Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

Tibor crept over to the coop, a rectangular box raised off the ground by four corner posts, and slipped the latch on the door. He lit his candle once more and saw two hens and a rooster staring fearfully back at him. Tomorrow Gentile villagers would come and take the fowls and anything else they fancied, not realising that another had beaten them to the spoils. Tibor extinguished the candle, closed the door to the coop and set off back up the hill to where Milos was waiting.

  ‘What took you so long?’ said Milos.

  ‘I took as long as necessary,’ said Tibor. ‘Now drink.’

  Both boys took a quick swallow of water then Tibor filled the half-empty jar with dried vegetables. They still had a lot of ground to cover that night and this way the vegetables could rehydrate and soften while they walked. With luck they could reach the cave before dawn and boil up their little pot. Salt was sprinkled in among the vegetable pieces and dried chillies; together they promised a breakfast both substantial and delicious.

  And in Tibor’s pocket there was a precious bonus. Two eggs to boil and carry with them.

  ‘I’ve come for Gabriella,’ said Jozsef. It was Friday morning and he was expecting the boys home that afternoon. He wanted to be ready and packed, Gabi or no Gabi.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ said Katica.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Elizabeth is talking to her now. She refuses to go, refuses to leave me. Every time I pack her bag she unpacks it. Perhaps you could speak with her?’

  Jozsef shook his head sorrowfully.

  ‘You must understand, Katy, that Gabi has not trained for this. She hasn’t been hiking with us to build up her strength and stamina. Even willing, she will be a burden. Unwilling she would jeopardise all our lives. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Please speak to her!’ Tears flooded Katy’s eyes.

  ‘No,’ said Jozsef. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Then will you at least give her until tomorrow morning? Please! I will convince her to change her mind. I’ll make sure she is willing. I promise you.’

  Jozsef wanted to say no, that he had to go to meet the boys, but how could he? Katy was pleading with him, begging him, and he felt both ashamed and embarrassed. But common sense decreed that he should leave without Gabi. The Germans had called for meetings with the leaders of the Jewish community and he had no doubt little good news would emerge from them.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘tomorrow morning.’

  Katy threw her arms around Jozsef and kissed him. Her relief and gratitude overwhelmed him. Yet it failed utterly to convince him that his decision was anything but foolish.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Satoraljaujhely was not much larger than Sarospatak but it was big enough. Around seventeen thousand people lived there, which made it possible for Tibor to move around and not be instantly identified as a stranger. In truth he was safer in the town than wandering about in the country. Entering and leaving were the moments of greatest danger, when he risked being stopped and his motives and identity questioned. He’d slipped into town in the darkness before dawn and hidden in a disused factory until enough people were about to make it safe to come out. Tibor had contacts in the railway, introduced to him by his father, but the railyards were teeming with gendarmes and hardly a safe place for any Jew or Jewish-born Christian. Nevertheless, these contacts were the only ones Tibor had.

  He knew exactly where the station was and where the railwaymen were housed. The stationmaster had a small cottage near the railway, similar to their own home in Sarospatak but half the distance from the station. He’d always been friendly enough but he knew of Jozsef’s circumstances and Tibor wasn’t certain he could be trusted. Of all the railwaymen his father had introduced him to, the old signalman was the best option. He shared accommodation with colleagues close to the railway line but almost a kilometre east of the station. Tibor’s intention was to position himself between the signalman’s house and the station in the hope of intercepting him on the way to work. He was certain the old man could be trusted. How many times had he seen his father slip a few pengo to him? Yes, he could be trusted.

  Unfortunately Tibor had entered the town by the most direct route, from the north, and the station lay two kilometres south of the town centre. Tibor tagged onto the tail end of groups of people heading into the town to work, switching from group to group depending on where they were headed and which streets they took. Sometimes he’d join up with a single man or woman and engage them in harmless conversation about the weather. Sometimes the responses were surly and suspicious, other times people opened up, glad of the opportunity to talk about something other than the tumultuous events taking place. Tibor got the clear impression that while some of the townsfolk he spoke to were openly supportive of the gendarmes’ efforts to round up the Jews, others were apprehensive and possibly even ashamed.

