It was Zsuzsa and I, carrying the children, who found space for us all together. Unfortunately, Teréz joined us too, but I could hardly prevent that. With difficulty, we struggled to make ourselves comfortable in our cramped conditions, while all around us was noise and upheaval and constant movement.
And only when the train began to pull slowly forward, did Katalin say suddenly, “Where is Mattias?”
I knew before I saw him. There was a rush to the window facing the platform, and there, inevitably, was Mattias, walking forward with the train, a faint, sad smile of apology on his young face as he lifted his hand in silent farewell.
* * * *
The journey itself was a nightmare. It was cramped and noisy and bitterly cold, and the locomotive broke down three times. I had never been so glad of the extravagant sable cloak which István and Elisabeth had given me for Christmas last year. Miserably, I huddled inside it. I thought we would never reach Szolnok, while Debrecen itself was just a distant dream.
It was around dawn, during one of the breakdowns, that I went to the door of our carriage for some air. At least temporarily, I could be alone there. Shortly afterwards, I saw Teréz leave too, and wander up and down the crowded train in search of her friends and acquaintances. I contented myself with staring out on to the vast flatness surrounding us. With the pale sun just coming up, there was something very grand about the Puszta, the Great Plain — perhaps its sheer size, its massive, unchanging space, made all the more impressive by the whiteness of the winter snow covering everything as far as I could see.
After a while, Teréz passed me, going the other way this time. Politely, I stood aside for her, but at the precise moment I moved, the locomotive chose to do the same. The train lurched forward for barely a second, and then the brakes slammed on again, stopping us with a painful jar. I flung my hands out, reaching instinctively for support, and managed to grab at the wall, but my reticule flew away from me, landing open on the floor at Teréz’s feet.
Teréz was one of those intensely irritating women who never seem to lose their balance or do anything remotely clumsy. As a result she was in a far better position than I to retrieve my fallen reticule first, even though I, seeing with dismay what had spilled out of it, made a determined effort to beat her.
By the time I had bent and reached out for the fallen letters, Teréz had picked one up and was casually standing on the others with one elegantly shod foot. I hesitated, then, deciding not to make a fuss, I quietly picked up the ignored reticule and the few coins and bits of rubbish that were lying around it. When I straightened, she was looking at me, her expression unreadable.
“Are you a frequent correspondent of Lajos Lázár’s?” she enquired lightly, turning the letter towards me so that I could see his name and direction written across it. It was a letter I had written yesterday and never sent, because there had been no time. I was annoyed to feel the colour flooding into my cheeks, but I met her mocking gaze squarely.
“I don’t believe that is any of your business,” I said evenly. “Excuse me, you are standing on other letters of mine.”
She smiled. “So I am,” she said, and bending, picked them up, insolently studying the address of all three. “Now, I believe I know that writing — it betrays his lack of breeding, don’t you think? Tell me, dear Katie, do you carry all your correspondence so close to your person?”
“If you wished to supervise my packing, you should have called yesterday,” I said tartly.
“Ah, but you wouldn’t have let me see these, would you? You are hiding them from prying eyes — I wonder why?”
My temper was rising, but I controlled the hasty words which sprang to my tongue, merely holding out my hand for the letters. Teréz ignored me.
“Let’s see,” she murmured, and actually opened up one of the letters before my astonished, outraged eyes. “‘My dear Katie’,” she began, with quite deliberate ridicule, and suddenly I could not help myself. It was not a calculated act, but one of utter spontaneity born of sheer fury at her insolence, at her unbearable invasion of my privacy. Before I knew I was going to, I had raised my hand and dealt her one sharp, ringing slap full across her smooth cheek.
At any other time, her expression of open-mouthed amazement would have been ludicrous. Now, I barely noticed it. I saw only that her grip had slackened with shock and, seizing the opportunity, I quickly twitched the open letter and the two others out of her fingers.
