The Tightening String

by Ann Bridge

  Rosina’s heart nearly stopped. He had never spoken like that before.

  ‘Oh, for ever so long’ she said, automatically. ‘But darling, don’t you feel well?’

  ‘Well enough. It’s only that one sometimes wonders. I wish I knew whether there will be blackbirds in Heaven; I shall miss them frightfully if there aren’t – always supposing that I get to Heaven.’

  ‘You will- and in Heaven Our Heavenly Father will give everybody everything that they want’ Rosina said confidently. ‘If you want blackbirds, you’ll get blackbirds – unless you find, there, that you want something else more; then you’ll get that.’

  ‘What else could I want more?’ he asked, looking at her in surprise.

  ‘Oh, Angel-song – which you’ve never heard! Or the Beatific Vision.’

  ‘You’re very certain’ he said after a pause – his smile was relieved and contented.

  ‘Yes, I am; quite certain. Darling, I must go now. You’ll be sure to rest properly this afternoon, won’t you? Promise?’

  ‘Yes, I promise, my dear. What a funny old believing Christian you are, aren’t you?’ His mockery reassured her a little.

  ‘It always seems to me so much funnier not to be a Christian, when it’s there’ she said, with her usual careless use of words.

  ‘Just put the tray on the trolley, would you? – since like Christianity you are there’ David said, grinning. ‘And give me my slippers.’ She did as he asked, and handed him his dressing-gown; when he pushed his long lean shanks out from under the bed-clothes and stuffed his feet into his slippers she noticed that his ankles, and even his insteps, were swollen and puffy, a thing she had never seen before. She repressed a question, but when she got to her office she rang up Dr Mendze, and reported this phenomenon to him.

  ‘Last night, when he had been up all day?’

  ‘No, this morning – he’d been lying flat in bed all night.’

  ‘Did they pit?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘When you pressed your finger into the swelling, did it leave a depression? This is pitting.’

  ‘I never touched his feet – and I never said anything. Oh, does it mean something bad?’

  ‘I will see him’ Mendze replied, non-committally. ‘Thank you for giving me this information. It can be useful.’

  ‘Well do please telephone to me when you have seen him – here, at the Legation. I’m here most of the day.’ Troubled and anxious, she nevertheless concentrated her attention on the prisoners-of-war. The first card on the pile on her desk was dated February the 25th, 1941 – it had come rather slowly. After thanking the Relief Organisation in Budapest for socks, gloves, a pullover and a scarf, the writer added: ‘I have had nothing from home yet but one bookV There was a letter from Melchior in Geneva, which had come very fast. ‘Do do all you can’he wrote. ‘The parcels situation here is really desperate. So many are pillaged in transit through France, and those that are full – well, the delays in getting them accepted by the German railway authorities are endless – and Heaven knows how long it takes for them to reach the camps.’

  In Budapest there was desperation too – as to whether the quilts from Istanbul and the ‘Athens underwear’would arrive in time to be sent on to Germany. A cable from Ankara reported the despatch of the quilts to Budapest on March the 10th; another, from Athens, stated that the underclothing from Cairo had been entrained there on the 13th. The Committee waited, and packed, all they could do; the knitting-parties knitted furiously, and gloves, socks, scarves, pullovers, cigarettes from Athens and pyjamas of Yugo-slav flannelette were steadily despatched, week by week.

  The quilts came through fast – Horace and Rosina furnished the good Herr Hasler with lists and camp labels, someone was sent hurrying round to the National Bank with duplicate lists to collect the export licences, and an emissary of the Hungarian Red Cross personally escorted the consignment up to the frontier, and saw it safely across. (Years later returned prisoners called on Rosina in London, bringing with them the stained, torn, dirty quilts which, they said, had saved their lives during four bitter winters in Germany.)

  But the Athens underwear! Day after day passed, and still there was no sign of this vital consignment. The Minister cabled again to Sofia, and learned from the Legation there that it had passed through Bulgaria and was now in Yugoslavia. Telephoning had suddenly become difficult:’ It is regretted, but we cannot get the connection.3Everyone knew what that meant – calls from Legation to Legation were simply not being put through. On the 28th of March the Minister sent an urgent cable to Sir Monty in Belgrade: ‘Underclothing ex Cairo for all repeat all prisoners known to have reached Yugoslavia. For God’s sake get it into Hungary before frontier closes.’ He had the best of reasons for believing that Hungary’s southern frontier might be closed at any moment. Then they all waited again.