  Tibor did what any skilled negotiator would do and mirrored the prejudices and point of view of whomever he was talking to. Bit by bit he elicited information, slowly building up a horrific picture of what had happened to all the Jews he’d seen herded together in the roads and laneways. He was tempted to dismiss much of what he was told as exaggeration, but the stories were consistent and truth beckoned in the sheer barbarism of the detail. Even so, his mind grappled with the numbers, the sheer magnitude of what was occurring and the inhumanity of it all. Tibor was no stranger to fear; he regarded it as a valuable tool of his trade, an emotion that honed his caution to a fine edge, that promoted patience and nourished his instincts. But he was accustomed to it as a reaction to an immediate danger: the untimely arrival of patrols, the placement of sentries, the risk of betrayal. The fear he felt now was part of the air he breathed, all encompassing, more chilling, more deadening. How could anyone deal with such ruthlessness, such lack of conscience and compassion? Tibor began to regret his bravado in sneaking into Satoraljaujhely. He wished he’d listened to his brother and headed straight back to Sarospatak instead.

  His temporary companion, a young woman, bade him good day and disappeared through an office doorway, leaving him isolated on the street. His first instinct was a quick and furtive look around to check out the placement of the gendarmes, but he resisted it. There was no place for anything quick or furtive, only for the bold and obvious. But bold was not how Tibor felt. He felt crushed and overwhelmed by his knowledge, and struggled with the unfamiliarity of the sensations. Nevertheless he held his head high and looked around as confidently as he could. There were four gendarmes on the street corner on the opposite side of the road. He immediately crossed the street, walked up to them and paused. His heart began beating faster and he could feel his sluggish blood stirring into action.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tibor, ‘thank you for getting rid of all the stinking yids.’

  The gendarmes looked at him curiously.

  ‘But I’ve got a problem.’

  ‘What might that be?’ said the oldest of them.

  ‘Now when I go for a leak at school I’ve got no one to piss on.’

  The gendarmes burst into laughter.

  ‘You want to piss on Jews,’ said one of them, ‘go down to the timberyards by the station. There are thousands there just waiting for you. Tell the guards what you want to do. Believe me, you can’t miss.’

  This also got the gendarmes laughing. Tibor hitched his trousers around his groin meaningfully, gave them a wave and wandered off towards the station. The interaction restored some of his confidence but he began to wonder if he’d ever be the same again. It was one thing to sit around the table with his father and Milos and discuss the death camps and the trainloads of Jews trundling off to oblivion, and another thing entirely to observe the process first-hand and feel the cold-bloodedness of it. He shivered involuntarily, shook his head as though to rid it of all thoughts so he could start over. After all, he had his survival to consider. And Milos’s. And his father’s. He needed every scrap of his wits about him.

  His route around the town centre led him past the Jewish cemetery and
he couldn’t help thinking bitterly how little used it would be in the future once all the Jews were gone. Fewer people used the streets he now walked and those who did were travelling in the opposite direction and seemed somehow furtive. Why? The answer struck him like a blow to the head. He wasn’t thinking, he wasn’t using his brain! He knew exactly where the timberyards were — between him and the station. And he was walking unerringly towards them. He immediately turned eastwards towards the Ronyva River and the signalman’s house. What had he been thinking of? Tibor began to shake. The lapse was so uncharacteristic and so unexpected it shook him to his core. He wanted to stop, find a place to hole up and gather his wits, but retained just enough sense to appreciate the dangers involved in doing that. Never run, never act furtive and never put yourself in a position that cannot easily be explained. His rules were fundamental and he silently repeated them.

