by Ann Bridge
Well, if she had understood all that, would she have loved Sam better?—loved him as she now loved Stefan? Oh, but that was just silly!—how could she tell? When she got engaged to Sam she simply didn’t know a thing about this other world, where love and danger walked hand-in-hand, and even the love for one’s lover had to subserve the love of one’s country. (She remembered what Litka had said when they talked alone in the Sörözö.)
Oh, it was all too difficult!—she simply didn’t know how it might have been about her and Sam, nor how it was going to be now. But thinking of Litka made her think of Litka’s journey; she pushed out her wrist and looked at her watch—it was after eleven. Goodness, how the time had slipped by!—of course all that boiling the eggs and making tea had taken quite a while. It must have been well after nine when Litka and the priest left: she remembered looking at her watch, and noticing that it was a quarter to when she first suggested that Litka should take the package to the two boys in the Dodge—and they’d done a lot more planning and arguing after that, and settling about the funeral. Normally it was fifteen minutes’ run, or less, down to the Csepel Bridge; but of course there would have been some delay, though probably not much, at the cordon. Call it 9.30 when they drove off, at the latest; and allowing plenty of margin, say they left the Kis-Kocsma at ten—then by now they would be a good hour on their way. It was four-and-a-half hours’ run from Budapest to Belgrade at the best; sometimes as much as five-and-a-half, depending on the speed of the car, and on how much obstruction one met on the roads: the farm carts—Hungarian peasant reactions to the note of a klaxon were incredibly slow—vast droves of cattle or sheep or pigs, the produce of this rich land, on the way to some market; flocks of gobbling turkeys or hissing geese. Anyhow, by 4 p.m. they ought to be safely over the frontier, and she would be able to go off and get hold of Bill—taking the picture, she mustn’t forget that—and fix the funeral, and go on down to her poor parents!
But Hope’s mind didn’t stay long on her parents; she sat picturing every stage of that drive which she knew so well, over the flat productive black-earth plain—the mulberry-trees along the dusty white roads, now in bud, but where later in the year women and girls would reach up and strip the leaves to feed their silk-worms; the small densely-planted fields, brilliant with the pale-green springing spears of young wheat, but with a bare patch in one corner where, in July, there would be a splash of mauve-and-white blossom from the poppies in bloom, whose fragrant black seeds would give flavour to the country bread. Hope had stayed in Hungarian country-houses in the Alföld, and knew the peculiar deliciousness of those hot, fresh, snow-white rolls, made from the choicest wheaten flour, their shining surfaces powdered with the small aromatic black grains of the poppy-seed.
She thought though chiefly of the people now taking that familiar drive; of Stefan’s long sensitive hands on the wheel, as she had watched them when he and she drove down to the Kis-Kocsma. Anyhow there they all were, please God, Jurek and Litka and Stefan, spinning south in the bright spring sunshine, which gilded the top of the shabby window curtains, driving away into safety and freedom at last. They might have a little delay at the frontier, but with any luck—and her passport and papers—not much; yes, by 4 o’clock they should be clear over, and safe, safe, safe! It was a marvellous thought.
Relaxing in happiness, all of a sudden she yawned. My, she did feel sleepy! Well no wonder, really—except for that uneasy doze in the car coming up from Kecskemét she had been awake and on the go since 7 o’clock yesterday morning, more than twenty-four hours before. She might as well get some sleep; there were five hours to go before it would be wise for her to leave. She wriggled back in the chair—no, it was too uncomfortable for words. But there was the camp bed in the corner, just the thing. “You won’t mind, I’m sure, darling Madame Moranska,” Hope murmured, glancing at the figure on the bed.
Of course one ought to kneel and pray all the time while one was watching by a dead person; but this whole set-up was so crazy anyway, and the important things, getting the boys and Litka and the film out, were taken care of. Calm in mind, very happy actually, Hope Kirkland pulled back the worn army blankets on the camp bed, snuggled herself in, and settled down to sleep. But after a moment she sat up again. Suppose—just suppose—some of those infernal police did come back, mightn’t it be better not to be caught on the hop? Father Kowalski had made all those warning noises about them. It was always better to be on the safe side, anyhow, and she slipped out from under the blankets, went over to the door in her stockinged feet, and shot the small brass bolt. Then she went back and lay down once more, pulling the blankets up round her chin, and in three minutes was fast asleep.
