The Phoenix Land

by Miklos Banffy

  ***

  As the train plodded slowly on through the night, my mind was filled with memories of all that had happened in the last few days, especially going back to Kolozsvár, my birthplace, and saying a painful farewell to my father. I was also filled with worry and distress not only for everything that had been destroyed but also for all the destruction still to come. My thoughts were like some devilish kaleidoscope, surfacing and resurfacing always in a different form, as visions changed and then vanished only to give way to others whose new form was as tormenting as the last.

  As we travelled ever further from Hungary there was one overriding torment in the chaos of my thoughts: it was the feeling of homelessness. I felt torn from everything I held most dear. It was Fate that controlled my actions, not my own will. And so I, who from the beginning had wanted nothing but to go home, was now rolling further and further away from it.

  Since then many years have passed, and in those years I have often thought how strange are the ways of Fate. Set on one’s way by a single ill-considered spontaneous remark, one is led into a course of action that cannot be stopped whether one wants to or not. At the moment of departure we do not even dream of where our voyage will take us. Even when we have started we delude ourselves for an unconscionable time that in a short while it will soon be over, and we shall be free again to do as we please. Sometimes, in forests, one meets two such paths that, although divided perhaps by a stream or ditch, seem at first sight to run parallel to one another. One imagines that whichever one chooses will led us to the same place. However, slowly the paths diverge … and never meet again.

  Notes

  28. This is, in fact, what was done. The House of Deputies dissolved itself and some time was to pass before it was reconstituted, while the Upper House (the House of Lords) was never to meet again.

  29. There is a dramatic description of this event in They Were Counted, volume one of Bánffy’s Transylvanian trilogy.

  30. There is also a full description of this incident in They Were Counted.

  31. Mihály Károlyi was to write later that the square outside had been packed with people, who cheered as he addressed them from the steps of the parliament building.

  32. The ministry of defence building, on one side of the Disz Square near the royal palace, was badly damaged in the autumn of 1944 when it was occupied by German troops and bombarded by the Russians. This battle-scarred ruin has been preserved as a monument to Budapest’s suffering during the last stages of the Second World War.

  Chapter Five

  During our long slow journey – I remember it was noon before we arrived in Vienna – I ran over in my mind the names of those acquaintances who might be able to help me in the adventurous enterprise upon which I had just started.

  Our tiny compartment, piled high with luggage, was the ideal place for contemplation. Through the patched-up windowpanes and the slits between the wooden laths with which they had been fixed, I could get glimpses of the snowless land outside gleaming in the wintry sun.

  Andorján and his wife, both tired out, were asleep. Even Lolotte was quiet and did not stir, no doubt sensing that the smallest movement could disturb her coverlet and let out some of the comfortable warmth created by her own body heat.

  Once again, too, for the hundredth time, I rehearsed the arguments with which I would plead our cause.

  Much care and attention is needed when negotiating with men we do not know. Not only do all men react differently in the way they take in what they hear, but there are also the very different national attitudes seemingly inbred, for example, in the French, the Germans, and the English, who will all find different aspects of an argument important or interesting. The matter under discussion may be the same, and so are the points one wants to make, but they have to be presented differently, with the tone, colour and emphasis all carefully tailored to the sensibilities of he to whom one is talking. Here it is vital to be able to sense the differences in human mentality and understand them; otherwise all presentation of one’s argument will be fruitless. We ourselves must look at our case not with our own eyes but with those of the man we are trying to convince. As the French so aptly say ‘entrer dans la peau du bonhomme’ – to get in under his skin. Whatever we have to say must be phrased according to his standpoint. Of course, one must always keep to the truth not only for its own sake but also because the smallest lie will sooner or later wreak its vengeance upon us; but it is vitally important that the truth must be expressed in terms of the other man’s habit of thought. The greatest mistake of German diplomacy, during and before the war, was that it never ever took into consideration anyone’s way of thinking but their own.

  Then I began to wonder if the first man I wanted to see would be willing, solely on the basis of our old acquaintance, to discuss affairs of state with someone who had no official status.

  I was thinking of Esmé Howard, who is now British ambassador in Washington, and who was then en poste in Sweden. I had thought of him firstly because he was within reach. Sweden had remained neutral during the war and, among the neutral states, had been the one that had shown most sympathy to the central European powers (probably from fear of the Russians and Bolshevism). I should be able fairly easily to obtain a visa for Sweden and perhaps find there some measure of support.

  My second reason for thinking of Howard was that when he had been consul-general in Budapest some years before the war we had begun to strike up a friendship, rare between men from different countries, probably because we had many tastes in common. He too loved classical music and had much appreciation for the fine arts. His wife was Italian, and that may have accounted for that fact that he understood Europe and Europeans better than many of his countrymen who (as he himself wrote in England and Europe) can live for any length of time in any part of the world and never understand anyone who was not English.

