Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  They had to walk six kilometres to school and Istvan used the time to try and come up with a way to approach the one person who could help him find new boots. He prided himself on his ability to get inside other people’s heads, to see the world as they saw it, to sniff out their prejudices and perceptions and even to predict their actions and reactions. He knew exactly what people thought of him and used it to his advantage.

  Whenever he beat his schoolfriends or his teachers at chess they always demanded a replay, unable to accept that this undersized runt had outsmarted them. Inevitably, when he won the replay they’d dismiss their loss as bad luck. Istvan just didn’t look like the sort of kid who could beat anybody at anything. He didn’t mind that he was rarely given credit for his victories because he understood the power inherent in being underestimated and, in fact, delighted in the misconceptions surrounding him. He was smarter than anyone credited him with being, did better in class than anyone expected and spoke confidently when required to give talks. If his teachers had a criticism it was that he never volunteered answers to questions even though they were sure he knew the answers. He only responded if questioned directly. Istvan was a listener and an observer. Through listening and observing he learned how to manipulate people and exploit their weaknesses.

  This was one of the things that made him so good at chess. He appeared to play to his opposition’s strength, all the while luring them into his trap. People were rarely gracious when he closed the trap on them but Istvan didn’t mind in the least. He knew that one day his life would revolve around the skills he was honing, though just how he had no idea. Nature had given his intellect the perfect camouflage and that had to be worth something, to someone, somewhere.

  The problem Istvan was mulling over as he approached the school was the fact the one person he was certain could get him boots was also the one person whose head he couldn’t get into, whose thoughts eluded him, whose actions he couldn’t predict and whose power intimidated him. They were classmates but beyond that their orbits rarely intersected. Could they do business and, if so, what would be the cost?

  Two games of soccer were already in progress in the concrete quadrangle in the middle of the school buildings. Four groups of boys shouted, scuffled, kicked and tackled, wearing away the leather on their boots and shoes with a disregard that never ceased to amaze Istvan. There in a nutshell was the difference between the Kiraly family and others, as clear a definition of his family’s circumstance as anyone could want. He sensed Sandor becoming agitated alongside him.

  ‘Go on,’ said Istvan. ‘Just make sure your boots last another couple of days.’

  He watched his brother race off, whooping and shouting to his friends, grimaced as Sandor threw his school bag carelessly against a classroom wall where other bags lay strewn. For some time Istvan had entertained the notion of taking his brother with him when he escaped, but Sandor unwittingly seemed hellbent on ridiculing the idea. Sandor wasn’t cut out for anything other than manual work; was no more or less than his father in the making, one day destined to take over the cottage, the land, and a life that promised nothing. Istvan was happy to see his brother enjoy himself now, knowing full well there would be precious little of that later in his life.

  He walked around the quadrangle and down a pathway that ran between two of the school buildings and the main gate. On the left was an alcove formed by the enclosed stairwell and the end wall which was sheltered from the wind and caught the morning sun. Some students ran around to keep warm but Istvan was one of those who headed straight for the alcove. He was always among the first there and set himself up in his usual place where he didn’t intrude on others and was largely ignored. It was important to appear to be doing nothing different. He had to make his approach seem casual, almost a whim. He set up his chessboard to reflect a move he’d seen in a book borrowed from the school library and pretended to be studying it.

  His target was anything but a creature of habit but most days he walked to school with his brother, even though they usually split up the moment they arrived. He was also a Jew and, according to Istvan’s father, the very worst kind of Jew: one that pretended he wasn’t. Gyorgy believed the family that owned the estate they lived on was Jewish, though they professed not to be. The estate manager certainly was, and it was the estate manager who had increased their rent. His father blamed most of his and Hungary’s problems on Jews, believing that before the war they ran the country’s industries and businesses for their own benefit and were the instigators of every conspiracy aimed at suppressing peasants and workers. Istvan went along with his father’s views, for to do otherwise courted trouble, but he didn’t embrace them like his brother did. He had no place for prejudice or racial stereotyping, because it created unreliable expectations. Individuals, he’d discovered, rarely reacted in a generalised, stereotypical way. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help thinking his father’s antipathy might be well-founded where his target was concerned.

  He packed up his chess pieces and board and joined the steady flow of students into the quadrangle to wait for assembly. It was apparently accidental that he happened to find himself walking alongside Tibor.

  ‘Boots,’ he said softly.

  Tibor appeared not to have heard though Istvan was certain he’d picked up on it. He also realised that Tibor would judge his desperation by how quickly he repeated himself, so determined to say nothing.

  ‘For you?’ said Tibor eventually.

  ‘Sandor. I wondered if you’d come by any.’

  Istvan allowed Tibor to steer him out of the traffic to a quiet spot against the wall of the library. Assembly was still minutes away so they had time to talk.

  ‘What have you got?’ asked Tibor.

  ‘Vegetables, eggs, cheese,’ said Istvan, knowing it wouldn’t be enough and, even if it was, he still had the problem of prising the produce away from his father.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then how do you expect to trade?’

