Márton and Béla are trudging down the mountain with their load of rocks when Béla suddenly announces that everything is ready for this Sunday. The escape plan is going ahead in two days’ time.
‘I thought the whole thing was off,’ says Márton. ‘You haven’t mentioned it since the day…’ His voice trails off. He was going to say, the day Horváth died.
‘I trust you,’ says Béla. ‘But I didn’t want to risk word getting out. The fewer people who know, the safer for all concerned.’
‘Of course.’ There are those who report to the guards in exchange for favours, like extra rations and less work. There are informers even here.
Béla explains that the escape party will consist of himself, Márton, András and the old man Lovas from the carpenter’s shop, the one who has carved a replica weapon. Any more would be too risky.
‘Are you sure this is going to work?’ asks Márton.
‘What’s the alternative? We’re working ourselves into the grave here. We have to try this before we drop dead from exhaustion or just lose the will to live.’
Márton thinks of András. Last night’s coughing fit was particularly bad. The boy is hardly getting any sleep which isn’t helping his situation. This morning he looks like an old man. At the bottom of the slope they tip the rocks from the stretcher onto the growing pile. András is swinging a mallet at a large rock, but his strokes are so feeble that he’s having no effect. He looks at them out of eyes that seem to have shrunk in his head. It’s almost as if he doesn’t recognise them. If anyone deserves a shot at freedom it’s András. He will die if he stays here much longer. They have to give Béla’s plan a go. If they succeed, Márton can find Katalin and take her somewhere safe. But if they fail? No, he can’t allow himself to think of that. Béla has shown himself to be resourceful and sensible. They have to give it their best.
Márton barely sleeps on Saturday night. He can hear András tossing and turning in the top bunk. His cough is getting steadily worse, a dry hacking cough that is painful to listen to. At least Béla is snoring soundly.
Sunday dawns cold and grey. The clouds are dense and heavy, presaging snow. Márton hardly dares look András and Béla in the eye for fear of giving them away. He notices that András is trembling as his fingers fumble over the buttons on his uniform. Without saying a word to each other, they traipse outside to the yard for their morning mug of barley-coffee. When Márton looks around for Béla, he’s already disappeared.
Márton shuffles around, trying to keep warm. Since Horváth’s death more good men have succumbed to the harsh conditions and the mood in the camp is at an all-time low. The guards only make the remaining men work even harder, and hatred for the AVO has increased beyond measure.
‘Here comes one of the filthy bastards now,’ mutters Miklós, as a uniformed guard marches across the yard towards them. Miklós turns away and Márton almost does too, thinking that this guard will be looking for men to clean the toilets or something. If he assigns Márton and András to the task then Béla’s plan won’t get off the ground. But as the guard comes nearer, he realises with a shock that it’s Béla dressed in a uniform stolen from the tailor’s. He knew this was part of the plan, but he hadn’t expected Béla to look so convincing. He’s wearing the cap pulled down low over his eyes and carrying the replica submachine gun tucked under his arm. If you don’t look too closely, it’s surprisingly realistic. Márton tries not to stare at Béla in case it encourages the other men to stare too, but everyone else is determinedly ignoring the approaching guard, the sight of the uniform enough to strike fear into their hearts. Márton’s own heart is beating furiously. Beside him András looks pale as a ghost, his hands trembling. Lovas, the old man from the carpenter’s who carved the wooden weapon, is walking in front of Béla, his head hanging down, looking contrite. Béla is shouting random abuse at him to make the pair of them look more convincing.
Béla stops by the men eating breakfast and looks around as if deciding who to pick on. Those not in on the secret keep their eyes downcast. They’re so accustomed to avoiding eye contact with the guards they don’t look close enough to realise it’s Béla in disguise. Márton tries to appear relaxed even though his nerves are on edge. One false step and the consequences will be dire. Béla suddenly turns on him and András.
‘You two, drop your bowls now!’
He has warned them he will do this, but it’s still unnerving to be shouted at by someone you trust. If he’s such a good actor, what’s to say this whole ploy isn’t an elaborate trick to catch would-be defectors? But Márton refuses to let the idea take hold. This is Béla, his friend.
