_April 15th–16th._
My last day in Berczel. It seems to me as if a mischievous hand had
passed over the pleasant picture and had effaced it. Here and there a
tinge remained. This morning the sun was shining on the lawn in front of
my window and in its golden rays the dog scampered eagerly. Afternoon
wore quickly on, and the sun shone no longer. The ears of corn rustled
together in the gilt clock on the wall. How many grains are there still
in store for me?
Young George Kállay went for Baron Jeszenszky, whose advice was certain
to be worth having. When he was told what had happened he grasped the
situation at once. He wrote me a letter of recommendation to the
dismissed magistrate of Aszód and took charge of my papers.
“I shall put them up the chimney. They may not find them there.”
Beyond the garden on the crest of the hillocks the train from Aszód was
passing along like a tiny, smoking toy. This train had been haunting me
the whole day. Now it was gone. For this one day I need not fear the
arrival of the bloodhounds. And if they should come to-morrow they will
find the place empty.
“A carriage from the station should be here by now,” said Lenke. So they
had been thinking of the same thing. The horn of a motor-car resounded
on the main road. Mrs. Kállay looked up from her embroidery: “I had a
bad dream last night. I dreamt that a big motor stopped in front of the
house and that detectives stepped out of it.”
The car had passed the garden gate, but the shock it had given us
remained. Now I could think of one thing only; the slow passage of time
and the wish that it would pass faster. If only I were gone from here
and knew that the people who had befriended me were no longer incurring
danger on my behalf! I made a miserable attempt to say something to that
effect: “Thank you, and please forgive me.” Henriette Apor gave me her
box of matches: there were only a few left in it, yet it was a precious
gift, for there had been no matches in the house for a long time.
I never thought a human being could be so alone in the world. Now
everybody must be for himself only. I had premonitions of death, and
thought of those I had seen, whose deaths I had witnessed. I began to
understand their feelings at the approaching struggle in which none
could render them aid. It had been of no use to hold their hands, to
adjust their pillows, to sit up with them. And now there was nobody even
to hold my hand, to sit up with me.
The rain began to fall in scattered drops, as though a sad spirit had
wept upon the window panes. On that fateful night of March it had rained
thus when I left my home and the streets resounded with the shout: “Long
live the Dictatorship of the Proletariat!” These had been the words that
brought calamity upon us. Here with the rain the feeling of outlawry and
isolation seized me, and I faced a dark vindictive world. I shut my
eyes, wishing I could escape from myself.
I may have slumbered restlessly, tossing about, for a few minutes; then
I jumped up as if I had been shaken and began to dress with needless
speed by the light of the candle. It was dark outside when the door of
my room opened quietly. Elisabeth Kállay was standing there. She came to
bid me farewell, and the action steadied me. We shook hands: “God bless
you!”
When the big gate of the castle opened before me, the piercing cold cut
me like a knife, and I shrank back. Night stood in front of me like a
damp black wall, through which I must pass. For an instant I felt as if
someone were dogging my footsteps. The gate slammed with a bang behind
me and made me feel as if all gates had closed on me and as if I were
excluded from everything; a homeless, countryless, beggarly wanderer on
earth.
I penetrated deeper and deeper into the damp blackness, making my way
through the garden towards the stables where the carriage was waiting
for me.... The wheels splashed in the mud, rain poured, my shoulders and
my skirt round my knees were soaked. Dawn was breaking when we reached
the main road.
From the wayside station a dark, cold little train carried me through
the frosty morning. I may have fallen asleep for awhile, but I remember
the last violent jerk: Aszód! It was just the same: putrid filth covered
the platform. There, on the side of a waggon, was the inscription
written in human excrement: “Death to the bourgeois!” The station was if
possible even dirtier than before. Notwithstanding the early hour, a sad
and sleepy deputation with red flags was waiting there. One of them said
at the exit that there was going to be a recruiting meeting, a comrade
from Budapest was going to make a speech, his special train was already
signalled. This made me hurry. The parcel of food given me before I
started was pulled from under my arm, but it did not matter. My valise
was already in the cloak-room and I hurried off towards the town. A red
flag was floating on the Reformatory like a piece of raw flesh. There
were flags everywhere, and strange big posters covered the walls. The
lines on them appeared to represent mad knots of tangled intestines.
