by Derek Hansen
Milos stared silently at the path ahead of them which led out across the flat, sunlit farmlands eastwards towards the Ukraine. The Germans were losing but the Russians were still hundreds of kilometres away in East Galicia. Months away. Tonight he and Tibor were safe because of the kindness of this peasant woman and perhaps they’d be safe for two or even three nights. But what then? Their country had disowned them. The majority of smallholders and peasants supported the Arrow Cross. Gendarmes were everywhere. Their lives were worth less than the sheep that grazed on the stubble of the crops, and they were fair game for anyone with a rifle. He and Tibor were fortunate to have survived until nightfall. How could they possibly survive until the Russians came?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The box cars had only ever been intended as transport but they served Eichmann in ways he had not foreseen. By the time they arrived at Auschwitz, those within had suffered so much and were so exhausted and dispirited they had no will to resist their captors.
Jozsef had observed the loading of labour battalions and had seen for himself how little room there was in box cars filled with sixty or more people. Yet now that he was in one himself, he found them more cramped than he’d ever imagined. He was jammed into a standing position away from the walls, unable to sit or lie down. Katy, Elizabeth and Gabriella were no better off, jammed together still holding their meagre possessions in the one small bag they’d each been allowed. Already the heat was unbearable and the stifling air was foul with the smell of sweat and fear. Children were complaining and women feeling faint. Yet the door had not yet been sealed and their journey hadn’t even begun.
‘Eighty-two. I count eighty-two people!’
Eighty-two people. Jozsef groaned. No wonder the box car was crowded. He strained to see who the strident voice belonged to but his view was blocked. He guessed it came from a man somewhere near the doorway.
‘We are overloaded!’ the voice protested. ‘It’s not right! There are too many people in this carriage. You must take people out!’ The voice switched to broken German and repeated the message. He heard laughter from someone on the platform. The voice repeated its protest in Magyarul.
Jozsef shook his head at the unreality of it all. Was anyone protesting the deportations? Was anyone protesting the fact that they were being transported in box cars? No. The lone voice was protesting the injustice that too many of them were being deported in one box car.
The sound of doors being nailed shut came closer and as it did the voice by the doorway became more hysterical. It irritated Jozsef. What did it matter, seventy-five or eighty-two? There was not enough room for fifty, not enough water for fifty, and people were going to die from the heat, from suffocation and from dehydration whether seven people were unloaded from their box car or not.
‘You can’t do this!’ shouted the voice. ‘You can’t do this! It’s not right! There are eighty-two people in —’
A single shot cut off the voice. Women cried out in fright and children screamed.
‘Now there’s only eighty-one,’ said a gendarme. ‘That should make everyone happy!’ He laughed again as the door was pulled closed and nails hammered in.
The box car was plunged into a darkness broken only by thin strips of light from the gaps between the slats. Somehow the gloom seemed to make the air hotter. Silence fell, as though everyone was waiting for the next development, apprehensive, too frightened to speak in case they too were singled out for summary execution. If any of them had needed confirmation of the worthlessness of their lives, the sudden explosion from the gendarme’s gun had provided it.
Jozsef felt someone take hold of his arm.
‘Jozsef Heyman? The stationmaster?’
‘Yes,’ said Jozsef.
‘Izsaac Ornstein, the tailor. Someone must take charge here. We must have order. Would you take charge?’
‘Why me?’ said Jozsef.
‘You were the stationmaster. You know about trains.’ Izsaac Ornstein raised his voice. ‘Listen, everyone. Someone must take charge. I propose Jozsef Heyman, the stationmaster. He knows about these things. Everyone agree?’
There were a few murmurs but no dissent.
‘There you go,’ said Izsaac. ‘Now tell us what we should do.’
‘All I can tell you,’ began Jozsef hesitantly, ‘is what I saw the men of the labour battalions do. Those on the outside must stand against the walls of the box car. Those in the middle must sit in rows, knees up and taking as little room as possible, with their bags in their lap. You must sit in rows so that people can get through to the lavatory bucket. Do this please.’