  This was the crunch. Either Tibor bit or he didn’t and Istvan had no reason to believe that he would. But Tibor did strange things, often the least expected things, which was what made him so unpredictable and hard to fathom. But his unpredictability opened an avenue for exploitation and this avenue was Istvan’s only hope.

  ‘I’ll play you chess for the boots.’

  Tibor’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Two reasons. One, I can get good money for boots without risk. And two, you never lose when you want to win.’

  Istvan could feel Tibor’s eyes boring into him and began to wilt. You never lose when you want to win. How did Tibor know he deliberately threw games? He wasn’t aware that Tibor had ever watched him play. Istvan was suddenly assailed by doubt, an uncomfortable, unfamiliar sensation of being out of his depth. Unexpectedly, Tibor began to smile and Istvan couldn’t help responding.

  ‘What if I won?’ said Tibor. ‘What would I win?’

  ‘My chess set.’

  Tibor rocked back on his heels. His eyes narrowed once more as though he was considering the proposition.

  ‘The chess set is worthless except to you,’ said Tibor. ‘If I won I would take something that is precious to you, worthless to me, and you still wouldn’t have any boots for Sandor.’

  ‘That’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’

  The bell rang for assembly.

  ‘What’s Sandor’s boot size?’ said Tibor abruptly.

  Istvan told him.

  ‘I can get a pair. They’re old but well-cared-for.’ Tibor’s voice had become that of the deal-maker, impersonal, factual. ‘They’ve been coming to this school longer than any of us. But the stitching is sound and there’s at least a year’s wear, probably two, in the soles. Interested?’

  ‘We play for them?’

  ‘No,’ said Tibor. He smiled faintly, turned and walked away.

  Istvan watched h
im go, trying to come to grips with the sudden turn in their conversation. Against all odds, Tibor was going to bring him boots. So he’d been right in identifying Tibor’s avenue of exploitation. But any jubilation was tempered by a growing wariness. He had no idea what price he’d have to pay, only that Tibor had found something in him that he wanted. Istvan was at a loss even to speculate what it might be. All the same, boots were boots and he felt an irresistible urge to smile.

  The following morning Istvan waited for Tibor in the shelter of the alcove. He’d told Sandor what was happening and his brother had scarcely been able to believe his good fortune. He would have a pair of boots that would keep his feet dry and warm and the bonus of being able to keep his old boots to play football in and muck out the pig sty. Istvan had impressed upon him the need to look after his new boots, making him understand that there could be no more until the war was over.

  Istvan laid out the chess set in front of him. With no price agreed he still entertained the hope that Tibor would play him for the boots. He watched the gate carefully, saw Milos arrive by himself and waited until the school bell rang. But there was no sign of Tibor.

  Istvan wasn’t unduly concerned. He didn’t know Tibor well but he had every expectation that he would keep to his word. That was the way the Jew operated. He spotted him in the classroom and tried many times to catch his eye without success. Significantly, Tibor did not so much as glance in his direction, as though he’d thought about the deal and decided against it. Istvan had the feeling that as far as Tibor was concerned he was no longer of consequence. His sense of elation evaporated and instead he felt bitter and betrayed. A deal was still a deal even if half the detail had yet to be agreed.

  He decided to confront Tibor at the first recess, but found him surrounded by other boys and deep in negotiations. He turned away. To interrupt meant he would have to impose himself upon the group and reveal a side of his character he’d worked hard to conceal. Sometime, somewhere, he’d get the opportunity to confront Tibor, one on one, and then he’d make his move. He was just conceding the accuracy of his father’s prejudices when Sandor came running up, eyes glowing, his old boots tied around his neck by the laces.

  ‘Istvan! Look! They’re fantastic.’ Sandor stopped in front of him. ‘They’ve even been shined.’

  Istvan stared at the boots on his brother’s feet. Everything Tibor had said about them appeared to be true.

  ‘Take them off,’ he commanded. ‘Let me look at them.’

  Sandor obliged. Istvan examined the soles, the stitching, the tongue and lining but, beyond the inevitable scuffs and wear in the soles, couldn’t fault them. Yes, they were old, but they were also top-quality boots and they had been looked after. He couldn’t help thinking they were far better than Sandor deserved.

  ‘They’re what I expected,’ he said. ‘Put them back on and remember — no football in them.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m going to look after them,’ said Sandor. He said it with so much conviction Istvan was almost tempted to believe him.

  Istvan watched his brother run off and turned his mind to the price. Clearly it would be high, though what exactly he was expected to pay was beyond him. He couldn’t even begin to guess. It troubled him that the Jew had outmanoeuvred him. Once he’d handed the boots to Sandor, Tibor had left him no room to bargain, denying him any basis for further negotiations. It was a deliberate and calculated move to put him at a disadvantage. Istvan cursed silently but at the same time had to concede the cleverness of it. The Jew could now demand almost anything.

  Istvan wandered back to where he’d last seen Tibor and this time succeeded in catching his eye. In fact, he got the distinct impression the Jew was keeping an eye out for him. He stopped and leaned up against a classroom wall and waited for Tibor to finish with the boys he was talking to. Having lost more ground in the negotiations than he could ever recover, Istvan nevertheless decided to make Tibor come to him. A small victory on a battleground littered with unaccustomed defeats.