‘You’re wanted in the quarry for an extra shift.’
He and András obey wearily, careful not to appear too eager. András’s cough is working in their favour because the boy is so debilitated by it, all his movements are slow and lethargic.
Béla manhandles them into line behind Lovas and shouts at them to get moving. Márton hears sighs of relief amongst the remaining men that they haven’t been picked to do extra labour by this particularly aggressive guard. If only they knew.
Two soldiers are manning the gate, chatting to each other, their breath misting in the cold air. The weapons slung over their shoulders are not replicas, thinks Márton, as his stomach lurches. This is the moment of truth. They will either get away with their ruse or be shot on the spot. He experiences a sudden moment of clarity at the realisation that his life could be over in the next few seconds. Everyone and everything he has ever truly loved flashes before him: Eva, Katalin, Oxford, books, music. Everything that makes life worth living. So real, and yet so fragile.
When the soldiers see Béla and his men approaching they stand to attention. Márton focuses on their black, shiny boots, not daring to look them in the eye. Béla’s uniform has fooled them so far. They might just get away with this if the guards don’t look too closely at Béla’s face. But none of the guards see the prisoners as individuals anyway. To them, they are just one faceless mass.
‘Open the gates,’ orders Béla.
‘You’re early today,’ remarks one of the guards, his tone challenging. ‘We weren’t told to expect anyone leaving early.’ He sounds like a real pedant, a stickler for the rules. Despite the cold, Márton feels himself sweating.
‘Yeah, I know,’ says Béla in a bored voice. ‘But I’ve got orders from the top. These lazy bastards have been given extra work. Caught them slacking yesterday.’ He jabs András in the back with his replica weapon.
Don’t overdo it, thinks Márton.
‘Well, in that case,’ says the other guard, ‘make sure you work them extra hard.’
‘Don’t worry, I intend to.’
The pedantic guard turns to the big metal gate and begins the laborious process of unlocking it, turning the key and sliding back the heavy steel bolts. It seems to take forever. Márton imagines the men in the watchtowers spying on this performance, their weapons at the ready. Could it be possible that these two guards are only co-operating because they’ve guessed the truth and they want to enjoy the spectacle of seeing the escapees gunned down by their comrades? His mind is a jumble of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He is only vaguely aware of András and Lovas standing either side of him. And then, suddenly the gate is wide open. He blinks at the sight of the open space in front of him, even though he has gone this way every day on his way to the quarry. But that has always been in a mass of men and now it is just the four of them about to walk through the gate. He has to resist the urge to run. Béla has warned them they must behave like they always do, and not get over-excited.
‘Out!’ shouts Béla and they stumble forward.
As he crosses the threshold Márton feels a heady sense of relief. He’s crossed the boundary of the camp and he’s still breathing. Keep walking, he tells himself, just keep walking.
He hasn’t gone more than three or four yards before he realises with a shock that András is no longer by his side. Where is he? Slowly, so a
s not to draw attention to himself, he turns his head to look.
András is still inside the perimeter fence, doubled over, a spasm of coughing holding him prisoner.
‘You’re not going to get any useful work out of this one,’ says the guard who opened the gate. ‘I’d leave him behind if I were you.’
Márton wants to shout that they can’t leave András behind, but that would give the game away. No prisoner would ever insist on a fellow prisoner being sent to work in the quarry, especially not one in András’s enfeebled state.
‘Bah,’ says Béla to the guard. ‘Don’t let him fool you. It’s all an act to get out of doing any real work.’ He goes right up to Andras and shouts, ‘Get a bloody move on, you lazy sod!’ He shoves András so hard that the boy flies through the gate, stumbles and falls to his knees.
‘Get on your feet!’ Béla gives him a kick up the backside for good measure. The guards inside laugh as they close the gate and lock it.
Béla leads his co-conspirators in silence towards the quarry.
*
As soon as the four men are out of sight of the watchtowers, they change direction and quickly disappear into the forest. As a child Márton was warned not to stray too far into the trees for fear of becoming lost, but now the forest is a place of refuge, welcoming them into its dense mass of trunks. Even their footsteps are smothered on the thick carpet of fallen leaves and rotting vegetation. When he looks back he can no longer see the watchtowers.
