Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  Gabriella turned her attention to her lunch. She sliced off another tiny piece of veal but it had grown cold. ‘Post-traumatic stress disorder. It is good that my illness has a name but the name doesn’t tell you much. It is like being in a car with two steering wheels and another driver besides myself. Sometimes I steer but the other driver can override me at any time and take me to places I don’t want to go. It is malicious and erratic, this other driver, and for much of my life since escaping Hungary it has been in control.’

  ‘That will do,’ said Milos gently. ‘You have told enough without telling too much. Now, eat a little more and I will begin today’s episode.’

  He cast a quick glance at the blind man. ‘With Ramon’s permission, of course.’

  Time heals and sleep abets, but sleep is the most contrary of allies. By June 1947, Gabriella had gained in strength and come to terms with the fact that she was the sole survivor of her family. Her hair grew back, thick and full, her body took on a shape more befitting her age. Her hips and breasts swelled but her waist stubbornly and spectacularly refused to follow suit. The thin sticks which were her arms filled out. Her spaghetti legs grew long, elegant and shapely, worthy of the fine American silk stockings Tibor had traded in Budapest. Colour returned to her face and a sparkle to her eyes. Slowly Gabriella regained her beauty. But time cannot heal what cannot be changed and the sun cannot shed light where it cannot reach. Sleep helped restore Gabriella to health and then it turned on her.

  Gabriella began to fear the dark and the nightmares that reared up unbidden. Sometimes she would go weeks without one and then suffer for nights in a row. It wasn’t just their frequency that was a problem but their intensity. Aunt Klari and Uncle Andras took turns to comfort the terrified girl but the sleepless nights gradually took a toll on them. When Milos volunteered to sleep on the floor by Gabriella’s bed, his offer was gratefully accepted.

  Andras took Milos aside and warned him to keep his trousers on, but it was a caution made purely for the sake of form and light-heartedly. Milos’s conduct was above reproach and his integrity as apparent as his love for Gabriella. He hadn’t pressed his claim on Gabriella nor sought any commitment from her, but allowed matters to follow a course that seemed both natural and inevitable. Aunt Klari and Andras expected him to marry Gabriella, and with good reason as daily the two seventeen year olds grew closer. And as long as Tibor remained in Budapest, there was no rival for her affections. Milos’s early fears that he would become no more than a brother to her now seemed groundless and unworthy.

  Milos did not move into Gabriella’s room on a permanent basis but slept in the loft above the stable until her nightmares returned. Aunt Klari comforted the girl the first night and Milos thereafter until the attacks ceased. While the two had become inseparable, nothing drew them closer together than the nightmares. In the moments of Gabriella’s deepest terror, when nightmare and reality fused, Milos was there. Holding her. Kissing her. Comforting her. Calming her. Telling her how much he loved her. Wiping away her tears and distracting her so that the nightmares withdrew. Some nights he read to her in his halting English from the book he’d given her so many years before, showing her the colour plates of pixies and pirates even though every centimetre was already indelibly etched on her memory. At these times, Gabriella became a child again, often speaking to him as though he was her English nanny of so long ago. Clearly her mind was seeking sanctuary in cherished memories, finding places to hide from the horrors of the camps, so Milos did nothing to discourage her. These temporary escapes brought her both comfort and relief.

  Night after night Milos nursed Gabriella, stroking her forehead and hair, soothing her, talking and reading to her long after she had re-entered the realm of sleep, believing that his words could influence her dreams and keep the nightmares at bay. He stayed with her until she awoke, no matter how late, believing it was important for her to know that he was there by her side if the nightmares returned. The comfort she drew from his presence was evident in the smile she gave him when she finally awoke and found him lying by her bed, often still holding her hand. That early morning, dreamy, goofy, sleepy smile was everything his eyes wanted to see and everything his heart wanted to know. That smile told him she loved him.