When I looked more closely, my eyes made out the outlines of horrible
soldiers, pregnant giant women, skulls, bloodstained workmen, bare to
the waist, glaring at me. “Join the Red army!” “Alcohol is dead!” “To
arms, Proletarians!”
I was so tired that everything frightened me. The bare trees on the
sidewalk stood in a row as if waiting for victims to be hanged on them.
The dais which stood covered with red under the grey sky in the middle
of the market place looked like a scaffold and the houses seemed to
watch it wickedly, disdainfully. The streets were covered with mud: the
repulsive mess spread all over the place and the houses alone seemed to
keep it within its bed. If one of them had been removed, it seemed that
the mud would have overflowed the whole country.
People lived in these surroundings, dragged themselves resignedly along
in the black mire, surrounded by the monstrous posters. Nobody rebelled,
they just let themselves sink and drown. This resignation stretched
beyond the town, and the whole country surrendered to its fate.
A Jew dressed like a townsman except for his cap passed in a carriage,
stopped, and beckoned. Two men of the working class ran up to him. He
pointed towards the market and gave orders. The men listened
respectfully. Then the man in the cap looked at me, and as his gaze fell
on me I felt the blood rush to my head, for he turned back as if he knew
me. It seemed to me that I too recognised this weak face, these thick,
soft lips, these shapeless ears. Perhaps it has bowed before me over the
counter of some Budapest bank, this puffy face which now looked slimy
and dark as if it had been shaped out of the mud. But it passed from my
sight.
A number of Red soldiers were loafing in front of a low house. They wore
flat caps ornamented with red ribbons, and red-bordered blouses after
the Russian pattern. This group impressed me strangely and filled me
with anxiety: they were not Hungarian soldiers, they were enemies. They
were the armed servants of a foreign power, the sole relics of our
disbanded army! The Red army! Hungarian national guards, Hungarian
hussars, were you disbanded to become like these? This was the first
time I had seen the Red guards of the Soviet.
Behind the soldiers the walls were posted with orders and regulations. A
door was wide open and machine-guns could be seen pointing from the
disordered yard within. A few steps further a woman was standing on the
pavement talking through an open window. She kept glancing anxiously
behind her and I heard her sigh. Nowadays only those who look round in
fear and sigh can be trusted, so I went up to her.
“Can you tell me where M. Sárkány, the magistrate, lives?”
“That door there.” The woman looked frightened and went away quickly. I
entered a small house.
“No, Comrade Sárkány is not in, he has left town.”
The earth seemed to give way under me. What was I to do? Could they let
me in, I asked. I had come from far and was tired. But it was no good.
Then I said I had a message, and at this I was allowed to enter. It was
still early in the day. I had a long time to wait. Then Mme. Sárkány
came in. While she read Baron Jeszenszky’s letter, she became more and
more excited.
“Then.... I see.... That is the reason ... the Reds have been looking
this morning for a lady and a gentleman.”
I thought of Charles Kiss. Was it possible they were looking for us?
“You cannot stay here,” said Mme. Sárkány. “The house is watched.
Bokányi has come from Budapest and is going to give an address in the
market place. There are journalists with him. They are going to be
quartered here and they are sure to recognise you.” She turned very
pale. “No, you cannot stay here. The best thing you can do is to take
the next train and travel on to Hatvan.”
The instinct of self-preservation rebelled in me so that I was
astonished at the heat with which I replied: “That would be to run
straight into the prison gate. Why does everybody send me nearer
Budapest, when the train is the most likely place where I could be
recognised?”
“Here you are not in safety for a minute.”
“If I could get a carriage....” Then a sudden idea came to me. “I could
go to Iklad, to Countess Ráday....”
