Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  ‘I sat there crying with her cradled in my arms until the farmer came in from the fields. He lifted me up and carried me back to the house where the old woman had given us the bread and currants. He was an old man but I was just skin and bone and misery. I weighed nothing. They gave me soup and bread and promised to help me bury Julia. And they did. That evening I watched as the farmer dug a hole and he buried her. They wrapped her in an old blanket and put a cross on her grave. Imagine that. A cross for a Jew! They asked me her name so they could write it on the cross but … but …’ Gabriella closed her eyes and bowed her head. Her shoulders shook gently as she began to sob.

  ‘That’s enough, Gabi,’ said Milos gently. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘No,’ she said fiercely. She raised her head and gazed defiantly around the table. ‘It is good for me to talk. I’m sorry if I have embarrassed you but it is not easy. I couldn’t remember her name, you see. I couldn’t remember her family name. We had become sisters and I couldn’t remember her name. I told them “Julia” and her number. That’s what they painted on the cross. Julia, and the number tattooed on her arm.’

  For a moment none of the friends said anything. They sipped their coffee and grappa and considered the story to date, giving Gabriella the opportunity to dab her eyes with a tissue and regain her composure.

  ‘May I see it?’ said Ramon eventually.

  ‘See what?’ asked Milos.

  ‘The tattoo.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gabriella. ‘It is not something I am ashamed of. It is just a number, like a telephone number written in ballpoint.’ She rolled up her left sleeve and extended her arm across the table. Ramon used his left hand to cradle hers while the fingers of his right hand explored the inside of her forearm. ‘Just writing. Nothing to feel, no?’

  ‘There is not one number but two,’ said Ramon. ‘One above the other?’

  ‘You can feel that?’ said Gabriella.

  Ramon just smiled and patted her arm before letting go. In fact he could feel no tattoo and had merely speculated on there being two lines, drawing on a description given to him years earlier by another concentration camp survivor.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Lucio. ‘I can’t feel anything. How could he possibly know there were two lines?’

  Gabriella laughed and reached for her coffee. ‘He is guessing, he must be. I have lived and slept with this tattoo for over fifty years. I have run my fingers over it countless times every day. It’s just like ballpoint, that’s all. No one can feel ballpoint. You were just guessing, weren’t you, Ramon? Admit it.’

  ‘My dear Gabriella,’ said Ramon, ‘surely Milos has told you, I never admit to anything.’

  ‘No? Then you are a lucky man, Ramon.’ The last traces of a smile drained from Gabriella’s face and the life went out of her voice.

  ‘Gabi, there is no need,’ said Milos.

  ‘No need? Of course there is need! You are a lucky man, Ramon, and you may never know how lucky you are. I am not so lucky. I must admit to everything. Everything! Can you imagine that? My friend the doctor has been very patient over so many years and to him I must admit everything. He takes me through hell so that I can once again greet the sunlight. Not filtered sunlight, not reflected, but warm and golden as it was when I was a child. I did not imagine anyone could go through such pain and emerge alive. But I did. And the pain took the shadows and darkness away and I can look in the mirror and know who I am. I can listen to the eggs break. I can tell my story.’

  ‘And will you?’ said Ramon.

  ‘No!’ Milos exploded out of his chair.

  ‘It’s okay, Milos,’ said Gabriella.

  ‘He is deliberately trying to provoke you!’

  ‘No, Milos, his question is fair. I claimed I could now tell my story and he asks if I will.’

  ‘It’s not your story,’ insisted Milos. ‘It is my story and mine to tell.’ Milos was aware of other diners staring at him but ignored them.

  ‘Is it such a bad thing to allow Gabriella to contribute?’ said Ramon calmly. ‘It is her story too and, by her own admission, she is capable of telling it.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Ramon! Why are you so insistent on interrupting my story? You call coffee breaks before I am ready. You end the day’s storytelling at your convenience, not mine. You have undermined me since the very first day.’

  ‘Milos, sit down and stop shouting.’ Gabriella turned towards the kitchen and waved to get Gancio’s attention. She waited until Milos had settled back in his chair. ‘This is what we will do. We will have another cup of coffee while Milos collects his thoughts. Then he will complete his storytelling for the day. He has told you about his schedule, no?’