  Howard had another great advantage in being a cousin of the Duke of Norfolk, head of one of England’s oldest noble families who ranked there almost as high as royalty. A man with such an exalted background was not likely to be biased by current public opinions, especially if these have been swayed by popular slogans of the moment and are infected by the shallow hatreds of the mob. I clung to the hope that in him remained some vestiges of that medieval chivalry which was based more on social sympathy than on geographical frontiers. With his privileged background he would surely, if he thought it right, be unafraid to flout any diplomatic veto, if such existed, and listen to what I had to say.

  As soon as I arrived in Vienna I tried to get a visa for Sweden but was unsuccessful as both the embassy and the consulate were shut for the New Year. As I did not want to waste time in Vienna I decided to try again in Berlin.

  The former notary-public Charmant, who was Károlyi’s ambassador in Vienna, and Andorján took on the task of getting our passports stamped at the German Embassy, and so I had some time to see what the old imperial capital looked like after the revolution.

  ***

  For anyone who had not been there for some time the first shock was the uncollected dirt and debris everywhere to be seen on the streets and sidewalks. Vienna, which had formerly been one of the cleanest of all big cities, was now a depressing sight. It looked as if the streets had not been swept or watered for months. Most of the shops were closed, there were hardly any cars to be seen, and all those pretty women who used to throng the streets of the capital had vanished into thin air.

  I found myself in front of the Hofburg, and there another surprise awaited me. The great doors with the dome above, which led from the Kohlmarkt to the Maria Theresia statue, were closed. Only a tiny door at the side was left open, and in it stood an armed soldier. Other armed guards were posted all round the entire palace complex, including the two great museums. They were all armed to the teeth, with hand grenades hanging from their belts and guns on their shoulders as if they expected the enemy at any moment.

  I asked about this and was told that a few hundred officers, o
f their own free will and dressed as common soldiers, had occupied the palace and the museums and in uninterrupted shifts, guarded the place so strictly that no one was allowed in or out.

  Deeply loyal, in spite of all that had been happening in the last weeks33, they felt it their duty to guard what they considered imperial property. There, right in the centre of the city, the Hofburg was like a warship alone at sea, hopelessly battling against a raging storm and yet, manned by a loyal crew still faithful to their duty, still fighting on despite the fact that the leader to whom they owed that duty had abandoned them.

  The sight of these men reminded me of the story of the faithful hound that guarded his master’s grave until he died himself. But here in Vienna the tomb was empty for the master had long since fled to Eckartsau, no doubt he had been given no choice, and so the steadfastness of those guards was in vain. All the same it was beautiful to see and touching. It was the last time that there was to be seen the true spirit of Mannestreue, that ray of moral sunshine such as had been sung in the Nibelugenlied34.

  ***

  Knowing that assessment of the finances of the joint Austrian and Hungarian foreign offices had been given to a man I had known well ever since we had several times served together en poste in Germany and with whom I had remained good friends, I went to see him in the famous building on the Ballplatz. When the government had collapsed, my old friend had already reached the senior rank of councillor, perhaps even with the title of ambassador. Now he had been entrusted by the Austrian government – and also possibly by that of Hungary too – with the task of bringing order to the department’s complicated financial and personnel problems.

  The elderly porter on duty at the massive old doorway of the Ballplatz building seemed overjoyed to see me. This, I fancy, was not because he knew me but because he now had so few visitors and was longing to have someone to announce. He at once showed me up the huge staircase which had been mounted a hundred years before during the Congress of Vienna35 by all those kings and princes big or small who were eager for Metternich to restore to them the lands they had once ruled. Upstairs I was greeted by an official with obsequious politeness and a moment or two later I found myself in that great writing-room from which the far-flung Habsburg Empire had been controlled for two centuries.

  There was very little furniture and what there was had been arranged along the walls. At the far end of the room was a vast writing table of some highly polished dark wood on top of which gleamed some gilded Empire bronzes.

  My friend got up from behind the table, obviously pleased to see me. Then he sat down again, and I seated myself in an armchair at the end of the table. After some little chat about the past we started to talk about the general breakdown of order and how it had come about. Somehow, in the voice of this man deputizing for a minister I detected no trace of that natural sorrow one might have expected from a high-ranking member of the empire’s former diplomatic service. On the contrary, I sensed a sort of hidden joy as he expressed his regrets for what had occurred in the most banal terms, a joy that became less and less suppressed as he spoke. At first our talk was sluggish, but it was suddenly to change.

  ‘Who would have thought,’ he said, ‘even a short time ago, that I would soon be sitting at this desk, the desk of the great Metternich? What a stupendous feeling! This is his inkstand that I use! This is his chair on which I sit! It is truly a stupendous feeling!’

  It was obvious that he was very happy. In that room he saw only the furniture, the magnificent pictures and carpets of the palace of which he was now lord and master. He brushed aside the fact that in reality he was only an official brought in to list the assets of that once famous establishment prior to its liquidation. That the power had flown away and only the husk remained, like a gilded shell void of life, that he did not see. It was with pride and gracious condescension that he received me there.

  And when I left he escorted me to the outer doors and shook my hand warmly as he said goodbye, saying that I must come again to see him next time I should be in Vienna.

