Hedy felt her neck and cheeks turn crimson with embarrassment as he stared intently at her. His eyes seemed to sear right into her heart. This man was not like any of the boys who had courted her until now. She realized the seriousness of the moment and nodded silently in agreement.
"I have, very simply, fallen deeply in love with you, Hedy," Tibor continued. "I can't imagine my life without you anymore."
Hedy looked at him, her eyes glistening with happiness as she listened to his revelation. Her heart pounded louder than she had ever imagined it could as she whispered in a barely audible voice, "I feel the same about you."
Then Tibor put his arms gently around her and kissed her. No more words were necessary between them. Their kiss revealed just how deeply they felt about each other.
As Tibor walked her home that evening, Hedy felt as if her feet were barely moving. She held on to Tibor's arm tightly, hoping that his sure steps would stabilize her. They walked silently, in unison. Once she got home, Hedy went directly to her room, fearing that if her mother or siblings looked her in the eyes, the secrets of her heart would be revealed. She crawled into bed and pretended to be asleep, her mind racing, her heart pounding as she replayed all that had taken place a few hours earlier. The problem was there was no one in this world she could share her secret with.
The town's chief clerk was a short, wiry, officious-looking man with a nervous pitch to his voice. He wore pince-nez glasses that sat on the end of his nose and he reminded Tibor of a character from the British Punch and Judy cartoons. Tibor would often sit at his desk mimicking the chief clerk, deriding his ludicrous pronouncements. The latest of these idiotic rules had just been announced and, balancing a pencil on his nose, Tibor began with the obligatory "Ahem, ahem" and proceeded to declare that, "In light of this wartime situation, and eggs being such a costly commodity, the painting of Easter eggs should be avoided this spring. In fact, all noisy gatherings of more than five individuals should be cancelled until further notice."
Hedy and Jaszli could barely hold back their laughter once Tibor began his perfect imitation of the chief clerk. But Tibor, once he collected himself, turned serious and a worried look clouded his striking features. "If we can't laugh at it," he said with a shrug, "we would certainly be crying."
As Hedy watched him rail against all the new rules and regulations, she realized he was more affected by them than anyone else she knew. Deep in her heart she understood that what was truly exasperating him was the secrecy they had to maintain about their blossoming love. They couldn't be seen in public walking arm in arm or showing any kind of intimate affection and Tibor was painfully aware that he had to control his feelings in public, even if only for Hedy's sake. They had to be resolute and discreet in their love affair. The consequences could be dire.
As difficult as it was, they continued to address each other in public as "Miss Weisz" and "Mr. Schroeder." Only when they were alone together would they use "Hedy" and "Tibor." Some afternoons, Tibor would simply put the "closed" sign on the front door of the shop, let the blinds down, and they would sit together and listen to the newest album of Edith Piaf or Tommy Dorsey. Sometimes they danced or just held each other. Tibor couldn't get enough of her touch, her scent, the softness of her skin. She fit so perfectly into his arms. Whenever they were in a melancholy mood, songs like "La Vie en Rose" and "Lili Marlene" would lighten the gloominess around them. It was balm to their spirits and reminded them that, throughout history, people in love frequently found themselves in similarly impossible situations.
On warm sunny days, they escaped from the provincial little town altogether. Tibor would get on his motorcycle, provide Hedy with another motorbike, and they would ride away into the rolling foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. As they rode further and further away, the gossip, the rumours, and the war seemed to melt away behind them. The air was full of the scent of mountain bluebells dotting the landscape and edges of the road. The majestic hills offered respite from prying eyes and, for an afternoon, they didn't have to worry about who was watching.
On one glorious afternoon, they sat side by side on a blanket by the banks of the River Tisza. The warmth of the sun caressed their skin as they munched on the cold roast duck, cheese, and bread, sharing sips from a flask of wine Tibor had brought along. Absently, they watched a pair of swallows performing a graceful dance from trees nearby, swooping low just above the water's edge, gently splashing the water as they bobbed and weaved to take a drink.