“Thank you,” I said calmly, and walked away, tucking the letters back into my reticule as I went.
By the time I rejoined the others, I found I was shaking. Partly, I was appalled that she should even touch anything I shared with Lajos; partly, I was enraged that she should despise me enough to dare to read my letters in front of me. But on top of that, I felt sudden shame that I had hit her; civilized, decent people did not resolve their differences by such methods, whatever the provocation. Remembering her look of ludicrous dismay, I felt guilty, and then, as I recalled also the last flash of venomous, unforgiving hatred in her eyes when I had turned away, I felt uneasy too. She could make trouble for me very easily, if she chose, with the knowledge of these letters, for she knew how István felt about Lajos and how uncertain everyone’s temper was in the present crisis.
“Are you well, dear?” came Margit’s anxious voice beside me.
I forced myself to smile at her. “Of course. Just tired. Ah, at last! We are moving again.”
In fact it was Margit who looked increasingly ill as the dreadful journey continued. The children, on the other hand, bore it remarkably well. They liked the bustle and the fascinating crowds of people. They shrieked with joy every time the whistle blew and ran from side to side watching for the clouds of steam puffing past us. By the time we reached Szolnok, they were the only ones not totally exhausted.
However, we had another impossible task ahead of us: procuring a vehicle to take us the rest of the way to Debrecen. Everyone else from the train was trying to do the same thing, for naturally, no one wanted to walk — though in the end some poor souls had to. István eventually managed to buy a horse and cart at a vastly inflated price, and hired a singularly shifty individual to drive it for us. It was hardly the warmest or the most comfortable mode of travel, though the children thought it great sport, but at least it meant we could all stay together with the luggage.
Inevitably, Teréz came with us since, despite my prayers, no one offered her a seat in a better vehicle. She seemed to have decided to remain silent about the letters, and the slap, but she did not have the look of a woman who has been worsted. Instead, I kept finding her eyes upon me with a sort of predatory satisfaction, almost like a cat playing with a mouse. I couldn’t help feeling uneasy, but I tried to ignore it, and to concentrate on quieting the children and trying to make poor Margit more comfortable.
Gradually, the children became more bearable as their usual travel-listlessness began to overcome them. Margit, on the other hand, was beginning to worry me.
“I think she is really ill,” I murmured to István. “She should see a doctor.”
But István was tired and irritable. “Yes, yes; when we reach Debrecen.”
This didn’t seem likely to be soon. We lost a wheel off the awful cart, and though it happened fortunately close to a village, it still took several hours to repair. Darkness had fallen again before we were even in sight of Debrecen and, despite the clear moonlight, István was furious — largely because, I suspected, all the best lodgings in the city would be gone before we reached them.
And it was then that Teréz chose to take her revenge. As we turned a corner in the road, the moon obligingly illuminated the edifying sight of a soldier and a girl making love in a ditch. They must have been freezing, I reflected practically. Primly, we averted our eyes. Even the shifty driver did not say a word, but Teréz suddenly laughed.
“Dear me,” she remarked. “What do you think, Katie? Another silly little trollop who can’t resist a uniform?”
�
��I am unacquainted with her history,” I said drily.
“But is it the uniform which is so attractive?”
“I’m sure we could go back and ask the young lady, if you really want to know.”
“No, no, I’m asking you personally. Did you succumb to the uniform in the end, or were you always hot for him?”
“Teréz,” Elisabeth said warningly, mindful of the children — who were actually asleep — and of the servants huddled together for warmth, silent but interested nearby.
“Sorry, but my question is still unanswered,” Teréz mourned.
“Is it surprising when no one has the least idea what you are talking about?” István snapped.
“Oh, Katie knows — don’t you, Katie?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea,” I said calmly.
“Yes you do. I’m talking about your sordid little affair with Lajos Lázár.”
Her words fell across the night with disastrous clarity; but even then all might have been well, because Teréz was so obviously being spiteful, and because by now everyone had the suspicion that it was Lajos and not she who had ended their affair. But Katalin, my loyal, stupid friend, immediately fired up in my defence.
