The Tightening String

by Ann Bridge

  Packing up a Legation for a hasty flight is quite a business; it was not only for Mr Smith and Lucilla and her Mother that it was a long hard day. At 3 p.m. they went along the utca to have a belated meal at the Eynshams’ house; as they left the Legation the official Humber drove out, taking the Minister to the Palace to take his formal farewell of the Regent. Horrible flecks of black ash still landed on their clothes as they walked – the burning of cyphers was going merrily on. Martha Beckley, who had lunched early, was hard at work with Minnie, preparing inventories of the linen, blankets, pillows, glass and china which must be left behind – in the care of the Americans, who, as so often, became the ‘Protecting Power’. (When America came into the War after Pearl Harbour the Swiss, perennially neutral, took on this obligation.)

  By ten o’clock that night the re-packing had been done; the fresh export licences had come from the National Bank, and first thing on the following morning Hasler’s horse-drays began to cart the whole mass of bales across to the West-Bahnhof. There the railway authorities refused to accept them! A sort of creeping mobilisation was going on – the Hungarians, unable to defy the Germans, but threatened on all sides, were trying to put their small army on a war footing against any eventuality, and wanted their railways free. Mrs Eynsham, aghast at this contretemps, without consulting anyone rang up Pista Horthy, the Regent’s son, who was head of the State Railways.

  ‘Pista, we’ve been waiting for weeks for some underclothing for the prisoners to come from Cairo. It came yesterday, and we killed ourselves getting it repacked, and the export licences and all – and now your people at the West-Bahnhof say they can’t accept it! Please do something; you really must.’

  ‘How much is there?’ Pista Horthy asked, in his faultless English.

  ‘Seven truck-loads – I mean sieben Wagonen; not lorries.’

  ‘Where is it consigned to?’

  ‘Hegyeshalom – that’s where all our stuff goes through.’

  ‘Who has the export licences? You say you have got these.’

  ‘One of our messengers – he’s at the station now. Dear Pista, do please let it go off.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Eynsham – 1 will see that it goes. How is your husband?’

  ‘Oh, not too bad, thank you. Give my love to Illi – when does the baby come?’

  ‘Not for some weeks; she is very well.’

  ‘I’m so glad. But remember, Pista, I’m relying on you about this.’

  ‘Don’t worry’ the young man repeated.

  However at that crisis in Hungarian affairs Mrs Eynsham didn’t really rely on Pista Horthy, or anyone else. She went downstairs to the Military Attaché, and reported her conversation. ‘I would like to be sure that all that stuff really goes.’

  ‘My God, so would I!’ Colonel Morven said. ‘I’ll get someone to watch at the West-Bahnof, and at Hegyeshalom too.’

  ‘Oh fine – and let me know.’

  Rosina with her one-track mind was concentrating on getting the Cairo clothing out to the prisoners; the Minister, and her husband too, were concerned with the graver problem of how they were to get out themselves, with their staff of fifty-four souls, when the time came. With German armoured divisions roaring down into Yugoslavia the string at the mouth of the sack was suddenly drawn tight and knotted, finally and definitely; no way out there, by rail or by road. The Germans would of course have sent them in sealed trains across Europe to Lisbon, but Sir Hugh did not fancy this idea. And then a mouse-hole was discovered in the sack whose neck was tied so tightly – mice have a way of nibbling holes in sacks. That little railway up through Ruthenia to the Russian frontier was suddenly found to have been opened again three weeks earlier; the bombed bridges had been rebuilt, and there was a way clear through to Moscow, via Lwow, Tarnopol, and Kiev. To reach England by that route meant going round the world – across the Trans-Siberian railway, oversea to Japan; across the Pacific, across America, across the Atlantic; the Minister suggested this route to the Foreign Office, who concurred – he and his staff should return via Moscow and America.