Mme. Sárkány nodded and left the room at once. How long she was away I
could not tell, I only know that she came back once more and told me to
get ready as there would be a carriage for me presently. I was very
cold, and asked for a cup of tea. Then I hesitated before making my next
request. Could I have a few matches? In great haste she gave me some.
“Be quick.... Be quick!”
The door was torn open and an old lady stood on the threshold. Her face
was grey and she clasped her head between her hands.
“It is too late. The Reds have taken the carriage!”
I went out all the same. Three soldiers stood near a cart and I pressed
money into the hand of one of them. He looked at it stealthily so that
the others should not see. I implored them to let me have the cart. I
did not want to go far, not half an hour, and I would send it back....
While they were debating the matter I suddenly jumped into the cart and
the driver whipped up his horses. “To the station, for my luggage!”
The soldiers shouted insults after us but the noise of the wheels
drowned their words. The cart was covered with liquid manure. There was
a hole in one of the bottom boards and through it I could watch the road
running past. I shuddered; once more I had to cross this awful town.
At the station I snatched my valise. “Be quick! Drive on!” Then suddenly
I caught sight of the mud-faced man with the cap. The coachman looked
back at me and seemed to understand my trouble; he gave the horses their
heads and the rickety little cart flew over the sea of mud. The puffy
face looked after me, but we turned off into a side street and the low
houses and closed shops were quickly left behind. Astonished faces
peeped out of the windows: I must have looked rather quaint in my town
dress on a manure cart! Motor-cars passed from the opposite direction,
probably carrying agitators from Budapest. Nowadays one only sees Jews
in motor-cars. Instinctively I covered my face with my handkerchief. The
road passed under the walls of a fine old castle: its outlines appeared
for an instant against the grey sky from among the trees of the park. It
was the only spot of beauty in the sea of mud.
“The one who lived there committed suicide,” the driver said, pointing
with his whip towards the castle. The board put across the cart which
served me as a seat was jumping to and fro. I caught hold of the edges
of the cart and leant forward.
“Who lived there?”
“It used to be a boarding school. Little ladies were taught in it.”
I asked for more details.
“Well, you see,” he said, weighing his words, “when the new order of
things came, a comrade was sent down here. He was no older than fifteen
and he was a Jew, the beggar was. He used to declaim to the school
children in the market place....”
I asked him to go on.
“I am ashamed to speak of these things,” the man grumbled, “but, with
your leave, that son of a bitch used to explain aloud there in the
market place how children were produced. He also said that one need not
obey one’s parents. He also said that it did not matter if girls went
wrong, it was only the priests who pretended that it was a sin. No more
need to worry about bastards, the State would look after them.” He
pushed his hat back on his head and expectorated violently. “Damn his
eyes! No more God, no more honour! Here in the boarding school he said
the same thing as in the market place. He encouraged the little misses
to make love freely with the boys. He had pictures to show them how it
was done. The headmistress just wept and wrung her hands. At last she
did for herself.”
The cart rattled. Something seemed to shake within me too. I looked down
and saw the road through the hole in the bottom: the earth receded
rapidly under the cart. When I looked up at last the town was no longer
in sight. I had left the execution ground.
Rain now began to fall anew, but I did not heed it, for a fresh breeze
was blowing over the fields, and those whom I met, peasants on carts or
on foot, were different from those in town. A village came in view, a
house, a garden full of flowers. The cart entered the yard of Iklad, and
a girl came running towards me from the corridor:
“They are not at home! Since they have been taken to Aszód they have not
been allowed to come home.”
I was very cold and very tired: “Might I stay here a little—till the
train for Balassagyarmat comes?”
“Please don’t!” exclaimed the frightened girl. “We are expecting the
Communists every minute. They are coming to requisition things.”
“Of course, it does not matter....” And I thought of the heavy clang
with which the gate of Berczel had closed behind me. All gates were
closed as this one now.
“Let us go,” I said to the coachman.
By this time the girl had recovered her senses. “You might go to the
house of the railway guard, and wait for the train there. Uncle Nagy,
the guard, is a kind man, he’ll let you.” And she added something about
bringing me some dinner when the Communists were gone.
