Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  He left the security of his office and walked out onto the platform, pushing his way through the crowd to Balazs. The gendarmes had already begun separating family from conscripts when Jozsef reached the young man. He handed him his mug of hot steaming coffee.

  ‘When you get back, leave Hungary. Go to Palestine. Go where you are wanted. Go where Jews have a future.’ Jozsef took Balazs’s hand and shook it solemnly.

  For a brief instant the young man’s composure weakened. He realised immediately what Jozsef was doing, that he was giving him another reason to try to stay alive, a dream to help sustain him.

  ‘Any chance you can re-route this train?’ Balazs asked wryly.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Jozsef stepped back to allow the gendarmes to load their human cargo. Soon the conscripts would be transferred to box cars; Jozsef knew the location of the siding where the box cars awaited them. Once inside, guards would drive home the final nails in the coffin of their hope. Jozsef remained on the platform while the train pulled away, ears filled with the wails and cries of those left behind. He suspected he was watching his own fate previewed and wondered how much longer his job would protect him. How much more time would it buy him with his sons?

  Up until he’d been stripped of his position and influence and banished to the provinces, Jozsef hadn’t thought much about meals, other than that he enjoyed some more than others. Food was something that simply appeared on the table, even while his wife was still alive, a product of the kitchen which was the province of their housekeeper and rarely visited. His exile changed everything and Jozsef had been forced to learn to cook. At the beginning, his repertoire had been limited to frying and baking meat when it was available. But with meat scarce, he’d had to learn how to make soups and stews with vegetables and often no meat at all. His cooking never rose to great heights but he managed well enough. If the boys had any complaint it was that he often cooked enough to last three nights. Three nights of beetroot soup or goulash was as much as any boy could stand.

  The evening Balazs left for Russia, Jozsef didn’t take his sons to Tokaj Street to extend their sympathies. He’d learned from Thomas’s departure that Katica, Elizabeth and Gabriella needed time alone to come to terms with their loss, and that their presence, however well-meaning, only impeded the process. Instead they stayed home and finished off a spicy stew which Tibor had reheated. As Jozsef watched the two boys mop up the gravy with thick, coarse bread, he made a decision. He decided the time had come to prepare Tibor and Milos for life on the run.

  ‘From tomorrow, you boys will be entirely responsible for what we eat in this house,’ he said.

  His sons looked at him curiously, not grasping the significance.

  ‘You will buy the food we eat and make all the meals.’

  ‘But Dad …!’ said Milos. ‘We don’t know how to cook. I don’t. Tibor doesn’t.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Tibor. He turned to his father. ‘What exactly do you have in mind?’

  ‘Food is becoming scarce and also expensive. You will have a budget which you will keep to. You will have to sniff out sources for vegetables and for meat. You will have to make contacts with peasants and deal directly with them. You will both do this, understand? There will be no division of tasks. Tibor, you will teach Milos how to deal with people. You will also both learn to cook.’

  Jozsef reached across the table so he could put an arm on the shoulders of each of his sons. ‘I am sorry that this has become necessary. Today they took Balazs away. I can’t pretend that one day they won’t also take me.’

  Milos leapt from his chair to throw his arms around his father who’d just expressed his worst fear. Jozsef’s oval face eased into a tired smile.

  ‘Enough, Milos, I haven’t gone yet.’ He gently coaxed his son back to his chair. ‘Meanwhile we have time for adventures.’

  ‘What sort of adventures?’ asked Milos suspiciously.

  ‘After church on Sunday, why don’t we go hiking in the country? We’ll pack a lunch and take it with us. See how far we can get. Maybe the following Sunday we’ll take the train to Satoraljaujhely and hike up into the Zemplen Hills. We’ve been far too lazy. It’s time we got to know the countryside around us. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Milos.

  ‘Why east?’ asked Tibor. ‘Surely we’d be better off heading south-west?’