  There were also the Allies to be thought of, the Belgians and the Dutch – they must be got out too. The French Legation by this time was a Vichy set-up; no need to worry about the Pétainistes, David Eynsham said acidly to his chief – they were quite happy where they were. But the others had better come with the British – ‘then Pista can make up one diplomatic train to the frontier for the whole lot of us’. The Minister agreed, and the American Legation obligingly radioed a message to the Foreign Office suggesting this arrangement. Since the wireless transmitter in the British Legation had been dismantled, and the Germans had taken over Hungary’s entire telephone and telegraph system, as well as the petrol-pumps, this was the only secure means of communication with London. The Foreign Office once more concurred – via the Americans – and Sir Hugh went down and put the suggestion to his colleagues.

  The Dutch agreed at once; the Belgians hesitated. As the Germans were not actually occupying Hungary, only passing through, it might be better to wait and see, etc. Sir Hugh could not wait and see, and said so; he cut the Belgians out, and asked the Hungarian Government for a train for his own party and the Dutch. He prudently took all these measures in advance, before he had received definite orders to leave; in fact England only formally broke off relations with Hungary on April the 7th. But with the Dutch he had over sixty souls in his care, and must make provision for them. Through the helpful Americans he cabled to Moscow, asking the Ambassador there to arrange to have a diplomatic train sent to the frontier station to meet his party and take it on through Russia, and to organise ‘forward transport’ via the Trans-Siberian Railway to the port of Dairen, bound for Japan and the U.S.A.

  But of course everyone knew that the departure of the English was only a matter of time, and now began the heart-breaking business of farewells. The Hungarians – in a desperate situation, menaced alike by Germany and by Russia – had felt, perhaps irrationally, that the presence of the British Legation was some sort of safeguard; and now this was leaving them. They poured up to the Legation and to the houses of the staff, bringing farewell gifts: books, flowers, fruit, huge boxes of Gerbeaud chocolates, as well as touching tiny presents of all sorts – some extremely valuable. Prince Willie came up from Siraly to say goodbye; after calling at the Legation he came along to Rosina’s little yellow house. She had been forced to ration visitors to five minutes each, but when he came in she said to Erich – ‘The Durchlaucht, naturally, remains as long as he desires.’

  ‘My dear Rosina, this is so sad. But do tell me – what is this mysterious instruction that you gave to your servant?’

  ‘Only that I didn’t want you to be hurried. I make Erich come in and say that I’m wanted on the telephone or something after five minutes, so that I can go on working through the queue.

  He smiled.

  ‘You are well organised. But this is most melancholy – and for us it will all turn out very badly, you will see.’

  ‘We are so frightfully unhappy about Count Teleki’Rosina said. ‘Do you know how his wife is?’

  ‘Very brave, as one would expect of her. But it is a fearful loss for this nation.’

  Mrs Eynsham took the opportunity of thanking the Prince for all his help over the prisoners’ parcels – ‘We owe so much to you’ she ended.

  ‘It was not so much – and to do it was a pleasure.’

  It suddenly occurred to Rosina that Prince Tereny might do her one last service, and she told him about the seven freight-wagons of underclothing, now loaded, but still in a siding at the West Station – Colonel Morven, through his sleuths, kept her informed every few hours as to the situation there. ‘Pista promised me it should go’ she said rather plaintively, ‘but it hasn’t gone.’

  ‘Are you sure of this?’

  ‘It was still there an hour ago’ she replied firmly.

  ‘Well, I will do what I can. Things are difficult just now, as I am sure you realise.’ He cha
nged the subject. ‘Oria wanted so much to come up and say Goodbye to your daughter, but she has influenza.’

  Rosina made suitable sounds of regret, and the Prince rose.

  ‘I must not keep you. We are sad, personally, to lose you – you know that.’ To her great surprise, instead of kissing her hand he kissed her on the cheek.’ Look after your husband’ he added, with a sudden brisk emphasis. ‘I did not think he looked well when I saw him just now.’

  ‘Oh, didn’t you? No – he isn’t well, and all this work and fuss is so bad for him. He hates leaving Hungary.’

  ‘I know this. Bon voyage, and au revoir, with God’s help.’

  But she never saw Prince Willie again; within six months he had died of a stroke.