  Tibor skipped across Kossuth Lajos Street. Every town in Hungary had a street named after the great nineteenth-century freedom fighter; Tibor wondered how he would feel if he saw how the street bearing his name was being used. In the distance he could see the barbed wire strung around the timberyard and the factories opposite, see the hastily erected guard towers and wire roadblocks manned by gendarmes. The street was strangely quiet, much quieter than normal for a main thoroughfare. Yet if what he’d been told was true, the timberyard and the factories housed some ten thousand Jews rounded up from every village around Satoraljaujhely and even from towns in Slovakia. There should be some noise and its absence worried Tibor. The timberyard didn’t cover much ground and the factories even less, yet ten thousand people were crammed into them. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the conditions within, the overcrowding, the deprivation, the hardship. There should be some noise. Of protest! Anger! He slipped down the first side street he came to, pondering the phenomenon.

  Soon he would reach the house where the signalman lived. Should he knock, go in and take his chances? What if the old signalman wasn’t there? What if the signalman’s colleagues were no longer reliable? Tibor realised he could not take the risk and had to hope that he would have the good fortune to intercept the signalman on his way to work. He checked his watch. Shift change was at eight o’clock, in twenty minutes’ time. He slowed down. How many times could he walk along the street the signalman lived in without attracting attention? Were there any gendarmes on patrol?

  Tibor turned left into the street where the railwaymen lived, strode boldly into the middle of the road and kicked at stones as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He had to jump back immediately to allow a truck stacked high with sacks of vegetables to pass by. Another truck trailed some distance behind. Tibor could only speculate on where this bounty was headed. Certainly not to the Jews in their ghetto camps and probably not to the general populace. That left the gendarmes and the probability of extra rations as a reward for a job well done.

  Once across the road, Tibor walked unhurriedly towards the signalman’s house. The street was busier than he’d expected, with pedestrians in singles and groups heading towards him. Doubtless some were going to the station but the numbers suggested a change of shift in some other form of employment. Tibor thought immediately of the timberyard and factories. Did they need civilians to clean the premises or help process the Jews? He doubted it. But some activity in the area was generating work and it didn’t really matter what it was. The extra flow of pedestrians gave him the cover he needed.

  A woman smiled hesitantly at him as she passed by. Tibor responded graciously but his mind raced to recall who she was. He finally pinned her down. She was the woman from the bookstore that also sold maps. They’d gone in for guides to the hiking trails and Milos had discovered a wealth of books unavailable in Sarospatak. That had made the bookstore a regular stop whenever their rambles took them through Satoraljaujhely. Who else might recognise him, Tibor wondered. And who might know his background?

  ‘Tibor!’

  A gendarme’s hand on his shoulder could not have stopped Tibor more abruptly. Panic flared briefly and unexpectedly even though he’d recognised the voice. Again he’d let himself down. It was the old signalman and Tibor, in his preoccupation, had almost let him pass by unnoticed.

  ‘Erno!’ said Tibor and even managed to project delight into his voice. But it wasn’t altogether convincing and he could see concern flicker in the old man’s eyes. He threw his arms around Erno’s thin shoulders and was relieved to feel him reciprocate.

  ‘Tibor! Tibor!’ he cried, and burst out laughing. Then softly into his ear, ‘In the name of God, what are you doing here, boy?’

  He took both of Tibor’s hands and dragged him to the side of the road into the driveway of a warehouse where grain had once been bagged for transportation. He kept his face smiling but there was no smile in his words.

  ‘For God’s sake, boy, can’t you see it’s not safe for you here? Can’t you see what’s happening?’

  ‘Tell me what you know,’ said Tibor.

  The old man rolled his eyes. ‘Where do I begin? What do you know?’

  ‘They’ve rounded up ten thousand Jews for transportation. They’re keeping them in the timberyard and nearby factories.’

  ‘Ten thousand!’ snorted the old man. ‘There are fifteen thousand poor souls crammed in there. Fifteen thousand, for God’s sake! I’ve seen the transportation orders. Get back to Sarospatak and warn your father, that’s if it’s not already too late.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The old man looked around to see if anyone was watching them. He slapped Tibor’s arm jovially. He smiled but his eyes were hard and angry. ‘Trains have been running day and night up from the north-east province, all of them packed full of Jews being deported to Poland. There are ten trains originating from here scheduled over the next three days, an average of twenty-six box cars per train. Each box car will be filled with Jews with no room to move or even sit down. Figure it out. All fifteen thousand Jews will be gone by Tuesday. Who do you think will be next?’

