Train to Budapest

by Dacia Maraini

  One by one, they all bend to kiss Tadeusz’s cold white forehead. He seems to be sleeping peacefully. Ferenc starts playing again after drying his tears on a sodden, screwed-up handkerchief. Accompanied by the deafening rumble of tank tracks, continuous rifle fire and the intermittent thud of cannons. Now the dead man must be buried. Then they must somehow seal the windows with cardboard and finish fixing the burst water pipes.

  52

  The train for Vienna. The man with the gazelles is sitting opposite Amara. Horvath is reading with his nose in his book. The engine is whistling and puffing. It is an old steam goods train, adapted for passenger use: its steel floor lined with linoleum, the seats wooden, heavy and very uncomfortable. Above their heads netting racks bulging with bundles of various sizes.

  Amara has a book open in front of her. But her eyes refuse to stay on the page, constantly lifting to look at the dirty windows, behind which the countryside slowly passes, sometimes hidden by clouds of black smoke. Birches, snow-covered firs, more birches, beeches, oaks with heavy white branches. The wide fields seem so light as to be suspended in mid-air. The eye sweeps across a whiteness that unites earth and sky. The outside world has assumed contours as smooth, delicate and soft as a child’s skin.

  The last days in Budapest were feverish. Dr János Szabó, perhaps feeling guilty for having been unable to save his friend Tadeusz, took charge of the burial. The cemetery was in chaos; no one any longer knew anything of graves and plots. So he had the great idea of digging a ditch in the Gyal forest some twenty kilometres from Budapest. They borrowed a van and loaded it with the body wrapped in a sheet, together with spades and shovels.

  They took it in turns to dig, starting with Ferenc. To grasp the shovel, he put down his violin, shut in its black case, beside him on the snow. Hans rolled up his sleeves and despite the cold opened the buttons of his plush-lined cotton shirt. Horvath, wearing in honour of the occasion the now darned and hence multicoloured stockings Tadeusz had given him, was as usual in sandals made from strips of leather, like an innocent blue-eyed St Francis ready to talk to the birds. Amara too, squeezed into her little blue coat, her red beret on her head and in dark blue woollen gloves, struck the frozen soil with the pick. The deeper they dug, the softer the earth became. Finally Hans jumped into the grave to shovel out the mud, piling it on top of the snow.

  They even found some flowers. Or rather, Ferenc did, paying a ‘fortune’ as he put it to a florist who had reopened his shop ‘to survive’. Goodness knows where those giant tulips had come from, their red petals seeming to tremble in the cold on that freshly dug grave filled in with earth and snow.

  By midday they were back at home. They drank some wine that Ferenc had kept for special occasions. In honour of Tadeusz, he said through his tears. A good fermented wine straight from Italy, he guaranteed, in fact from Sicily. But the label was in Polish. They smoked ill-smelling cigarettes made from shag sold in the street at half a forint per gram. They devoured some ginger biscuits, also from Ferenc’s mysterious cupboard which was always kept locked. But Dr Szabó didn’t stay with them to enjoy the Sicilian wine. He said goodbye to everyone, and as he was leaving Ferenc gave him a cap that had belonged to Tadeusz. ‘You wear it, he won’t need it any more. It’s good quality wool.’ Dr Szabó took the cap and turned it round in both hands, sniffing it as if searching for the smell of his dead friend. Then he slowly pressed it down on his head and went out without another word.

  The burst water pipes were repaired by Hans who borrowed a blow lamp and some solder. But nothing could be done about the windows because they had no glass. They blocked them as best they could with waxed cloth while Ferenc stuck his rolls of cotton wool into the corners to shut out draughts.

  It was clear to them all that they couldn’t go on staying in the building. Ferenc talked about going to Miskolc where he had a sister. Horvath wanted to go back to Vienna. The man with the gazelles and Amara too saw Vienna as a refuge. But without visas it would be difficult for them to leave.