Under centenarian trees, on the other side of the road, the guard’s
house was hidden beside the roadway. A fowl-house, a little stack of
wood, a garden with quaint little flower-beds.... A tall elderly man,
dressed in the blouse of the railway guards, came towards me. He touched
his cap and asked me what I wanted. The office was closed, the train
would not arrive till five.... So he was going to send me away too.... I
felt again how tired I was, wet to the bone, and ravenously hungry. I
spoke slowly, so as to gain time and to be able to stay for a little
longer under a roof, out of the rain, and also to nurse my hopes a
little. But the man did not send me away. He shrugged his shoulders:
“Of course you are welcome to stay here if you like. But you won’t find
it over comfortable.”
I laughed from sheer joy, laughed aloud. I could stay, and it was my
host who apologised! Tears came to my eyes: comfort? He did not realise
what royal comfort he offered me. A corner where I would withdraw out of
sight, a nook whence I should not be driven, a seat which is not
drenched with rain and on which I might rest.
His wife came in too, a kindly little woman, aged before her time. She
invited me into the room and wiped a chair with her apron, then began
splitting wood in the kitchen. When the fire had burnt up she opened the
door so as to let in the warmth.
Warmth! As it slowly thawed me it also thawed my heart. At first my mind
remained inactive, I was just happy. Then I began slowly to take notice
of the things around me. Under the low roof, above the piled-up bed, a
text was hanging in a gaudy frame. I read it over and over again during
my long wait, and yet I cannot remember it. Oleographs and family
portraits hung on the walls, the women sitting in stiff poses, the men
with long, waxed moustaches. A fretwork basket stood on the chest of
drawers. Everything shone in a reddish, warm light. A red piece of cloth
served as a curtain over the window. And as I sat on my hard chair the
guard’s hut seemed slowly to become strangely familiar to me, as did the
room with its cheap ornaments, as if I had been there before. But then
the house stood in another landscape, far away, on the Carso, amidst
bleak rock, on a wild mountain. Then I was young, and writing my first
novel: _Stonecrop_. That other house, to which I had given the youth of
my creative power, stood between two tunnels. And it dawned upon me that
perhaps there was no such thing as hazard, that even little guards’
houses return to you the love you have once bestowed upon them.
Something caught my eye, I had not noticed it before—a calendar hung on
the whitewashed wall and I read in the dim, reddish light: April 16,
1919. That recalled me to reality. Carriages passed on the road coming
from the direction of Aszód—stolen carriages, and in them sat
suspicious-looking people, Jews in fur coats, and they all drove into
the courtyard of the castle. I watched them from behind the red
curtains. They entered the house noisily: was it not all theirs? And the
windows of the castle stared in rigid astonishment out into the garden,
as if they wondered what was happening behind them.
Hours passed by. In the castle yard the Communists were packing up,
taking whatever they fancied. I sat quietly in my room and looked out
through the window. Sometimes a noise made me draw back, then I returned
to my post of observation. It may have been about noon when a
hand-driven trolley car arrived from Aszód. Voices issued commands in
the small office and steps were heard all over the house. I held my
breath in alarm. At last they went, and silence ensued. Dinner was ready
in the kitchen: there was a smell of boiled potatoes. I was very hungry
and the good woman offered me some, but there were so few on the little
earthenware dish. “No, thank you, it is too early.”
Later on the girl sent a message from the castle that the Communists had
eaten or carried away everything eatable from the kitchen and the
larder. She could send me no food, but would I write my name down so
that she might inform the Countess when she came home? I remembered the
_alias_ Elisabeth Kállay had selected for me to hide my identity when I
came to Balassagyarmat: ‘Elisabeth Földváry’.... I repeated it to myself
several times. It seemed funny that henceforth this should be the name
by which I should be known. The guard’s wife tore the date from the
calendar and told me I could write it down on that, but I did not do so,
and she took no notice. She came and went, working in the house like an
ant, tidied up her kitchen, then took the red curtain from the window
and began to wash the window panes.