Jozsef remained standing while around him his fellow deportees began sitting down. There were protests immediately as the limitations of space became apparent.
‘Squeeze up close together,’ said Jozsef. ‘No one will be comfortable but we will all be less uncomfortable. That is the best we can hope for.’
A whistle blew from the eastern end of the station and was answered by another at the western end. Geza Apro saying his farewells. Jozsef wondered whether his boys were still in the signal box or had already left, having succeeded in their objective.
‘The train is about to start moving. Everyone who can should sit now.’ Jozsef squeezed himself into what little space there was around him, felt Gabi take his hand. ‘In one hour, the people standing will change places with the people in the row in front of them, then one hour later with the people in the second row, and so on. Everyone will have a turn standing and sitting.’
The train jolted as the couplings reacted first to the pull of the box car in front, then to the weight of those behind. With a clanging of steel, a squeaking of wheels and the fear-filled sigh of fifteen hundred deportees, the train slowly began its journey north-west to Poland.
‘There is only one bucket of fresh water,’ said Jozsef. ‘We do not know how many days our journey will take or whether our bucket will be refilled along the way. Therefore there will be no water for anyone until tomorrow, then only one mouthful per person.’
Jozsef expected protests at this restriction but it seemed everyone was now too numb.
‘If you brought water or liquids with you, I advise you to drink them sparingly.’
‘What about the children?’
Somewhere in the gloom a young mother still sought to protect her children, wanted more for them, wanted better, wanted assurances.
‘Children will be treated the same as everyone else,’ said Jozsef. ‘The same for the sick. Now, please. I am no different from you. I need time to sit with my thoughts.’
‘Thank you, Jozsef Heyman,’ said Izsaac.
Jozsef bowed his head and felt sweat roll down his face and drip from the end of his nose. He wanted to tell everyone not to give up hope and provide a reason to endure. But what grounds did he have to make such a statement? None. The box car was already insufferably hot and a weariness cut through to his bones. The euphoria that had enveloped him on seeing his sons alive and as daring as ever dissipated in the utter dreadfulness of the box car. He wondered how his sons felt now that they were finally alone with the whole world seemingly lined up against them. How would they fare? How long before they sat in a box car just like this?
Alongside him Gabriella whispered encouragingly to her mother. He gently touched her on the shoulder.
‘I saw them,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Tibor and Milos.’
‘Tibor and Milos?’ said Gabriella.
Jozsef smiled at the surprise and delight in her voice. ‘They were in the signal box. They came back just in time to let us know they are still alive.’
‘I think Milos also came back to rescue me,’ said Gabriella, suddenly solemn. ‘He always said he would.’
Jozsef leaned away from Gabriella so that he could free his left arm. He put it around her and pulled her close.
‘Milos would do anything for you. This time there was nothing he could do. But, yes, that would have been his intention. Wh
en all this is over, Milos will find you, Gabi. You can count on it.’
‘If Tibor had promised to save me, he would have,’ said Gabriella. ‘He didn’t because he knew it would be impossible.’
‘Tibor will be waiting for you too, when we come home.’
‘Yes, he will,’ said Gabriella. ‘Both your boys love me and I love them too. I carry Milos’s book in my bag but Tibor in my heart.’
Jozsef pulled his arm free so Gabriella could tell her mother and sister about the boys’ daring return from the dead. Already his back ached for lack of support and his throat craved the touch of liquid, any liquid. A slight breeze filtered through the cracks in the slats but did little to dispel the heat or the stink. A baby began crying plaintively and another joined in. How far had they come? One kilometre? Two? How far was their destination in Poland? Two hundred kilometres? Three hundred? More? He closed his eyes and tried to imagine their route. East to Satoraljaujhely, then north to Kassa, Presov in Slovakia, Tarnow in Poland, then where? West to Krakow? His railwayman’s mind juggled options until he realised the futility of what he was doing. What did it matter where they were going or what route they took? Death awaited them wherever they went.
