Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  They decided to cut due south towards Northern Transylvania through the parts of the north-east province where they believed the gypsies would most likely be, travelling only by night and sleeping by day in stands of poplars and birches, or in the outbuildings of deserted farms. Tibor and Milos had become familiar with the towns and the countryside alongside the railway lines of the northern part of the north-east on expeditions with their father. They’d even ventured as far east as the town of Zahony. But, for all their travels, they’d always entered the north-east province by train, never on foot. They had forty kilometres of unfamiliar, rolling countryside, farms and apple orchards to cross before they reached the little rural railway that dead-ended at Dombrad and territory they recognised.

  They made slow progress, moving cautiously, aware that they weren’t the only people using the night for cover. They hid beneath hedges and in ditches whenever they heard footsteps or muffled voices, circled wide when they smelled smoke from cooking fires. Occasionally at night, and sometimes during the first light of dawn or the last light of evening, they caught glimpses of shadowy, furtive figures, people like themselves who’d also gone ‘into the black’. The boys made no effort to contact them and did everything possible to conceal their presence. It worried Tibor that there were so many refugees at large, many of whom would be stealing to survive. Inevitably the gendarmes would conduct more sweeps.

  The boys had another reason for not approaching the refugees. It was apparent from the way they moved that many were townspeople with little idea of how to survive in the open. Tibor was concerned that they would try to latch onto them, adopt him as their leader and become a burden to them. He could not allow that to happen. The going was perilous enough as it was.

  It took them four nights to cover the forty kilometres to Dombrad. Milos remained in hiding with their sacks of vegetables and clothing while Tibor again donned his railwayman’s uniform and walked along the railway into town. Dombrad was a small place and he guessed the residents would be on the lookout for strangers. Doubtless some homes would have been broken into, gardens plundered for vegetables and adjacent farms raided for chickens and eggs. There would be no sympathy for any Jew or gypsy caught in this town, where the people despised them and blamed them for every loss they’d ever suffered. But a railwayman wasn’t a stranger, Jew or gypsy. Railwaymen were railwaymen and while the residents of Dombrad were familiar with their own stationmaster, fettlers and signalmen, new faces did come and go, particularly with deportations and conscription.

  With no train due the station was deserted, as Tibor had expected it to be. He walked through it and out onto the street. He’d met the stationmaster on three occasions, each time with his father, and on their last visit had given him a recording of Strauss by the Vienna Orchestra. Another investment in the future, one he hoped to draw upon. The stationmaster lived in an unprepossessing, two-storey corner house, smaller even than the cottage in Sarospatak. Tibor knocked boldly on the door. The stationmaster’s wife opened it.

  ‘My God!’ she said. Her eyes widened with fear and her hand rose to cover her mouth.

  ‘I have been asked to inform the stationmaster of a change in schedule,’ said Tibor loudly. He tucked his railwayman’s hat under his arm. ‘May I please come in?’

  The woman stepped aside to let Tibor through. He found the stationmaster dressed and pulling on his boots.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Tibor. ‘I believe you are an admirer of Strauss.’

  ‘Tibor! Good God! What are you doing here?’ The stationmaster rose and took Tibor’s hand. His eyes narrowed. ‘Did anyone see you come here?’

  ‘Maybe. If they did, all they saw was a railwayman coming to visit his stationmaster.’

  ‘Is your father with you?’

  ‘No. Just Milos.’

  Tibor told him what had happened to Jozsef, even about their farewell from the signal box. The stationmaster was visibly upset.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tibor, very sorry. But what can anyone do?’

  ‘I need information,’ said Tibor. ‘What is the strength of the gendarmerie around here? Do you know if any further sweeps are planned? You know as well as I that the countryside is crawling with homeless gypsies and Jews.’

  ‘There are only two gendarmes left in the area. The rest have been reassigned special duties. I think you know what they are. But I know assistance has been requested to round up the escapees. It could come any day. Maybe on tomorrow’s train. In the meantime you need to watch out for Arrow Crossmen and the older boys from the farms. I’m told they go out hunting every night and don’t take prisoners.’

  ‘We’ve heard shots. What about further south?’

  ‘As far as I know it is the same. Look, Tibor, you can’t trust your contacts any more. There are new men in the railways, not Arrow Crossmen but they might as well be. Everyone fears the Russians which makes them want to help the Germans. You got lucky with me but you can’t count on your friends remaining your friends. Understand?’

  ‘Who can I trust?’

  ‘No one. Me, maybe my crew, I don’t know.’

  ‘My father once mentioned a Pole, on the main line somewhere.’

  ‘There is a Pole, Stanislav I think his name is. His foot was crushed somehow. Years ago now, while your father was still director. Your father helped him keep his job, maybe even sent him money while he was recovering. It’s the sort of thing Jozsef did. He lives near Demecser with his wife. He’s a signalman, I believe. Your father is still remembered down there for what he did.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tibor.

  ‘Can I give you anything?’

  Tibor glanced over to the doorway leading into the bedroom. Two small children, no older than three or four, watched him suspiciously, half-hidden by the door. Their bellies had the swollen look of hungry children everywhere.

