“I shall take you to a village outside of Eger. You will get a bus into the town, and from there you will take a train to this address.” He pushed a scrap of paper into Eva’s hand. “There you will ask for Mrs. Ladi. You may recognize her; she is a sister to Janos Marton. You will be her cousin, Eva. You will be Eva Szabo, widow, now homeless because your husband has died on the Russian front and the holding has been taken away from you. Here is money.” Another package. “This will serve for your daily needs. You will not need to pay Mrs. Ladi or her husband. I have already paid them, and they will receive more at the end of three months if you are all safe. You will only stay there three months; it is not safe to remain in one place longer. I will send fresh papers and directions at the end of that time. You must never, never try to contact me. They will be watching me all the time. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Eva?”
She began to cry, a silly, sniffling cry that hurt him because of its helplessness.
“Eva, Eva! Don’t make it worse! You must do this well or we shall all be in danger. You must try and be sensible.”
“What happened, Adam? Why should they come for us so soon? We are not Jews, not registered Jews. Why do we have to go away like this?”
His hands tightened on the wheel. “We have been... betrayed,” he said tonelessly. “We have an enemy who has seen that we are punished first.”
“Papa.” His daughter’s voice was trembling but controlled. “Papa, what of the rest of the family, Aunt Malie and Uncle David, all of them—Jacob—” The control wobbled and broke a little. He dared not look in the rear mirror at her. He could not look at any of them.
“Them too. As soon as you are at the village I shall telephone them.”
“Can’t you telephone now?”
“No.” His heart was breaking because he had to decide who to help first. If he had stopped to telephone from home his own family might have been lost.
“Have they got false papers too, Papa? Has Uncle David made plans for hiding too?”
“I hope so, Terez. I hope so.” He hoped, but he doubted. He had warned Amalia and David several times. He had listened to the secret broadcasts of the BBC and had believed the reports of vast populations of people—Slavs, political prisoners, anyone with Jewish blood—disappearing into a nameless void, “deported” but never heard of again. David had tried to find other escape plans, some way of getting the old people out of the country. But all along Adam had said the only answer was false papers and a plan of constant movement.
He stopped the car once to buy mineral water and fruit which they ate as they were travelling. Every mile away from the estate made him feel easier but made him dread the parting that was coming. He stopped the car just outside the village. “You must walk in, like respectable farming tenants. No one will be able to trace you back to me then.”
They stood by the roadside, all four of them. Terez was pulling her mother’s hair down flat over the ears and settling the black felt hat more squarely on her head. Eva’s huge dark eyes gazed at him, luminous with tears, pleading, miserable. “Oh, Adam, I’m so frightened!” she sobbed. “I don’t think I can manage without you!” He held her hard against him, his silly, spoilt, thoughtless little wife who had broken his heart so many times. He held her, aching with love and anguish, not knowing how he was going to be able to send her away.
“Good-bye, Papa. Don’t worry, I’ll look after her. I’m the man now. I’ll see everything goes the way you’ve planned it.” George was trying hard not to cry, looking worried at the responsibilities he felt he was taking on. He reached up and patted his mother on the shoulder, and she turned tearfully and clasped her son to her. Adam pulled Terez to one side. She was calm, still. Only a nerve beating at her temple told of her agitation.
“Terez—” Large soft eyes, just like Eva’s, stared intently at him, listening to his words. “Terez, you know you will have to do most of the planning. You will have to watch, guard, see that nothing is done or said that could bring down suspicion.”
“Yes, Papa. I know.”
“Your mother”—he coughed and stared down at the road—“she’s not a very clever woman, but I undertook to look after her when I married her. This is one time I cannot protect her and you have to do it for me. It is not a fair or a right thing to ask a daughter. But she cannot manage alone, Terez. She has to be protected.”
“I know, Papa. I understand.”
So like Eva, and yet so like Malie too. Strong and honest. A heart full of hope and serenity, trying already to be brave and responsible. His daughter whom he loved, born out of anguish and suspicion, misery and betrayal. His daughter whose heart answered his own on so many occasions.