  ‘East away from Germany or west away from Russia? One day the choice will be made for you, no? My thinking is that forests and hills will serve you better than the wide open plains of the Alfold. Perhaps one day we should explore the caves of Aggtelek. Would you like to see the caves, Milos?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, suddenly serious as he realised the intent of the conversation. These were the other arrangements his father had spoken of and, in typical fashion, was preparing them for. Milos dreaded the answer to the next question but felt compelled to ask.

  ‘When will they come for you?’

  ‘Next week, next year, maybe never. Who knows? One day they will realise that the father of these two fine Christian boys is still nominally a Jew. On that day they may also discover that our little backwater railway can get along quite nicely without me. The point is, Milos, if we wait for them to act, we will have no option but to do exactly as they say.’

  ‘Will you come with us?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Jozsef glanced at Tibor. ‘Even if I do, I would still want Tibor to lead. I would do exactly what he told me to do without hesitation. Milos, will you do what Tibor tells you to do?’

  ‘Yes, I always do.’

  Jozsef laughed. ‘Then it’s settled. You two are now in charge of meals. And every Sunday from now on, we’re going exploring.’

  ‘One thing,’ said Milos.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can we take Gabriella with us?’

  Nobody came for Jozsef that summer, nor was there a knock on the door in the autumn or even as winter once again took hold. Often during their hikes and Sunday adventures it was possible to forget there was a war on, to forget the threat that hung over their heads. They explored the northern uplands and Zemplen Hills, not just familiarising themselves with the trails and terrain but building up their strength and fitness. Milos put on a growth spurt that saw him not only catch up with Gabriella but pass her. Even Jozsef slimmed down with all the unaccustomed exercise, but he pretended to blame his loss of weight on the meals Tibor and Milos prepared. At Tibor’s insistence, they also explored the country south-west, into the great plains where they met their first csikos, Hungary’s legendary cowboys who tended the herds of cattle and horses. Sometimes Gabriella accompanied them but she struggled to keep up.

  Once a month, they stayed in Sarospatak for Sunday lunch at Tokaj Street. Although much of the spark that had made their visits so magical had gone east with Uncle Thomas and Balazs, lunch at Tokaj Street still held an irresistible attraction. It wasn’t just another opportunity to see Gabriella that drew the boys but something far more meaningful. They didn’t have to cook.

  Jozsef and his two Catholic sons still managed to exempt themselves from the random persecutions that affected other Jewish families. People didn’t abuse them or throw stones through their windows at night. No one blamed them, as other Jews were blamed, for the loss of a husband, son or brother on the eastern front. No one pissed on the boys in the school toilets. No one spilled ink over their homework. Jozsef continued to count his blessings but the war touched them nonetheless. Agnostic railwaymen and Christians were not immune to its heartbreak.

  Thomas’s carefully worded letters were infrequent at best, but each one was received gratefully and joyfully in Tokaj Street, providing confirmation that he was still alive. Sometimes they came with a note attached, confirming that the letter had been smuggled away from the front by a grateful patient and forwarded on. Then the letters ceased. There were none from Balazs either. Not once had they received any kind of letter or message from him but that was of less concern. Very few mess
ages escaped the camps of the labour battalions. But they expected to hear from Thomas in his privileged position in the field hospitals. Thomas’s continued silence hit Tokaj Street hard. Not even the Sunday lunches with Jozsef and the boys could dispel the growing sense of dread.

  Six weeks after the disastrous Battle of Voronezh, in which Hungary’s army was virtually annihilated and most of its equipment destroyed, a knock on the door confirmed their worst fears. Thomas was dead. The news burst upon the household with all the force of the Russian shell which had killed him. He had been blown to pieces midway through the battle, doing what he’d been trained to do: trying to save another soldier’s life.

  Jozsef, Tibor and Milos raced around to Tokaj Street the instant they heard, but what could they do? Thomas had not just been the head of the family but its heart and mainstay, the prop to which Katica and her daughters’ plans for the future were attached. His death left them bereft of support, purpose and direction. Jozsef and his sons did what they could. They could comfort but they could not cure. Only time could do that. Only time.

