Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  ‘Instead the army treated them worse than slaves. They arrived at the front after anything up to ten days in the box cars, having had little water and even less food to sustain them. They were weak, dispirited, half dead and half frozen before they even arrived. They were dropped into camps that often had no shelter and no sanitation and immediately put to work. Can you imagine how back-breaking digging that frozen Russian soil must have been? They were forced to work till they dropped, and when they didn’t work fast enough they were cruelly beaten. Some were even shot. They were thrown into latrines and defecated upon. Every humiliation imaginable was heaped upon them. Those who didn’t die from overwork died from disease or exposure. There were innumerable atrocities. In at least one instance, Jews were used for target practice. Target practice. Live rounds, live targets.

  ‘But Horthy’s balancing act, like Bardossy’s, was doomed to fail. As the Russian army advanced Hitler became concerned about his unreliable ally and, to protect his supply lines and communications, offered Horthy a simple choice: either full cooperation under German supervision or full German occupation and the status and treatment of an enemy country. Once again Horthy toppled off the fence into the German camp, this time with catastrophic consequences for Hungarian Jews.

  ‘Horthy sacked Kallay and formed a collaborationist government. When the Germans moved into Hungary, so did Adolf Eichmann. He’d already demonstrated his ruthlessness in exterminating Jews from the rest of Europe. Now he was given free hand in Hungary to do whatever he liked.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Spring 1944

  People say that if you put your ear to a railway line you can hear a train coming long before it comes into view. Jozsef put his ear to the line through his many contacts and began hearing the names of places like Auschwitz, Buchenwald, Mauthausen and Dachau. His first reaction was disbelief. He dismissed the rumours but they refused to go away, each new rumour substantiating the other and contributing to a mass which could no longer be ignored. One Friday, he took his suspicions to the synagogue on Rakocsi Street and discovered he wasn’t the first to air them. Jews who had fled to Hungary from other parts of Europe had brought the horrific tales with them, tales spread in dark, disbelieving whispers from one community to another. Still, people doubted the truth. Such cold-blooded inhumanity was too incredible, too extreme, to be anything but outrageous exaggeration. The scale was simply beyond people’s capacity to comprehend. But if others could deny the rumours, Jozsef could not. His visit to the synagogue may not have convinced anyone else, but it convinced him.

  When the Germans occupied Hungary in March 1944, Jozsef had little doubt what would happen. The only unanswered question was when. He believed the round-up would start in Budapest, where most of Hungary’s Jews were concentrated, and gradually spread out to the provinces. Sarospatak was one of the furthest towns from the capital and he drew heart from that. With the Russians making huge progress west and knocking on the door of Eastern Galicia, he thought the odds favoured them reaching the sleepy backwater of Sarospatak well before Adolf Eichmann. In truth, that was what he wanted to believe, because the alternative was too horrific to countenance. So he believed it. He ignored the advice he’d given Balazs and the stand he’d taken with his sons. Uncharacteristically, having consistently preached the gospel of pre-emptive action and each person taking control of their own destiny, Jozsef decided to wait and see what happened.

  To some extent, Jozsef was blinkered by poverty. When he had been forced to leave Budapest, he’d lost not only his position but most of his money and possessions. He’d lost his furniture and his art, which he’d been obliged to sell for a laughable sum to his successor, along with his apartment. All he had brought with him to Sarospatak was the proceeds from the sale, his wife’s jewellery and some cash which he’d had the foresight to place in his mother’s care. Over the years, much of that money had been dissipated supplementing his meagre salary. Although he was required to coordinate and schedule rail activity throughout the region, he was still paid as a lowly rural stationmaster. Jozsef took pride in the fact that he’d managed to keep himself and the boys well fed, their clothes clean and in good repair, and their little cottage comfortable and warm, despite his circumstances. So when the Germans introduced new restrictions on Jews, being a man with little to lose he didn’t heed the warnings.