  ‘Where are they taking them?’

  The old man spat into the dust. ‘If you believe the Germans, they’re all being taken east to help with the harvest. If you believe the schedules I saw back in the station, they’re heading north then west into Poland.’

  ‘What will I tell Dad?’

  ‘Tell him to run.’ The old man slapped Tibor’s arm again but this time there was moisture reddening his eyes. ‘He’s a good man, your father. Tell him not to believe anything the Germans say. They came here, arrested the Jewish leaders and held them to ransom. They promised to release them once they got the money and they did. Then, when they wanted to concentrate the Jews in the timberyard, they told them they would be well treated. The Jews believed them. Well treated, my arse! You don’t treat animals like that. Now they’re telling them to board the train to the Ukraine to help with the harvest.’

  The old man paused.

  ‘Just tell him to run! And you, boy, you get away from here as fast as you can. You go warn him, you hear?’

  ‘Count on me,’ said Tibor. He took the old man’s hand and shook it. ‘Thank you, Erno. I’ll tell my father what a good friend you are.’

  ‘If you ever need me, I’m here,’ said the old man. ‘Others too. Your father has a lot of respect. Now go before we arouse suspicion. Go!’

  Erno kissed Tibor on both cheeks, faked a laugh and spun away.

  ‘Wait!’ said Tibor. ‘It’s better for me if you walk with me to the corner.’

  The old man stopped and turned, checked Tibor as he walked past.

  ‘Listen.’

  Erno brought his finger up to his lips to silence him. Tibor was dimly aware of a train pulling slowly into the station, the rattle of the trucks and the release of steam, sounds which were background music to his life and barely noticed.

  ‘It has begun,’ said the old man.

  Personal discipline was Tibor’s strength yet he wanted to deny all he had learned and run. Instead, he fough
t his instincts and strolled as casually as he could back towards the town centre. Once again he found himself walking against the flow of pedestrian traffic and this baffled him. Why? Why weren’t the people at work? Where were they heading? As soon as he posed the question he knew the answer. He took a closer look at the people flowing past him, noted the almost celebratory attitude among many and the hard, cruel look of others. He realised what was happening was probably the biggest thing that had occurred in the town since 1919, when Communist partisans and Slovaks had used Satoraljaujhely and its surrounds as their battleground. All the same, Tibor found their attitude hard to reconcile. It was true many people disliked Jews, and certainly some might have thought they had solid grounds for the hatred, but he couldn’t help wondering what exactly the Jews had done to deserve the fate awaiting them. What had they done that their appalling suffering should command an audience of heartless, cheering onlookers?

  Milos would have snapped, Tibor knew. Would have thrown everything away in a futile act of outrage and fury or dissolved in hopeless anguish. Either way, his actions would have sealed their fate. He was glad he’d left Milos in the forest so that he didn’t have to bear witness, glad he’d protected his little brother from that.

  A burst of gunfire interrupted his thoughts, followed by an outburst of cheering. There was more gunfire, more sustained, more deadly. Some people started running to see what was happening, others stopped in their tracks, apprehensive, concerned. Tibor kept on walking. Somewhere behind him in the railyards Jews were dying, shot down for the crime of wanting to stay alive. It cheered Tibor to know that not everyone was going meekly like lambs to the slaughter, but resisting and refusing to board the trains. Ultimately it would make no difference. Other than that dying here in defiance had a dignity which dying in Poland did not.

  Once Tibor had passed through the centre of the town, the number of gendarmes on patrol diminished until there were none. He guessed they’d all been assigned to the railyards to prevent escapes or attracted there by the shooting. He faced his biggest risk leaving the town precinct but decided not to wait until nightfall. Circumstances had changed. He didn’t expect to encounter gendarmes but if he did he believed he was skilled enough to avoid them. His confidence and strength returned with every step away from the station, the timberyards and the now hateful town. It was almost as familiar to him as Sarospatak, but something had changed at its heart, something had been lost, and its place in Hungary’s history tarnished for ever.