  ‘We have food,’ said Tibor. He could almost hear the stationmaster’s wife sigh with relief. ‘All we needed was information, which you have given us.’

  ‘Tibor, before you go — Jews and gypsies are being shot on sight. So are deserters. You’re a man now, no longer a boy. People might not think you’re a Jew but they may mistake you for a deserter. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Many times,’ said Tibor. ‘Now, would you walk to the station with me and out onto the track? It would help if it appeared you were giving me instructions.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the stationmaster.

  He turned to his wife. ‘There is a little coffee left in the pot. Give the boy that while I finish pulling on my boots.’

  Once night fell, the boys resumed their journey south, looking for a Pole neither of them had ever met. If the man was now their enemy, their journey was over. If he was their friend, he might put a roof over their heads for a night. If he’d kept his eyes open he could even provide them with information which might help them to survive a little longer.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When Istvan parted company with Tibor and Milos he had every intention of reporting them to the gendarmes. Why not? The boys meant nothing to him and his family needed the money even if it was only a few pengo. Besides, there was something satisfying about scoring twice off the one trade. But there was a disparity which troubled him. Reporting the Jews was only worth a few pengo but not reporting them had been worth a pair of boots. The fact that the trade had taken place over a ten-month period was irrelevant. This discrepancy intrigued him: the fact that one piece of information could have such different values. His fertile mind played with the possibilities and he quickly realised how information, used cleverly, could lift his family’s fortunes.

  Instead of reporting Tibor and Milos, Istvan went to the town hall and asked to see the register of Jews. What were a few pengo when there was the possibility of riches? At first the clerk was not obliging. He glared down at the diminutive, rat-faced youth and demanded to know why he wanted to see it.

  ‘I’ve been to the station,’ said Istvan. ‘It’s my belief tha
t not all the Jews have been deported. The Heyman brothers were not there. I want to know who else wasn’t.’

  ‘So you can find them and collect the bounty?’ said the clerk.

  ‘Yes,’ said Istvan.

  The clerk smiled indulgently. He didn’t think the little creep could find his arse with both hands. Nevertheless, he endorsed the boy’s sentiment and brought him the register.

  ‘The Germans are very efficient,’ said the clerk. ‘You will find a cross alongside the name of every Jew who was deported. Any names you find without crosses are Jews who escaped, are missing or dead. Good luck.’

  ‘May I borrow a pencil and some paper, please?’ said Istvan. The clerk sighed wearily but obliged.

  Istvan quickly skimmed down the list of Jews. Every name had a cross alongside it. It was the same for the next page and for the one after it. On the fourth page he found two crosses missing. Tibor and Milos. The next page brought him no joy either, and he was beginning to wonder whether he was wasting his time. But he reminded himself that Tibor and Milos had escaped and, if they could, so could others. On the sixth page his patience was rewarded. There were four names: Max, Martha, Rita and Mark Lantos. Istvan smiled triumphantly. He knew Mark Lantos from school.

  The boy had been in Sandor’s class, one of the Jews most often pissed on and kicked until he’d stopped coming to school. His father had owned a factory making light fittings and lamps, including a range based on American designs which had admirers all over Hungary. When Jews were forbidden to own or run businesses he’d had to surrender his company to his employees. What had happened to them then? Istvan headed up a single page with the name Lantos, entered the parents’ names then the offspring and, alongside Mark’s name, the boy’s age. Beneath that he wrote their home address and the address of the factory. He had no need to write down the factory’s address because everyone knew where it was, but not to do so seemed careless and unprofessional. He left the rest of the page blank, knowing he’d fill it in as he learned more about the family, and turned to a clean sheet. He turned over to the next page on the register and scanned the names for missing crosses. Istvan didn’t realise it but he’d begun his first dossier.

  The dossier grew by four pages, four more families, before Istvan handed the register back and left the town hall. There were other names to pursue but he had enough to work on for the time being. As he walked towards the Lantos factory, Istvan tried to recall an image of Mark’s father. In years gone by he had visited the school to watch plays put on by students and listen to the school orchestra. Istvan could recall seeing the entire family sitting together in the audience. Chubby little Mark with his weak jaw and soft body, his effeminate ways. His mother on one side of him and his sister in the middle next to her father. She was younger than Mark, he remembered, and she had played with her long hair, straightening her curls then letting go so that they sprang back. His mother? No, he couldn’t recall her in any detail but his father … there was something about him. Yes! He was older than the other fathers, older than his wife. That was it! Istvan remembered being surprised by how old Mark’s father was, which would also explain why he hadn’t been sent off to a labour battalion. That was something else to add to his notes. But it wasn’t like having a photograph or a clear memory. Istvan realised he could probably pass Mark’s father in the street and not recognise him.