  Erich, the Eynshams’ excellent man-servant, never on any account disturbed his mistress in her bedroom; he sent messages by Bertha, the maid. But on the morning of April 3rd he tapped on her door, and when she called ‘Herein!’ came in, with a distraught face.

  ‘Gracious Lady, the Count Teleki Pál is dead.’

  ‘Dead? The Prime Minister? But how? He was not ill/

  ‘Meine Gnädigste, he shot himself. His valet is my friend; he has telephoned to me. He found him in his bed, and the revolver on the floor. I thought the Lady should know – and also I wondered if I should tell the gnädiger Herr?’

  ‘No, not yet’ Mrs Eynsham said instinctively. She knew how fond her husband had been of Count Teleki. ‘But Erich, why? It seems so extraordinary.’

  ‘Most gracious, the Germans are here; they came in at dawn. If the Lady allows me to open the windows she will hear them.’

  ‘Yes, open up.’ Not suffering from heart, Rosina only slept with a crack of open window, at the side of the house; when Erich opened the big ones which gave onto the Bastion a deafening roar came into the room – the hideous noise which tanks and tracked vehicles make passing over cobbles.

  ‘How frightful! Shut the windows again, Erich. Are you sure they are Germans?’

  ‘Oh yes, meine Gnädigste. I sent Janos down to see when the noise began.’ Janos was the house-boy.

  ‘But where are they going?’

  ‘South – to destroy the Serbs! May God rot this Hitler!’

  Mrs Eynsham at once thought, naturally, of the prisoners’ underclothing, still presumably in Yugoslavia – but she also thought of her husband.

  ‘Well if the gnädiger Herr asks, tell him that the Germans are here. But do not speak to him of Count Teleki – 1 will tell him this.’

  As she spoke the telephone by her bed rang.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, lifting the receiver.

  ‘Here the Hungarian Red Cross – is it Mrs Eynsham?’

  ‘Yes’ Rosina said impatiently. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sieben Wagonen of clothing for the British prisoners-of-war have just arrived at the Keleti Bahnhof. What do we do?’

  ‘Oh, accept them, of course. I will arrange for their transmission to Germany. Have you a representative at the station to sign the papers?’

  ‘We send one. Who collects the goods?’

  ‘Hasler, as he did the quilts.’

  Pondering hurriedly, she decided to get onto Hasler before going to tell David about Count Teleki’s suicide – if it was true; but she trusted Erich. She got the little Jew at once – Hungarians are early risers – and asked him to send to the Keleti Station to collect seven truck-loads of clothing for the prisoners.

  ‘Lady, I do not think that I can do this.’

  ‘Why not?’ Mrs Eynsham asked sharply, vexed. Here, thank God, was the Athens underwear at last – it must go on at once, especially if the Germans were already in Budapest.

  ‘Lady, I can get no benzine for my lorries; the Germans have taken over all the pumps.’

  Rosina wondered whether she dared to tell the little man to sen
d his lorries to fill up in the Legation. No – if the Germans were really here they themselves would have to get out, and might need every drop. ‘Have you no horse-drays?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, this I could arrange.’

  ‘Well arrange it.’

  ‘But Lady, I dare not undertake the packing at my place. I am Jew, so under suspicion. Where do I bring the clothing?’

  Again Rosina pondered. If the Legation was leaving there would be frenzied packing, burning of cyphers, and so on. All the same she quickly took her decision; the soldiers must have their extra clothing.

  ‘Bring it here’ she said.

  ‘To the Gnädigstes house?’

  ‘No no – to the Legation. The Rote Kreuz are sending a representative to the station to receive the goods, and they have my instructions to hand them to you.’

  After she had rung off it occurred to her that she must warn the Min that all this stuff would be coming to the Legation, but before doing so she telephoned again to the Hungarian Red Cross to confirm that Hasler would be collecting the clothing and bringing it to the Legation. Oh goodness! – of course someone would have to go to the National Bank to collect the export licences; she must get out the letters of request, and the lists. She rang for Bertha and ordered her breakfast at once, while she began to dress – the maid lingered.