  She handed her empty coffee cup to Gancio. ‘What do you think, Neil?’

  ‘What? Fine. I could certainly use another coffee.’

  ‘You have been very quiet,’ said Gabriella. ‘Are you bored by our wallowing in our past? Are you weary of our baggage?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘No? Not bored by this public washing of our linen? If you are not bored, then describe to me how you feel. I’d like to know.’

  ‘Describe …?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gabriella. ‘Excited, enthralled, moved, what? How do you feel?’

  Ramon couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘Fascinated, I guess,’ said Neil reluctantly. ‘But in a kind of appalled way. It’s hard to reconcile the fact that you are the person in Milos’s story, that these things happened to you.’

  ‘Oh, they happened.’

  ‘I don’t dispute that. If I’m quiet it’s because you’ve given me a lot to think about. Please don’t take my silence as lack of interest. Far from it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gabriella. ‘At last we have your interest.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Tibor was a man born for the times. All his young life had been but training for the opportunities he now faced. He thrived in the devastation and chaos of poor battered Budapest. The city had been split in two by the departing Germans who had dynamited all seven bridges over the Danube, isolating hilly residential Buda on the western bank from industrial, commercial Pest on the eastern side. Infrastructure had collapsed along with the bridges. The phone service was all but destroyed, there was no postal service and trains ran only with the Russians’ permission. Nevertheless, Tibor wasted no time re-establishing his contacts in the railways which, despite the fighting and bombing, still functioned. He made the railways his priority because he understood the importance of a transport system that could move goods in volume. He knew how the railways worked, and how they could be made to work for him even with the Russians calling the shots.

  The city was desperate for food. The fortunate were hungry and the less fortunate were starving. Tibor did a round of the bakeries and food-processing plants that had survived and were reasonably intact and ascertained their needs. He introduced himself as a supplier of whatever was wanted.

  Though not yet eighteen, he was cocky and confident in a city populated by the defeated. He spread hope where there was only hopelessness. He promised a future at a time when few could see past the end of the day. He had friends among the Russians, friends in high places and friends in the railways. He negotiated deals and convinced people that the impossible was possible. He lied without shame but, ultimately, he delivered.

  Carriages carrying relief supplies into Budapest were mysteriously detached and their contents delivered to his makeshift warehouses in Pest. In this way he secured flour, sugar and condensed milk for his bakers and food processors, coffee for the cafés that struggled to provide an oasis of civilisation amidst the ruins, lentils for the desperately hungry and, the greatest of all prizes, American cigarettes. His familiarity with the Russian troops and his increasing confidence with their language enabled him to travel to villages around Budapest. The farms that hadn’t been burned or bombed out had all been plundered, first by the Germans and then by the occupying Russian forces who lived off th
e land. He offered to buy anything anyone was prepared to sell at a better price than they could get at market. He wanted all their chickens, eggs and vegetables, pigs if they had any and as much milk as they could provide. His contacts in the railways provided transportation. Everything came back to the railways.

  Tibor’s enterprises grew spectacularly but so too did his notoriety and his opposition. Every city has its criminals and standover men and Budapest was no exception. The crime bosses resented his intrusion into their territory and were jealous of his success. He was just a boy, they were men, and the boy was making the men look foolish. But if he was making a fool of them, he was also making a fool of himself.

  In the full flood of his confidence and with an arrogance born of youth and inexperience, Tibor believed no deal was too big for him when the truth was plainly otherwise. He found it hard to recruit the hard men to stand guard over his warehouses and protect him from his competitors. He was simply too young, too inexperienced and too dangerous to be around. Unable to hire the men he needed, he hired those who were available to him. Inevitably they proved unequal to the task.

  Unwilling to put his stolen goods entirely in the hands of the hired help, Tibor took to sleeping in his warehouses, choosing his night’s shelter at random to keep his men honest and his enemies guessing. Inevitably, he was betrayed. He was awoken one night by the muzzle of a machine pistol pressed hard against his temple. Having opened his eyes he closed them again immediately, bracing himself for the explosion that would leave his brains and ambitions splattered over the bags of grain he’d been sleeping on. But even in the midst of his fear part of his brain still functioned, and it told him that if his assailants wanted him dead they wouldn’t have bothered waking him up. He slowly reopened his eyes.