What seemed to be a hundred years later, so deep was she sunk in healthy slumber, some dream of hers was disturbed by cannon-fire—it must be that, it was so loud; and very near, too. But the persistent banging gradually forced her back into consciousness, and she finally woke, with a jerk, to realize that someone was not only banging but positively hammering on the door; an angry voice was shouting outside it, too. Bemused, sleepy, for a moment she had difficulty in understanding where she was; she sat up and stared about her. Oh yes—this was the Moranskis’ room; of course, and there was Mme Moranska dead on the big bed. “All right! All right! I’m coming,” she called in Hungarian, as she slid off the camp bed, mechanically straightening the blankets, pushed her feet into her little pumps, and put on Litka’s old coat again—it was chilly, out of bed. Equally mechanically she glanced at her watch as she went over to open the door; she grinned with satisfaction when she saw the hour. It was a quarter to four.
The men who came in when she drew back the bolt were police: not the two cheerful sleepy Hungarians who had kept watch on the landing, but three others, one in plain clothes, with a sharp weasel face. He began at once to hector her about the delay in opening the door—“Have you no ears?”
“I was asleep,” Hope said. “But will you please uncover your heads? This woman is dead.”
Rather guiltily, with a glance at the bed, all three men removed their caps; the man with the weasel face went over to it, and said “Yes, she is dead,” in a nasty voice. Then he turned sharply to Hope. “This is Madame Sophie Moranska?”
“Yes—at least it was she.”
“And you are her daughter.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“No, I am not,” Hope said. “I am just a friend.” She need not worry really: it was nearly four, and they ought to be well across the frontier by now, safe and free in Yugoslavia, speeding down towards Istanbul.
One of the other policemen said—“She is lying—certainly it is the girl. She is always here—she has been here all night. I saw her myself, at 2 o’clock this morning; here in this room, Captain Revicsky.”
The weasel-faced man rounded on Hope. “You say you are not Lydia Moranska; very well, please let me see your passport.”
“I haven’t got it,” Hope said. Really, he was a very nasty man.
“Why not? Everyone must have a passport. Where is it?”
Hope had left her bag lying on the table, along with the remains of her meal; Revicsky noticed her involuntary glance at it. “Bring me that bag,” he said to one of his underlings; the man handed it to his superior. The Captain glanced through it, and then turned angrily on Hope.
“So—it is not here. What have you done with it?”
“I’ve lost it.”
“Nonsense! You lie! One does not lose one’s passport!” He flung the bag back at her. so that it almost struck her in the face. “Now, please tell me no more lies. Where is your brother, Major Stefan Moranski?—and Lieutenant Jurek Hempel? Quick!”
“He’s not my brother, and I don’t know where he is—or Lieutenant Hempel either.”
“When did you last see them? Don’t try to play the fool with me—you will be sorry if you do.”
Hope began to get frightened. This was being rather disagreeable; nearly as disagreeable as Father Kowalski had sugg
ested it might be. And it wasn’t quite 4 o’clock—oh goodness, what if there had been some delay, and they weren’t over the frontier yet? She had better try to play for time a little longer.
“I last saw Major Moranski yesterday, at about 1 o’clock—no, it was nearer half-past,” she said carefully.
“Where? Here, of course!”
“No, in the Herend shop in the Váci utca.” (She wasn’t going to tell this damned Deuxième Bureau man, or anyone else, about the Gellert-hegy.)
“Tchah! What nonsense is this?” The officer as a matter of fact was rather taken aback by this unexpected reply, but he continued to be tough. “Why there?” He had to follow up all enquiries, however peculiar or improbable that was his job.
“I was shopping, and he came with me.” Between fright and memories, the tears were very near. The fruit-basket still stood on the mantelpiece, incongruously rich and brilliant in that shabby room—she pointed to it. “I brought that for Madame Moranska,” she said.