The rain had stopped and a cold wind whistled and howled, driving the
clouds before it. In the house the signal bells hummed all the while.
The guard came in, rolling a grimy little signal flag in his hands, and
spoke to his wife about the Communists. If this went on much longer they
would carry off everything from the castle. He spoke to me too, and told
me that when the people from Aszód had arrested Count Ráday he had been
compelled to wash the Jews’ cars in the street. “But he gave it them! He
turned up the sleeves of his shirt and ordered the scoundrels to watch
him, saying ‘now you shall learn how to do this job properly!’” The
guard laughed to himself: the story pleased him immensely: “But then the
men of Iklád got out their scythes, and the next two villages joined
them. They were going to fetch the Count and the Countess with six
horses, because each village insisted on supplying at least two horses
for his carriage....”
Suddenly the guard went out. I saw his cap in front of the window and he
held the signal flag in his hand. With a great clatter a clumsy goods
train passed over the rails. Soldiers with red ribbons were escorting it
and shouted at him as they passed. A chalked inscription ornamented the
black waggons: ‘Long live Béla Kun! Long live the Red army!’
“The vagabonds, they are conveying arms! And as for the Directory of
Aszód, they are a lot of cruel Jew boys. The people live in terror of
them. Even at night the inhabitants have no rest. During the war the
Czech deserters were kept in cotton wool at the aeroplane factory. Now
they are the greatest Communist heroes. They steal more than all the
others together.” Then he scowled. “But things will be different soon!
It is no good giving us a lot of their worthless banknotes. They won’t
take us in. We railwaymen will have something to say in the matter!”
The telephone rang in the office: Aszód on the line, my train was
signalled. My lassitude vanished suddenly, but as I stepped out of the
little house I felt as if a veil had been torn from my face, and the
exposure seemed physically painful.
[Illustration:
COUNTRYFOLK GOING TO DRAW RATIONS.
]
Slowly, hissing and panting, the train approached. People were sitting
on top of the waggons, people hung from the steps, and even the buffers
had their riders. I tried to get up but was pushed back. I ran along the
train but not a door would open, for inside the people were pressed
against them. I ran on and on, saying to myself ‘anywhere, anyhow will
do.’ I struggled with another door-handle. The train started. What on
earth shall I do if I lose it? The guard came to my rescue at last, but
boxes and trunks blocked the door. Someone pushed me forward, someone
else pulled. My bag hit me in the back. And then I could move no more
and the train carried me away.
I had got into an old condemned carriage and an icy wind blew unhindered
through its unglazed windows. People were crowding against one another
on the narrow floor—women, soldiers, an officer, a dirty fat man. Wedged
between them, I stood on one leg, the only foothold I could secure,
indeed I was practically suspended by the pressure of their fetid
bodies. But as things were I thought myself lucky. I had to take my
ticket on the train, and when the conductor forced his way to our
compartment he asked me for my trade-union permit. So now they were
going to make me get off again, I thought. I pretended to look for it in
my bag, but the officer who was crushed up against me spoke to the
conductor and shewed him some paper: “make the ticket out for two.” The
conductor did so and the officer pocketed tickets for himself and for
me. I paid him the fare, he too was going to Balassagyarmat.
Suddenly I found myself standing on both feet, and thus I noticed that
the crowd had diminished. At every small station someone got off and
there were no new passengers. Now one could look through the window into
the corridor of the carriage preceding ours. A young man in a fur coat
sat there smoking; he wore a soft hat and his face was flushed with the
cold. For a time I looked at him indifferently; then suddenly I began to
feel uneasy. I didn’t want to see him, yet I felt my eyes attracted by
him. My apprehensions steadily increased: I was angry with myself, it
was all imagination! But if this man should be searching for me?...
We reached the station which serves Berczel: I had left it twelve hours
earlier, in the morning. How tired I had become since then! The door of
the next carriage opened suddenly and the man in the fur coat jumped on
to the platform and strode towards the stationmaster’s office. He was
searching for me! I was as convinced of it as if somebody had told me.
