Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Tibor. ‘They’re deserters. We’re not. We’re Jews.’ He smiled ironically. ‘Now come on. We’ll circle around into the ravine and come up below the bridge. There’ll be German soldiers around so don’t get seen. Don’t hurry. Do what those deserters did: move, look around, move. If you see any Germans, just take cover and stay there. Okay?’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘Good. You’ll run faster.’

  Tibor turned and led the way. Ahead of them they could hear an almost constant rattle of machine guns and small arms. Occasionally they heard a solid boom and the thud of exploding shells ripping apart pieces of the mountain. Somewhere ahead of them were Russians in tanks.

  It took until the sun had cleared the top of the mountains for the boys to work their way into position. Traffic across the bridge had thinned dramatically; what they saw were the tattered remnants of a rearguard. Trucks filled with wounded and dying. Trucks with heavy machine guns and rocket launchers. Hollow-cheeked men in grey hanging off them. The retreat had been sounded and the remnants abandoned their positions by whatever means they could.

  The boys watched the vehicles pass, hoping each would be the last, staring across the bridge for any sign of further traffic, listening for the sound of engines under load. The gunfire ceased. The boys glanced at one another as they realised the significance. Tibor stared across the now empty bridge and back down the road behind them. Somewhere on the hillside not far from the road was a group of German engineers waiting to detonate the charges that would destroy the bridge. He decided to wait five minutes. If they hadn’t detonated the charges by then there could be only one reason why: the Germans had not just been ordered to destroy the bridge, but to destroy as much Russian armour as they could at the same time. The five minutes ticked by without any further soldiers or vehicles appearing. It suddenly occurred to Tibor that maybe the Germans were also waiting five minutes to give stragglers a chance. If that was the case, what chance did they have?

  ‘Come on, little brother,’ he said grimly. ‘It’s now or never.’

  He broke cover and began sprinting across the bridge, Milos hard on his heels as always. The bridge was steeper than it had appeared and the boys were soon gasping for breath. They heard rifle shots behind them and began zig-zagging. They cleared the bridge with forty, thirty, twenty, ten metres ahead of them before they rounded the bend that took them out of sight of the Germans. They made the corner and slowed, legs rubbery, chests heaving. Tibor half expected to see vehicles, German or Russian, appear around the bend eighty metres ahead of them.

  ‘Keep going,’ gasped Tibor.

  They made the next bend, slowed and peered cautiously around it. The road was clear but for a damaged and disabled German truck. Tibor jogged up to it and waited for Milos to catch up. Both boys leaned against the truck and sucked in huge breaths.

  ‘We made it,’ gasped Milos. ‘We made it!’

  ‘Not yet. Take off your coat and shirt,’ said Tibor.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Take them off! For Christ’s sake, Milos, stop making me repeat myself.’

  Tibor stripped down to his trousers and rubbed his hand in the pool of oil beneath the truck’s broken motor. ‘Here.’

  The oil was black, thick and the consistency of treacle. Tibor used it to paint a large Star of David on Milos’s chest, almost from neck to navel so nobody could possibly mistake it.

  ‘Now do the same for me,’ he said. He glanced quickly uphill. Milos had heard it too. The heavy clank of metal, the scraping of metal tracks on asphalt. ‘Hurry!’

  Milos hurried. The Star of David he drew was erratic but still recognisable.

  ‘We’re going to run to meet the tanks,’ said Tibor. ‘If they turn out to be German, dive off the low side of the road and roll away as far and as fast as you can. Don’t stop to hide behind rocks. Rocks are no cover from a tank. If they’re Russian, shout and wave your shirt like you’ve never been happier to see anyone in your life. Understand? Be happy!’

  Tibor stared momentarily at his brother, then threw his arms around him. Milos reciprocated. ‘This is it, little brother. Just pray our luck still holds.’

  They started shouting before they even reached the next corner, whooping and cheering and waving their coats and shirts. They turned the corner expecting to see tanks. Nothing. There was nothing on the road up to the next bend seventy metres away. Yet the clanking sounded close, so close. How far did sound travel in the mountains, Tibor wondered. Well, if they could hear tanks while they were still far off, maybe the Russians in the tanks could hear them.