  He was unaffected when, over the following weeks, Jews were ordered to hand over their shops, offices and factories to Aryan management, unaffected when Jews were expelled from the professions, and overlooked when they were expelled from the civil service. He was unaffected when Jews were ordered to give up their telephones, cars and radios, having none to give up. Unaffected when bank accounts were frozen and Jews obliged to surrender their bicycles. When tighter rationing was introduced, he had every confidence in the ability of Tibor and Milos to obtain alternative supplies. The boys had taken their responsibilities to heart and bins of potatoes, turnips, parsnips and beets were hidden in their cellar along with sealed jars of sugar, flour and salt. This food, and the remaining cash he kept stashed away, provided a hedge against tough times. Jozsef had been expecting the restrictions and took the view that they were fortunate they hadn’t been introduced earlier. He saw them as harsh but temporary, certain to be reversed when the Russians arrived. The only restriction that caused him to lose sleep was the edict that all Jews and those with Jewish blood had to wear a yellow star-shaped patch.

  He was a Jew but because of the importance of his work for the railways his Jewishness was tolerated. His sons were Roman Catholic and only half Jewish. They were not persecuted for their Jewish blood and were generally accepted in the community as Catholics. They had not only been baptised but confirmed into the Catholic Church. They confessed every week and took the sacrament every Sunday. They were Catholics and that was a status he wanted to protect at all costs. Yet they also had Jewish blood and the penalty for Jews not wearing the yellow star was death.

  Jozsef believed it was more dangerous to admit to being a Jew than to deny it. He reasoned that if he and his sons were not perceived to be Jews, no one would notice the absence of the yellow star. He instructed them not to wear the patch and elected not to wear one himself. After all, how could his sons continue as Catholics if their father proclaimed himself a Jew?

  At first Jozsef was vindicated in his defiance. Most Jews were sufficiently frightened by the German occupation to do exactly as they were told. Yellow stars blossomed and this seemed to keep the gendarmerie happy. Nobody considered the Mischlinge, the Jews of mixed blood, and sleepy Sarospatak lacked the manpower to track them down and strictly enforce the edict.

  There was a hiatus for two weeks, during which nothing happened to cause Jozsef any particular alarm. But towards the end of April things began to change. It is the nature of railwaymen to keep tabs on who comes and goes, and Jozsef couldn’t help but notice an irregular pattern among the arrivals. One day seven men arrived among the usual handful of passengers. The obvious thing that aroused Jozsef’s interest was that they were of military age, clearly healthy, yet not in military uniform. They also pretended not to know each other when sly glances and smiles indicated otherwise. Over the next few days more men arrived under the same guise. The only mitigating circumstance was that far more young men remained on the train and passed through to Satoraljaujhely. Later, when he recognised one of the new arrivals wearing the cock-plumed uniform of the gendarmes, he decided it was time to warn his sons.

  Dinner was a carefully measured serve of vegetable soup made from dried vegetables and paprika and supplemented with chunks of fresh potato and turnip. There was no bread, coarse or otherwise, to wipe their bowls clean and fill the gaps in their stomachs. The soup was plain and sustaining but barely enough. Jozsef decided to let his sons enjoy it as best they could before voicing his concerns.

  ‘Have you noticed any increase in the number of gendarmes?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘We were wondering if you’d not
iced,’ said Tibor.

  Jozsef smiled. His sons missed nothing. Tibor was growing into the man Jozsef had always expected him to become. Already one hundred and seventy-five centimetres tall, raw-boned and strong, he exuded a sense of certainty that went beyond mere confidence. Milos had acquired some of his elder brother’s self-assurance but his physique and character would never be as imposing. The boy was bright but far too sensitive.

  ‘They’ve been bringing the gendarmes in by train,’ said Jozsef. ‘A few at a time and wearing civvies. I think they’re doing it deliberately so as not to cause alarm.’

  ‘There are more patrols now,’ said Milos. ‘They’re stopping more people in the street.’