Suddenly, Tibor sat up and put on his business face. Addressing her as if they were in the office, he said, "Miss Weisz, could you take a letter for me?"
Hedy looked at him with a twinkle in her eye. "Of course, Mr. Schroeder. I will gladly take a letter, but I don't seem to have a pen or paper."
"That doesn't matter, Miss Weisz, you will simply have to commit the letter to memory."
"I will make do my best!" Hedy replied, caught up in his light-hearted, humorous mood.
Tibor cleared his throat and began. "I, Tibor Schroeder, do hereby solemnly declare to the entire world (or at least that part of the world that cares to hear) that I do love Miss Hedy Weisz and will marry her ...," here he paused and looked longingly into her eyes, "... if she will have me. I promise to do so as soon as I am able. Signed this twenty-third day of April in Nagyszollos, Hungary. Tibor Schroeder Esquire, etc. etc."
Tears welled up in Hedy's eyes, "Darling," she whispered as he took her delicate hand in his and kissed it lovingly. He looked into her deep, emotion-filled eyes as if trying to decipher whether the tears were of joy or sadness. Tibor couldn't tell. He looked out at the rushing waters of the Tisza, the swirling currents and undulating waves that seemed to be chasing each other, faster, faster. The sadness of their situation had overwhelmed them both and he avoided Hedy's eyes for a few minutes while he regained his composure.
"Someday, my love, I will build a raft with a little houseboat on it. You and I will get on board and be quietly swept down the Tisza, then into the Danube and out to the Black Sea. We will marry and live freely." He took her hands in his and held them tightly. "I promise you that we will be together forever."
Hedy nodded as tears ran in rivulets down her cheeks. She loved this man, this generous, kind man, but she sensed the world would get in the way. They agreed that, when the time was right, Tibor would speak to Hedy's parents and ask for her hand in marriage. Between them, the matter was settled and the world would just have to go along.
chapter 10 | 1942
HEDY AND TIBOR HAD an unspoken rule between them. When they were together, they talked about anything and everything except the war and the increasingly unbelievable events affecting their neighbours and community. In the American films they occasionally saw at the local cinema, elegantly dressed housewives waved to their well-tailored husbands as they drove off to work in the mornings. The sun was always shining and the housewife, with her tiny waistline and perfectly straight and bright white teeth, was forever smiling. There was always a happy ending. The charade they played, however, of not talking about what they were getting themselves into, of not being able to make any plans, of keeping their secret under wraps, was emotionally difficult.
Although Hedy and Tibor hoped that their lives would turn out like the ones in the movies, Hedy knew that, no matter how hard she tried to envision herself as part of that perfectly sunny, sanitized, happy couple, life in Nagyszollos in the middle of war-torn Europe was far, far removed from that scenario. Still, when she was in Tibor's arms, Hedy felt insulated from it all. She knew in her heart that he would do anything to protect her from harm.
The world outside his arms, though, was harsh and increasingly frightening. Each day brought new laws, new regulations, and war hysteria. Curfews were tightened, rationing of sugar, flour, and coffee became even stricter. Cigarettes became a prized commodity, and "smoke-free" days were held to gather cigarettes for Hungarian soldiers fighting on the front lines. At night, air-raid sirens blared with such regularity
that people who had initially been startled awake by them slowly started to get used to them. Newspapers carried more and more horrific stories, some reporting that hundreds of communists and Ukrainian terrorists had been arrested and incarcerated, and some were executed.
Extremist, anti-Semitic groups inspired by the Arrow Cross Party sprung up even in Nagyszollos. Their national leader, Ferenc Szalasi, had been imprisoned in Budapest in the early 1930s for fomenting hatred and violence. One of his followers in Nagyszollos was a captain in the gendarmes named Mezeredi. Tibor realized that the locals had begun to gossip, to inform Mezeredi about his movements and meetings with Hedy. To Mezeredi and his gang, the fact that Tibor Schroeder had hired a Jewish woman was shocking enough; the gossip surrounding a possible romantic liaison between Schroeder and his Jewish secretary was beyond outrage.