  ‘Is it not terrible that the Count Teleki is dead? Such a good man. And the Germans here, in our city! Will the gracious Lady and the gracious Herr remain? Oh, what will become of us?’

  ‘Bertha, bring my breakfast. We speak of all this later’ Rosina said. She was already thinking about how much ‘pay in lieu of notice’ they ought to give their kind staff. But she must ring up the Min. She had pulled on her stockings, and after clipping them onto her suspender-belt she went over to the telephone; but at this point David walked in in his dressing-gown, and sat down on the foot of the bed.

  ‘Teleki Paul has bumped himself’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I know. What a frightful thing’ Rosina replied, pushing her feet into her knickers, and pulling her petticoat over her head.

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Erich – and that the Huns are in.’ She sat down at the dressing-table and began to comb her hair and arrange her face. ‘It’s all appalling’ she said, watching her husband’s face in the mirror; it looked drawn as well as distressed. ‘Who told you?’ she asked.

  ‘Janos.’

  Oh – well Erich might have prevented that, she thought. She turned round on the dressing-stool and faced her husband. ‘Darling, you know how sorry I am.’

  ‘This good little country’ David said, deep sadness in his voice. ‘Why should it all be mucked up just to satisfy a house-painter’s ambition?’

  ‘Why indeed? Hateful Hitler!’ As she spoke she thought of the Weissbergers, and all the other Jews who had deserved so well of Hungary – including poor little Hasler.

  ‘Why are you up so early?’ Eynsham asked then – the thought of Hasler had caused his wife to turn back to her dressing-table and go on attending to her face.

  ‘The Athens underwear has come! Isn’t it wonderful? So I must go and cope.’

  ‘What on earth is the Athens underwear?’ Eynsham asked.

  ‘Oh darling, you’re like the worst English Judge! Never mind – it’s clothes for the prisoners, and it’s come, and I must get it pushed on before we leave.’ She went to a wardrobe, took out a dress and a hat, put on both, and then reached a fur coat out of another press.

  ‘I must fly. Bless you, darling. Go back to bed and have your breakfast.’ A hasty kiss, and she went out. She slipped into Lucilla’s room. Her daughter was still fast asleep, she had been dancing with Hugo till all hours – nevertheless Rosina stirred the pretty sleeping figure.

  ‘M-m-m?’ Lucilla muttered.

  ‘Darling, when you’re awake, start sorting your things and do some packing. Did you hear me?’

  ‘Yes. Why? Have the Huns come?’

  ‘Yes. Be a bit selective – I don’t know how much we shall be able to take.’

  ‘I must take my books!’ Lucilla said, suddenly sitting bolt upright in bed.

  ‘Well I hope you can. Anyhow get going.’

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Lucilla asked, rubbing her eyes, and observing her Mother’s coat and hat. ‘Aren’t you going to pack?’

  ‘Yes – the prisoners’ underwear! I’ll see to my things later. But do get yours done; then Bertha can help me.’

  Still Mrs Eynsham had failed to warn the Minister that the Athens underwear was coming to the Legation. She thought of using Lucilla’s bedside telephone, but didn’t; she would be there in two minutes – heaps of time! But she was detained in the hall by Erich, by the cook, and by the old gardener, all bewailing Count Teleki’s death, and asking if the Herrschqften would be leaving? She condoled and pacified as best she could: the Herr Gesandtschaftsrat would make all proper arrangements when the time came. At last she left the house, and hastened along the pretty golden street – too late. As she approached the big yellow palace which housed the Legation, black flecks of burnt paper filled the air, landing on her coat, and puffs of pale smoke were billowing up into the sky behind. Ah, they were burning the cyphers already! When she turned in at the porte-cochàre she found it completely blocked by a huge horse-dray, piled with bales of clothing; it had been piled too high, and was stuck in the arched entrance like a bung in a barrel – by the glass door leading to the staircase the Minister stood, fuming.

  ‘Ah! Is this some performance of yours?’ he asked as she came up to him – he had never spoken to her so harshly before.

  ‘Yes. It’s the Athens underwear. I had to have it sent here, because Budapest is full of Nazis today, and Hasler is a Jew – he can’t handle it at his place.’