  Apart from looking after Gabriella, Milos had little to do. He’d taken Tibor’s advice and suggested to Andras that the pigs be distributed among other farmers he could trust. Andras had seen the wisdom of it. With hungry Russian soldiers still on the prowl they couldn’t risk keeping all their pigs in one place.

  Milos had sold one sow to raise capital to buy feed and to pay Aunt Jutka and her husband to raise two sows and a neighbour to rear another. Andras had kept the boar and the remaining two sows, holding them in pens within the barn by day and allowing them only an hour or two of foraging by night. When order was gradually established and the occupying forces no longer had to live off the land, Andras built up the number of breeding pigs into a flourishing concern.

  Milos assumed responsibility for despatching the pigs owed to Tibor and selling the remainder that weren’t needed for stock building or for their own table. With everything of value being transported east, sending pigs west to Budapest was inviting attention and confiscation. Typically, Tibor had anticipated the problem and sent Milos papers which purported that the pigs were on consignment to the Communist-controlled Ministry of the Interior. The Hungarian population claimed that the Russian soldiers would steal from anyone and even steal the last breath from the dying, but they were wrong. Nobody, not even the Russians, stole from the Ministry of the Interior. As the consignment approached Budapest, the papers were exchanged and the pigs quietly removed to a safe place.

  Selling pigs in Sarospatak was no more difficult, provided Milos concealed his trade from the Russian soldiers and gendarmes. Andras converted a wheelbarrow into a cart just big enough to carry a pig carcass beneath a covering of coal or potatoes. Milos could push it or position himself between the shafts and drag it along behind him. There was nothing unusual about this; with petrol scarce and so many horses slaughtered, most people transported goods in this manner.

  There were few butchers in Sarospatak but all were desperate for Milos’s pigs. He shopped around to see who would offer him the highest price or best deal. It was a tactic that paid an unexpected dividend. People who had lost the little they’d managed to save when the pengo crashed still distrusted the new forint, even though it had achieved an unexpected stability. Milos sold for a combination of cash, bartered goods and gold. One day he was offered in trade a piece of gold which he instantly seized upon.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.

  The butcher smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Who knows? There is a gold watch that belonged to the tailor which I have bought and sold three times. It keeps excellent time. I once exchanged nine metres of dress material for just one kilo of pork. It was a mistake. I told my wife about the material and she claimed it.’

  ‘What else have you got?’ asked Milos.

  He completed the sale by adding cash, sugar, salt, coffee and flour to the deal, items the butcher had earlier taken in trade for his meat, bacon, sausages and lard. Milos drove a hard bargain to conceal his intention and, for the first time, he pocketed part of the proceeds. He felt guilty because Aunt Klari and Andras trusted him to share the profits equally, just as they shared everything else. Andras never questioned him, simply accepted Milos’s word on the deals he did. But the circumstances were exceptional and the opportunity undeniable. Milos consoled himself with the belief that once they understood his motive, they would sympathise and forgive.

  Yet Milos still had little to do. Sometimes he felt inadequate as a provider, and not enough like his brother. When he voiced his concerns, neither Aunt Klari nor Andras would hear a word of it. The pigs had turned their lives around and that was something for lasting gratitude. But for Milos it was not enough. One night, while he lay in bed in the loft above the mare and th
e pig pen, he had another idea. It was so simple and so obvious he was stunned and angry that he hadn’t thought of it before. He rose and walked out into the night, pausing briefly to listen for any sound from the cottage that would indicate that Gabriella’s nightmares had returned. Hearing nothing but the deep and regular snoring of Andras, a sound as familiar to him as the squealing of piglets fighting over a teat, he walked quietly around the corner of the stable and stood among Aunt Klari’s apricot trees which were heavy with ripening fruit. He picked an apricot and sniffed it. The evening was warm with little breeze and the fruit gave off a sweet and heady perfume that reminded him of his time on the run, when for almost a month apricots, plums, apples and pears had been breakfast, lunch and dinner. He let the night air wash over him, clearing the fog from his mind and sharpening the edges of his idea.

