Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  ‘We’re Hungarian,’ said Tibor.

  ‘Ahhh,’ said another, the largest of the men. His hair and beard were wild and long and as black as a crow. His eyes also appeared black, set back in a deeply tanned face. To Milos he looked how he’d imagined the pirate in Peter Pan and Wendy would look, a long time ago.

  ‘You!’ The big man pointed to Milos then to Tibor. ‘There!’

  Milos shot to his feet and crossed the cave to Tibor. Tibor pulled himself up into a sitting position.

  ‘Who are you? Deserters or Jews?’

  The big man spoke like a Hungarian peasant which Tibor suspected he probably was. Pro-Arrow Cross and anti-Jews.

  ‘Catholics,’ said Tibor. ‘Who are you?’

  The big man grinned. ‘So what are Catholics doing hiding in my cave?’

  ‘Catholic mother, Jewish father,’ said Milos.

  ‘Got any food?’

  Tibor pointed to the sack between him and Milos. One of the men pounced on it and plucked out the remaining vegetables: one small turnip and two small parsnips. He handed them to the big man.

  ‘Pity,’ said the man. He managed to sound genuinely disappointed. He handed the vegetables to one of his comrades who transferred them to another sack, then sat down and slumped up against the wall. His men took that as a cue to sit, though one man remained standing with his machine pistol at the ready.

  ‘Are you partisans?’ asked Tibor.

  ‘Partisans!’ The big man laughed as though he’d just heard the best joke of his life. His comrades joined in.

  ‘Who are you fighting?’ Tibor persisted, sensing that he had to engage the big man or risk being taken out and shot. He suspected he already knew the answers to his questions. He glimpsed watches on both the man’s wrists.

  ‘This man and this man, they are deserters from the Romanian army.’ The man pointed out two grinning comrades. ‘This one is a deserter from the German army.’ Their guard nodded. ‘The rest of us deserted from what was left of the Hungarian army after Voronezh.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you have any idea how many of us the Russians killed?’ He glared at the two boys. ‘Five divisions. One hundred thousand men.’ He spat into the dust. ‘The Germans set us up as targets, the Russians shot us down.’

  ‘What are your plans?’ said Tibor.

  ‘Plans?’ The big man started laughing again as though the idea of having plans was ludicrous. ‘Let me ask you, what are your plans?’

  ‘Hide in a cave till the front passes by, then make contact with the Russians.’

  ‘That is a good plan,’ said the big man. ‘For Jews.’

  ‘Catholics,’ corrected Tibor.

  ‘Your father was a Jew. That makes you a Jew.’

  ‘Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.’ Milos looked the leader of the deserters squarely in the eye. ‘That makes us Catholics.’

  ‘Catholic Jews.’ The big man roared with laughter at his joke. ‘That makes you Catholic Jews.’

  ‘You didn’t tell us your plans,’ said Tibor.

  The smile left the big man’s face. ‘The Germans shoot deserters on sight. As for the Russians …’ He spat again. ‘We sent three men to negotiate with them, to offer our services. The Russians heard them out then shot them dead. They knew we were watching. They made sure we saw their reply. That, my young friends, is how the Russians negotiate.’

  ‘So?’ said Tibor.

  ‘So!’ said the big man. Any trace of humour had fled from his face. ‘So we shoot Germans and Russians and steal their weapons. We shoot peasants and gypsies and steal their food. We shoot refugees for whatever they’ve got. We shoot people like you for your food and your clothes. We kill to survive. We’ve taken your food. After we’ve shot you we’ll take your clothes.’

  ‘Let us join you,’ said Tibor.

  The big man’s eyes narrowed. He stared at Tibor, long and hard, searching for any sign of fear. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve been stealing food for four months and killed nobody. People don’t even know we’ve stolen their food until we’re long gone.’ Tibor told them how they stole carrots and replanted the tops, how they stole turnips, parsnips, potatoes and eggs. ‘We can steal food for you.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

  ‘Take as long as you like,’ said Tibor.