  ‘You hadn’t thought that we might be fairly busy here today ourselves?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘Hugh, don’t be beastly! Of course I had, and I meant to ring you up – only then David came in, and all our servants were in such a tizzy.’ She spoke in Hungarian to the dray-men; the top bales were pulled off, and the big vehicle moved forward into the courtyard – she told them to dump the bales in the covered passage leading to the garden.

  ‘And who, may I ask, is going to re-pack this stuff?’ Sir Hugh asked, more mildly – he was slightly mollified by her having called him ‘Hugh’.

  ‘Me – and Hasler’s men. I’m sure we shall manage.’

  ‘You really can’t monopolise my staff today, you know’he said, still rather stiffly.

  ‘I won’t. I’ll get Mr Smith and Lucilla’ she said, hurt. As she was moving away Anton appeared, accompanied by a Hungarian policeman, very smart in his tall blue helmet.

  ‘What is it?’ Sir Hugh asked.

  Anton explained that people in the houses near by were complaining about the clouds of black ash, and the policeman had come to request that it should be stopped.

  ‘Tell him it shall be stopped’ Sir Hugh said, and walked through the courtyard and into the garden, where two rather makeshift incinerators had been erected on the broad path which led across the lawn; Horace Wheatley and Geoffrey Milton, in their shirt-sleeves, were tearing sheets out of cypher-books – so that they should burn more easily – and shoving them into one machine, while two Chancery clerks were stuffing files of official telegrams into the other.

  ‘Good. Keep at it’ the Minister said. He knew that the police protest had only been made pro forma, as a gesture, and anyhow the stuff had got to be burnt. He went back to his study and rang for his breakfast.

  Chapter 14

  In her office Mrs Eynsham presently telephoned to Mr Smith, asking him to come up and pack.’ And if you can bring any helpers, do – we shall want all the pairs of hands we can get.’

  ‘Are you all off?’ good Mr Smith asked.’

  I expect so – no actual orders yet. But we must get this stuff through.’

  Very few people have ever seen seven large train truck-loads of goods spr
ead out on the ground; they take up an enormous amount of space. And when Mr Smith, Rosina, and Lucilla cut open the 294 bales and checked their contents, to Rosina’s dismay they found that these did not in the least correspond with the figures sent from Middle East Command in Cairo. They had been led to expect shirts, vests and pants; in fact there were no pants – only thousands of khaki shirts with no collars, very short white vests, and an enormous quantity of khaki socks, which made complete nonsense of the lists so carefully prepared for the National Bank. Poor Mrs Eynsham, lists of the new quantities in her hand, eventually went to her office, made out fresh allocations, and then rang up Martha Beckley.

  ‘Martha, the Athens stuff has come.’

  ‘I know. Marvellous!’

  ‘Yes, but it’s all wrong – they haven’t sent what they said they were sending, so there’ll have to be different letters to the Bank, for the licences. And the Min said I wasn’t to use his staff today. So what do I do? I can’t type.’

  ‘Oh, he’s so upset that he was cross to you’ Martha said. ‘He’s been moaning about it all the morning. It was just that dray! Are you all ready? If so I’ll send a typist up at once, and a messenger will go to the Bank.’

  The typist came up and Mrs Eynsham dictated fresh requests for export licences; then she went down to the courtyard again. Hasler’s packers had now arrived, and under her and Mr Smith’s direction they repacked the Athens underwear, while she and Lucilla and Mr Smith gummed labels onto the freshly sewn-up bales; there were ninety-nine bales of socks alone.

  ‘Pity they sent all these socks, and no pants’ said Mr Smith, trying to wipe the gum off his hands on a rather dirty handkerchief. ‘We’d pretty well fixed most of the camps up with socks.’

  ‘We shall never know if this particular dottiness was the Army or the Red Cross, I don’t suppose’ said Mrs Eynsham. ‘Oh, do come and wash in the Bulletin bathroom – I expect there’s still a towel.’

  ‘They’re all total dopes, if you ask me’ Lucilla observed acidly, following her Mother and Mr Smith into the Bulletin rooms. There was a towel, not very clean, in the bathroom, but the huge wireless-set had gone, as had the Roneo machine from the big outer office.