  For days on end they lived on peaches in syrup, the only thing to be found in the State shops which had opened their doors again. These shops also sold horrible ash-coloured shoes, sweaters as full of thorns as a blackberry bush, soap that dissolved too rapidly in water, and tubes of toothpaste which were somehow already half empty. They had plenty of second-hand army greatcoats, and strange crocheted berets from China, their brother country, with whom Russia and therefore Hungary also had been having a tempestuous relationship but with whom the new government, following Mao’s visit and Khrushchev’s revelation of his hostility to Stalin, was doing business. It was said that Mao had been one of those to insist on the Soviet repression of Hungary. As had Tito who had seemed to support Nagy in the first days of the revolt. This had also been the attitude of Togliatti, representative of the biggest and most prestigious Communist Party in Europe; in fact it was said among other things that he had been most ferocious in his condemnation of the ‘counter-revolutionary’ Hungarian insurgents, who in his view must be ‘squashed without pity’.

  Neither the State shops nor the reorganised ordinary shops had any bread or fresh milk. Only cans of condensed milk stamped with large words in Czech, and dried meat in the form of the twisted batons given to soldiers in the trenches. And great quantities of peaches in syrup from Yugoslavia, a sign of new brotherly relations with a country that until a month ago had been their fiercest enemy.

  Hans and Amara made their way every day to the Hotel Béke, he to search for the bald man who had offered them permits for Austria, she to try to dictate ‘live’ articles to Italy. But the bald man could not be found and the telephone lines only worked in fits and starts. Even so Amara did manage to dictate two long articles, if with the interruptions it must have taken her three hours. All the same she was late and the paper had already had the news from international agencies.

  They had opened Tadeusz’s will; he had left two thousand forints to his son Hans, and to Ferenc his furniture, books and maps and a valuable drawing by Munch that he had himself inherited from his father. Hans ran to the Hotel Béke and this time did find the bald Alain who in exchange for two thousand forints gave him three tickets and three permits for Vienna.

  So here they are now. Horvath has completely recovered from his pneumonia despite the cold and lack of medicines and the general discomforts of the time. He walks happily through the train chattering to people of all kinds. He is no longer wearing the long darned socks but has reverted to his friar’s sandals and the half-mast trousers that leave uncovered his extremely thin ankles and their network of bluish veins. Only one innovation: he has cut his white hair which was getting in his way. His eyes shine on either side of his long nose. Even Hans seems younger. The death of his father sobered him. But in compensation, the responsibility of looking after the house and the effort of going out in the cold to look for firewood and of touring the whole city on foot, has made him dry and tough. The light-brown lock of hair still falls over his brow,

  At this moment he is relaxed, smiling at Amara as if newly recovered from a serious illness. His face is pale but confident. He too is happy to have escaped from the trap of Budapest, to be able once more to face a normal life. After all, it is still not long since the end of the war, and to land in the midst of another war was an almost unbearable surprise.

  The morning of the day before, the two of them had sat down together at the little table. Hans had taken hold of her hands and asked her what she planned to do. She thought for a bit. Then answered perhaps a little too firmly: ‘I want to go on searching for Emanuele …’

  ‘All right. Let’s do that. But it’ll be harder to go back to Auschwitz now. They’ve got more strict about the borders. They won’t even let you through as an Italian.’

  ‘Then let’s search in Vienna. His family lived there for years. There must be somebody there who knows what happened.’

  Hans stretches out on the seat with his eyes closed. Perhaps he’s planning to go to s
leep but the seats are too uncomfortable.

  Horvath comes down the corridor with a paper bag in his hand.

  ‘Like some?’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’

  Hans peers into the bag. Dried bananas. He sticks in two fingers and pulls out a sticky black pointed tongue of banana and lifts it to his mouth. He chews slowly.

  ‘Not bad,’ he remarks, ‘where did you find them?’

  ‘At the far end of the train, bought them from a man from Prague. He deals in dried fruit. I’d have rather had figs, but he had none left. His apples were all finished too, and his dates. All he had left were these little slices of banana.’

  ‘How much did you pay for them?’

  ‘More than they were worth. But we have to eat something before we get to Vienna.’

  Hans watches him, chewing another small piece of burned-looking banana. Horvath offers the bag to Amara and she too pushes a sticky little strip into her mouth and chews it blissfully. Hunger can make any food delicious. True, a hot coffee or even a crunchy pretzel would be better than these sticky dried bananas, but that’s all that’s available to fill their stomachs.

  ‘I’ve had a word with the conductor. He’s says there’s been a warning of mines on the track. We’ll probably have to stop for a bit.’

