Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  Tibor slipped out of the door and studied his footprints. The snow was filling them in but too slowly. Realising that if he walked back the same way his tracks would be so deep they’d probably stay there till morning, he stepped over the hump in the track to the furthest rut the cartwheels had made. Once again he affected the peasant’s hunched shuffle. He appeared to be watching the path ahead of him but in fact his eyes scanned his surroundings as best they could. Snow was still falling but too lightly to hide him from anyone watching. Despite the fact that he saw nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to cause alarm, he began to feel apprehensive. The lie of the land left him too exposed. If there were any patrols about they would stop him on principle. He wanted to run but instead forced himself to slow down. He stopped as though to tighten the binding on his boots, something he thought a peasant might do but a nervous smuggler, never.

  ‘Idiot!’ he whispered, berating himself. If a patrol was watching they’d stop him anyway. He realised his play with his boot was only to reassure himself, or an unconscious piece of bravado to impress Milos. The thought made him smile and he glanced up towards the apricot trees where he knew his brother would be watching him. His smile froze. A match flared briefly in the night. A cigarette glowed. Two dark shapes moved out onto the track fifty metres ahead of him, blocking the way. There was nothing aggressive or intimidating about the way they moved. Their mere presence was intimidation enough. Tibor realised his luck had finally run out.

  Milos had heard the gendarmes coming down the path behind him, heard them laughing as they discussed a girl. One of them had finally persuaded her to open her legs. His heart had leapt into his mouth and his breath froze on his lips. He took his eyes off Tibor and slowly turned so that he could see the men. He hoped their conversation would keep them sufficiently distracted so that a cursory look around would suffice and they’d turn back the way they’d come. But they didn’t turn back, they kept coming towards him. Closer, closer. Milos held his breath as they drew alongside then stopped less than two metres in front of him. He knew the dusting of snow over his inside-out coat would make him well nigh invisible in the dark unless he’d moved and churned up the snow. Had he moved? No. But surely they could hear him breathing! He almost groaned aloud when he heard a match strike and saw the brief flare.

  ‘Hey you!’ called one of the guards. Milos lifted his head, thinking he’d been spotted in the glow of the match. But they were looking away from him and down the path. Straight at Tibor. The sudden flood of relief went as quickly as it came. They’d spotted Tibor! Milos fought back panic. What had Tibor told him to do if the gendarmes came? Stay put, keep still, let him deal with it. Milos had no illusions about Tibor’s skills as a negotiator but this time nothing could save him. No amount of fast talking could conceal the fact that he was smuggling black-market food. The best Tibor could hope for was a beating and imprisonment, though execution was a more likely outcome. Why didn’t Tibor turn and run? The gendarmes’ guns weren’t at the ready and weren’t cocked. Tibor could put some distance between them and him before they could get off a shot, and there was little likelihood of them catching up with him. But then there’d be the trail in the fresh snow. Milos groaned inwardly.

  Why hadn’t Tibor turned and run? Possible capture had to be better than certain capture. Yet, unbelievably, Tibor gave no sign of even having heard the guards, though he must have. He just shuffled along as any peasant would who had nothing to hide.

  The two gendarmes had resumed their conversation. One of them began laughing. But their attention was fastened on Tibor and it slowly dawned on Milos that that was what Tibor wanted. How, when, would he make his move?

  ‘Old man, don’t you know it’s snowing?’ called one of the gendarmes. Tibor didn’t respond.

  ‘Too much palinka,’ said the other. Palinka was cheap, often home-brewed brandy made from whatever fruit was available.

  Tibor kept plodding towards them, head down as though deaf. Milos slowly drew his legs up beneath him. They felt frozen and leaden and he was scared they’d let him down. Tibor kept on coming. When he was five metres away he stopped, as if seeing the gendarmes for the first time.

  ‘Too much palinka,’ agreed the other gendarme. They both laughed.

  Milos stood silently and crept closer to the gendarmes. His brother had to have seen him. Tibor raised his hands as though in surrender and started shuffling towards the gendarmes. He began whimpering. Milos took this as his instruction to act, leapt forward and banged the two gendarmes’ heads together with all the strength his fourteen-year-old body could muster.