  ‘I’m not sure there’s any need to be overly concerned,’ said Jozsef. ‘They’re obviously just here to enforce the new rules. Fortunately, you’ll be as much strangers to them as they are to you. Make sure you carry your baptismal papers with you. If you’re stopped they’ll have no reason to accuse you of being Jews.’

  ‘So long as that’s all they’re here for,’ said Tibor.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Jozsef.

  ‘Haven’t you heard what they’ve been doing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Apparently some of them have been stopping Jews in the street and beating them up. I’ve heard that many of these new gendarmes are Arrow Crossmen.’

  ‘When did you hear this?’ said Jozsef, suddenly alarmed.

  ‘This afternoon. I think it’s going to make our little forages a bit more exciting.’ Tibor smiled and winked at Milos.

  ‘Arrow Crossmen,’ repeated Jozsef. ‘Why would they send Arrow Crossmen here?’

  ‘They are gendarmes who happen to be Arrow Crossmen. But it might explain why they came in civvies,’ said Tibor. ‘How many more gendarmes do you think there are?’

  ‘Between twenty and twenty-five. Most of them went on to Satoraljaujhely.’

  ‘If they work shifts, that means there won’t be any more than ten or twelve extra men out on patrol at any one time.’ Tibor sat thinking for a moment. ‘That’s not many if you spread them around a bit.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Jozsef, ‘you should exercise caution. I think you should both stay home for a while. We’ve got enough food. We can get by on the rations and what we have in the cellar. There’s no need to take risks.’

  ‘I agree we should exercise greater caution,’ said Tibor. ‘But the more people there are who think like you, the more opportunities there are for us. Besides, we’re invited to lunch at Tokaj Street this Sunday. It’s time we repaid past hospitality with something more substantial than potatoes and turnips. Milos and I thought we should take them some meat.’

  ‘Meat! Where are you going to get meat from?’

  ‘I have a contact,’ said Tibor. ‘Four hundred grams of bacon bones. The price is too high so I guess they must include a fair amount of bacon. It’s set up for tomorrow night.’

  ‘Tomorrow night.’ Jozsef shook his head. ‘I don’t think that’s wise. I think you should wait a while. See how things are.’

  ‘It’s tomorrow or never. That’s the deal. If we pull out someone else will take our place. Right, Milos?’

  ‘Tibor’s right, Father. Besides, they need something to cheer them up around at Tokaj Street.’

  ‘Okay.’ Jozsef raised his hands in mock surrender. He could see no point arguing when Tibor had already made up his mind, and could not find it in his heart to deny the women at Tokaj Street anything that would bring some cheer into their lives. Besides, Tibor was better placed to assess the risks. ‘I can’t tell you not to go but I can tell you to take care.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ said Tibor.

  ‘And take Milos.’

  There were times Tibor wanted to challenge his father’s edict on task-splitting. He acknowledged the wisdom of it because he still had much to teach his younger brother, and had to accept that one day his luck might desert him. One day the gendarmes might catch him smuggling food. One day Milos might have to manage on his own. As much as Tibor liked to minimise risk and make sure everything was under control, he had to acknowledge that luck was playing an increasing part in his activities.

  Tibor could feel Milos shivering alongside him. They lay on their bellies beneath a neglected stand of apricot trees. With no one to prune the trees, the naked branches hung listless and straggly. The snow that had been threatening all day had finally begun to fall and carpet the ground. Tibor hoped the snow might keep the gendarmes inside where it was warm but knew it was only wishful thinking. It might keep some gendarmes inside. On the other hand, the snow diluted their only advantage: darkness. The peasant’s house and small cluster of pens and stables stood out in stark relief against the snow. Tibor realised he had no choice but to use the track carved into the soil by the farmer’s carts. To do otherwise would leave a telltale trail of footprints. Sooner or later the snow would cover them, but later might be too late.

  ‘Reverse your coat.’

  Milos obeyed Tibor’s instruction instantly, even though putting the wet exterior against his clothes would make him colder. He had been expecting it. At the onset of winter, Tibor had given their coats to Elizabeth and asked her to sew in a new liner made from old sheets. She’d done so and, once reversed, the coats blended in with the snow.