  Somebody had turned on the main lights and he saw his two bodyguards pressed up against the wall, their faces smashed and bloody. Four men stood idly by with cocked weapons. There were blood stains on the stocks. He looked away from them and into the eyes of the man holding the gun to his head.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  ‘Someone who wants to kill you.’ The assailant’s eyes were hard and humourless. ‘But someone wants to talk to you first. Get some clothes on.’

  Tibor’s hands were bound behind his back, he was blindfolded and bundled into the back seat of an old Mercedes. Throughout the ten-minute journey the only comfort he could draw on came from the fact that somebody wanted to talk to him. However much trouble he was in, at least he’d have a chance of talking his way out of it.

  Tibor was aware of the car slowing then turning sharply before heavy doors banged closed behind them. Men dragged him from the car and marched him up two flights of stairs where he was pushed down onto a chair and his bindings adjusted to secure him to the backrest. One of the men wrenched the blindfold from his head.

  Tibor recoiled instinctively from the blinding light that shone directly into his face. Through the glare he gradually made out the shapes of men standing in a semi-circle in front of him. One man started laughing quietly and others joined in.

  ‘So this is the little shit who thinks he can walk into our territory and steal our business.’

  Tibor turned towards the voice, still dazzled by the light.

  ‘Did he give you any trouble?’

  ‘My girlfriend could have brought him in.’

  ‘Turn the lamp away. Let him see me.’

  The moment the lamp was turned away, Tibor focused his attention on the floor in front of him, blinking rapidly to dull the bright spots that seemed burned into his retinas. Gradually his sight began to clear but he remained blinking and staring at the floor. No matter how dire the circumstances, Tibor understood the necessity of making strong eye contact. Only when his vision was fully restored did he look up and take stock of his tormentors. There were five of them. An older man stood in the middle and Tibor was momentarily surprised by his age. He had to be at least seventy but he was the hardest-looking seventy year old Tibor had ever seen. Age had given him a stoop but made him no less imposing. One look into his eyes and Tibor knew exactly who called the shots.

  ‘You are a lucky boy, Tibor Heyman,’ said the old man. ‘My competitors want you dead for your arrogance. Perhaps they have been blinded by your lack of respect. They would be happy to piss on your corpse. But me, I see more value in keeping you alive. It was only a matter of time before one of us got to you. You should be grateful I got to you first.’

  Tibor nodded slightly, not trusting himself to speak and lacking sufficient information to know what attitude to adopt. He kept silent and slowly reined in his fear.

  ‘I am Imre Vilagosi. You have heard of me?’

  The name sent a shiver down his spine. Of course he’d heard of him. Vilagosi was not the biggest but still one of Budapest’s most powerful gang bosses.

  ‘This is Pal Szarbo,’ Vilagosi said glancing at the man beside him who had held the machine pistol to Tibor’s head. ‘He is my lieutenant, my second in command.’

  Again Tibor nodded to acknowledge the introduction.

  ‘Now, Tibor Heyman, demonstrate to all of us here that I did the right thing by keeping you alive. Tell us about the railways.’

  ‘I have contacts,’ said Tibor quietly. ‘I command a loyalty once given to my father, Jozsef Heyman.’

  ‘Jozsef Heyman is your father?’

  Tibor noted the surprise and delight in Vilagosi’s voice, indeed, had expected it. He moved immediately to capitalise on the moment.

  ‘I caught your attention by stealing a carriage here and there. You think that is impressive. I think it is child’s play. Give me your backing and I will steal entire trains.’

  ‘Entire trains?’

  Tibor smiled. His instincts told him the dynamics had shifted. They were intrigued. ‘Grain, coal, cement, livestock. Take your pick. I have the contacts to seize trains but lack the backing and the means to warehouse and distribute. Our assets complement each other.’

  ‘He compares himself with you?’ Pal Szarbo moved quickly towards Tibor and slapped his face hard. ‘You want me to teach the arrogant little shit some manners?’