  ‘Sandor happy?’ asked Tibor.

  ‘Yes, as you knew he would be.’

  Tibor smiled. ‘It was worth it just to see his face.’

  ‘Really?’ said Istvan. ‘I thought the price would be higher than that.’

  ‘Oh, it is,’ said Tibor.

  Istvan’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You have nothing to give me now,’ said Tibor amiably. ‘But there might be something you can do for me in the future.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Tibor. He held out his hand to shake Istvan’s. ‘But you’ll know when the time comes.’

  Ten months later, Istvan stood with his father, brother and other like-minded citizens of Sarospatak alongside the railway line to hurl abuse at the Jews who had employed them, worked for them, made their bread, mended their shoes, set broken bones, repaired painful teeth and spent money in their shops and on their products and produce. While they were not allowed into the station, Gyorgy had insisted on coming early and had grabbed a position as close to the platform as the gendarmes permitted.

  Istvan could clearly see the faces of the Jews as they were herded into the cattle trucks, saw the looks of fear, the tears, and heard the sobbing. He was surprised to discover how many people he recognised, many of whom he’d never suspected were Jews. They were people who were as much a part of ordinary, everyday life in Sarospatak as he was. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t see any of them being part of an international Jewish conspiracy. If they were, they’d done an amazing job of hiding it.

  His father and the people around him were making so much noise, nobody took any notice of the fact that he wasn’t. Instead Istvan retreated into his role as observer, watching, listening, learning. When he spotted the stationmaster, he thought it was ironic that he should be taken away by one of his own trains. He was studying the man’s face when he saw him suddenly look up and peer intently. At what? The signal box? There was little that Istvan missed and, although he was hardly at the best of angles, he saw the unexpected dipping of the semaphore. A signal? He checked back to the stationmaster, saw the smile spread over his face, noticed the straightening of his back and the lifting of his head. He turned again to the signal box. From his low angle he saw mostly reflections of clouds in the windows, but then he glimpsed movement inside. There were people inside; somebody who could put a smile on the face of a man being taken away almost certainly to his death. Istvan looked back at the stationmaster as he was herded into a box car and suddenly understood.

  There was a bounty on Jews, hardly a fortune, but the Kiraly family were in as much need of a little as they were of a lot. A few pengo could buy some palinka for his father to numb his pain, a purchase from which the whole family would benefit. His sister needed clothes. Maybe he could buy some cloth with the bounty. He grabbed his brother’s arm.

  ‘Tell Dad I’ve got some things to do,’ said Istvan. ‘Tell him I’ll see you both back at the cottage.’

  His withdrawal caused little consternation. People were grateful for the chance to edge a little closer to the action.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘What will happen to them?’ Milos’s voice was barely a whisper yet the fact that he had a voice at all surprised him. His heart was broken and his entire body was numb, not paralysed so much as lacking the volition to move. At that moment, a bullet from an alert gendarme would have been a blessing.

  Tibor pulled Milos back from the window gently but firmly. ‘I don’t know what will happen. Nobody does. All I know is what will happen to us if we don’t move quickly and keep our wits about us.’

  ‘I promised Gabi I’d rescue her.’ Milos still stared hopelessly out of the window.

  ‘I know. So Gabi and I could get married,’ said Tibor bluntly.

  Milos swung around, his red eyes wide in disbelief.

  ‘You’ve always had trouble facing reality, little brother, but times have changed. This is reality. Grow up or we won’t
leave this signal box alive.’

  It was all too much for Milos. His loss, the humiliation, the truth. His shoulders slumped, his chin fell onto his chest and he began sobbing as only the heartbroken can. Tibor grabbed hold of his brother and held him as tightly as he could. He let half a minute pass, a minute, all the while holding Milos’s head tightly against his shoulder to muffle his sobs. But sympathy was limited by their circumstance. He pushed Milos away and shook him.

  ‘Never mind Gabi,’ he said. ‘Did you see the look on Dad’s face?’

  Milos nodded and, despite everything, smiled weakly.

  ‘Worth the risk?’ asked Tibor.

  Milos nodded again and his weak smile broadened. The moment his father had looked up and seen them at the window, he’d wanted to shout for joy.

  ‘Good,’ said Tibor. ‘Now put Dad and Gabi out of your mind. Gabi is strong and Dad will look after her. She will look after him. As much as anyone can. Now, come on. From now on we must think only of ourselves. You know what we have to do.’

  ‘Go with God, boys,’ said Mr Zelk. His eyes were red-rimmed and he shook his head sorrowfully. ‘That they should do such a thing to your father.’

  ‘We can never thank you enough, Mr Zelk,’ said Tibor. ‘You are a true friend. Whatever happens to my father now, you know he will always be in your debt. We will drop off the uniforms at your house sometime this afternoon.’

  ‘Keep them,’ said Mr Zelk. ‘A uniform gives you identity. At a glance you are not Jews but railwaymen. You may need an identity in the days ahead and, besides, these old uniforms won’t be missed.’