  As the weeks and months passed, Jozsef’s own fears heightened. Jews were still being rounded up for labour battalions to work mines and factories, and each departing train brought both relief and a warning. The gendarmes were casting their net wider. Able-bodied men were taken regardless of age and they’d even taken some boys as young as sixteen. Tibor was now fourteen and a half. Jozsef realised time was rapidly running out.

  Milos stopped speaking and reached for his wine glass, despite the fact that he’d drained it half an hour earlier and it had sat empty ever since. Gancio recognised this as the signal to start preparing their coffees and grappa. Intermission had come at last.

  ‘Why the third person?’ said Neil.

  Milos ignored him and rubbed his eyes wearily.

  ‘Let’s at least wait for coffee before beginning the interrogation,’ said Ramon. He turned his head in the direction of the hissing espresso machine.

  ‘I agree,’ said Lucio. ‘It can be exhausting telling a story, as we are all aware. Particularly one as harrowing as this.’

  ‘Let him ask,’ said Milos. ‘It’s a fair question, one I should have answered before I began. I refer to myself in the third person because I have little choice. It is the only way this story can be told.’

  ‘The only way or the best way?’ asked Ramon.

  Milos hesitated. ‘Both,’ he said and leaned heavily on his elbows as though the questioning was taking the last of his energy. ‘Of course there are other ways, no? But they are inappropriate. I would find it embarrassing to use the first person. Saying “I did this, I did that” all the time. It is also easier to be objective using the third person. You can understand that, no?’

  ‘Sure. Like Ramon did,’ said Neil, referring to the last story the blind man had told.

  ‘Ah, Neil, this is your downfall,’ said Ramon. ‘You can never resist the opportunity to score cheap points. But look what you’ve done — you’ve created a diversion and let Milos off the hook. I don’t believe for one second that he chose to use the third person to aid objectivity or because he would find it embarrassing to use the first person. No, there is a more calculated reason and clearly he does not want us to know what it is. Is he using the third person because it is necessary to get to the truth? Or to contrive a fiction? What do you think, Neil?’

  ‘I think it’s just a conceit, a tiresome attempt to bring his story to life.’

  ‘Ignore him, Milos,’ said Lucio. ‘That kind of comment doesn’t merit an answer. He’s still sore because we made him wait to tell his story.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Neil. ‘It’s just that I’ve heard it all before. The war sucked. People suffered. Jews got trampled on. Where are the twists we were promised, the subtle interplay of wit, a little levity? Entertainment, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Egy kis turelmet,’ said Milos.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ramon, ‘have a little patience. Milos does nothing without good reason. He builds his stories like the Egyptians built pyramids. Stone by stone. Foundations first. His use of the third person is one of those foundations. If you hadn’t interrupted, we might have more insight into his motives. Milos also promised us another breach of our conventions, one we could not anticipate. I think his use of the third person provides a clue to what form this breach might take. Your impatience denied me the opportunity to pursue this.’

  ‘You’ll survive,’ said Neil.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ said Ramon. ‘The clues are there if you care to listen. If you care to use your brain before you open your mouth.’

  ‘Here you are,’ cut in Gancio. He glanced anxiously from Ramon to Neil. ‘Coffee and grappa. What’s the matter with you anyway? You don’t normally argue until the fourth day of a new story.’

  ‘It’s the pace of the story,’ said Neil morosely. ‘I already feel like I’ve been here for days.’ He turned to Milos. ‘So where are you taking us next? More wallowing in the past? Where are we up to — 1943? God help us, this story is going to take for ever.’

  ‘I think I’m beginning to understand your problem, Neil,’ said Milos. ‘Earlier you accused me, and people like me who have escaped tyrannies, of feeling superior because we have suffered and you haven’t. That’s a distortion of the truth, isn’t it? The problem is not that we feel superior but that you feel inferior, because we have lived whereas you haven’t.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘Rubbish? I don’t think so. What were you doing when you were twelve years old? Were you being beaten up at school and pissed on? Was your father plucked out of your happy little home and sent away to certain death? No. We all know he wasn’t. While your father was teaching you to play cricket, mine was teaching me how to survive. How to survive the Arrow Cross thugs who plucked Jews off the street at random and lynched them. How to survive Eichmann and Auschwitz. How to survive the Russians. You resent the fact that I lived more as a teenager than you will in your entire life. You resent the fact that you will never have any experiences to compare with mine. Never! Admit it, Neil.’