“You know nothing about it!” she cried indignantly. “Katie and Lajos love each other!”
I closed my eyes. “Thank you, Katalin,” I murmured, and tried to concentrate only on the ache in my head. There was nothing else to concentrate on, for everyone was silent. Then István’s voice came, icy cold.
“What is she talking about?”
“Nothing,” I said tiredly. “Like Teréz, she is talking rubbish.”
“Didn’t you know?” Teréz said to him, provoking, pitying.
“Stop it,” Elisabeth said, suddenly sharp, but Teréz could not stop till she had caused the maximum damage.
“Well, he has to be told. He must be the only person in Buda-Pest who doesn’t know!”
“Know what?” Still that icy command in his voice. I couldn’t look at his face.
“About Katie’s affair with Lázár, of course,” said Teréz innocently. “I imagine those letters she’s hiding in her reticule will provide more than enough proof.”
Slowly, I dragged my gaze round to István’s face. His eyes were glittering in the darkness; his mouth seemed only a thin, hard line. I had the oddest feeling that this was the last straw for István, that what would follow was somehow inevitable now.
“Well?” he said coldly. “Deny it. Deny that you, a Szelényi, would ever let yourself be touched by that vile, base-born, murdering peasant scum.”
Whatever happened, I couldn’t allow that. “I know of no vile, base-born, murdering...”
“Deny it!” he said harshly, and suddenly I was indescribably weary of deception and games and hiding what was surely the most important part of my life. I lifted my head.
“Deny what? That I love Lajos? I can’t. I do love him. I have loved him since I first came to Hungary. I would marry him, if only he wanted me to.”
I had only a moment in which to feel the rushing relief of confession, for István moved faster than I thought he could. Suddenly he was looming over me, and my only emotion was blind, startled fear. The mad, blazing fury in his face, in his icy eyes, was terrifying. It was no longer István.
“Damn you,” he uttered between his teeth, grasping me by the front of my clothing and hauling me to my feet. “Damn you, you fornicating little bitch!” And then his grip tightened. I caught wildly at his hand as we reeled precariously on the bumping cart, but he didn’t steady me. Instead, before I could even think of saving myself, he swept me off my feet and threw me.
I heard Katalin’s scream. I heard Elisabeth’s horrified, “István!” By then the road was flying up to meet me. I was too stunned to make a sound, but as I crashed on to the road, and rolled, and fell down into nothing, I heard Teréz’s laughter chasing me. There was pain and breathlessness and snow in my mouth, and then a sharp, blinding crack on my head. And nothing.
CHAPTER FORTY
When I opened my eyes, I thought I was blind, for everywhere was darkness. Spots danced in front of me, my head was thumping painfully, the singing in my ears grew and faded, but still I could not see.
Frightened and bewildered, I reached out and felt icy, wet grass under my fingers. I realized that I was freezing, and that I was outside. There were perhaps five seconds of pure, terrified panic before I remembered what had happened. István, enraged beyond endurance, had thrown me out of the cart and driven on.
I moved, struggling to sit up, and for several moments the dark world reeled again. I cried aloud in shock at the pain in my head, reaching instinctively for the source. It was unbearably tender, and my fingers came away sticky. I had hit my head on something when I had rolled into the ditch.
I stumbled to my feet, feeling my hip sore and bruised, then reached down searchingly into the snow and found, unmistakably, my spectacles. Wiping them haphazardly on my wet skirt, I put them on, but one of the arms had broken and they lay askew on my nose. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t see anyway.
I had to all but crawl out of the ditch and forward towards the road. But still, there was only snow and grass and dirt under my hands. I paused, climbing slowly and painfully to my feet. My eyes were beginning to clear now, but the moon had gone, covered by thick cloud which blocked out all its light. Even with my spectacles, I could not see the road. I took a few more steps, then I began to run wildly. Panic filled me again — I had to get back to the road, for I knew they would come back for me.