  The big man again roared with laughter, and this time translated for his Romanian and German colleagues. He gave them all time to share the joke before his smile turned to a snarl.

  ‘Janos! Light the goddamned fire! You!’ He pointed to the German standing guard over the boys. ‘Shoot them if they move.’ He turned to the boys and smiled. ‘We’re going to eat but you are not. It’s fortunate that you are not hungry.’

  Once the deserters had eaten and their hunger was at least mildly satisfied, Tibor began singing melancholy Hungarian folk songs. He prodded Milos to join in. At first their ballads aroused suspicion but it didn’t take long for the Hungarian deserters, including the big man, to add their voices. The weak fire in the centre of the cave drew their eyes like a magnet and the doleful singing helped draw out memories. Everyone saw in the flames what might have been and it united them in loss. The Romanians didn’t know the words Tibor and Milos were singing but recognised the melodies. They sang in their own language.

  At any other time Milos would have been moved by the sad beauty of it all, but he guessed what Tibor was up to. His brother had picked the moment when their captors felt their tiredness most keenly and were most vulnerable. He was trying to befriend them. It was hard to shoot people who were friends and were joined in song. Milos was under no illusion that it would save them in the long term but it just might be enough to help them survive the day.

  The rain eased as night fell and by ten had ceased altogether. Stars shone coldly from a clearing sky. Once again they could hear the grinding of trucks in the pass but something was missing. The sounds of battle which had been a constant backdrop to their days and nights had ceased. The silence drew the big man and some of the deserters to the mouth of the cave. Tibor could tell they were apprehensive.

  ‘The calm before the storm,’ said Tibor. ‘The Russians are setting themselves to advance.’

  The big man turned and snarled at him. ‘So now the boy is a military genius?’

  But the words were hardly out of his mouth before the sky lit up with flashes and the boom of heavy artillery followed, rolling over the hills and down into the valleys. Whatever the weapons were aimed at was beyond the next ridge and out of sight, but they felt the impact when the shells landed and exploded. Puffs of dust showered from the top of the cave and the ground beneath them shook and shivered as though in fear. For the first time, the boys were close enough to the front to hear the rattle of machine guns and small-arms fire.

  The big man pulled back into the cave. ‘Fire!’ he snarled.

  His comrades rushed to kick dirt over the flames. The cave plunged into darkness. Only the stars were visible at the cave entrance and the shadowy silhouettes of the men on guard.

  ‘Tonight, maybe we use your plan,’ said the big man. ‘We let the war roll over us.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘If not, tomorrow we pull out.’

  The boys leaned back against the cave wall, eyes wide open, awestruck by the sounds of a battle more ferocious, more powerful and more destructive than anything they’d ever imagined. Somewhere in the darkness one of the Hungarian deserters began to pray softly.

  The war didn’t roll over them but sometime during the early hours of the morning the heavy barrage ceased, replaced by sporadic but intense bursts of fire, suggesting the combatants were engaged at close quarters. The Russian advance had begun. At first light, the big man led them from the cave. Tibor was expecting a helter-skelter retreat away from the front but instead saw how the deserters had managed to survive for so
long. This was no rabble bunch of brigands but an efficient military unit, each of them knowing exactly what was required. The deserters fanned out, moving in short, quick darts from one rock to another. The boys and the Hungarian deserter appointed to guard them stayed hidden until the big man waved them forward. They crouched low and did their best to copy the deserters. Run and hide, run and hide.

  The entire group rendezvoused at an outcrop overlooking the pass. Tibor risked a glance between two boulders and saw the Germans in full retreat. The narrow mountain road was jammed with trucks towing eighty-eight-millimetre anti-tank guns and others carrying the survivors of a beaten army. Retreating soldiers also marched along the side of the road.

  ‘There!’

  Tibor turned around to see what the big man had seen; he was pointing across the valley. Tibor studied the hillside opposite, a sector at a time as his father had taught him, trying to see what had caught the brigand’s attention. He saw movement. Tiny grey helmeted figures withdrawing.