  ‘Crap,’ said Neil, but he was clearly uneasy.

  ‘I think Milos has hit the nail on the head,’ said Lucio.

  ‘I do too,’ added Ramon.

  The blind man was intrigued. He was surprised at how determined Milos was to make Neil regret his comments and was beginning to wonder whether there was more to it, whether this was the whole point of Milos’s story. Was his attack on Neil premeditated or opportunistic? Ramon suspected the latter. Milos had set out to unburden himself of his past and was obviously irritated by Neil. Then again, he must have known how Neil would react to another European war story. Ramon smiled inwardly at the apparent contradiction. Neil wanted entertainment; Ramon was certain that he was going to get far more than he bargained for.

  ‘You see, Neil,’ continued Milos, ‘I think you resent my living through some of the most terrible events in history. You feel the fact that I survived them — that I had the wit, strength and courage — somehow makes me superior to you. That’s quite understandable, no?’

  He paused to let this last barb sink in, aware how much Ramon and Lucio were enjoying Neil’s discomfort.

  ‘You may resent me for this, but the truth is, I envy you. I envy you because you will never know fear as I have, never suffer my deprivations, never be in a situation where life and death stand as equals, neither more nor less desirable than the other. I envy the fact that you will never know if you too have the wit, strength and courage to survive.’

  ‘Where’s all this shit coming from?’ said Neil defensively. ‘I just asked where you’re taking us next.’

  ‘I’m taking you back again, Neil, where else? This story must run its course. But for your sake I’ll skip a year. I’ll move the story on. Does everyone agree?’

  ‘It’s your story,’ said Ramon. ‘It will be absorbing however you choose to tell it.’

  ‘If I jump a year to nineteen forty-
four, I’ll need to fill the gap with a little bit of history. I’ll keep it as brief as I can so Neil doesn’t fall asleep.’

  Milos settled back in his chair, as did the others. The second session had begun.

  ‘The regent, Horthy, and the new prime minister, Miklos Kallay, were still loath to commit themselves entirely as Hitler’s allies, despite having sent their entire army to the eastern front to fight Russia. They’d crawled into bed with Germany but refused to believe they were bearing its child. They tried to climb back on the fence instead and committed themselves to another bizarre balancing act. They again sent feelers out to the West to establish a dialogue. They feared Russia even more than they feared Hitler and believed they were doing the West a favour by fighting with the Germans on the eastern front. Their ideal scenario went something like this: the Germans defeat Russia after which the West defeats Germany, whereupon Hungary would open its borders to the West unopposed.

  ‘In the meantime they wanted to keep their hands clean. They imprisoned the leaders of Hungary’s Nazi Party, the Arrow Cross, and protected Hungarian Jews from the Germans. By this time, Jews from all over Europe were being taken to the death camps but none came from Hungary. In fact Hungary became something of a haven for Jews from other European countries. In retrospect, this is quite extraordinary. Horthy had a history of anti-Semitism and the Hungarian army was openly anti-Semitic. So why? Simple. Because Horthy wanted to limit the damage when the West ultimately won.

  ‘Yet while Horthy protected the Jewish women and children, he permitted the labour battalions, though he must have known how appallingly the Jewish conscripts were being treated. The lucky ones were sent to work as slave labour in mines and factories. They still died in droves but at a much lesser rate than those who were sent to the eastern front and were at the mercy of the anti-Semitic sadists in the Hungarian army. You know, even the German SS were appalled at the treatment the Hungarian army dished out to their Jews. Horthy wanted to help Germany defeat Russia and in the Jewish labour battalions he had a potentially powerful resource. If only the army had looked after them.