  Bone crashed against bone with a sound unexpectedly loud and sickening. Neither man did more than gasp as he crumpled. A cigarette spun into the air, its tip glowing. A rifle clattered to the ground. Milos was aware of Tibor charging, heard a thud and a groan of pain. The gendarme on his right doubled over and fell. The other gendarme tried to raise his hands in defence but Tibor hit him as well. He groaned and collapsed onto the ground alongside his comrade. When one of them tried to call out, Milos panicked. He lashed out with his boot to silence him, felt it crunch into cheek. He lashed out again and again, dimly aware of Tibor kicking the other gendarme, but aware, even more aware, of the rasp of their breathing. He grabbed Tibor’s arm.

  ‘Enough! Let’s go!’

  ‘Wait.’

  Tibor picked up one of the rifles, reversed it and set himself to smash it into the head of the nearest gendarme.

  ‘No!’ said Milos.

  ‘Get out of my way!’

  ‘No! If you kill them they’ll want revenge!’ Milos nodded in the direction of the peasant’s house.

  Tibor paused, and lowered the rifle.

  ‘You’re learning,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  They doubled back up the track to where it joined the street. Milos wanted to run but Tibor grabbed hold of him.

  ‘What have I told you? Never run. Running attracts attention. Only guilty people run, only people with something to hide. What if there’s a patrol?’

  ‘Two patrols in the one area? On a night like this?’ Milos pulled his arm free of Tibor’s grip.

  ‘Do you know for sure there won’t be another patrol, little brother, or are you just guessing?’

  Milos hung his head.

  ‘Right,’ said Tibor. ‘Now put your coat back on the right way around. And we walk from now on, okay.’

  Tibor led the way, pausing at each street corner to check the road ahead. The streets were deserted, as Milos knew they would be. They’d barely covered half a kilometre when Tibor stopped suddenly and raised his finger to his lips for silence. While Tibor stood there listening, Milos scanned the road ahead and behind for a sign of anything amiss. He glanced at the windows of the houses opposite to see if anyone was watching. Nothing. No slit of light where somebody might be watching from between drawn curtains. The houses were small working men’s cottages which adjoined each other and opened directly onto the footpath. In some the doorways were recessed, making dark, shadowy places where people could hide. Milos studied each one in turn but saw nothing.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ he asked irritably.

  Tibor turned suddenly, grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into a doorway. Almost immediately, a truck turned into their street towards them. The motor was barely turning over as it slowly approached. Milos stared wide-eyed at Tibor. A truck moving so stealthily through the quiet streets could only be one thing.

  ‘Keep your head down, away from the headlights,’ hissed Tibor.

  Milos turned his back to the street and huddled down, grateful that Tibor had insisted he turn his coat again so the dark side was outwards. His heart pounded as the truck crept slowly towards them. Had they discovered the injured gendarmes already? Were they looking for them? Milos began praying to his Christian God, promising Jesus a lifetime of devotion if only he had the opportunity to live beyond the next few moments.

  ‘Shut up!’ hissed Tibor.

  Mil
os realised to his shame he’d been whispering his prayers aloud. Footprints! The moment the thought struck him Milos realised his life was over, that all of the prayers in the world could not help. He wanted to warn Tibor but didn’t dare speak. The truck was almost upon them. The gendarmes had to see the footprints in the snow, had to know they were hiding in the doorway. Milos had never been more scared in his life. He buried his head even further into his coat, tried to cover his ears to drown out the sound of the truck, the excited shouts and the inevitable clatter of booted feet. He closed his eyes as the doorway filled with foul exhaust fumes, expecting to open them to a hostile semi-circle of pointed rifles. Suddenly the truck was past them. He remained crouched, still not daring to breathe, waiting for the truck to stop, for someone to notice the footprints. The engine note did not change, merely grew fainter.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he whispered.

  ‘Wait,’ said Tibor.

  ‘Our footprints!’ hissed Milos.

  ‘Footprints lead to doorways all over town,’ whispered Tibor angrily. ‘How do you think people got home from work? Now shut up!’

  They waited until the dim red glow of the truck’s tail-light disappeared around the corner behind them.