‘We bloody did it!’ shouts Béla, full of triumph. He thrusts the fake weapon in the air.
‘Not so loud,’ cautions Márton. ‘They might still hear us.’
‘Come on,’ says Lovas. ‘We should get as far away as we can as quickly as possible.’
András leans against a tree for support, his breathing ragged. But at least he has lost that glazed look he’s had for weeks now. You can’t save everyone, thinks Márton, but if you can save just one…
The plan is to head north towards the Czechoslovak frontier, a distance of roughly ten miles. If all goes well they will reach the border by nightfall. Once there, they will turn west towards Austria. Béla has talked of getting their story broadcast on western radio or printed in western newspapers. Radio Free Europe is always encouraging the Hungarians to stand up to their Soviet oppressors, but people in the West don’t know the half of it.
After the initial exhilaration of their miraculous escape has worn off, they fall into single file, silently picking a path through the undergrowth. Béla takes the lead, followed by the old man Lovas, then András. Márton brings up the rear, trying not to think about the gnawing hunger in his stomach, his aching limbs from months of heavy lifting, and his leaking boots. He tries to take his mind off his physical aches and pains by focusing on the heady sense of freedom. He inhales the rich scent of pine resin and remembers how he used to forage for mushrooms as a child. His grandfather taught him which ones were safe to eat and which ones were poisonous. He keeps an eye out for anything edible, but it’s the wrong time of year. It’s too cold and the ground beneath their feet is iron-hard.
They plod on for a couple of hours before they stop to rest. Their pace has been painfully slow at times, but Béla reckons they’ve done about four miles. They’re well away from the camp and can afford a quick breather. Márton, Béla and Lovas lean against tree trunks, but András lies down on the ground and closes his eyes. His face is flushed and sweat is beading on his brow, running in tiny rivulets down his temples. Márton leans forwards and touches the boy’s forehead. It’s burning. It’s a miracle he’s kept going for as long as he has.
‘He’s got a fever,’ says Márton. ‘He won’t be able to carry on much longer.’
‘We need food and shelter,’ says Lovas. ‘We’ll never make the border tonight.’
Márton fears the old man is right. They might have trekked ten miles when they were all strong and fit, but in their present condition such a distance now seems wildly over-optimistic.
‘So what do you suggest?’ he asks, looking at his companions.
Béla stands up and walks a short distance. ‘The forest can’t go on for much further. There must be a farm somewhere nearby. Dressed like this’ – he indicates his stolen AVO uniform – ‘I could always intimidate a local farmer into giving us food, but I’d rather not do that sort of thing.’
‘We can’t just go knocking on doors,’ says Lovas, ‘in case the inhabitants are in the pay of the Secret Police.’
Márton feels something close to despair. Have they escaped from the labour camp only to die of hunger in the middle of nowhere? A sound in the forest makes him look up.
‘What’s that?’
He can see from the look of alarm on the other men’s faces that they heard it too.
‘Ssh,’ says Béla.
There is nothing for a moment except the rustle of the wind in the trees. Then they hear it again. A snapping sound, like footsteps on twigs.
‘Someone’s coming,’ hisses Béla under his breath. ‘We need to hide.’
Béla puts his hands under András’s shoulders and Márton takes the boy’s feet. Together they haul him behind a fallen tree. Then they lie on the ground and try to camouflage themselves with fallen branches and leaves. Márton’s heart is hammering against his bony ribcage. It must be the guards come to hunt them down. But why aren’t they making more noise with their thick-soled boots and their vicious guard dogs? These sounds are light, as if a lone person is moving around.
Through the canopy of brushwood, Márton sees a small, stooped figure come into view. It’s an old woman, dressed head to foot in black, her head covered in a grey scarf. In her arms she’s carrying a bundle of sticks. She stops near the place where the four men were sitting a moment ago and looks around. Her face is weathered and lined, like old, cracked leather. But her eyes are sharp and watchful. She knows someone has been there. Someone has disturbed her forest.
