Goodbye to Budapest

by Margarita Morris

  It’s astonishing how quickly they’ve adapted to a new routine. They sleep alongside their fellow prisoners in a dormitory ripe with the smell of unwashed bodies and sour breath. They rise at dawn, queue for the toilets, consume barley-coffee for breakfast and then, under armed guard, trudge up to the quarry to start the day’s work, their arms and back still aching from the previous day and the day before that. The old and infirm have been given jobs in the carpenter’s shop or the tailor’s and shoemaker’s where the guards have their suits pressed and their boots re-soled. But everyone else spends their days labouring in the quarry. Lunch and dinner are served on the hillside from the camp kitchen: watery soup and vegetables. A couple of times a week, if they’re lucky, there are tiny bits of horse meat in the soup, otherwise there’s no protein. How is a man expected to smash rocks all day long on a diet that would barely keep a child alive? They are growing dangerously thin. And the weather is turning cold. There’ll be snow soon.

  On their long walks to and from the quarry each day, Horváth explains to him the different cloud formations and what they mean for the weather. Cumulonimbus clouds at the end of the day are welcome because they provide the men with the means to wash themselves. But increasingly the mountains are shrouded in a thick, grey nimbostratus which blocks the view and slowly drenches everyone in a permanent drizzle.

  As Márton follows Béla down the slope, their ninth trip of the day so far, he has a view of the camp on the opposite hillside. The barracks are surrounded by a double barbed-wire fence with a strip of no man’s land in between. Beyond the fence are watchtowers manned by armed guards. Then there’s another double barbed-wire fence and more watchtowers around the camp as a whole. You’d be crazy to try and escape. You wouldn’t stand a chance. So instead they spend twelve hours a day hewing, carrying and breaking the rock. In the evenings they line up on the hillside whilst the guards run up and down, counting them. It’s dark by the time the counting has finished. Exhausted and starving, they stumble down the slope, tripping over logs and tree stumps. The guards beat anyone who falls behind. If your boot gets stuck in the mud, you leave it until the morning. It will still be there, filled with rainwater.

  When they’re out of earshot of the guards, Béla chats to Márton about his family and his life in Budapest. A bit of conversation helps to take their minds off their blistered hands, painful muscles and rumbling stomachs.

  ‘I said to my wife, if anything happens to me, you have to get out of Budapest. Go and stay with your parents in the country. They’re less likely to come after you there.’

  ‘It’s good she’s got somewhere to go,’ says Márton, thinking of Katalin stuck in Budapest.

  ‘She’s a resourceful woman,’ says Béla proudly. ‘She’ll do the right thing. It’s the little girl, see. We were scared that if we both got arrested she’d be sent to an orphanage. She’s only two.’

  Márton can’t see his face, but he can hear from the crack in Béla’s voice that he’s on the verge of tears. Béla coughs and spits to bring his emotions under control. If the other men see this softer side to him it will undermine his position as leader.

  ‘All right,’ says Béla, ‘on the count of three. One, two, three!’ They tip the contents of the stretcher onto the growing pile of rocks. The tension in Márton’s arms releases and his muscles throb with relief at letting go of the weight. You could build a palace with all this stone, he thinks.

  He spots András stooped over a boulder, swinging a sledgehammer. The boy has the job of breaking the rocks into smaller pieces. Béla showed him a good technique to use, but András isn’t cut out for this type of work. None of them are, to be honest, but András especially. The boy should be in a library reading books or in a science lab doing experiments, not out here working himself into the ground. In the evenings he’s noticed a glazed look in the lad’s eyes which is more than just physical exhaustion. Márton would like to stop for a moment and chat to him, but there’s a guard with a submachine gun standing close by. Without a word, Márton and Béla pick up the empty stretcher and head back up the slope to fetch more rock. They’ve got another three hours to go.