“Go now, Terez.”
She bit her lower lip hard. Not yet eighteen and having to cope with all this. “Papa—” She stared hard, unblinking at him, and then threw her arms round his waist. “Oh, darling Papa!” Unashamedly his face screwed into a mask of pain and grief. Then he pushed her away and ran for the car. He didn’t look back, dared not. He drove for several miles, forcing emotion away from him, making himself calm and controlled once more.
He stopped at the first post office he came to and asked to telephone. He waited and waited. The line was dead, the operator reported. He tried again, this time with Leo’s number in Budapest. That was all right; the café owner answered and Adam apologized for troubling him and asked if he would fetch Mr. Leo Ferenc downstairs to the telephone. There was a strained, uncomfortable pause. “Mr. Ferenc has not been here since the invasion, since March the eighteenth.”
“Did he—did you see how he left? Was he with anyone?”
“He left on his own. He had given up his room. He came back once, the next morning, for coffee. I have not seen him since.”
“Has anyone else asked for him?”
Again the pause, then, nervously. “The Gestapo came for him, one week after he had left. I know nothing else. Nothing at all. Good-bye.” The telephone was slammed down abruptly. He waited, thought. Of course! How stupid. Kati. He could phone Kati. The operator again reported the line was dead.
He went back to the car, the relief of his own family’s escape already being superseded by another anxiety. He turned the car and began to drive towards the town. It seemed strange that the countryside looked exactly the same as it always looked in April. It should have been beautiful, but it was tinged with the atmosphere of nightmares, and the blossoming trees, the young maize, the flowers growing in old wine flasks all had an unreal, sinister quality about them.
When he drew near to the town there were German trucks, tanks, soldiers in abundance. There were also more Arrow Cross men, as though the German invasion had flushed them out of holes and cellars. They had been suppressed and disapproved of by the authorities for such a long time that now, with the power of the Gestapo behind them, they strutted with boorish aggression through the streets and cafés of the town.
The house was empty. He knew before he even knocked at the door, knew while he was driving the car into the courtyard. It had the stillness, the dead emptiness of permanence that is different from the emptiness of a house left alone for a few hours. Several pigeons whirled against the eaves, outlined first against the old brown roof, then against the blue sky. A few leaves and papers unswept from the yard lifted and blew in a gentle spring breeze. He knew it was empty, but he knocked anyway and heard the echo reverberate away inside.
He stared up at the windows, closing his eyes and praying to a reflex god, the same way he used to pray in the first war. What can I do? How can I find out what has happened? He climbed back into the car and drove slowly out of the yard, heading in the direction of the Racs-Rassay house, although he knew what he would find there also—nothing.
He began to let the car drift idly through the centre of the town, looking for someone whom he could trust enough to ask. Finally, on his fourth turn through the square he noticed that some Arrow Cross men were regard
ing him with surly interest and he hurriedly parked down a side street near the market place and sat in a café, trying to think what to do next.
He must stay away from every official source of information: police, county offices, the newspaper. They would all be interested in his interest, and later, when it was discovered that his wife and family had vanished, they would not believe his story of a visit to Budapest and a subsequent disappearance. Whom could he ask? He must choose with care, someone he could trust and someone whose own well-being would not be threatened by his inquiry. A sense of lethargy began to creep over him, a feeling of fatalistic despair that he knew he must fight. He still had to get home and prepare to answer questions. He had to face his brother and, in some way, try to control him. He had to cope with that mad, bigoted, still-powerful woman who was his mother. He ordered another coffee—filthy wartime stuff—and tried to push everything away for a few more seconds: his wife’s frightened little face, his gawky adolescent son trying to be a man, Terez’s cry, Oh, darling Papa! He hadn’t said good-bye to them. It was more than probable he’d never see them again, and he hadn’t said good-bye! He wanted to weep as the realization of his loss swept over him. His tiny family, knit together with so much grief and endeavour in the past, all gone. He gulped his coffee, closed his eyes, and forced order back into his mind. When he opened his eyes there was a figure he recognized walking across the market place. Instantly he was on his feet, shouting from the café doorway, “Marie! Marie!”