  ‘Up here.’ This time it was one of the Hungarian deserters, uphill from them.

  When the big man crept over to see what his lookout had spotted, Tibor followed. He found a crack between two rocks and tried to trace back along the deserter’s line of sight. He saw tanks crossing a bridge over a steep rocky gully but that wasn’t what caught his eye. There were grey uniformed figures dangling below the bridge on ropes, working their way among the supports. Tibor realised immediately what was happening: the Germans were going to blow up the bridge. He heard the big man curse. More soldiers were withdrawing, this time on their side of the hill.

  The big man darted back to his original position, Tibor and the deserters following. Nobody said anything but Tibor and Milos suddenly found themselves the centre of attention. Tibor was first to realise what was wrong and his blood turned cold. The deserters were looking to the big man for what, for them, was an easy decision. Their situation was rapidly deteriorating and there was no room in their well-oiled military unit for two boys.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the big man and shrugged his shoulders. He nodded to the Hungarian guarding the boys and pointed back uphill.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Milos, suddenly fearful.

  Tibor didn’t respond. Obviously the big man didn’t want to alert the Germans to their presence so had ordered that the boys be shot on the other side of the ridge. The deserters had already begun moving off, absorbed once again in the business of survival. To all intents and purposes Tibor and Milos had already been forgotten. Their guard prodded Tibor with his rifle.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘And keep down or I shoot you now.’

  Milos felt the blood drain from his face. He wanted to cry. Safety was on the other side of the bridge, so close they could actually see it. Nevertheless, he did as instructed, following hard on Tibor’s heels, hoping with all his heart that his resourceful brother would come up with a plan in time. But there was so little time. And what plan could Tibor come up with against a man with a gun? What if his brother couldn’t save him this time? What if their road was destined to end here? Tears began flooding Milos’s eyes and he wanted to hug Tibor and thank him for all the other times when his wit had saved them both, or at least let him know how much he loved him before the bullet ended his life.

  They reached the lip of the ridge and plunged over. Tibor kept going as though heading back to the cave. The guard let them go almost fifty metres before calling a halt.

  ‘Kneel!’ he ordered.

  Milos knelt. Tibor sank only to one knee.

  ‘Don’t shoot us!’ begged Tibor. ‘I heard you praying last night. You are Catholic, no?’

  ‘Shut up!’

  Any hope Milos had entertained that his brother would somehow conjure up a plan vanished. Tibor was begging, begging for his life. The sound of his brother’s voice shaking and pleading was the last thing Milos had ever expected to hear and it shocked him deeply, heightening his fear.

  ‘Please. You are Catholic. You know how important it is for us to make our final confession. What difference will another minute or two make? Please, I beg you, do this for us.’ Tears overflowed Tibor’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

  ‘Ah shit!’ said the guard nervously. He looked around as though to check that none of his comrades were watching. ‘Okay, be quick.’

  ‘Will you hear our confession?’ begged Tibor. Milos had doubled over, quaking with fright, lips moving in silent prayer. ‘Please hear us!’

  ‘Hear each other’s! I’ve no time for this!’ The guard nervously checked back to the ridge line. All the while his comrades were getting further and further away.

  ‘For the love of God, please hear our confession,’ insisted Tibor. He turned to Milos. ‘Look at him! How could he hear my confession? Look! He has pissed himself. Do this for us and for yourself. You should be thinking of your immortal soul.’

  ‘My immortal soul,’ scoffed the guard. ‘Not even God can absolve the things I’ve done.’

  ‘But you prayed to God last night. We heard you. God heard you. Now hear us.’ Tibor’s voice had become more strident, more desperate. ‘One day this war will be over and you can look back on this morning as the beginning. Today could be the first day of your atonement. God notices these things.’

  ‘God damn!’ said the guard. ‘But I’m warning you, you better be quick.’ He relaxed and the barrel of his rifle lifted so that it now pointed slightly upwards, away from the boys.

  ‘Do my brother first,’ said Tibor.