  ‘I am at your disposal in everything!’ he said in the encouraging tones of one offering me the shining prospect of an embassy.

  Then he returned proudly to his place of work, where Kaunitz and Metternich looked down upon him from the walls. The footman closed the great double doors behind him with much deference.

  I went away feeling that, in spite of everything else I saw around me, I had at least found one happy man, reflecting what a treasure it must be when naïve joy in personal success can cloak reality with the thin pink vapour of content.

  ***

  The next day we left for Germany.

  It was the same crowd, the same broken windows with patchily mended glass and the same dirty seats. The train, crowded with dark-faced men and whining frightened women, dragged itself along just as slowly. After endless dawdling at a snail’s pace we arrived at last at Salzburg.

  During the long stretch that led to the Austrian border my anxiety had grown until I felt like a schoolboy who, after much special coaching, has to face new masters. What will they be like? Will they be over-demanding, or perhaps bad-tempered?

  Just as when, for the last time before the examinations, I would revise algebraic formulae or Greek aorists, I asked myself for the hundredth time if I had properly hidden the considerable sum of money with which I had been entrusted.

  It was well known that at the Austrian border there was a Leibes-visitation – a body-search – meaning that they would examine not only one’s luggage but also the clothes one wore, all of them even down to one’s shoes, to stop anyone carrying foreign currency, be it banknotes, gold or jewellery. The same occurs again on the German side to all travellers arriving in the country. Then everything had to be surrendered in exchange for local paper money and that, of course, at whatever rate they choose to apply.

  I had already been warned of this in Budapest, and it caused me a lot of worry. Where should I put all those Swedish banknotes? In the soles of my shoes? But even during the war this had been a well-known subterfuge – and many people had lost everything by trying it. What about the lining of my jacket? But surely banknotes would crackle if the customs men ran their hand over me? In the seat of my trousers? There wasn’t much room there, and it would surely look odd if it were too bulky?

  Finally I discovered in a chest in which I used to store my old clothes, an ancient top hat, a real Methuselah of a hat. Some twenty years before it had been made for riding from an exceptionally hard felt and had a large brim. Inside there was a wide leather band to ensure that it sat well on the head, while at the back it had once had a ring to which a string could be tied so as to attach it to the lapel of one’s coat. The ring had disappeared and in its place was a sizable hole.

  I used to wear it when foxhunting at Zsuk and at least a couple of times it saved my life when I had a bad fall. It had braved thorny hedges and more than once had been severely damaged. Now it was purple with age, and its silk binding was in shreds. Not even a beggar would have touched it.

  I took this weather-beaten old hat, which no one would suspect belonged to anyone with money, embedded my Swedish crown notes in the wide leather sweatband inside it and put my faith in its continuing to render me good service.

  In Salzburg we were separated. Mrs Andorján, with the dog Lolotte, who counted as female, was ushered into the place for women, while Andorján and I took our places in a queue of male travellers.

  One by one they let us through.

  We then found ourselves in a strange corridor run up from wooden planking which changed direction every two or three metres and led finally to a box-like enclosure where each suspect traveller (and all travellers were suspect) was let in on his own. This was the place set aside for the Leibes-visitation, and here one had to undress, even to taking off one’s shoes and socks. Everything was searched by hand, and they even felt under one’s shirt.

  I endured all this quite calmly. There are moments when one fe
els quite alone and needs a friend, but on that day I knew they would find nothing on me. My decrepit ancient hat was outside, hung on a carelessly protruding nail in the corridor. I had absolutely no fears that anybody would take it, for there was no one in the world who could possibly have wanted it.

  I was twice searched in that labyrinth of odd twists and corners before we finally found ourselves safely outside on German soil, the Methuselah hat now proudly on my head. Throughout my travels it served me with honour, and with it I crossed the German border three more times before I finally reached The Hague.

  There I bought myself a new hat, but I still mourned my old Methuselah, whose last office had been to serve me so well.

  ***

  It was a long way from the border post at Salzburg to Berlin. Sometimes, for quite a stretch at a time, we would be ten people in a compartment meant for six – and then Lolotte had to be kept on someone’s lap. All the same, we arrived in the afternoon of the following day and drove from the Leipziger Banhof to the Hotel Bristol in a heavily overloaded cab.

  The streets were crowded. In double rows men in civilian clothes were marching, every tenth man or so carrying a placard saying NIEDER MIT EBERT – ‘Down with Ebert’ – or HOCH SPARTAKUS – ‘Up with Spartacus’, while on the other side of the street a similar procession carrying boards saying HOCH EBETI and NIEDER MIT SPARTAKUS, as well as others saying NIEDER MIT LIEBKHECHT, all very neatly written.

  The two demonstrations passed each other peacefully and in good order on opposite sides of the street. Between them the cabbies drove their vehicles quite indifferent to what was going on. Occasionally one group would let out a cheer, and sometimes the other then did the same. Then, well drilled, one side would call out ‘Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!’ before the other responded with ‘Nieder! Nieder! Nieder!’ Then they would all fall silent and go on marching without any signs of emotion.