  *

  It’s Katalin’s birthday and Zoltán has insisted on throwing a party, inviting Róza and Sándor. Under the circumstances, Katalin would have let the day pass unnoticed, but now that they are gathered around Zoltán’s tiny dining table, eating his speciality goulash, she’s pleased he persuaded her. She’s glad to finally meet Sándor, Zoltán’s childhood friend about whom she’s heard so much, and to introduce Róza to Zoltán. Hopefully now Róza will stop having doubts about him.

  ‘More wine?’ asks Sándor, uncorking a second bottle of red. He refills everyone’s glasses then lifts his in the air. ‘Compliments to the chef! This is the best goulash ever, Zoltán my friend.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ says Zoltán, drinking from his own glass, but Katalin can see he’s pleased with the praise.

  ‘Just enjoying myself,’ says Sándor, smiling at Katalin and Róza. His gaze rests on Róza for a moment or two, and Róza smiles back, her face flushed, and not just from the wine, thinks Katalin.

  For dessert Zoltán unveils a selection of delicious looking cakes and pastries which he admits to buying from Feri’s café.

  ‘Too much choice,’ says Sándor, trying to decide between an almond slice, a chocolate cake and an apple tart.

  ‘Good job we don’t have democratic elections in this country,’ jokes Zoltán. ‘You’d never be able to make up your mind.’

  ‘Now there you’re wrong,’ retorts Sándor, opting for the almond slice. ‘I’d vote for whoever promised to abolish the daily reading from the Party newspaper.’ This gets a laugh. ‘And especially if they throw the Russians out.’

  A moment of silence falls on the party. ‘Do you think the Russians will ever leave?’ asks Róza, leaning forward, her eyes bright.

  ‘Not of their own accord,’ says Sándor.

  ‘Then how?’

  ‘One day the people will say, enough is enough. Hungarians will wake up and realise that they want their country back. And when that day comes I’m going to be out there doing everything I can to make it happen.’

  Zoltán puts an arm around Katalin and whispers in her ear. ‘There’ll be no stopping him now. He’s quite a firebrand once he gets going.’

  Katalin sips her wine and listens with fascination to the exchange between Sándor and Róza. Sándor is full of revolutionary talk and ideas about free speech and workers’ rights. It’s inspiring stuff. Róza in particular seems to be lapping up every word. Katalin rests her head on Zoltán’s shoulder and smiles to herself. The government can lock people up and send them to labour camps, but it can’t stop them from thinking and dreaming. She hopes her father is still able to dream, wherever he is.

  *

  The days turn to weeks and the weeks into months. Winter comes to the mountains bringing its entourage of freezing rain, snow, sleet, ice and death. Márton sees men drop dead through exhaustion, cold and starvation. At first it’s just the odd one or two: old men who might not have had long left anyway. But in recent weeks the numbers have been increasing alarmingly. Men in middle age simply keel over and die, their uniforms and boots redistributed amongst the survivors.

  Márton has learnt to notice in advance the signs of impending death: the pallid complexion, the vacant eyes, the somnambulistic walk. When they go like that, it’s only a matter of time. Two or three days at the most. He’s pointed the signs out to Béla, Horváth and András so they can watch out for each other.

  He and Béla are loading their stretcher with yet more rocks to carry down to the breakers. Their blistered hands are blue with the cold. They’re in danger of frostbite. Márton can see how his friend has grown thin and grey. When he bends over to pick up the rocks, bony shoulder blades protrude from underneath the worn army uniform. Márton supposes he must look the same, but he hasn’t seen himself in a mirror in ages. He’d rather not know.


  When the guard on duty turns his back and walks a short distance away, Béla beckons Márton close.

  ‘I have an idea,’ he says in a voice barely above a whisper. The howling wind will ensure that the guard hears nothing. Dark, heavy clouds have been gathering since the morning. They don’t need Horváth the meteorologist to tell them that a storm from the east is on its way.

  ‘For what?’ asks Márton.

  ‘Escaping.’

  Márton thinks Béla must have gone mad. He looks at his friend closely, but all he sees in the haggard face is a steely glint in the eyes. ‘How?’ he asks.