  They ran on, yelling and screaming, up to the next corner and nearly stopped dead in their tracks. They’d found their tanks, but they were bigger and more menacing than they’d ever imagined, not just one or two but an entire column. Foot soldiers hung off every one of them like pears on a particularly productive tree. Despite their shock the boys kept running, waving their shirts and cheering. The lead tank stopped. The muzzle of its gun lowered and swung towards them.

  ‘Ignore it,’ shouted Tibor. ‘Keep waving.’

  Soldiers spilled off the tank and crouched alongside it, weapons pointed at the boys.

  ‘If they were going to shoot they would have,’ said Tibor breathlessly. ‘Keep waving.’

  The boys slowed as they reached the tank.

  ‘The bridge is mined!’ yelled Tibor. ‘Explosives. Understand?’

  The Russians stared back expressionless.

  ‘Look!’ said Tibor. He ran to the side of the road, dropped his shirt and coat and began drawing in the dust with his finger. He drew the bridge, then drew crosses on the supports. Two Russian soldiers eyed his drawing suspiciously. Tibor stood, threw his arms in the air and shouted, ‘Boom!’

  The Russian soldiers raised their weapons.

  ‘Look!’ said Tibor urgently. He pointed to his drawing, looked at the soldiers and saw no sign of comprehension whatsoever. He turned around to the tank. Surely someone smarter was in charge? He glanced up at the officer at the tank’s turret hatch just as the officer issued a command. Two soldiers immediately rushed forward and grabbed hold of Milos while the two nearest Tibor grabbed him. They dragged them both to the side of the road. The tank engaged gear and began moving forward.

  ‘No!’ screamed Tibor. He jerked free of his guards and ran in front of the tank holding his hands up. ‘Stop!’ he yelled. ‘Boom!’

  This time he could see he had the attention of the officer in the turret. The tank stopped and the officer climbed out. He jumped down onto the road and grabbed Tibor’s arm, pushed his face right in front of Tibor’s as though trying to read his mind.

  ‘Look,’ said Tibor. He pointed to the side of the road. The officer nodded and followed him. Once again Tibor drew the bridge, drew crosses on the supports and once again mimed an explosion.

  The officer’s eyes narrowed. He turned and snapped commands to the soldiers. Six rushed forward immediately. One threw his arm around Milos’s neck and pointed a pistol at his head. The officer pushed Tibor towards the remaining five men. Tibor understood immediately. Milos was ransom to his honesty. To show the point was not lost on him, he turned to the officer and saluted. He glanced reassuringly towards Milos and found his brother staring at him in stark terror.

  Tibor led the Russians back down the road but before they reached the bridge he turned off the road on the high side. The Germans had an uninterrupted view of the low side so they could see exactly when to detonate their explosives. But Tibor felt they could sneak up over the ridge and sweep around beneath the bridge on the high side and, once there, let the Russians do whatever they had to do to neutralise the explosives. The Russians followed him, not trusting him, just obeying orders.

  Once beneath the bridge Tibor pointed to where he’d observed the Germans setting explosives. Four men detached themselves to deal with them, clambering over the bridge supports as if they’d done it a thousand times before. The fifth cocke
d his weapon and rested the muzzle against Tibor’s head. Despite being half-naked and exposed to the bitter wind channelling through the gully, Tibor began sweating. Things were now way beyond his control. If the Germans spotted the Russians and detonated the bridge, he would be shot, assuming he survived the explosion. He just hoped the Germans were watching the road and not the bridge. Otherwise … Tibor closed his eyes, knowing he’d done his best to carry out his father’s wishes.

  He heard voices and when he opened his eyes he saw the four soldiers had climbed back off the bridge supports. They were grinning from ear to ear. They set off back around the rocks to start the climb that would take them back to the road. But Tibor’s legs were turning to jelly. The exertions, hunger, cold and fear had sapped the last of his strength. He stumbled. Russian arms hooked under his and half-dragged, half-carried him. When they reached the tank Tibor was dimly aware of the Russian officer smiling. Smiling! The officer shouted something to him and it was all Tibor could do to wave back. He wanted to sleep for a year.