“You bought it? You are mad! This must have cost over a hundred pengö,” he said, going over and examining it. “How could you have a hundred pengö to spend on china ornaments?”
“In any case this is absurd,” put in the policeman who had intervened before. “She was here last night, Captain; I saw her, with my own eyes, in this room; and she never went out yesterday, for we had the house watched all day. The brother, and the other, came and went several times; once Moranski went off down the street with a young American lady, so our men told me, but the two Poles were seen to come in all right last night—and how they left, the devil knows! They never walked out of this flat, for we had men on the door by then, up here on the sixth floor. I tell you, Captain Revicsky, we watched this place like lynxes!”
“Well, you’ve let the birds fly, all the same,” Revicsky said sourly; his face as he spoke to his underling was the most unpleasant thing Hope had ever seen. And it was just as unpleasant when he rounded again on her.
“Now, Miss Lydia Moranska, please stop this nonsense. You are wasting my time. Tell me at once where your brother and Lieutenant Hempel are: certainly you know, and you had better tell us quickly; if you don’t it will be the worse for you. We have ways of making people talk, you know.”
Hope remained silent. Unconsciously, her mouth took on the stubborn look that recently had often irritated Mrs. Kirkland; it irritated the Deuxième Bureau man now. He came over and took her by the shoulder, and shook her violently. “Speak up!—and don’t make faces!”
“Don’t you dare to touch me,” Hope screamed furiously, now as angry as she was frightened. “If you do, it will be the worse for you! I’m an American citizen!”
All three men laughed. “That is funny! You an American! You are a Pole!” Revicsky sneered.
“I am not! I am not!” In her fear and anger she now thought only of out-facing these beastly men.
“If you are an American, what are you doing here, in this Polish apartment?” Revicsky asked.
“I brought a priest to a dying woman, a friend—and then stayed with her. Do you not watch by the dead?” Hope said, with ill-advised contempt.
“Captain, this is all her pretence,” put in the other man. “The American girl did bring a priest in, and our men let her through; they saw her passport, it was quite all right. But she went out again, quite early this morning, with the priest, and drove off in her car. This Moranska girl is just trying to get out of it by pretending that she’s the Yank.”
“So I imagine. Well, she has got to talk,” Revicsky said harshly.
Then the unimaginable thing happened—the sort of thing that happened then to Europeans, but not to Americans. Captain Revicsky deliberately walked across to Hope and slapped her face, first with his right hand, then with his left.
Hope reeled back. When that particular kind of violence is offered to an adult the moral effect is more staggering than the physical—but it produces a physically staggering effect, too. The man watched with a smile of satisfaction as the girl shrank back against the wall, tears of pain and amazement starting in her eyes, and put a hand up to her stinging cheek. He lit a cigarette, with deliberation. Blowing out smoke—
“Now, will you talk?” he asked. “Or do you want some more? And there are lots of other things that we know how to do.”
Waves of terror, fury and helplessness flowed over Hope in a sickening flood; she gulped, literally in acute nausea, while she struggled against rising sobs. Oh God, she couldn’t stand this! And what else would they do? Looking from the complacent smile on Revicsky’s weasel face to the other two men, she saw on all three the same atrocious expression—of pleasure and of power in having another human being utterly at one’s mercy. In 1941 the world at large knew nothing of Buchenwald or Belsen, Katyn or Oswieczim—and Hope Kirkland, confronted in her own person with the new 20th-century diabolism, recoiled before an unbelievable horror. It broke her, plucky and resourceful as she was. She had got to get out of this!—this was even worse than the platform at Kelenföld; there they were all men, anyway! In rising hysteria, and the overwhelming impulse to self-preservation, she just held on sufficiently to the thought of Litka and Stefan and their safety to push out her wrist and glance at her watch. It was ten minutes past four. She’d allowed a huge margin—they must be out by now! And she had got to get out of this!
But those weasel eyes noticed both the gesture and the gleam of diamonds—Revicsky strode over to her and caught her wrist. “Where did you get this?” he demanded.