The figure halted, then began to hurry away from him and he rushed across the square, ignoring the waiter’s indignant cry behind him.
“Marie! It’s me, Mr. Adam! Don’t run away!”
Her stout body turned. White-faced she shook her head and whispered, “Quiet, Mr. Adam. Don’t draw attention. It is better not to be noticed in the town now.”
She was afraid. Every movement of her body, every expression of her face showed fear. He slid his hand under her arm and she flinched away from him. “Marie,” he whispered, catching the fear from her. “Where are they? Where have they gone? Did they escape?”
She shook her head. “No,” she moaned softly. “They didn’t escape, Mr. Adam. They had no warning.”
It was beginning to grow cold, and he pushed her gently across the market place in the direction of the café. “We cannot talk standing out here, Marie. Please sit down and drink coffee with me. We shall be less conspicuous.”
She was embarrassed and awkward, even in the midst of their joint misery and fear; she was still uncomfortable because she was sitting in a café opposite Mr. Adam as though she were his equal. Her plump, work-stained hands clutched at her bag. She sat upright on the chair, her large feet in shabby but well-polished flat shoes placed tightly together.
“There’s nothing to be done now, Mr. Adam,” she said simply. Her eyes filled with tears and she brushed them quickly away. “What about Miss Eva and the children?”
“They’ve gone away. I can’t tell you more than that. I’ve sent them away.”
“That’s good, Mr. Adam. That’s good and sensible.”
It was the first time in his life he had ever really looked at Marie. She’d always been there, just a servant, but when had she grown old? When had the round-cheeked peasant girl become fat and middle-aged? And what would happen to her now?
“What happened, Marie? Tell me. Perhaps I can do something even now.”
“Two days ago. Just a banging on the door and—” She swallowed, and the swollen hands twisted on the handbag. “Two Germans, Gestapo, and four Arrow Cross men. They had a truck and guns. They pushed past me.” Her face was yellow and her chin was trembling. “They took them away. They were allowed to put on their coats and pack a small bag.”
A groan escaped from her lips and she hurriedly pressed her hand to her mouth.
“Just as they were climbing into the truck one of the Arrow Cross men pushed Madame Ferenc away. ‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘You can go back; you’re not one of them,’ and Mr. Ferenc shouted down to her to go away. ‘Stay with Adam,’ he cried. ‘Go back. You’ll be safe in the house, Marta.’”
“I see.” He felt sickness creeping into the pit of his stomach.
“She climbed up into the truck, young Mr. Jacob helping. ‘I can’t leave you now, Zsigmond,’ she said.” The old servant began to sob. “She was such a silly lady sometimes, Mr. Adam. The way she laughed—you remember? Like a young girl. It used to annoy Mr. Ferenc; it wasn’t right for an old lady to laugh like that. She laughed at Mr. Ferenc when she was trying to get into the truck. ‘I can’t leave you now, Zsigmond,’ she said. ‘I’ve stayed with you all these years. Do you think I could leave you now?’” The dark lines of flesh on her face began to quiver and blur. “Oh, Mr. Adam. I should have gone with them! I was ashamed when I saw how brave she was. I wanted to go with them but I didn’t! I stood at the door and watched them drive away! I was afraid. I wanted to be brave like she was, but I was afraid.” She covered her face with her hands and he was only able to stare at her, not offer any comfort. Everything had gone too far for comfort. There was only this terrible dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach.
“Amalia? Mr. David?”
She nodded. “Them too. There were others already in the track: the Maryks, and the doctor, and Mr. Glatz, and Miss Kati. But her son wasn’t there. I looked for him and he wasn’t there. When the truck had gone I went to Miss Kati’s house. I thought I would find the boy and take him to my sister at Szentendre. He would be safe with my sister. My sister would look after him.” She began to talk quickly, trying to appear controlled and sensible. “I thought it all out while I was going to Miss Kati’s house. My sister could say he was our nephew from Vienna. They’re the same age, and no one in Szentendre has seen our nephew.”