I knew István; and though I had never seen it before, I knew his rage too. It was the same ungovernable passion which had consumed me in the confrontation with my grandfather after our return from Nagyzseben, so I knew it would not last. Eventually, he would calm down, be ashamed of what he had done, as I had been ashamed of what I had said. He would come back for me, even without the others to force him.
Whether or not he would forgive me for my confession was another matter, but I couldn’t worry about that now. I was alone in the darkness, cold, injured, dizzy, lost...
Lost. I had lost the road. I stopped and peered round me, but in every direction the darkness was invariable, almost opaque. I decided I must have been walking in the opposite direction to that of the road, and began to walk back in what I hoped was the way I had come, carefully feeling ahead of me for the ditch in case I fell into it again. I didn’t. I didn’t even find the ditch.
In despair, I began to run. How would they ever find me if I was not on the road? Would they be able to see me? I didn’t even know how far I had come — the timeless darkness and the woolliness of my head saw to that. The night was silent, though I strained my ears for shouts, for the sound of wheels rumbling on the road.
“István!” I shouted desperately. “István! Katalin, can you hear me? Please! I’m here! István!”
On the last cry, I stopped running to listen, but all I could hear was the thundering of my heart and my ragged, uneven breathing. I raised my face to heaven, as if pleading silently for help, but the only response was a large, fat snowflake on my cheek. A fearful laugh caught in my throat. Another snowfall was all I needed.
Although my bonnet had vanished, I still had my fur cloak to keep me warm and dry, and oddly enough my reticule too was still dangling from my wrist, quite secure in spite of the trouble it had caused by falling open on the train. Things could be worse, I told myself sternly, drawing the hood of my cloak up over my thumping head and trudging on. Surely, in whatever direction I went, I would eventually reach habitation and help.
I walked for the rest of the night through light, intermittent snow. When the sky began to lighten, the snow stopped, but still I could see nothing but the huge plain stretching before me in all directions. There was one dot in the distance which might have been a house, but I could see no roads, no villages, and certainly no town the size of Debrecen.
Exhausted, I finally lay down under a bush and fell shiveri
ng into sleep. I can’t have slept for long however, for the sun had not moved very far when I awoke. It was probably as well, for I was wet and freezing cold. For the first time I began to see clearly that I should have stayed as close as possible to the place where I had first wakened. I could only blame the bump on my head for my stupidity in moving so far, but looking back I think sheer panic probably had a lot to do with it too.
Shivering, I stood up and stared at the bleak, empty landscape which surrounded me. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do except walk — so I walked, growing more and more desperate, feeling more and more as if I were part of a nightmare. The only people I encountered throughout that exhausting day were an old woman who spoke neither Hungarian nor German and who seemed never to have heard of Debrecen, and a rude peasant in a sheepskin cloak leading a donkey and cart, who only laughed when I asked him for directions. I began to think I was mad. If I wasn’t, I felt I soon would be.
Of a town, or even a village, I saw no sign at all.
Then, just when I was beginning to sink into despair, I saw two soldiers resting their horses in the distance. My heart lifted, for this surely was a sign of habitation. Perhaps I was even close at last to Debrecen. The soldiers were sitting on their saddles in the snow by the side of the road while their horses snuffled around them rather dejectedly in search of sustenance.
I hurried up to them, smiling, for though they were an alarmingly villainous-looking pair, I saw that they wore uniform of the same colours as Lajos’s — the blue, gold and silver of the honvéd cavalry — and was foolishly cheered. They watched my approach sullenly at first. Then one spoke to the other and they both grinned, showing rotten teeth.
For the first time, I began to feel uncomfortable about addressing them, for close to they were an even less prepossessing sight: unshaven and dirty, their uniforms askew and badly stained with something I didn’t care to think about. But just then, they were the only hope I had.
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