He was going to Berczel and he would not find me there! I felt
incredibly happy. He had but to turn his head.... Good-night, comrade!
Good luck! All sorts of mocking words came to my mind and I felt like
making faces at him.
Passengers elbowed their way past me and several got out. The door
remained open and the cold streaming in brought me to my senses. I
turned my back to the door and looked at the path wending its way across
the green squares of fields and meadows. Suddenly I felt as if something
had struck me on the chest: the man in the short fur coat was standing
in the door looking at me! He was resting his chin in his hand and held
his head a little on one side as if he were trying to remember
something. Every drop of blood left my face. Without thinking,
instinctively, in self-defence, I turned to the opposite window. But I
could not see the landscape, everything was blurred before my eyes.
How long did it last? I only know that I felt as if something had
vanished behind me. The minutes seemed to gather into masses and fall
into hollow space. I felt I was falling with them. Good God, how long is
this to last? Let him clutch me by the shoulders, if he likes, let him
arrest me, but let something happen, let the suspense come to an end!
Then I began to take heart: after all, what does it matter now? At least
let the scoundrels see that I am not afraid. I pulled myself up, as high
as I could, and forced a smile to my lips.
The train started and the shock banged the door to. Was it possible? For
an instant I felt the reckless delight of salvation sweep through me: I
breathed freely: I scolded and cheered myself mentally. Poor fool, how
could you have such delusions! Then the whole carriage reeled before my
eyes: the man in the short fur coat was sitting on a box next to me! He
was sitting there with his knees drawn up like a mischievous imp.
In spite of myself my jaw began to tremble: I was afraid with a fear I
had never known before, and notwithstanding the cold the sweat rolled
down my face. But still I managed to keep myself erect and presently
forced myself once more to smile. All sorts of possibilities coursed
madly through my head. If I were arrested nobody would know of my fate,
and the one-eyed monster into whose hands I was to be delivered could
dispose of me without difficulty. My mother did not know that I was
travelling, the Kállays whom I had left, the Huszárs to whom I was
going, would each be ignorant that I was not safely with the other. One
could invoke the Entente Mission on behalf of prisoners at Budapest, but
if I were trapped now, nobody would seek me until too late....
The man was still sitting on the box. He rolled a cigarette, blew out
the smoke and now and then looked up at me. I shall never forget his
eyes. Some travellers got into the train at the next station and the
corridor again became crowded. Two men who wore red buttons in their
coat lapels waxed enthusiastic over the revolution: “That we should have
lived to see it!” One could guess that they were speaking from fear. The
man on the box nodded. How contemptible were these people who were
Hungarians and had sold themselves to the foreigners; the whole thing
was degrading and dirty; my pride revolted at it. To be arrested by this
scum; miserably, without an attempt to escape; to wait for fate like one
paralysed, unable to move! My passivity suddenly weighed on me like a
great shame. I grasped my bag and forced my way through the crowd into
the next compartment. There too the passengers stood jammed between the
seats. Next to me was wedged a man whose face I remembered vaguely. He
had a thin, fair moustache and wandering eyes, and kept making notes in
a book, tearing out the pages and going on writing. However, I soon gave
up watching him, for I noticed that the man in the short fur coat who
was sitting in the corridor got up every now and then and looked into
the compartment as if he were watching me. I waited for an opportune
moment, and when he sat down on his box and was out of sight of me, I
snatched up my bag and went further along the train. I had no plan, I
only wanted to go on, get away, do something. It might succeed. I might
escape at the next station. I might jump off the train.
As I was moving away from the fair-haired scribbling man, he suddenly
pushed something between the handle of my bag and my hand. Then I
remembered how curiously he had looked at me and had then written in his
book and torn the page out. I thought I felt a scrap of paper in my
palm, but I went on quickly from carriage to carriage, each more crowded
than the other, between human bodies, boxes, trunks, baskets. I was
pushed about, handled roughly, and sworn at. Whenever anybody looked at
me I felt as if my face were being skinned. Why did they all look at me
so familiarly as if they had seen me before? Why had I not got a face
like everybody else? I pushed on. Suddenly I could go no further, I had
come to the end of the train, to the last carriage. There was an empty
place near a broken window; all the sparks of the engine were blown into
it by the wind, so nobody wanted it. I withdrew into that corner and
covered my face with a handkerchief; it protected me and hid me. Nobody
paid any attention to me so I opened the little paper in my hand. A
sentence was written on it in irregular halting lines. I remember every
word:
“A warrant against you, with your portrait, is circulating here. Escape.
