door, then paused.

  ‘Tibor,’ he said suddenly, ‘Milos told me what you do.’

  ‘It’s necessary, Father. We go to mass and confession but it’s not enough.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘People have long memories. I do what I do because it is the only way. It’s the only thing that saves us from being lumped together with the rest of the Jews.’

  ‘I understand.’ Jozsef rested a hand on Tibor’s shoulder. ‘Tibor?’

  ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘Keep doing it. I do what I can to protect you and Milos, the rest you must do yourselves. Do whatever is necessary. Look after yourself. Look after Milos. You have my blessing, you understand? But promise me one thing. Promise me you’ll be careful.’

  He opened the door and stood back to let his sons through.

  On Friday evening after confessing, Milos decided to test the good offices and compassion of his Christian God. He remained kneeling after completing his penance, remained kneeling with eyes tightly shut even after Tibor had tugged at his sleeve and told him it was time to go. He was dimly aware of Tibor losing patience and leaving him. He prayed as hard as he could, concentrating every fibre of his being, projecting his entire soul into his prayers, desperate to make a deal with God to spare his Uncle Thomas and so earn Gabriella’s eternal gratitude. He promised to attend mass every Sunday and confession once a week, to keep himself pure in both thought and deed, and only stopped short of promising to join the priesthood because he’d already committed himself to marrying Gabriella. His pleas were so earnest, heartfelt and intense he believed God could not help but hear and act on them. When he joined his father and Tibor on the steps outside the church he felt unburdened and even joyful. He was aware of them looking at him oddly and was desperate to tell them the good news. Uncle Thomas would be saved!

  By Wednesday, the day the train was due to depart, Milos’s faith had been shaken to the core. Uncle Thomas had not been reprieved. There had been no miracle, no intercession from above. Worse, his father had forbidden him from accompanying Gabriella to the station to farewell her father. He’d begged, pleaded and thrown tantrums but his father had remained unmoved.

  ‘You and Tibor will go to school as usual and remain there until it is time to come home. I will go to my office as usual. I imagine the station will be crowded with Jews saying goodbye to Jews. There will be soldiers and gendarmes everywhere. If you go there you will be identified as Jews when we are doing everything in our power to convince people you are not. I don’t want the gendarmes thinking you are anything other than Catholics, understand? I have discussed this with Uncle Thomas and he agrees it is for the best. You will have plenty of opportunities to comfort Gabriella later. You both will.’

  Milos went to school but his heart went out to Gabriella. In his mind he pictured her standing alone on the platform as the train pulled away, a forlorn, tragic figure waving despairingly, her useless cries swept away by a cold, relentless easterly wind. In his mind she was left alone on the platform, alone in the world.

  Jozsef went to his office but could not settle. He retreated down the track to the signal box. The day was destined to be gut-wrenching enough without having to witness the despair and defeat on the faces of his dear friends, and on the faces of the acquaintances he’d met at the synagogue when he’d first arrived in Sarospatak, people who had accepted his agnostic views and still helped him to settle in. It was bad enough that they were being shipped off to the Russian front to almost certain death; he couldn’t bear to witness the death of their hopes as well. It was only human to cling to some hope, however tenuous and fragile. The hope of a miracle. The hope that maybe things would not be as bad as they feared. Maybe the Russians would surrender. Maybe they would be among those who survived. But Jozsef knew that once they saw the train their flickering hopes would be snuffed out like a candle in the rain. There were no carriages for labour battalion conscripts. Word travels faster than trains and he’d had no need to turn his binoculars on the rolling stock in the siding to confirm the worst.

  There were only three box cars for one hundred and seventy-eight men. In each car there was one bucket for human waste, one for drinking water. How many days would it take to reach their destination, most men standing until it was their brief turn to lie down? How many would fail to survive even the trip? Jozsef was ashamed by his exemption, but more so by his inability to change a single thing that might in some way alleviate their ordeal. He was ashamed of his railway uniform. That was another reason why he had retreated to the signal box.