The intimidation tactics began with anonymous notes shoved under the front door of the Aykler family home. Finally, Captain Mezeredi's frustration at not being able to do anything about the son of one of the highest ranking military officers in the region boiled over. One day, he boldly telephoned Tibor's mother, Karola. He launched into a tirade against Tibor, calling him arrogant and conceited, a man without virtue. "In light of the fact that the colonel's son is blatantly flouting the law and courting a Jewish woman," Mezeredi said in closing, "the local gendarmes will not take responsibility for what might happen to him."
Tibor always sensed when a threat had taken place but this time was different. Although Karola made her daughter promise to stay tightlipped about the incident, Tibor knew from the way his mother paced up and down in the parlour, wringing her hands and dabbing her bloodshot eyes with a handkerchief, that this threat had been more serious. On one of his rare visits home, Karola tried to broach the subject of Tibor's love with her husband, Domokos. It was a perfect Sunday and they sat on the veranda enjoying their coffee and an apple tart dessert, Karola noticed how much greyer Domokos's beard had turned since the last visit. As he sipped absently at his brandy, Domi had a distant, vacant look in his eyes and frequently withdrew into himself.
Karola relished this infrequent private time with her husband and although they tried not to talk about the war, she knew Domokos was under tremendous pressure. In the spring of 1942, Colonel Domokos Aykler had been named head of the press corps of the Hungarian army. Those who entered this elite branch of the military had to have already been established newspaper writers, film cameramen, and/or radio reporters. In addition to their skills as journalists, they had to undergo extensive combat training in case the unit came under attack. A small army onto itself, with their own cooks, medics, and ambulances, the corps operated and travelled independently of the rest of the army. The press corps didn't even travel in army jeeps - they drove in large black Tatra sedan cars.
The day Colonel Aykler took command of the regiment was marked by pomp and ceremony and the celebrations were widely covered in newspapers and newsreels. It was the middle of May and the chestnut trees in Budapest parks were bursting with delicate white flowers. A large crowd gathered to watch the impressive gathering and even young boys stopped playing in the park and stood in awe with their parents as some one hundred shiny black Tatra sedans were assembled next to each other in Vermezo Square. Some of the professional press officers stood on the roofs of their cars with tripods and cameras whirring while others stood at attention next to their vehicles as the corps stood for inspection. It was a grand media show of readiness.
The regiment held great fascination for Hungarians, who realized only too well the power of media in the world. They knew that the men in this corps could transmit stories in dozens of languages. Many newspaper reporters had speculated for some time now that Hungary had to become more politically and media savvy in order to gain worldwide sympathy for its cause. Even before they shot a single frame of film, the newspapers in Budapest were already reporting that, "This is the military unit; these are the men who will finally tell the world the story of Hungary's suffering and fight for justice."
These days, when he came home, he was mentally and physically exhausted. Still, even at home, military men continued to knock on the door bringing telegraphs, letters, and correspondence marked "Confidential" for him to read and acknowledge. Karola retrieved a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and dabbed her forehead a bit, then she took a sip of coffee and began tentatively to speak.
"Who is that Mezeredi man and does he have power over us?" Karola blurted out.
"Mezeredi?" Domokos asked quizzically. From the look on his face, Karola could see that he genuinely did not know this name.
"You know, of the gendarmes. He's one of the Arrow Cross men."
Suddenly, Domokos was paying attention. "Why? What happened?"
"He threatened Tibor," Karola continued. "He told me on the phone that if Tibor didn't stop courting Hedy Weisz, he would tell his superiors. He said they wouldn't be responsible for the consequences." By the time she finished the last word in her sentence, tears had welled up in her eyes as if a small dam had burst. She started crying, sitting there next to her husband, and it took several minutes before the flood of tears abated.