  ‘Walk quickly,’ said Tibor. ‘Stay close to the doorways.’

  Walk. Milos nearly screamed in frustration. He’d had enough. He wanted to go home. But Tibor slowed and became more cautious as they approached the bridge over the Bodrog River. The bridge was a natural bottleneck and a favourite of the patrols. Tibor and Milos slipped into their usual hiding place in a gap between two buildings where they could observe both sides of the bridge. They normally hid there for five to ten minutes before attempting to cross, waiting for a car or truck to pass by so they could use the beams of its lights to search for signs of danger. Almost immediately Milos heard Tibor curse. There was no need to wait for any vehicles to pass by because Tibor could already see all he needed to. The gendarmes had set up a roadblock on the opposite side of the bridge.

  ‘They must have found the men we beat up,’ said Milos.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Tibor. ‘But with so many patrols out it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘We can’t stay here.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  Milos’s mind raced as he examined the options. Swimming the river was out of the question. If they didn’t succumb to the cold in the water, they would soon after they got out. Maybe they could find a boat, but people didn’t leave boats lying around to be found. He glanced across the bridge to the braziers the gendarmes had lit to keep themselves warm. They didn’t look like packing up any time soon. He had no choice but to turn the question back on Tibor.

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Come with me.’

  Tibor turned and headed back down the way they’d come. He stopped when he reached a narrow laneway and began scrubbing all the snow off the pavement. When Milos saw what he was doing he joined in to help.

  ‘Do exactly what I do,’ said Tibor, ‘but don’t walk in my tracks.’

  He turned around and, to Milos’s amazement, walked backwards into the lane. Milos followed, taking care to leave parallel tracks. Tibor paused briefly where another lane intersected, to make sure there were no patrols, and turned into it, still walking backwards. He stopped halfway along, waited for Milos to catch up, then tapped sharply on the door. Light flickered quickly over them from the bedroom window upstairs. Moments later the door opened and Milos followed Tibor into a small cramped hallway. A short, stocky, unshaven man in filthy underwear prevented them going any further. He held his oil lamp high so he could examine their faces.

  ‘Patrols have closed the bridge,’ said Tibor.

  ‘Who’s he?’ The man waved his free hand towards Milos. It was holding a pistol.

  ‘My brother.’

  ‘What have you got?’

  Tibor unwrapped the small rack of bacon. For the first time, Milos saw what he’d risked his life to get. There were six rib bones with a small, dry-looking eye of meat along the top of each rib and thin strips attached to the tails. The man regarded the offering dismissively. He grunted and nodded towards the back of the house. Milos found himself standing in the smallest and grubbiest kitchen he’d ever seen. The man handed Tibor a knife which he used without hesitation to cut the rack in half. The man eyed the two pieces silently for almost half a minute before deciding which to take.

  ‘Any coffee?’ asked Tibor. The man snorted derisively.

  ‘Come,’ he said. He led the two boys into the living room, the only other room on the ground floor. Two armchairs occupied most of the space. He took the bottom cushion off each and tossed them onto the floor in front of a guttering fire. He went away and returned with two thin blankets. In a moment of unexpected compassion, he poked the fire into a desultory show of life and threw on a single lump of coal.

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ he said, picked up his lamp and went back upstairs to his bed.

  Milos slipped out of his coat and crowded the fireplace. He began shivering uncontrollably from the cold and release of tension. His brother picked up one of the blankets and wrapped it around his shoulders.

  ‘Let’s get some sleep,’ said Tibor. ‘We’ll lie together on the floor here. Both blankets over us, our coats over the blankets. They’re too wet to lie on but at least they’ll help us to get warm.’

  ‘I need a piss.’

  ‘Lift the back window and stick it out.’ Even in the faint glow of the fire Tibor could see the shock on his brother’s face. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t be the first. Wait, I’ll come with you.’

  Both boys took pride in their ability to write their names in the snow but tonight neither gave it a moment’s consideration. Milos’s hand shook so badly with his shivering he was lucky he didn’t also spray the frame.

  ‘You did well,’ said Tibor, ‘back there on the track.’

  Milos nodded. Compliments from his brother were rare.