  In fact, less than a minute later, the train brakes. The pistons can be heard slowing down while the engine whistles and puffs, struggles along a little way then stops, gasping, on the frozen rails, in the middle of a field of snow. The sun has broken through the dark clouds like an egg yolk, bright and brilliant. Reflections on the snow have transformed the countryside into pure silver. In the sky a pale half-moon is hanging too like an electric bulb of frosted glass.

  Hans pulls down the window. They breathe in fresh, pungent air. In the distance some women in long dark coats are hurrying towards the train, each with something in her hand. When they are near enough they lift their hands to show what they have to sell: a basket of hard-boiled eggs, some salt-encrusted perecs, a bowl of pickled gherkins. Hans buys what will fit into one of Amara’s headscarfs: six boiled eggs, six pretzels and three pickled gherkins. But is there nothing to drink? He indicates thirst, throwing back his head and pointing his thumb at his open mouth. The woman laughs, revealing an absence of front teeth. She sticks two fingers in her mouth and gives a loud whistle. A small boy runs up with under his arm an enormous metal thermos from which he pours a sugared black tea that he sells at ten centimes a mug. Amara drinks greedily, burning her tongue, and passes the mug to Hans who has it refilled and passes it on to Horvath. Lastly he drinks himself. No one cares that the mug has been through the mouths of heaven knows how many people. When the thermos is empty the small boy runs to have it filled again by a man wrapped in an ancient heavily patched army greatcoat, perhaps his father, who is sitting in the snow with a metal can between his legs. The child hands over the money which the man pockets before slowly opening the large lid of the can to pour the boiling liquid into the thermos. Then the child runs off to pour more tea for other thirsty and frozen passengers.

  53

  Frau Morgan hugs Amara as soon as she sees her. She seems to have no hard feelings, and is ready to take her back at the Pension Blumental despite the trouble caused her by the police. Amara drags her father’s old suitcase up the stairs. The only thing Frau Morgan asks is that she should take off her muddy shoes first. So she leaves them at the entrance, near the stove, and climbs the steep stairs in her stockinged feet. A little ashamed of her stockings, dirty and full of holes. But in Budapest she had no chance to change them.

  She has her old room again: small, with two windows overlooking the yard and the roofs. Opening the windows she can see the little wooden tables in the restaurant that overlooks the courtyard, each with its lamp under a tiny reddish shade. Every time its door is thrown open the clash of plates and smell of salty fried food reaches up to the top floor. From the other window overlooking the roofs, she is sometimes involved in a squabble between pigeons fighting over a worm or midge, who knows. They too are going hungry in such a difficult year as 1956.

  The high bed is as clean as ever; its immaculate sheet smelling of laundry and its quilt, folded back as is the custom in this part of the world, sheathed in a white cover with yellow stripes. The pillow is the kind she hates, into which you sink till your ears and even your eyes are covered.

  Before she went up Frau Morgan handed her a card from Susanna: Where are you? Give some sign of life. Lots of love and best wishes! As though she hasn’t been in Italy for years. As though she has been crossing a desert in the dark. ‘A shadow insatiable of splendid appearances, of frightful realities; a shadow darker than the shadow of the night,’ as Conrad puts it. No one would believe her. Now that she has returned to the everyday world, everything seems different, everything paradoxically predictable and banal.

  There is also a letter from Sister Adele. Amara opens it with feverish fingers. Something falls at her feet. She bends to pick it up: a photograph. It is her father Amintore as a young man. On a ledge in the mountains. He must have been scarcely twenty years old. A sunny day, cloudless. He is alone, up on a rocky ridge, on a peak at the top of a smooth perpendicular wall. Suspended in space, like a worker at the top of a skyscraper, calm, legs bent, one elbow on his knee, seen in profile, facing the horizon. A small man with regular features, with smooth black hair, a high forehead, prominent cheekbones, and big strong hands like the artisan that he was.

  Dear Amara, your father died last night in his sleep. I don’t think he suffered. His last words were for your mother, Stefania. He called her several times. For days he had recognised no one, not even me, though I was his daily companion. We dressed him in his best suit, the formal blue one, and new shoes, and smoothed down his still abundant hair with water. His expression was relaxed, not contorted at all. He died a beautiful death, even if we are sorry he could not receive Extreme Unction. But I believe Christ will have been indulgent and ready to open his arms to a man who had for so many years been the prisoner of a severe illness, by now almost completely blind, but a man with a good heart who never harmed a fly. I enclose a photo I found among his papers. I’ve put all his possessions in a box: his striped rug, his dressing-gown, his watch, some letters and books, a photo of your mother and some other small things, and closed and sealed the lot. I’ll give the box to you next time you are in Florence. I’ve thrown away his slippers because they were in a terrible state, even if he was so attached to them and insisted on wearing them although we had given him a new pair.