Domokos looked at her lovingly, with concern. "Dragam, don't worry about Mezeredi. He can't and won't touch Tibor." He wiped at her wet cheek. "I promise you, nothing will happen to Tibor." Simply verbalizing her fears to her husband and hearing his reassurances calmed Karola and they sat together quietly for some time holding each other's hands.
As the sun finally made its way to the horizon, their son, Bela, joined them on the balcony. Karola hugged her son close. He seemed to be growing into a young man at such a fast pace. "Bela is doing so well at military school," she said as much to herself as to Domokos. "He is first in his class."
Domokos eyes glistened with pride as he looked at his son. There was a growing sense of urgency in his voice when he spoke. "I have something on my mind that I want to share with the family." He stood up, stretching a hand out to help Karola up. "Could we go back inside?"
Karola, Tibor, Bela, and Picke gathered around him in the parlour as Domokos lit a cigarette. He asked Picke to make sure the maids were all downstairs in the kitchen and out of earshot and then he began.
"There is a formula," he said slowly, making sure they understood each word. "For every soldier who is fighting at the front, the military needs eleven men to support the infrastructure." He paused, looked at the faces he loved gathered around him, and continued. "These eleven men provide for the needs of each soldier fighting on the front lines. They cook the food and transport water, move the ammunition and gasoline to the front, dig the latrines, provide first aid, and remove the injured and sick. These eleven also include the people manufacturing ammunition and organizing the transport of the ammunition to the front lines." Domokos looked directly at Bela. "Undoubtedly you have learned about this in military school, son." Bela nodded and looked seriously at his father.
"Presently, the number of men supporting the front-line soldiers is continuously diminishing while the territory at the front to be defended is always widening and increasing." He put his cigarette in the ashtray, stared as it burned down a bit, then inhaled again. He wanted to give them all a few minutes to comprehend what he was saying. Then, lowering his voice, he continued even more slowly. "Unless the soldiers at the front are properly supported, the front lines will collapse. It is inevitable." He waved his hand and was suddenly lost in thought. Then he looked up and continued. "Although the men under my command in the press corps continue to provide reports of glorious victories and the politicians continue to say what they will, based on what I have seen at the front, the Germans have already lost this war."
They all sat in stunned silence as the smoke from his idling cigarette curled as it rose from the ashtray. No one spoke; no one responded; no one asked any questions. It was dusk and hard to see but no one reached to turn on the lamps on the side tables. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog was barking.
ch
apter 11 | 1943
LESS THAN ONE YEAR after Domokos Aykler made his dire prediction, his family came to see that everything he had said was coming true. The winter of 1942-43 was so bitterly cold in Karpatalja that horses, sheep, goats, and cows had to be kept in sheds and barns and cars and tractors wouldn't start. Business and travel ground to a halt as trains became unreliable due to frozen tracks. Schools had to be closed for weeks at a time and local newspapers and radio broadcasts warned people of the risk of frostbite after just a few minutes of exposure outdoors.
As the residents of the region stayed indoors keeping their families and pets close to their wood-burning stoves, they had little knowledge of the tragedy that was unfolding on the Russian front during those same frigidly cold weeks. Some two thousand kilometres to the east, more than 130,000 Hungarian soldiers were being killed, maimed, or taken into captivity, virtually wiping out the Hungarian Second Army in what would later be termed the "Catastrophe of the Don."
Faced with overwhelming odds against Russian forces, the Romanian and Italian armies fled. The Hungarian army, abysmally equipped for the bitterly cold Russian winter and the long impending battle, was ordered to stay and defend the front line. As a result of this completely senseless order, the battle resulted in forty thousand Hungarian soldiers dead, thirty-five thousand wounded, and sixty thousand taken prisoners of war. In February 1943, when the Germans lost their Sixth Army at Stalingrad, it was clear that the tide of the war had turned and Hungarians realized what a horrendous price in lives and human suffering would be exacted by their desire for border revision.
Outcasts Page 10