  From his vantage point, Jozsef watched as the gendarmes began herding conscripted Jews not onto the platform but into Iskola Park alongside the station, where they formed them into sections. The conscripts wore their warmest clothes and boots and held tightly packed carry bags. But Jozsef knew it wouldn’t take long for the icy wind driving in from the steppes to chill every cell in their bodies. Had they been allowed to huddle together for warmth, to seek shelter from the wind, they may have found some comfort. But the gendarmes, as though to reinforce the helplessness of the Jews’ plight, insisted they stand in lines.

  The conscripts’ families who had come to farewell their men were allowed to wait in the street to the east of the station. Gendarmes surrounded them to quell any thoughts of a demonstration. But who was there left to demonstrate? Jozsef could see only frightened women and children, a few exempted students and a smattering of helpless old men. He wanted to go to them and tell them to return home, that standing there freezing served no purpose. But though the men assembled in the park were too far away to be identified as individuals, perhaps their families clung to the hope that they might catch a last glimpse of their loved ones in a window as the train crept past. But Jozsef knew there would be no glimpses because there would be no windows. Just sealed box cars with their doors nailed shut to prevent escape. Just more cause for grief.

  It was almost three hours from the time the Jews first began to assemble in the park before the train drew away from the siding and up to the platform for loading. His heart sank as Thomas and the rest of the conscripts were marched up from the park. The timber box cars were old and worn, with gaps between the slats, many of which had split and broken edges. They offered little respite from the cruel wind and the occupants’ only hope was that snow and ice would freeze over the gaps. Jozsef was well aware how courageous and stoic Thomas could be, that he would rather lose his life than his dignity. But how was he feeling now as he lined up on the platform and realised that the box cars they’d seen away down the track were not for cattle or cargo but for them? How would he feel when he stepped inside? Would he be doctor and offer what comfort he could? Or succumb to the horror of the realisation that his family and Tokaj Street were now memories and his life as he had known it was over? For ever.

  Jozsef raised his binoculars to his eyes, something he’d promised himself he would not do, and searched the sea of faces for Thomas. He found him eventually, still standing erect, still refusing to be bowed. He didn’t dare speculate on the thoughts going through his friend’s head.

  ‘Good luck, Thomas,’ he whispered. Then added, uncharacteristically, ‘May you find God, my friend. May God find you.’

  He didn’t have the heart to sea
rch the crowd for Thomas’s family in the cul-de-sac. Nor did he need to. He knew with aching certainty exactly what he would see.

  Balazs’s reprieve was short-lived. Five weeks later, he was rounded up with thirty-seven other Jewish men and marched under guard to the station. If the tactic was designed to humiliate them, it achieved its objective. Jozsef didn’t know whether the anti-Semitic propaganda had begun to bite or whether the Gentiles of sleepy Sarospatak had finally decided to show their true colours. A change had come over the town, that much was certain. War unites people against a common enemy, and propaganda had branded all Jews as Communists and Russian sympathisers and therefore the enemy. They ceased being friends and neighbours, bakers and butchers, cobblers and teachers, doctors and lawyers, and instead became somehow responsible for all the suffering endured by Hungarian soldiers on the eastern front. People lined the streets to abuse and spit on the sorry, despondent conscripts as they zig-zagged to the station, gathering one unfortunate from this street, another from that. Doubtless there were some decent citizens who felt ashamed by what their fellow townsfolk were doing, but, whoever they were, they were not in evidence.

  Jewish families following along behind were not spared either. Yet they persevered, continuing on through the abuse too numbed by their impending loss to fully comprehend what was happening. It was small compensation that this time families were allowed onto the platform and even permitted to hug the conscripts one last time. Perhaps some found hope in the fact that there was no box car for these conscripts but a regular carriage, albeit one guarded by a contingent of gendarmes.

  Jozsef had thought about retreating once more to the signal box but had decided against it. He watched the tearful farewells through his window, coffee in hand, until he spotted Balazs. The young man’s courage touched him. Balazs was far too intelligent not to understand the dreadful fate which in all likelihood awaited him, yet he smiled encouragingly at his mother and sisters, comforted them and gave them heart. Perhaps Jozsef realised the truth in that instant: that he was deluding himself by thinking he was hiding his Jewish origins, and it was only a matter of time before he boarded one of the trains himself.