  ‘You never told me about the explosives.’ Milos was blue from the cold and shivering violently. His arms were wrapped around his chest for warmth. ‘Are you okay?’

  Tibor nodded and embraced him.

  Two soldiers stayed with the exhausted boys while the column of tanks moved forward, the four of them perched on a rock in the weak sun as though exempted from the war. Tibor tried to imagine the faces of the German soldiers when the bridge failed to detonate. He glanced at the Russian alongside him. The soldier might have been sharing the same thoughts because his face broke into a broad grin.

  ‘Boom!’ said the soldier. And again. ‘Boom!’

  The four of them began laughing, two boys and their Russian liberators. The boys laughed with the release that came with the knowledge that they’d survived. Survived the Germans, the Arrow Cross, angry farmers, the deserters and, finally, their new friends, these strange Asian-looking Russians. They’d survived when it had seemed like the whole world was conspiring to kill them. Tibor gratefully accepted the bundle of clothing one of the Russians handed him and tossed a shirt and coat to Milos. He couldn’t help noticing Milos’s chest and checked his own. The Stars of David were now just a dirty black smudge of oil.

  ‘Stop now,’ said Lucio.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ramon. ‘It is six o’clock. You’ve already run an hour over.’

  ‘No,’ said Milos. ‘I’m not yet finished. I can’t stop now. It’ll change the structure.’

  But Milos’s skin had become grey with the effort of telling his story and reviving memories he’d worked hard to suppress. In truth, he lacked the strength to insist.

  ‘You’ve given us enough to think about,’ said Neil. ‘More would be overkill.’

  ‘Overkill?’ said Milos. ‘Overkill?’

  Ramon and Lucio winced.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Neil affably. ‘I need a slash and some more coffee. Anyone else need to point Percy?’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Lucio. ‘Milos, promise me you will have a coffee before you drive home. Perhaps also a cognac,’ he added solicitously.

  Milos nodded. He waited until Neil and Lucio had left before turning to Ramon.

  ‘Twice today you have forced me to change my structure. It’s not right.’

  ‘I apologise,’ said Ramon gently. ‘My friend, I don’t like to see you like this. Perhaps you should have chosen another story.’

  ‘No,’ said Milos. ‘I told you at the beginning, no? I have no choice. You had no right to stop me here. The story has to move on and you have put me behind schedule.’

  ‘Then spread your story over an extra week. None of us will object.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Ramon. You’re not listening to me. I told you before. Time is running out. There is no extra week.’

  THIRD THURSDAY

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Maybe it’s just a war story,’ said Neil. ‘You guys try to read too much into the telling.’

  ‘No, there’s more to it than that,’ said Ramon firmly. ‘Milos’s stories always have more layers than a Danish pastry. The key, I believe, is in the urgency. Why did Milos choose this story? Why does he have to tell it now?’

  ‘That’s just bullshit,’ said Neil. ‘Contrived so he could tell his story ahead of mine. Christ Almighty, my story needed telling too. Dwell on them too long and they lose their spark.’

  ‘No, he has a reason,’ said Ramon. ‘I’m certain of it. Last week he was upset because I interrupted his story for coffee. He was genuinely upset when he ran out of time and couldn’t finish the day’s episode. Why the hurry, why the schedule? What are your thoughts?’

  ‘You know my thoughts,’ said Neil. ‘It’s his story, one he’s probably never told anyone before and it’s affecting him. He’s reliving memories and it’s taking longer than he thought. Basically he just wants the story over and done with and for us to know what an amazing bloke he was as a kid. He did okay but, for mine, it’s Tibor who deserves the credit.’

  ‘Such understanding and compassion,’ said Lucio. ‘Ever thought of becoming a priest?’ He glared at Neil. ‘Besides, I think maybe we are all overlooking the main issue.’

  ‘Which is?’ said Ramon.

  ‘His use of the third person. The way he refers to himself as Milos. Two weeks ago you claimed that was the key, one of the foundation stones of his story. Maybe we should consider his motives.’