  When he had gone other leave-takers came in. Among them was a Hungarian diplomat who had returned from Moscow a few months before – when he heard of their proposed route he said: ‘Take plenty of oranges and lemons; there are none in Russia. And toilet-paper; this is not furnished on Russian trains, nor in the hotels – if you are spending a week or more on the Trans-Siberian you will want your own supplies. And mineral-water – take plenty; it is unobtainable.’ Mrs Eynsham gratefully took the hint: a net of oranges and lemons, and a stout twin-handled carrier full of toilet-rolls joined the pigskin bag of necessaries which had spent so many months under her bedtable – now at last it would be used, though not wheeled down through the Balkans in old Countess Pongracz’s garden-basket. As for the mineral-water, she passed the tip on to Sir Hugh, who ordered several cases.

  But Rosina was troubled by what Prince Tereny had said about David. Dr Mendze had examined his ankles after her telephone call, and reported that the swelling was cardiac oedema-’ He should come back to the Szanatorium, and remain in bed.’ This of course was out of the question, and she had asked for drugs to help the condition – ‘We have a journey ahead of us.’ The good little doctor sent her up two boxes of pills, a phial of morphia, and a hypodermic syringe.’ The white pills are for the swelling, a diuretic. And if he should get another heart attack, give him first two brown pills, with a small glass of whisky; then an injection of the morphine. Can you give an injection?’

  ‘Oh Lord yes! I give myself an anti-rheumatism one every week.’

  ‘Good. I wish you did not leave.’

  ‘So do I’ said Mrs Eynsham.

  The final marching orders for the Legation arrived latish in the morning, and everyone was told at once. Almost the saddest farewell of all took place that afternoon on a forested slope far upstream from Budapest, overlooking the Danube. Lucilla had seen little of Hugo for the past three or four days; she had been too busy, helping to pack the Athens underwear, then encyphering and decyphering floods of telegrams with Horace’s overworked Chancery staff – besides making a triage of her clothes, telling Bertha which to pack, and herself packing the most precious of her books. But when the news of the Legation’s imminent departure was announced she telephoned to him at once, and he came up and drove her out into the country. They left the car in the mouth of a wood-cutters’ track, and walked up the hillside till they reached a clearing with a view out over the great river; there the young man spread his coat on a bank of deep moss, as lovers have done for their sweethearts since the golden age of Greece, and they sat down side by side.

  ‘So now it ends?’ he asked.

  ‘It ends for the moment – we’re supposed to leave the day after tomorrow. What are you going to do?’

  ‘We stay; my father and I, at least, shall stay as long as we can – we have the employees in our works to think of.’

  ‘But if the Germans come in, can you?’ At that moment Lucilla was acutely aware of the fact that this blonde boy beside her, whom she loved so much, was a Jew.

  ‘If things become too difficult we may send my Mother and Emmi away.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Ultimately to America, we hope – but it is not easy to get in there. Probably first to Portugal.’

  ‘Portugal? Why on earth?’ In 1941 Lucilla had never heard of anyone who went to Portugal.

  ‘Entry there is easy; the climate is delightful; and there are good and very cheap hotels. And there is also Fatima.’

  Lucilla had never heard the name Fatima, except as one of Bluebeard’s wives; the Visions and the great pilgrimages were outside her Anglican ken. What struck her, and troubled her, was the idea of any of the Weissbergers having to think of hotels being cheap, after the luxury in which they had always lived, and so generously and hospitably extended to endless guests, rich and poor alike. The tears came into her eyes.

  ‘Oh, I can’t bear it! Why should you have to be poor? Why is the world so mad?’

  He put his arm round her.

  ‘At the moment the world is mad because Adolf Hitler is a paranoiac – and if the Russians, now his allies, turn on him and beat him it will get madder still! But why do you mind our becoming poor? Do you not wish to be involved with a poor man?’

  ‘Oh don’t be idiotic, Hugo! I’m thinking about your Mother – she’s not so young now, and she’s always been comfortable, with a lady’s maid and all that sort of thing. I can’t bear to think of her in cheap hotels.’

  He kissed her, but she gave him a little impatient push.