“My Father gave it to me.”
“Nonsense!—she must have stolen it. Theft, too,” said the other man. “How should a Polish refugee still have such a watch? They would have sold it long ago, to eat, if they ever owned such a thing. Let’s see it—” and he pulled it roughly off her wrist, breaking the delicate clasp, and looked it over.
Hope began to scream at them.
“How dare you? My Father did give it me! It is my watch. Give it back!”
They were all examining it, and did not heed her. At last Revicsky put it in his pocket.
“Yes, old Mr. Refugee Moranski would be able to buy you such a watch, here, at Nassers!—for thousands of pengö!” he sneered.
“He was not my father, I tell you! My Father is Mr. John B. Kirkland of the National American Oil Company.”
Captain Revicsky, of the Budapest Deuxième Bureau, was very slightly disconcerted at hearing that name—it was one he knew well. He took counsel aside with his companions. What was the name on the passport of the young American lady who brought in the priest? The hitherto vocal policeman looked disconcerted too. He could not say; he had not seen the passport himself; and the two men on the door of the Penzio could barely read!—they had just noted that it was certainly an American one, and that the photograph on it was that of the young lady who went in and went out again. There could be no mistake, he averred. But Revicsky was a careful person. He turned back to Hope.
“Very well. You make this statement, so we will ring Mr. Kirkland up.”
Hope opened her mouth to say “He’s gone”—and then shut it again, without speaking. Let them telephone; it would all take even more time—though the others must surely be out by now. The pause had allowed her to recover herself a little; her sobbing breaths came more quietly as she stood rubbing her wrist, sore where the watch bracelet had bruised the skin when the policeman tore it off, and watched with wary eyes the man who remained with her while Revicsky and the other went out to the telephone.
At the tottery table with the aspidistra on it Captain Revicsky got the connection, and spoke with the porter at the flats. Yes, certainly Mr. Kirkland lived here; but he, with his wife and daughter, had left for Istanbul the night before. Revicsky strode angrily back down the ill-lit passage to the Moranskis’ room. “Your famous American father left Budapest last night!” He fairly spat the words at Hope.
“Yes, I know he did,” she answered, hardily. “He’s gone to Istanbul.”
Rev
icsky was even more disconcerted by this remark. He had said nothing about Istanbul—how did the girl know where the Kirklands were going? But the lieutenant put his oar in.
“Captain, the daughter will have told her this, when she was here this morning. She is pretending to be Miss Kirkland, that is all.”
“But how came the daughter, the Kirkland young lady, here at all, if she left last night? Here, come outside”—and he led the other man into the passage, where they discussed the matter. It was a little confusing; but as Captain Revicsky pointed out, there was no certainty—owing to the infernal illiteracy of the police on the door of the Penzio—that the American young lady who had come and gone, bringing the priest, was Miss Kirkland at all. It might well have been some other American girl—“These damned Poles have contacts everywhere! And you say you saw this very girl in that room, last night?”
“Certainly, Captain—this is the one; she wears the same coat, even, with the loud checks.”
“Very well—that is good enough.” He went back into the room.
“I don’t believe your story. You are Lydia Moranska, and now you can come along with us, and undergo a proper examination. Then perhaps you will tell us where your brother is.”
“I have no brother—I’m Mr. Kirkland’s only child,” Hope said, as the two policemen took her, one by each elbow, and began to propel her out of the door. “Oh, let me go! Don’t touch me!” she screamed in the passage. “Let go! Let go!”
“Shut her up!” said Revicsky brutally. “We don’t want all this row.” One of the men twisted the arm he held round behind her back, expertly, and clapped his hand over her mouth. Hope still made stifled screams—“Oh, gag her! Here’s a rag,” said Revicsky impatiently; while the two men held her he forced her mouth open, stuffed a dirty handkerchief into it, and pulling off his scarf tied it across her face. Half stifled, sobbing, helpless, Hope was marched down the six flights of stairs and thrust ungently into the police-car which waited outside the door; the men got in after her and slammed the doors, and the car drove roaring off.