  Béla looks towards the guard, but he’s lit a cigarette and shows no sign of turning round. ‘There’s an old man in the carpenter’s shop who says he can help. He’s going to carve a replica submachine gun out of wood.’

  ‘A wooden gun?’ Now Márton really does think that Béla is deluded.

  Béla nods, his expression serious. ‘He’ll use tin on the bits that should be steel. He’s a skilled craftsman. He says it’ll look like the real thing when he’s finished.’

  ‘And then what?’ asks Márton. ‘You can’t shoot the guards with a replica weapon, no matter how convincing it looks.’

  ‘I don’t plan to shoot anyone,’ says Béla. ‘I’ve come to know a couple of the old fellers who work in the tailor’s and shoemaker’s. When the gun’s ready, I’ll dress up as a guard and pretend to march a group of us out of the barracks on a Sunday.’ In the week there’s a roll call at noon, but on Sundays they are only counted before being locked in for the night.

  Márton shakes his head in disbelief. Who does Béla think he’s kidding? Isn’t it better to just accept things as they are?

  The guard tosses his cigarette stub away and starts to walk back towards them. They fall silent, pick up the stretcher laden with rocks and start to make their way down the mountainside. Béla whistles a tune as he walks, an old Hungarian folk melody.

  Béla’s idea has got Márton thinking. It would be a hazardous thing to do. But if it worked? If it meant he could see Katalin again?

  They meet Horváth and Miklós, carrying their empty stretcher back up the mountainside.

  ‘All right fellers?’ says Béla. His idea of escaping seems to have made him cheerful.

  Miklós nods and grunts in reply, but Horváth doesn’t even seem to be aware of their presence. He puts one foot in front of the other like a dead man walking. Dear God, thinks Márton, please not Horváth. He was fine yesterday. He’ll make a point of talking to him this evening when they’re back at the barracks. You’ve only got to look at Béla to see the importance of maintaining a positive mental outlook.

  They’ve barely gone another twenty yards down the slope when there’s a rumbling like thunder. Márton isn’t in the least surprised. From the dense mass of clouds obscuring the mountain tops, a storm has been on the cards for some time. But the rumbling crescendos, growing in intensity like timpani in an orchestra.

  They turn and see a sight that freezes Márton’s blood. A cloud of dust is making its way down the mountainside. It can mean only one thing – a landslide. As they stand rooted to the spot, the cloud expands as the loose rocks in its core dislodge smaller stones and debris. Just as Béla said when they first arrived here, the slope is too steep and the ground has become unstable. They are standing in the path of a deadly avalanche.

  He and Béla drop the handles of their stretcher, scattering rocks, and stumble to the side out of the way. Miklós and Horváth, further up the path, are much closer to the accelerating landslide which resembles a river in full flow. Márton sees Miklós drop his end of the stretcher and dive for cover behind a rocky outcrop. But Horváth, the meteorologist, stands still as if mesmerised by this force of nature hurtling towards him. Instead of running to safety, he kneels on the ground, brings his hands together and bends his head in prayer. The rocks hurtling towards him must have a combined weight of several tons. One minute Horváth is kneeling on the ground, the next he vanishes in the cloud of rock and dust. The torrent continues its slide down the mountain, oblivious of the destruction it has caused. As the ground levels out, the rocks pile up in a massive heap which will take days to clear.

  Márton falls to his knees, retching, his empty stomach bringing up a foul yellow bile. The sight of his friend being crushed beneath the landslide is too much for him. Horváth was a good man. He didn’t deserve this. None of them deserve this. Béla is already staggering back up the hill, dragging the empty stretcher behind him. With sorrow in his soul, and limbs that feel like lead, Márton follows him. Miklós emerges, shaken but unscathed, from behind his hiding place. They stare at the bloodied remains of Horváth, his body crushed, his smashed face unrecognisable.

  ‘Why didn’t the idiot run?’ asks Miklós. ‘He could have saved himself.’

  ‘It was already too late for him,’ says Márton.

  The guard who was patrolling the top of the mountain comes running down. ‘Don’t just look at him,’ he shouts. ‘Pick him up and take him back to the camp.’