Márton glances across at Béla and they exchange a look of understanding. This old woman could save them. Or she could report them to the Secret Police. But without her help, András might not survive. It’s a risk they have to take.
‘Madam.’ Béla scrambles to his feet, throwing off sticks and leaves, some of which still cling to his uniform, giving him a wild, untamed appearance.
The old woman drops her bundle of sticks in fright, emitting an ear-piercing shriek. Márton expects her to flee at the sight of Béla’s uniform, but she stands her ground. ‘You can’t arrest me! I’ve done nothing wrong. I mind my own business and don’t bother anyone.’ Her voice is high and cracked and Márton notices that half her teeth are missing. Despite her diminutive size, she looks ready to fly at Béla and attack him.
Béla tosses the replica weapon aside and holds his hands up in supplication. ‘No, madam. I’m sorry I frightened you.’ He bends down and starts to pick up her sticks. ‘I’m not a member of the Secret Police. I’m an escaped prisoner from the labour camp at Recsk. There are four of us. We need your help. One of our group is sick.’ He gives her back her bundle of sticks.
Márton and Lovas emerge from their hiding places. András rolls over and groans. They must look a sorry state, thinks Márton, in their ragged army uniforms, covered in leaves and bits of moss, like wild creatures.
The old woman scrutinises Márton and Lovas, making up her mind about them. Her reaction when she thought Béla was a member of the Secret Police bodes well. It would appear she is no supporter of the political regime.
‘Where’s the sick one?’ she asks.
‘Through here,’ says Márton, showing her András lying on the ground.
She bends down and lays a knobbly hand on András’s forehead. ‘Fever,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Can you carry him?’
Béla holds András under the shoulders and Márton walks in front holding his ankles. After the stretchers of rock they’ve been carrying down the mountainside, András is a featherweight. Lovas walks in front with the old woman, helping he
r collect more sticks on the way.
Half an hour later they arrive at a small, stone cottage on the edge of the forest. Next to the cottage there’s a ramshackle wooden barn with a corrugated iron roof and a small chicken run in which half a dozen scrawny birds are pecking at the dirt.
‘We’re half a mile from the village here,’ says the old woman. ‘No one will bother us.’ She points at András. ‘Bring him into the cottage. We’ll make him comfortable.’
They find themselves in a low-ceilinged single room with a stone floor and whitewashed walls. There’s a wooden table and a couple of wooden chairs. One corner of the cottage, presumably where she sleeps, is curtained off.
‘Put him down there.’ She points to a woven rug on the floor in front of the hearth. Then she disappears behind the curtain and returns with a blanket. ‘I’ll treat the fever with my herbal remedies until he’s better. What’s his name?’
‘András,’ says Márton. ‘He’s only a boy.’
The old woman nods her understanding. ‘The rest of you can sleep in the loft in the barn. I’ll show you where.’
On the ground floor of the barn is a cow who regards them with lazy indifference and goes back to chewing the cud. ‘There’s plenty of space up there.’ She points to a wooden ladder. ‘And hay to keep you warm.’
‘We are very grateful to you, Madam…’ says Béla.
‘Call me Dorottya.’ There’s a distant look in her eyes, as if she’s thinking of something else. ‘My husband was arrested back in 1949,’ she says. ‘I haven’t seen him since. He’s probably dead now. But if he did escape I like to think that someone would look after him. Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll cook some potatoes for you.’
She returns later with a bowlful of hot potatoes and a jug of fresh milk. It’s the best meal that Márton has had in a long while. As they tuck into their food, he imagines what is happening back at the camp right now. The guards will be running up and down the lines of men, counting and re-counting. Why are there four men missing? We must have mis-counted. Count them again! The camp commander will be barking orders. But at some point they are going to have to admit that some men have actually escaped, despite all their tight security, weapons and barbed wire. They have been fooled and they will not be happy about it. He feels a pang of guilt for his fellow prisoners left behind who will have to endure the endless re-counting before they are allowed to return to their barracks. He hopes the guards don’t take their anger out on the other prisoners, but he supposes that is inevitable.
Goodbye to Budapest Page 13