  I tell you sincerely that I am sorry he has gone, even if towards the end he had become very demanding to look after; he had to be fed like a child and have things put into his hands, because he couldn’t see any more. Mostly he would sit with his head bowed and a sad expression on his face. Only one word would ever get any response from him. The name Stefania. When he heard it he would raise his head and smile. The smile of a child, really moving. I am sure he never stopped loving her, even when he hardly understood anything else. And this made him dear to me, because he was a loyal man and I have not known many loyal men.

  All the sisters from the care home were there at his funeral. They loved him despite the fact he was so self-absorbed and latterly cantankerous. His gentle spirit inspired love. He was a courteous man and he trusted the sisters without reserve or suspicion.

  When you are back, come and see us and I’ll give you the box and show you his grave in the cemetery near our House. With my very best wishes, Sister Adele.

  When she has finished the letter, Amara sits down on the bed with a sense of emptiness. She feels no pain, only a sort of meaningless exhaustion. Her legs are inert, incapable of walking, her arms lie by her sides unable to raise themselves, her head is stiff and will not turn on her neck, while her eyes stare fixedly into space.

  Making an enormous effort she tries to take in her hand the photograph of Amintore on the ledge. She can’t do it. Then, she doesn’t know ho
w, she finds it shining in the palm of her hand. Such a strong, agile youngster; how can he ever have been transformed into the mere shadow of a man with misty eyes and snot on the end of his nose? It is as if nature amuses herself by torturing human bodies, altering and deforming them. So you think this is you, with your figure, your face and your eyes? Well, I shall show you that it isn’t, and that you aren’t even someone else. You are only evidence of my power, which can stretch you, squash you, make you swell or smash you to pieces at my whim. Bodies that have been supremely beautiful, self-confident, cloaked in a kind of resplendent eternity, bodies that have played, leaped, loved, laughed and enjoyed, suddenly find themselves bent, deformed, dull and wrinkled, defeated by the world even though still alive and capable of feeling desire.

  She and her father lived together for several years after Stefania died. Once, wanting to surprise her, he cut out some satin and made her a pair of shoes with upturned points, like the slippers of a princess from fairyland. ‘I’ve made these for you,’ he said, putting them on the table next to the schoolbooks and closing his big strong hands over her delicate little ones with such yearning that she could never forget it. Nothing more than a simple paternal gesture, but as if he was saying: I’m entrusting you with your own future; live it well because it’s the only one you have.

  Amintore had never accepted her love for Emanuele. ‘Too rich. A spoilt brat,’ he had said watching him walk down the street in his expensive but ill-cared-for clothes. Plus-fours made from English wool, a cashmere jumper. ‘He’s a houndstooth’ her father would say, grimacing with contempt, ‘a houndstooth and foie gras.’ She had no idea what the words meant, but supposed they symbolised wealth.

  Nor had Amintore approved in the least of the departure of the Orenstein family for Vienna at the most dangerous moment in the persecution of the Jews. ‘She’s mad, that Thelma Fink. A fine woman, a woman of spirit I agree, but what on earth can have induced her to throw herself into the lion’s jaws? She’s a miserable unfortunate woman, I tell you, and she’ll come to a bad end. She and that weird son who hangs round her.’ He would repeat this whenever he found her writing letters to Emanuele after the Orensteins had left for Vienna, or when the post brought a yellow envelope from him with a postage stamp of the Reich. He had never approved of her years of watching out in anticipation for the postman. Nor did he understand or share in her despair when no more letters came. ‘What’s happened to your houndstooth then?’ he would ask, sniggering. But though he knew the Jews were being persecuted, it never crossed his mind that such rich and powerful people as the Orensteins might end up in a concentration camp. Nor had he ever approved of her marriage to Luca Spiga, the man of the caresses. He did not like the house where they went to live after their marriage, so full of books and records but with no proper bed. They had slept on a mattress on the floor between a wall and a wardrobe.