Jozsef realised he must have dozed off in the stifling heat when a woman trod on his hand. How long had he been dozing? Seconds? Minutes? The woman continued on her way to a chorus of protests, all the time apologising profusely. Clearly from the general perturbation, the woman was about to make first use of the lavatory bucket. People were squeezing together to make room for her but were also anxious to get as far away from the bucket as they could. But where could they go? Jozsef sat horrified as the consequences slowly dawned on him. Eighty-one people. One bucket.
The gloom of the box car obscured some of the poor woman’s indignity as she squatted but nothing could mask the explosive noises of her diarrhoea or the smell.
‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ the poor woman kept repeating but her apologies served no purpose. Some people began retching with nowhere to expel their vomit except between their knees. In moments the entire box car filled with sickening odours and the protests of people whose clothing was fouled by the vomit washing across the floor. Jozsef realised then that things would not get any better until they disembarked and would probably become unutterably worse. The same thought must have occurred to Gabriella because she began weeping on his shoulder.
Four hours passed before it was time for Jozsef and the three women in his charge to take their turn standing against the side of the box car. Their legs ached with stiffness from being forced to sit in one position for so long. They did what others before them had done and turned to face the wall, mouths open so that they could gather as much as possible of the sweet outside air filtering through the slats. Jozsef caught glimpses of scenery through a crack and it brought a reminder that beyond their confines the real world still existed. For one hour at least he could shut out the smells, the noises and the constant squabbling over space, the moans of the sick and frightened and the pathetic complaints of babies. The longer Jozsef peered through the crack, the more he recognised landmarks from his expeditions with the boys. There was Mount Nagy-Milic. The recognition brought no cheer. He saw enough to confirm the route they were taking but also their lack of progress. In four hours they’d barely come forty kilometres. He sighed wearily as the train slowed, knowing that once more they were to be shunted into a siding to wait until the line was clear.
Though Jozsef had no idea which regional centre would be controlling the movements, he could imagine the frenzy in the rail office as clerks struggled to come to terms with the activity on the lines under their jurisdiction. How many trains had Eichmann commandeered? How many trains did it take to drain Hungary of its Jews?
The box car shook as it crossed points diverting it onto a siding. Slowly the train wheezed to a halt. Jozsef rued their change in fortune. What little breeze had managed to filter through the slats now ceased and immediately the box car seemed to heat up. Gazing through the crack, Jozsef couldn’t help thinking back to earlier, better times when he was still in control of his destiny, when he had brought the boys past similar sidings on expeditions into the hills. Why had he ignored all the signs? Why hadn’t he cleared off with the boys while they still could? He thought of all the places they could be now, if only he’d acted sooner. He wondered if Gabriella was thinking the same thing.
‘We came this way hiking,’ he said softly. ‘You came with us one time, before we went to the caves at Aggtelek. Milos insisted. You drove Tibor crazy by insisting on stopping all the time to pick wildflowers.’
‘I wish we’d kept walking,’ she replied. ‘I wish we’d kept walking and never come back.’
‘So do I,’ said Jozsef. ‘So do I.’
They spent the night in the siding, trying to sleep, leaning against the legs of the person behind them and the shoulders of the people next to them, amid arguments and the hourly shuffling of people taking their turn to stand or sit. In the middle of the night the lavatory bucket overflowed. Filth was already so widespread it almost didn’t matter.
‘Attention, everyone,’ said Jozsef in his role as leader of the box car. ‘Everyone look for cracks in the floor. Look at the joins in the corners of the car.’
‘Here,’ called a voice towards the rear, ‘there is a chip out of this plank. There is a small gap through to the track. What do you want to do with it? Work on it so we can escape?’
Jozsef told him his intentions.
‘No!’ cried the man in alarm. ‘But I have to sit here!’
‘We’ll all move up a bit,’ said Jozsef. ‘I need volunteers. If we cannot get rid of the solids, at least drain the liquid from the bucket.’
‘I will help,’ called a man near the bucket.
‘And me,’ called another.
‘How do we get the bucket to the hole?’ asked the first volunteer. ‘Do we pass it overhead?’
‘No!’ came a sudden and vehement chorus.
‘Only joking,’ said the volunteer.