  ‘You were going to kill those gendarmes,’ he said accusingly.

  ‘Was I?’ said Tibor.

  ‘Yes! You were!’

  ‘Maybe I just wanted to be sure they’d stay asleep until we’d got well away.’

  Milos shuddered. How could he argue when all he wanted was to stop pissing, to lie down in front of the fire, get warm and go home.

  ‘What about Dad?’ he said through chattering teeth. ‘He’ll think we’ve been caught.’

  ‘My friend will wake us when the bridge is clear. He can see it from upstairs. Now button up.’ Tibor closed the window. ‘Let’s get some sleep.’

  Once under the blankets, he put his arms around his younger brother to stop him shivering. Sooner or later Milos would warm up sufficiently and fall asleep. Meanwhile Tibor considered their next move. Roadblocks across the bridge were nothing new, in fact, were becoming more frequent as food and supplies became scarcer. But he knew from experience that they rarely stayed in place all night. If things went as normal, the gendarmes would pack up and return to their barracks some time after midnight. Provided they didn’t overreact to the attack on the two gendarmes. What then? Tibor sighed. They’d just have to wait until morning and take their chances with the people making their way to work and to school. Of course they’d be searched which meant they’d have to leave behind what was left of their bacon bones. He cursed softly. That was not an acceptable option.

  In the little cottage across the river their father would be sitting up by the fire fearing the worst. Tibor pictured the pot of thin potato and onion soup on the stove, waiting for them to come home so they could eat together. He smiled ruefully in the darkness. All three of them would go hungry but there was nothing special about that. Hunger was something everyone in Hungary was getting used to. He closed his eyes.

  Their host woke them around two in the morning.

  ‘Go quickly,’ he said, and added unnecessarily, ‘Stay off the main roads. Watch for patrols.’

  Tibor almost had to
drag Milos away from the house and down the narrow laneway towards the bridge. His brother seemed numbed by the cold and lack of sleep, barely capable of walking. Tibor sat him down in a doorway while he went to observe the bridge. It had stopped snowing which improved his chances of spotting trouble, but not enough for him to be sure they could cross safely. As far as he could make out, the bridge and the road on the opposite side were deserted, but there were dark places that could conceal any number of sentries. But would they leave sentries if they’d abandoned the roadblock? He doubted it. But there would be extra patrols. Cold, angry men kept from a warm bed in the scant hope that whoever had beaten up their colleagues was still out and about. Tibor realised they had no choice. They had to chance it. He doubled back to his brother, dragged him to his feet and slapped him hard across the face.

  Milos recoiled in shock and stared fearfully at his brother, eyes wide for the first time that morning.

  ‘Little brother,’ Tibor hissed, ‘we have to run for it. Understand?’

  Milos nodded.

  ‘Then run.’

  Tibor turned and bolted for the bridge, with a desperate Milos willing his legs into action, trying hard to catch up. Their breath came in searing gasps long before they reached the bridge but neither slowed down. Milos ran as he’d never run before, never more awake, expecting at any moment to hear a challenge followed by an explosion from a gun. Instead he heard the last thing he expected. Tibor was laughing. Laughing!

  Once safely across the bridge they slowed to a walk. Tibor signalled Milos into the shadows of the doorways by the corner of Attila Street and Kossuth Lajos. He checked left and right before waving Milos over. Kossuth Lajos Street was deserted but enough people had walked along it earlier to wear a pathway through the thin snow cover. At least they’d leave no tracks. Tibor watched for three minutes. Nothing moved. They walked quickly in one-hundred-metre bursts from one darkened doorway to another, finally slipping down a side street into relative safety.

  Tibor checked his watch. If they kept a good pace and stuck to side streets they could be home by three-thirty. If they were lucky. If they didn’t run across another patrol. But the occasional shouted commands, the low rumble of idling motors and the whine of distant sirens urged caution. There seemed to be so many patrols, so many gendarmes, that Tibor couldn’t feel confident about anything. He decided to play it safe, doorway to doorway, and check out every street from every corner. Maybe they wouldn’t get home until four. Maybe they’d be frozen and exhausted. But if they took care they’d get home. And have something else to put in the pot at Tokaj Street besides potatoes.