If caught they will do for you.”
Was it death, or was it just fear I felt then? I carefully tore the
paper into little bits and threw them out of the window. Everything was
in a haze; there were people in the compartment, I could hear voices,
but everything seemed remote.... I was alone with myself. About an hour
may have passed, perhaps more: I liked to think that time was flying, I
liked my little corner, although the wind blew through it and cut my
face like a knife. My limbs ached on the hard seat and I was ravenously
hungry: since last night I had had nothing but a cup of tea. Suddenly
everything became dark, and soot-laden smoke filled the compartment.
Before I grasped what it was the chance had passed. A tunnel.... If I
had thought of it earlier I might have.... Nonsense, I should have
broken my neck.
The train stopped: we were on the open track. There was a deep ditch
along the embankment—I might get off here. The passengers crowded to the
windows and someone shouted from outside: “It’s not likely that the
train will be allowed to enter Balassagyarmat. The Czechs are shelling
the station.” I made myself as small as possible in my corner. It was
nonsense, all nonsense.... Then there was another station. Red soldiers
everywhere. I saw the man in the short fur coat again; he was running
about the station, then stopped and stared towards the place where we
had pulled up in the open. He shook his head and seemed to be swearing.
Was he looking for me? At all events he jumped back into the train.
Night was now falling and we had to wait a long time in the station, for
the engine-driver had gone to an inn for his supper. A passenger said
that they had sent for him but that he had replied: “Let them get up
steam themselves.”
It was night before we started again, and rain began to fall. Slowly
light began to stream towards us through the clammy darkness, and people
in the compartment got ready to get out. A voice said “Balassagyarmat.”
I stood near the door, opened it suddenly, threw out my bag and jumped.
The other doors opened a good deal later, when I was already running
through the exit towards the town. Nobody asked me for my ticket, or
took any notice of me. I reached a paling, overshadowed by a huge walnut
tree, leant against it, and waited till everybody had passed, people and
carriages. For an instant I caught sight of the man in the short fur
coat going towards the town. Then the lights of the station went out,
and I was alone in the dark at the foot of the tree.
It was over! And yet the terror remained. I still felt that strange will
searching for me in the dark, saw the hand industriously groping for me,
missing me over and over again. It had not yet found me, but perhaps
later on.... Instinctively I ducked in my hiding-place. The hand missed
me. It had missed me till now, but every time it seemed to get nearer
its goal. The watching motor-car in front of the doorless house in
Stonemason Street; the Red soldiers in Aszód; the man with the dark
puffy face and the one in the short fur coat.... Every time the hand had
been nearer. One lucky movement and it would have got me. It had been so
yesterday, it might be so to-morrow, but at any rate it had missed me
to-day and I was still free.
I looked round and my eyes became accustomed to the dark. Where was I to
go? A broad street overshadowed by trees led from the station to the
town. Should I follow that? I retained a confused memory of the
instructions Elisabeth Kállay had given me. Soldiers came towards me,
then a few people, at last a little boy. I resolved to confide in the
latter. “Will you help me to carry my bag?”
The boy caught hold of it but it was too heavy for him, so we carried it
together. After all, that had not been my object. What I really wanted
was to find the house of Aladár Huszár. The boy was not quite sure of
it, but he led bravely on through the rain. We left gardens and small
villas behind us and came in sight of a church by dripping trees and a
soaking sandy road. A woman was standing in one of the doorways: She put
us right: “The end of the town, the last house but one.” New anxieties
now took hold of me: up till the present I had only worried about
finding my way, and now that I had found it, it occurred to me that they
might have left the town. Aladár Huszár had the reputation of being a
counter-revolutionary and was suspected by the new power. His wife was
the president of the county branch of the Federation of Hungarian Women,
and she had been attacked by the local Socialist-Communist papers.