Incredibly, despite everything, people found it in themselves to laugh. But that one brief, nervous moment was the only lightness in a night longer and more terrible than any of them had ever experienced. They had no way of knowing that the delay in their progress was a by-product of Eichmann’s ruthless efficiency. He was delivering more Hungarian Jews to the gas chambers and crematoria of Auschwitz than the plant could handle. He was ordered to temper his enthusiasm; in short, to slow down. Many of the deportees were to live one day longer as a result.
Tibor and Milos spent the first night at Aunt Jutka’s in case the gendarmes came, and two more at Aunt Klari’s, grateful for the opportunity to rest up and plan their next move. However they felt about Istvan, he kept his word and no gendarmes came looking for them. Nevertheless, after dinner on the third day Tibor decided to move on.
‘We can’t stay here,’ he told Aunt Klari and her husband, Andras. ‘Sooner or later we will be recognised which would be dangerous for you as well as us. Besides we can’t go on eating all your food.’ He pushed his empty plate away from him into the middle of the table.
‘Where will you go?’ asked Aunt Klari.
‘What do you think, Milos?’
Tibor deliberately involved Milos in the discussion. His brother had become worryingly quiet and withdrawn.
‘East,’ said Milos eventually. ‘We can’t wait for the Russians to come to us, we have to go to them.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Tibor. ‘Except east takes us into the Ukraine and they have been the Germans’ staunchest allies. It’s as dangerous for us there as it is here.’
‘What about Romania?’ said Milos.
‘Romania, Bulgaria, both good options,’ said Tibor. ‘According to Dad, the governments of both have resisted the deportation of their Jews. But for how long? Look what happened here. Besides neither of us speaks Romanian or Bulgarian.’
‘So what do you suggest?’ snapped Milos. ‘Yug
oslavia and a boat to Palestine?’
‘Probably not an available option,’ said Tibor, deliberately provoking him. ‘Come on, Milos, use your brain. Work it out!’
Milos closed his eyes and began to review their options. There were times when his brother irritated him to the point of screaming. What option had he overlooked? From Tibor’s manner, it had to be something obvious. He thought back over their recent escapades and the answer dawned on him. He’d been right, the answer was obvious.
‘Satoraljaujhely or the north-east province,’ said Milos. ‘It doesn’t matter which. We go where the gendarmes are no more. We go where the gendarmes have been. Where there are no more Jews.’
Andras grunted approval and a rare smile appeared on his weathered face.
‘Won’t that be dangerous?’ said Aunt Klari.
‘All we can do is lessen the danger,’ said Tibor. ‘Of course there will still be gendarmes in Satoraljaujhely and the north-east. Some Jews are bound to have slipped through the net and some gendarmes will have remained behind to hunt them down.’
‘When will you go?’ Aunt Klari rose from her chair, as anxious as any mother.
‘Tonight,’ said Tibor. ‘Around midnight.’
‘I will give you some sausage to take,’ said Aunt Klari. She turned and shuffled over to the cupboard that held their meagre supplies of food. ‘Some bread too, and potatoes and fresh fruit.’
‘Potatoes we have,’ said Tibor. ‘And we can get our own fresh fruit. There are many abandoned farms. But thank you for the bread and sausage. One day I will repay you tenfold.’
He rose and followed Klari to the cupboard, put his strong arms around her and kissed both of her cheeks.
‘Be careful,’ said Andras. His inflection and concern echoed Jozsef’s and Milos felt a knife turn in his heart.
They left just before midnight, not for Satoraljaujhely but for the north-east province which, until the deportations, had been home to the largest concentration of Jews outside of Budapest. Before the building of dams and levees to control the Tisza River, the countryside had been swampy, prone to flooding and difficult to access, making it something of a sanctuary against the Turks and other invaders. Over the centuries its inaccessibility had also attracted gypsies, and while many had also been rounded up by the gendarmes, Tibor guessed many would have escaped. He admired them for their cunning, for their determination not to change their ways and their obstinate refusal to yield to authority. Most of all he admired them for their inbred instinct to survive. There were bound to be gypsy resistance groups and Tibor hoped to link up with one of them.