“And—”
Hopeless brown eyes mourned at him. “No one was there. I waited for two hours, but he didn’t come, and then the servant next door said he hadn’t been there when the truck came. The... the Gestapo searched the house for him, but he wasn’t there.”
One had escaped. Perhaps. Nicholas Rassay, fourteen, old enough—just—to look after himself for a few days if he was lucky. But how could he exist without papers or work if he didn’t have anywhere to hide?
“Where could he have gone, Marie, to school friends?”
“No. He had no friends at school. It was... difficult for him, you see, on account of his mother. They used to call her names and he was always fighting. He was very lonely at school; his life was here, with us, the family.” She choked, swallowed, gripped the bag again. How extraordinary that she should know so much, although of course it wasn’t strange at all. Nicholas had always seemed so happy he had taken it for granted that the boy was content at school. But Marie had shared every miserable humiliation with him, had known of his daily life in the same way that she knew Marta Ferenc’s laugh annoyed her husband.
“I’ll try to find him, Marie.”
“You won’t find him, Mr. Adam. If you could find him, then so could the Gestapo. I’ve walked through every part of the town in the last two days and I haven’t seen him at all. I wonder—dear Mother of our Lord—if they have found him already and taken him away.”
He felt as though lead were weighting his feet, stomach, brain, heart. It was hopeless. A few hours ago he had had a family, friends, people he loved. Now a giant hand had swept them away.
“There was one more thing,” she continued wearily. “The next morning, early, Mr. Leo telephoned—but I knew someone was listening on the line. He said he was coming back to save the family and I told him it was too late. I could hear someone listening, Mr. Adam. I could hear them. So before Mr. Leo could say anything more I told him to keep away, to run and hide, and then I rang off, packed my clothes, and left the house in case they came for me too.”
“Where have you been staying, Marie?” he asked, realizing suddenly that Marie had come under his area of responsibility. She had tied her life to
the family, risked her future. Now she must be looked after.
“At the Rheiners’ house. I’ve been helping the cook there....” Her voice trailed away, lost in two days of atmospheric nightmare, walking through the town looking for Nicholas, cooking food for a strange family, sleeping in an alien house. He threw some coins onto the table and then placed a hand under her elbow and helped her to rise. “You must go to your sister at Szentendre,” he said. “I will go home now—I have things to do—but I will come early tomorrow and take you to Szentendre.”
“Yes.” She nodded lifelessly.
“You still have a family, Marie. Now you must think about them: your sister and her husband, your nephews and nieces. These are your family.”
But she only shook her head and let tears course unchecked down her cheeks. “The Ferencs were my family, Mr. Adam,” she whispered.
He watched her walk across the market place through the evening gloom, ghosts walking with her. He went back to the car and prepared to drive home, back to his mother, who was mad, and his brother, who was both mad and evil. He was tired, sick and soul-weary, and he kept seeing his wife’s small frightened face and his two children trying hard to protect her.
36
Towards the end of the summer the morning mist was so thick on the mountains it was impossible to see for more than a few yards. Once, waking early, he had stepped quietly from the hut and come face to face with a stag, an old bull, his antlers thick and scarred. Startled, the stag and Leo had stared at each other, and then Leo had retreated into the hut and the stag had turned and slipped away through the trees. Later he had seen a small herd of them on a clearing on the opposite side of the valley.
It was cold in the hut. The nights that he had to retreat there and hide he was always cold, even though it was summer. He could light no fire in case the smoke should be seen and investigated. He had a blanket and a bottle of barack to warm him and neither were effective in the early hours of the morning. But the cold and discomfort were more than compensated for by the mornings of peace and the evenings of quiet. He felt momentarily safe up in the mountains. The safety had something to do with his boyhood—memories of expeditions up into the mountains when the world had been a golden progress of sun and trees and hills, all filled with miracles. The nights up in the hut gave him back the dreams of his childhood, which even the far-distant thunder of the Russian guns could not destroy.
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