The boy passed through an iron gate and we went up a few steps till we
came to a door with glass panes. I was very nervous. I was going to ask
for shelter from people who themselves were threatened. I felt painfully
ashamed of myself.
“There is the bell!” the boy said. Yet I still hesitated.
Only those who have stood on a stranger’s threshold, doubting the
quality of their welcome, can appreciate my feelings.
The boy deposited the bag, asked for his money and ran away.
The ringing of the bell broke the silence of the house, and the sudden
sound frightened me. I imagined the uneasiness caused to those within.
In these times even a knock in broad daylight is enough to cause alarm.
Rapid steps approached from the further end of the long corridor and a
frightened maid asked me what I wanted. “Will you say that Elisabeth
Földváry has arrived?” Doors opened; there was a ray of light, and in
its beam a fine setter ran barking towards me, followed by Aladár
Huszár. I had only once seen him before, but I recognised him at once;
his fair head and his broad shoulders showed up clearly against the lamp
light. For an instant he looked at me searchingly: “Elisabeth
Földváry?...”
By now we were alone, and I whispered my real name to him. He jerked his
head in surprise. “We were told yesterday that you had escaped to
Switzerland.”
“Help me to get across the Ipoly!”
“There’s no hurry, we will discuss it; now come inside quickly.” He
picked up my bag and we went into the house as if we were old friends.
We crossed the small hall and entered a room in which the light was
reflected from the glass doors of high bookcases, and comfortable
furniture stood on oriental carpets. I was met by a remarkably beautiful
young woman. Her forehead was like marble and her eyebrows met over her
big blue eyes shaded by dark eyelashes. Her face was cold and her
features seemed nearly rigid. I felt anxious: What was she going to say?
She seemed neither astonished nor nervous, though she had lately been
told I had escaped abroad, and she behaved as if it had been the most
natural thing in the world for a stranger wanted by the police to drop
in on them in the middle of the night. She gave her orders quietly,
calmly:
[Illustration:
EUGENE HAMBURGER.
CLERK. COMMISSARY FOR AGRICULTURE.
]
“We will make up a bed here in the library; we have no other room. Red
officers are quartered on the first floor. They wanted to plant
Communists in our two spare rooms, so we put our old coachman there.”
I leant wearily against a bookcase: the room was going round. Then they
gave me hot food, and I could detect in the sympathetic expression of
Huszár that hunger, sleepless nights, cold and suffering had left their
marks upon my face. My dress was hanging on me and my hands trembled.
The children, two little girls and a boy, came in. They were told I was
a relation of theirs. In a few minutes I watched them being put to bed.
Outside, the rain was falling and the world was full of Red soldiers,
detectives, hatred, misery, dirt, fear, humiliation. In here the little
children were praying in their long white nightgowns and over their bed
a tiny red, white, and green flag was dangling like an emblem of faith.
The electric lights went out: it was eleven o’clock. The house became
quiet. We stayed up for a time round a single candle. Words were
unnecessary between us. We all felt equally the terrible misfortune of
our country: the sufferings of each of us were due to the same cause.
“Many good friends have fled this way,” said Aladár Huszár.
“Will you help me over, too?”
He shook his head. “The river is in flood and the bridges are guarded.
It cannot be managed yet. You must stay here; it is only a question of
days. Colonial troops have been seen near by and my men tell me that
there are some at one of the bridges. To-day we heard that British
troops had arrived. They say there are thirty thousand of them. The
French are in Arad. They may come here this very night. Wait for the
downfall of the Soviet.”
I was tired, dead tired, but in spite of my exhaustion his words
refreshed me as though they heralded the coming of dawn. It seemed
strange not to be sent away. They did not want me to go. I should be
allowed to rest a little. I felt extreme gratitude but could find no
words in which to express it.