  ‘I’m not so certain any more. The nature of the story, the obvious distress in telling it, maybe Milos was right. Maybe the use of the third person does contribute to his objectivity, but it is also helpful in distancing himself from his memories,’ said Ramon.

  ‘The great man admits he was wrong,’ said Neil. ‘Never thought I’d live to see the day.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s neither of these things,’ said Lucio. ‘Milos mentioned a debt. Remember? He got our attention the moment he mentioned we were owed a debt. What debt? By whom?’

  ‘He discusses our stories with his wife,’ said Ramon. ‘He has told us that on many occasions.’

  ‘So you think the debt is hers?’ cut in Neil. ‘It wasn’t long ago that you accused him of using his wife’s name to promote alternative even contradictory opinions to his own. We all know how much he hates to be wrong. You accused him of hedging his bets.’

  ‘That’s what he was doing,’ said Ramon.

  ‘Or was he?’ said Lucio. ‘Maybe he really was expressing his wife’s opinion.’

  ‘Damn me,’ said Neil. ‘Ramon wrong twice in the one day.’

  The blind man ignored him. ‘We have no evidence that Milos discusses the story with his wife, only his word. And he only mentions her at the most convenient times, convenient to him that is.’

  ‘But if he genuinely discusses our stories with his wife, then it is reasonable to assume she’d have her own opinions,’ said Lucio. ‘If that is the case, because she has never contributed a story herself, she may feel she is in our debt. It makes sense.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Neil. ‘I think you’ve hit the nail on the head.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Ramon sharply. He heard the sound of chairs being pushed back, of Lucio and Neil rising to their feet. ‘What’s happening? What’s happening? For God’s sake, Lucio!’

  ‘Milos has brought his wife.’

  Ramon started, genuinely surprised. Milos had brought his wife? Why? And why hadn’t he seen it coming? Suddenly the debt was obvious, but how did that explain the urgency? Or Milos’s use of the third person? A smile spread across the blind man’s face which masked his true feelings. He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, alert and concentrating, listening for footsteps, the sound of clothes brushing the backs of chairs, the reactions of his friends, trying to judge the moment. Yes!

  ‘Gabriella, I presume,’ said Ramon. He heard a brief, brittle laugh in response, younger-sounding than he expected, not forced but somehow warm.

  ‘Milos told me you would guess.
It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Ramon.’ She took his hand and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  ‘The pleasure is mine,’ said Ramon, but his mind was racing. What was Milos playing at? Even if his wife felt she owed them a debt, how did that justify Milos bringing her uninvited to their lunch? And why now? Ramon looked for clues but found few. It was so unlike Milos unless he had a purpose. And if he had a purpose, why hadn’t he brought her along when he began the story?

  The blind man seethed quietly, dimly aware of Milos introducing Gabriella to Lucio who was naturally effusive in his greeting. He sounded as though he was genuinely delighted to have her join them, privileged even, but how did he really feel about this unwarranted intrusion? There was a cosiness and a completeness between the four of them, and a balance that could easily be disturbed. Gabriella’s presence was an imposition.

  ‘And you must be Neil,’ he heard Gabriella say.

  ‘Right on the money,’ said Neil. ‘It’s an honour to meet you. We’ve heard so much about you!’

  ‘Really?’ said Gabriella.

  Ramon’s ears pricked up instantly, alert to the change in her voice and its nuances.

  ‘Yes, really,’ said Neil.

  ‘You surprise me, Neil. Aren’t you the one who advised my Milos to — what is the expression? — yes, “get a life” when you learned what his story would be? Didn’t you advise him to get rid of all his baggage from Europe and the war?’

  A smile began to spread slowly across the blind man’s face.

  ‘Didn’t you tell him he should have left all his baggage behind so he could truly embrace this new country? Isn’t that what you told him?’

  ‘Maybe. In a roundabout way,’ said Neil uncomfortably.

  ‘No, not in a roundabout way at all.’

  ‘No,’ Neil admitted, ‘maybe not in a roundabout way.’

  ‘You told Milos that a smart man would have left all his baggage behind. Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Neil.

  ‘Then he would have left me,’ said Gabriella softly. ‘He would have left me behind. You see, Neil, I am Milos’s baggage.’