  People in Budapest were still suffering from food shortages and many still subsisted on a diet comprised chiefly of lentils. Milos had realised there was a market for jams and preserves. Behind the cottage there was a vegetable garden, the care of which Gabriella had taken upon herself, and, among the vegetables, a spreading patch of gherkin cucumbers. Milos smiled involuntarily. North of Satoraljaujhely, in a shallow cave, were the jars of pickled gherkins he and Tibor had buried in preparation for their flight. They’d never gone back for them, or for the clothes they’d hidden. Milos hoped some Jews had found them, the thought of someone desperate happening serendipitously across the little hoard brought a ripple of satisfaction. But if the pickles had been treasure to fleeing Jews then, they’d be treasure to the starving people of Budapest now. He added pickles to his list of products.

  Milos picked his way between the fruit trees and climbed the lower branches of an apple tree to sit and think through the logistics. He was well aware that solutions that seemed so simple by night were often buried by the complexities of reality come daylight. By shifting position he made himself uncomfortable so that he wouldn’t become drowsy and be lulled into accepting false answers. He examined the issues one by one, but the dangers seemed few and easily avoidable. Why hadn’t he thought of the idea sooner? When had his brain dulled? He swung his legs off the branch he was lying on and dropped to the ground.

  Sleep beckoned but on the way back he paused to look up at a sky filled with stars. It was all so familiar and unchanged. The North Star hung like a beacon, just as it had when he was on the run. Milos couldn’t imagine a time when he wouldn’t be able to look up into a clear night sky and see the North Star looking back at him. Before slipping into the barn he again stopped and listened to make sure Gabriella’s sleep was untroubled. He realised then that his brain hadn’t dulled but had been distracted, and for that he had not the slightest regret.

  The following morning, when the four of them sat down to a breakfast of coffee and bread with jam, Milos decided to reveal his plans.

  ‘I have an idea for another enterprise,’ he said, ‘one that will draw on the special talents of Aunt Klari and her capable assistant, Gabi. Done properly, it will also involve Aunt Jutka and several of our neighbours. At least, the ones we can trust.’

  Andras stopped chewing and looked at him thoughtfully. Aunt Klari put down her coffee. Gabriella began smiling even though she had yet to hear the details. None of that mattered to her; just the notion of a new idea excited her, the prospect of an initiative that would give her more reason to be proud of him. In that instant Milos realised this was one of the reasons she’d been attracted to Tibor. He took his rapt audience through his plan step by step, with Aunt Klari and Andras nodding their approval. He tried to split his attention equally between the three of them but found it hard to drag his eyes away from Gabriella’s. They glowed.

  ‘I will take our goods to Budapest myself,’ said Milos. ‘I’ll speak to my contacts in the railways.’

  ‘Speak to your brother,’ said Andras. ‘He knows Budapest.’

  Milos had always intended to contact Tibor but did his best to avoid mention of his name, especially in front of Gabriella. He barely acknowledged Andras’s advice. Nevertheless, straight after breakfast he set out for the station and the one phone that could get him through to Budapest. He carried with him a kilo of pork as a gift for Geza Apro.

  He waited fruitlessly all afternoon for a return call from Tibor. The following morning he again fronted up at the station and, after a wait of some hours, his patience was rewarded. He told his brother how he planned to generate enough volume to make the enterprise worthwhile.

  ‘I will have at least five kitchens working and possibly double that,’ he said. ‘Think back to the amount of jam and preserves we watched Aunt Klari and Jutka make back in Tokaj Street. You know how much they can produce in one day. Think how much they can produce in two or three weeks and multiply by the number of kitchens.’

  ‘What about fruit?’

  ‘All around us people have more fruit than they need. You know what it’s like, the trees all ripen at once. These people don’t need fruit; they need cash to buy meat and clothes. Even a little cash will buy a lot.’

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘What I can’t get here I’ll get from Satoraljaujhely.’