  With shaking hands, Márton helps Béla and Miklós lift Horváth’s broken body onto the stretcher. Then they begin the long trek back to the camp. Horváth’s half-starved body weighs almost nothing, yet it is the heaviest load Márton has ever carried.

  *

  The feelings of optimism engendered by Sándor at Katalin’s birthday party are soon squashed when she arrives at work one morning to be told by Piroska Benke that the headmaster wishes to see her in his office.

  Leaving the children once more in the dubious care of the school secretary, Katalin makes her way down the corridor with a feeling of foreboding in her heart. If György Boda is expecting her to have more to report on the subject of Tibor and his wayward ways then he’s going to be sorely disappointed. She knocks on the door and the headmaster bids her enter.

  ‘Please, take a seat.’ His neutral tone of voice gives nothing away.

  She sits on the wooden chair indicated, clutching her hands in her lap. Rákosi gazes down at her from the wall. She avoids meeting those loathsome eyes and focuses instead on the books in the bookcase, mostly works of Lenin and Marx.

  ‘Miss Bakos, it has come to my attention that you keep a number of red neckerchiefs in your desk drawer and that some of the children in your class wear them during our weekly marches in honour of our great leaders.’

  For a moment Katalin is flummoxed. How can he know about the spare neckerchiefs she keeps in case the children forget to bring theirs in? The children would certainly never tell him, they’re terrified of the headmaster. And then she thinks of Piroska Benke supervising the children whilst she has been in these meetings. The school secretary has no interest whatsoever in the children and probably spends the time spying on the contents of Katalin’s desk. She wishes now she’d had the sense to take the offending items home with her.

  ‘I know how important it is for the children to be properly attired for the occasion,’ she says in her defence. ‘I wouldn’t want any of them to get into trouble.’

  ‘Their parents are supposed to provide them with neckerchiefs from home. Failure to do so shows a lack of support for the Party.’

  ‘With all due respect, sir,’ says Katalin, ‘many of these parents are working long hours in factories. I’m sure they mean no disrespect, but they have enough to do in the mornings bringing their children to school and getting themselves to work on time.’

  ‘That is not my concern,’ says György Boda. ‘From now on, all children must wear their own neckerchiefs and failure to do so will result in appropriate action being taken against the parents. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Katalin.

  ‘Good. You may return to your class now.’

  Katalin escapes into the corridor and closes the headmaster’s door behind her, resisting the overwhelming urge to slam it shut. She wants to scream at the petty, nonsensical rules imposed on her and the children.

  When she arrives back at the clas
sroom, Piroska Benke gives her a self-satisfied smile on her way out. Katalin slides open her desk drawer to find that her supply of spare neckerchiefs has vanished. The children will be marching around the playground tomorrow morning. She’ll have to remind them to bring in neckerchiefs tomorrow, but some of them will forget or maybe don’t even own one. Where can she find a new supply at such short notice?

  *

  Weeks drift by with a mind-numbing monotony, and there’s no more talk of escaping from the labour camp. Maybe it was just a dream of Béla’s after all, something to rouse the spirits and give them hope. But Horváth’s death has cast a black cloud over the dormitory. Like an impenetrable fog of stratus, thinks Márton. If Horváth’s death was simply a tragic accident, it would be bad enough, but it’s the way he resigned himself to his fate, seemed to welcome it even. What’s to stop any of them from just throwing themselves off the mountainside? There are enough sheer drops to choose from.

  The weather turns even colder, if that’s possible. Márton thinks of Horváth’s prediction of a cold blast from the east that got him arrested in the first place. The wind that rips across the mountains feels as if it’s come directly from Siberia, bringing Stalin’s regards with it. It claws its way into their skin and freezes their bones. Men are falling ill. At night Márton hears András coughing, a chesty, repetitive cough that shakes the bunk bed they share. It doesn’t sound good. The boy has grown weaker in recent days and there’s a glazed look in his eyes that Márton doesn’t like one bit.