  ‘In good time,’ said Vilagosi. He waved Pal Szarbo away and turned his attention back to Tibor. ‘What are you proposing?’

  ‘A partnership.’ Tibor’s face stung as though it had been burned but he gave no indication. Blood trickled from his nose.

  ‘A partnership!’ cut in Pal Szarbo. ‘For Christ’s sake! Listen to him. A minute ago we were discussing whether or not to let him live!’ He thumped his fist into his hand in frustration.

  ‘What is to stop us extracting the names of your contacts?’ said Vilagosi. His voice had become colder and more sinister. ‘It wouldn’t be difficult. Harder men than you have been persuaded to give up their mothers.’

  ‘What good would the names do you? You can bribe and threaten as many men as you like but that won’t give you a network. A network exists because it wants to exist. It is mutual cooperation given willingly for a common cause. In this instance, loyalty to my father. Of course there are pay-offs but loyalty and trust is what binds the network. That is not something I can give to you or something you can take from me.’

  Vilagosi stared at him for fully a minute as he digested what Tibor had said. ‘Untie him. Let him rest now. We will discuss the terms of our partnership over breakfast.’

  Tibor entered a world where loyalty and betrayal often wore the same familiar face. Informers were everywhere and no one could be trusted. Vilagosi and Pal Szarbo wasted no time in teaching their new partner the disciplines of their dangerous trade. There was always someone prepared to sell them out to their opposition, to the Russians, the gendarmes or the secret police. But for the corruptibility of the Russians and the enforcement agencies, none of the gangs would have been able to operate.

  Vilagosi invested heavily in his survival by buying officials, informers and bodyguards. He was ruthless with anyone he suspected of betraying him
or undermining his activities. In the chaos of occupied Budapest violence and death were commonplace. There were revenge killings as Arrow Cross assassins and thugs were tracked down and summarily dealt with. There were the excesses of the occupying army, with the Russians looting everything they could lay their hands on and killing anyone who objected. This was the world in which Vilagosi and now Tibor went about their business. Rival gangs fought over the spoils and battled for supremacy. When he’d arrived in Budapest Tibor had set out to become a middleman, a provider of the unobtainable, not a criminal who sanctioned killings and beatings. Inevitably he became both.

  As the realities of his new life became apparent to Tibor, he pushed his brother further and further away. Milos was ordered to remain in the background and had little knowledge of the violent side of Tibor’s activities. Violence, according to Tibor, was entirely the province of their opposition, which was why he kept Milos on the move, never allowing him to sleep more than two or three nights in the same place. At the beginning, Milos had acted as Tibor’s book-keeper, keeping tabs on acquisitions, storage and sales. He also became his paymaster, keeping records of bribes, kickbacks, protection money and wages, and converted increasingly worthless cash into gold and tradable commodities. When his brother teamed up with Vilagosi, Milos became Tibor’s liability.

  Vilagosi offered to provide a job for Milos in one of his legitimate enterprises, but Tibor wanted Milos’s separation from the organisation to be absolute. More than that, he wanted to shield all knowledge of his brother’s existence. If the opposition or the secret police wanted to get at him, all they would have to do was kidnap Milos. At the same time, Tibor wanted Milos nearby so he could keep an eye on him. But Tibor’s agenda took no consideration of Milos’s and in the end it was Milos who solved the impasse.

  Milos could never contact Tibor directly. If he needed to talk to his brother he rang a phone number, one of the few still operating, and left a message. In the second week in May, with Germany’s surrender official, Milos rang the number. The brothers met for lunch in an apartment on Ferenciek Street near the destroyed Elizabeth Bridge. The apartment had once been grand but had since been abandoned and looted. It was sparsely furnished with a table and chairs that didn’t match, two armchairs and a sofa with a bullet hole through the back, and heavy drapes tacked over the windows. Milos imagined the bedrooms would look much the same. The one cheery note came from a vase filled with madonna lilies on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Tibor arrived late with his personal bodyguards in tow, wearing a heavy coat despite the warm spring weather. The coat concealed an American airman’s flak jacket.