  The exterior of the factory told Istvan nothing he didn’t already know. When he looked down the driveway into the rear yard, he saw boxes being loaded onto the factory truck, an old Ford with no doors on the cabin. So the factory was still operating. On an impulse he decided to go into the office. His initiative brought an immediate reward. The Germans and the gendarmes may have been efficient at getting rid of the town’s Jews but they’d been somewhat less thorough in getting rid of their photographs. There on the wall was a picture of the company’s founder: Mark’s father. Istvan studied it, committing it to memory. The photo had been taken when Max Lantos was younger but Istvan could now put a face to the figure in the audience. He was making progress.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Istvan dragged his eyes away from the photograph to the middle-aged woman smiling at him from behind a desk. Her hands hovered over a typewriter and she peered at him over glasses she’d pushed down her nose. Why was she smiling so benignly? Istvan didn’t know her and he was equally certain she didn’t know him. Then he realised. She was smiling in response to the smile he couldn’t restrain when he’d spotted the photo.

  ‘Do you sell lamps direct?’ asked Istvan.

  ‘Not normally, but we do make exceptions when we have stock to clear. But right now we’re flat out making factory lights. Most are sent on the train to Germany.’

  ‘Is he the owner?’ Istvan nodded towards the photo.

  ‘Was the owner,’ corrected the secretary. Her face became pensive as she looked at the photo. ‘He’s a Jew. He was deported.’

  ‘Deported?’ said Istvan.

  ‘Yes. His whole family was. Along with all the other Jews.’

  Istvan felt suddenly deflated. They had been deported? But why was there no cross against their names? Was he the victim of bureaucratic bungling? He stared at the secretary. Could the Germans or the gendarmes have made a mistake? Could they have made the same mistake with all four members of one family?

  ‘Is there anything else?’ The woman’s face had become hard and her voice cold. Her eyes had narrowed and she squinted at him, suddenly cautious.

  ‘Did he have a son called Mark?’ said Istvan.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There was a Mark Lantos in my brother’s class. Some of the other boys gave him a bit of a hard time. But I liked him.’ He added the last statement out of pure instinct.

  ‘I liked him too. He was a lovely boy,’ said the secretary. Her gaze softened and she smiled again. ‘The whole family were nice. Everyone liked them.’

  ‘If they’re all gone, who runs the factory now? The Germans?’

  ‘No, our manager, Mr Kadar. Mr Kadar was our chief designer and technical director.’ She sat up in her chair and pulled her glasses upright. ‘I think it’s time you ran along. I’m sorry I can’t help you.’

  Istvan left the factory office far from disappointed. Either the woman genuinely didn’t know what had happened to the Lantos family and was assuming they’d been deported, or she was protecting them. ‘The whole family were nice. Everyone liked them.’ Then there was the matter of the factory operating at full capacity. Many of the businesses the Jews had abandoned had not reopened. Others were failing for lack of experience and direction. Some limped along. Yet the Lantos factory was operating as though nothing had happened. As though Max Lantos was still at the helm. Yes! A surge of excitement surged through Istvan’s thin body. As though Max Lantos was still at the helm!

  Istvan returned home and entered the new information into his dossier. On paper the information gained substance, became fact, and offered itself up for analysis and re-interpretation. Istvan was intrigued. If the Lantos family had not been deported, where would they be hiding? Who would be hiding them? ‘Everyone liked them.’ He underlined these words. Everyone liked them and the factory was still operating at full capacity. That was the most telling point. If Max Lantos was still influencing the factory’s output, then there had to be a close association with someone in the factory. Most likely someone running the factory. Istvan fought back his excitement. He already knew where his information was leading him, indeed the conclusion was obvious. But he relished the process and took too much delight in each step to skip over even the most minor detail. On paper the logic became concrete and inarguable. Who had a house big enough to hide four people, two of whom were adults? Did the manager, Mr Kadar, have a big house? Istvan didn’t know but he assumed it would at least be bigger than the homes of the other employees. Had Kadar taken over the Lantos house? Though Istvan couldn’t picture exactly which house the Lantos family had lived in, he knew the street and it was lined
with big houses. The houses were big enough for two, even three families. Istvan folded the pieces of paper that made up his primitive dossier and slipped them between the pages of a schoolbook, the power of his knowledge bringing him more pleasure than he’d ever imagined.

  Immediately after school the following day, Istvan walked around to the Lantos house. As he turned into the street he saw removalists carrying furniture into a house a hundred metres away. He checked off the numbers and realised it was the house in which the Lantos family had lived. Two removalists were standing behind the truck discussing the best way to get the bed upstairs.

  ‘Who’s moving into the Jew’s house?’ said Istvan.

  ‘Who do you think?’ said one of the removalists.

  ‘The new boss of the factory?’ offered Istvan hopefully.

  ‘No chance.’ The removalist spat onto the pavement. ‘The Deputy Mayor. Fancy people get the fancy houses. Let’s see if the prick keeps it when the Russians come.’

  His mate laughed humourlessly.

  Istvan walked away towards the Lantos factory. He needed to establish where Mr Kadar lived and the only way he could do that was to follow him home. This presented two problems. One, he didn’t know what Kadar looked like. And two, his father was expecting him home to help dig the silt out of their irrigation trenches. If he didn’t go home, he could expect painful retribution. But if he did, his plans would be delayed. He decided to risk it. If necessary he could try telling his father he’d worked out a way to guarantee a constant flow of money into the family. His father might be intrigued enough by the prospect of a constant flow of palinka to listen. But whatever happened, he could never tell his father that his plans involved Jews.