  Milos had doubled over so far his head almost touched the ground. Tears streamed down his face and dripped from his nose. The guard dropped to one knee alongside him.

  ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ began Milos, his voice so faint and broken the guard had no chance of hearing him.

  ‘Speak up, I can’t hear you!’ The guard leaned closer to Milos and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘For Christ’s sake, pull yourself together!’

  ‘Forgive me, forgive me …’ said Milos. He leaned forward as far as he could and launched into a barely audible litany of sins.

  ‘Speak up or I give up!’ said the guard, clearly exasperated and uncomfortable with his role. ‘How in God’s name can I absolve what I can’t hear?’

  In frustration he bent right over, put his ear alongside Milos’s lips. It was an act of kindness but also an act of folly. Tibor launched himself at the guard and brought a rock crashing down on his head. Milos screamed as the guard collapsed onto the ground, groaning and barely conscious, a deep groove in his head where his skull had caved in.

  ‘Oh sweet Jesus!’ said Milos. He rolled over onto his side and vomited, screamed again when a rifle shot exploded alongside him. He looked up and saw Tibor standing over the dead guard, the rifle smoking in his hands. Blood, bone and brain splattered the ground. He flinched as Tibor fired another bullet into the guard’s body.

  ‘Stop it! Stop shooting!’ Milos was shaking like a leaf in a storm as he sat up, a victim of a tumult of emotions. Fear, relief, gratitude, horror.

  Tibor turned to face him, eyes bright and face flushed, holding the rifle as though it were something precious.

  ‘They were expecting two shots.’

  Milos stared up at his brother in horror. He’d seen the same look on his brother’s face when he’d raced past him on the bridge over the Bodrog, laughing at the thrill of the danger. At that moment Milos glimpsed a stranger, someone who in a flicker of an eye had become a killer.

  ‘He was going to shoot us, Milos,’ said Tibor defensively. ‘He was going to shoot us!’

  ‘You killed him! Don’t you feel anything?’

  ‘For him? No!’ He kicked the deserter’s body. ‘Saved! That’s what I feel. Saved and alive. Now, come on, little brother. Dry your eyes and wipe your nose. We’ve got to make contact with the Russians.’

  Tibor dismantled the rifle so it couldn’t fire and threw it away. He bent over and began running back up to the ridge, leaving Milos little c
hoice but to run after him.

  Tibor tried to stay high because he knew that the German infantrymen were heading lower as they withdrew from their positions defending the crest of the pass. But he soon realised the impossibility of his plan. The bridge spanned a rocky ravine which was perhaps sixty or seventy metres deep and quickly broadened out to a steep valley. There was no way of reaching the other side without crossing the bridge. He cursed silently. If the Germans blew up the bridge, the Russians would be delayed for days if not weeks. Tibor couldn’t wait that long. They had no food and no prospect of stealing any without retracing their steps back down the mountain, a mountainside crawling with Germans and, by nightfall, probably heavily defended. He realised they had only one option but never in his wildest dreams had he envisaged a plan so fraught with risks.

  ‘Milos! Come here!’ He waited for Milos to dash from the cover of the rock he was sheltering behind and join him. ‘Look. See through here.’ He leaned back so that Milos could peer between a cluster of rocks to the pass below. ‘See the bridge?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Milos.

  ‘We’re going to cross it.’

  ‘What?’

  Milos stared at his brother as if he had gone mad. He checked back to the bridge to make certain he hadn’t been mistaken. He hadn’t. German trucks were crossing it in groups of three and four and German soldiers streamed across on both sides. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘Not quite, little brother, but you must do exactly what I tell you. Don’t let me down now. Forget what just happened back there. Forget everything. Just concentrate on getting over that bridge. We wait until the last German has crossed and then we make a run for it. We can do it. It’s not as long as our bridge over the Bodrog.’

  ‘What if the Germans see us?’

  ‘They’ll shoot us.’

  ‘You’re crazy, Tibor! Even if we get across the Russians will shoot us. You heard what that deserter said.’