  ‘Stay here. The last thing we need is two sets of footprints. If gendarmes come keep as still as you can. If they stop me, I’ll deal with it.’

  Milos nodded. He hadn’t yet learned all Tibor could teach him but he could recognise the risks and see the logic in his brother’s instructions.

  ‘Good luck,’ he whispered.

  Tibor rolled gently onto the pathway so he left no footprints back to Milos’s hiding place, stood and set off as quickly as he could towards the tiny house. He didn’t reverse his coat but pulled his neck into the collar as peasants did. He also pulled his cap lower over his face and contrived to walk with a typical peasant’s bent-back shuffle. Milos found himself smiling despite the danger and his discomfort. His brother had a good eye and a talent for mimicry. Nobody could look at him and think he was anything other than a peasant making his way home. Milos watched until Tibor’s shape became blurred by the snow then turned his attention back to his surrounds. He listened for soft footfalls, the crunch of a twig hidden beneath a dusting of snow, the sound of a vehicle on the street in front of the houses behind him, the bark of a disturbed dog.

  The house was three hundred metres from the vantage point in the orchard, on a flat plain with few trees and no cover. Tibor had baulked at the location of the handover but had been given no choice. He was mobile and the seller wasn’t, laid low by an infected ulcer on his leg. If Tibor was unwilling to take the risk, there were others who weren’t. He’d intended to circle around the house and approach from the opposite side to the town. But the snow had left him no choice. He could smell wood smoke and see wisps rise from the little house’s chimney. Back door or front? Front. If anyone was watching from the town, if there was the slightest chance he was still visible to them, he didn’t want to arouse their suspicions by stealing around the back. He approached the front door and pressed hard against it before knocking. A peasant would not knock on his own front door. It opened instantly and he stepped quickly inside.

  Tibor removed his cap and smiled at the woman who’d opened the door. She was plainly frightened, too frightened to respond. Without hesitating he stepped up to her and kissed her on both cheeks. The woman’s jaw dropped in amazement and she couldn’t help but smile back. That was something else Tibor was good at, something Milos had yet to master. Tibor had the ability to infect people with his own confidence and, by so doing, made them want to do business with him again. That was important. Contacts were becoming increasingly scarce as the gendarmes stepped up their patrols. Every contact had to be managed.

  The house was basically two rooms and a tiny kitchen. The larger room was for eating and entertaining, the smaller one was the bedroo
m. Tibor quickly took in the rack of bacon bones sitting on the table between two candles so that he could inspect it. His glance told him all that he needed to know. The peasants were honest and not out to cheat him. He walked straight past the table and stopped at the bedroom door. A single candle burned inside a blackened glass chimney, throwing just enough light for Tibor to see the man on the bed propped up against pillows, his injured leg swaddled in bandages. He tossed a tiny packet of powders onto the bed.

  ‘For your leg. It’s not much but it’ll help.’

  The man stared back at him, his face barely visible.

  ‘You bring the cigarettes?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Tibor.

  ‘I’ll take those for the pain.’

  Tibor smiled. He’d shown his face and sweetened the trade with the remains of a sulphur compound his Uncle Thomas had once given him. It was all a question of trust. He turned back to the table.

  ‘Wrap it,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t want to examine it?’ The peasant woman could not hide her surprise.

  Tibor replied by taking the small packet of Munkas cigarettes from his pocket and placing it on the table. He then handed the woman the small packet of salt, the larger packet of sugar and the bag of flour. She weighed each bag in her hands expertly before sampling the contents with the tip of her finger. She couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘How do you get these things?’ she asked.

  ‘How do I get bacon?’ he replied.

  Tibor watched her wrap the bacon bones, trying not to appear anxious. He had three hundred metres of open country to cross. Milos was waiting beneath the apricot trees alone and vulnerable. And they still had to duck patrols back across the river and all the way across town to their cottage. The woman finished her wrapping and handed the package to him.

  ‘Be careful,’ she said, and crossed herself.