  ‘Jars?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Forget jam. People want substance. Send me preserves and pickles. Dried vegetables too.’

  ‘Send you?’

  ‘How else do you propose getting rid of them?’

  ‘I thought I’d bring them into Budapest myself. Sell to the shops and maximise the return. Like I’m doing here.’

  Tibor laughed but there was no humour in it.

  ‘So you’re just going to hop on a train? Don’t you think your baggage will arouse suspicions?’

  ‘I plan more than one trip,’ said Milos hotly. ‘People are leaving the country every day to find work in the cities. I’d be just another peasant.’

  ‘That might work once,’ said Tibor, ‘maybe twice. The police are cracking down on the black market. Marko Street prison is full of people who had the same idea as you. Budapest is no place for amateurs.’

  Milos smarted under the insult but bowed to the inevitable.

  ‘I know how busy you are. I didn’t want to trouble you over such a small matter,’ he said.

  ‘Getting you out of prison would be no small matter. The volume is barely sufficient but I can live with that. Send me everything you make in one consignment. Give me the date and I’ll arrange the details.’

  ‘How will you pay me?’ said Milos.

  ‘Take the value of the sale in pigs. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ said Milos.

  ‘Take care, little brother,’ said Tibor. ‘And give my love to Gabi.’

  That night over their evening meal, Milos explained the arrangement with Tibor. He put the best spin on the deal he could, claiming that the one shipment would reduce the risk and justified the lower price they would now receive. He said the one shipment and method of payment was his idea, but even Gabriella could see Tibor’s hand in the transaction.

  ‘Did he mention me?’ she asked.

  Milos was unable to lie. ‘Yes. He sends you his love.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Gabriella. ‘I hope you sent him mine.’

  Milos felt an arrow pierce his heart but it wasn’t one fired by Cupid. This one had a sting to it: not of jealousy but fear. The fear that one day Tibor would return.

  Aunt Klari contacted Aunt Jutka and together they spoke to trusted friends until they had ten kitchens lined up to make preserves. Each was told how many jars they were expected to produce. Milos undertook to provide jars and lids but each woman was required to arrange her own supply of fruit. The women seized the opportunity to become involved. Fruit was plentiful and their hands largely idle. For them it was money for jam at a time when money-making options were few.

  Finding sufficient jars and lids proved more difficult. Milos wanted new jars but in Sarospatak there were few jars to be had at all. He grabbed what was available and caught the train
to Satoraljaujhely. Even then he had to be cautious: anyone walking around from shop to shop buying up preserving jars would quickly be identified as a black marketeer and he couldn’t afford the risk. It didn’t take him long to realise that stocks of jars in the bigger town were little better than they’d been in Sarospatak. Milos could hardly believe that his scheme could falter for want of something once so commonplace, yet the evidence was compelling.

  ‘Didn’t there used to be a glass factory somewhere near here?’ said Milos. He was in a small store on the way back to the railway station. The owner was an old man with failing eyesight and crippled by arthritis. The shelves of his store were hardly better off: most were empty and those that weren’t carried mostly secondhand goods. There were around a dozen preserving jars on the shelves, not enough to satisfy a normal family let alone Milos’s requirements.

  ‘Levy Glass,’ said the old man. ‘The Jew that ran it made art glass. And it wasn’t a factory, it was a studio. Fancy stuff, they made. Expensive.’

  ‘Where was it?’ asked Milos casually.

  ‘Go back to Rakocsi Street, take the first left across the Ronyva and keep walking. Take the last street right before Czechoslovakia.’ The old man grinned. Hungary’s eastern boundary had shifted so many times in the past hundred years it had become something of a joke. ‘My mother lives not far across the border,’ he said, ‘in Ujlac. She was born in the Ukraine, went to school in Hungary, got married in Czechoslovakia. Now she’s living in Russia. You know what? She has lived in the same house, in the same shit hole village, all her life.’