  ‘I’ve got money’ she went on, ‘at least I shall have; Mummie’s old Aunt Lucy in Scotland has mints, and she’s leaving it all to me. But I shouldn’t want to live in the States’ she pronounced with sudden decision.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘Oh, no monarchy, no aristocracy, no tradition – except in the South; just wealth and gadgets! Not having tradition is what matters most, of course; it’s like roots to a plant, it gives a sort of continuing life to a nation.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘I had no idea that you thought about things like these.’

  ‘That’s the misery of it’ she said sadly. ‘We were just beginning to find out what we each did think about all sorts of things, and now we’ve got to stop. But you’ll always let me know what’s happening, won’t you?’

  ‘Most certainly, my darling. Where do I write to you? To this Aunt who makes you so rich?’

  ‘No – just care of the Foreign Office, London. They’re bound to know where we are.’

  ‘This is easy.’ Then, rather embarrassedly, he took a litde leather case out of his pocket and snapped it open – from the white velvet an enormous diamond set in sapphires sparkled up in the girl’s startled face.

  ‘I wondered if you would agree to a betrothal? You have said that you loved me! If so, I should like you to wear my ring.’

  Lucilla stared for a moment at the beautiful jewel.

  ‘Why sapphires?’

  ‘Your month-stone. I found out from your Mother that your birthday is in September.’

  Lucilla burst into tears. Oh, he thought of everything – life with him would be perfect. But how uncertain it was that she would ever have life with him – especially if he persisted in staying in Hungary when the Germans came in for good, as everyone said they were bound to do.

  He was distressed by her tears. ‘Do you not wish to be affianced to me?’

  ‘Yes. But I won’t take your lovely, lovely ring – and I don’t want you to feel too tied to me, if you should meet someone else.’ At the back of her mind she was thinking of Hamish – she might be submarined going home from the States, or blitzed when they got to London; she might lose her arms or legs, or go dotty! ‘Let me look at it again’ she said, inconsequently. ‘Yes, it’s superb. Thank you, darling Hugo.’

  ‘But why not wear it?’

  ‘Oh, it’s too beautiful – it would get stolen! No.’ She stood up – the young man rose too. ‘Give me your hands’ she said – surprised, he put his hand in hers.

  ‘I want to be your wife’ Lucilla said, slowly. ‘A year from today let us meet, or else telegraph to one another; if we can’t meet then, we try the year after, or the year after that. But for that t
ime I mean to keep myself yours.’ (This was her more modest version of ‘Always’.) ‘Thereto I pledge you my troth’ she said solemnly, and kissed him on the mouth.

  Now the tears were in Hugo’s eyes.

  ‘My precious one! I will do as you say. But then, why not the ring?’

  ‘What I said is more than any ring. It comes out of our marriage service. Oh my darling, I do love you so much!’

  ‘I shall love you till I die, I think,’ the young man said.

  That was on April the 7th. On the 8th the hard-pressed Legation staff – trying to combine their private packing, settling of last-minute bills, and paying off their servants with a final rush of work, and receiving the unceasing farewell calls, learned that they had a forty-eight-hours reprieve – the Embassy in Moscow reported to the Americans that the special Russian train could only get to the frontier on the nth, not on the 9th, as previously arranged. The Ernest Erdöszys came up from Terenzcer on the afternoon of the 8th to say Goodbye; Ernest had had a little silver matchbox-holder engraved with the words: ‘Rosina, with Ernest’s love. April the 9th, 1941’ – he was greatly upset when he found out that the date was wrong. ‘Perhaps I can get it altered in time.’

  ‘No, don’t bother, Ernest. The date doesn’t matter – what matters is your love! Bless you.’

  But on the evening of the 9th she learned from Colonel Morven that the Athens underwear, in its seven railway-trucks, was still sitting in a siding at the West-Bahnof; it had not been despatched. Rosina lost her temper, a thing she did rather easily, and took action. She rang up Pista Horthy at his house.

  ‘Pista? Rosina here. Our stuff hasn’t gone from the West-Station, as you promised me it should.’

  The young man was very apologetic – the mobilisation, etc.

  ‘Yes, I know all that,’ Rosina said brusquely. ‘But a promise is a promise. Anyhow, Pista – no, don’t interrupt – listen! Until that stuff has gone, I don’t leave Budapest.’