by Debbie Rix
She retrieved one hand from its warm place and traced her husband’s name on the window. The letters – so sharp at first – became diffuse, as drips of condensation ran down the window. It was not quite eight weeks since József’s death and she thought about him from the moment she woke until she was lost once again in the unconsciousness of sleep. They had been together for just nine months. They had loved one another so completely; had lain in one another’s arms every night and had shared their every thought. Or so she had believed. And yet, as it turned out, he had kept so much of his political activity from her. Concealed so much. Had he been shielding her? Or had he felt unable to trust her? Sometimes she feared it was because she had been too cocooned in her own world, too lost in domesticity. And he, so involved in the struggle, so energised by the fight, had felt reluctant to shatter her quiet existence, to involve her with the real issues that dominated his thoughts. He had treated her, she saw now, like a child.
She could hear her father’s wheezing breath from the bunk below. Their room was in an old army cadet school on the outskirts of Vienna, which had been turned into a refugee camp for the thousands of Hungarians fleeing their country. Previously occupied by the Red Army, it had been left virtually derelict when the Russian army moved out. Once a splendid place of learning, complete with a riding school, swimming pool, gymnasium and mess hall, it was now a hollowed-out building, with broken windows and no running water, electricity or heating.
Rachael and George had been amongst the first to flee from the troubles in Budapest. George knew that an early escape was essential. The policemen waiting for him outside his apartment building would have shown him no mercy. And he was concerned that Rachael – as József’s wife – could also have been imprisoned… or worse. Torture, death – both were possibilities. George realised that it was vital for Rachael’s sake that they escaped as soon as possible. They had arrived by train in Vienna – one of the few families to do so. Within days of József’s death, travelling by train had become all but impossible. And so, when the thousands of ordinary Hungarians – university lecturers, teachers, doctors, bakers – had decided to flee to the west they were forced to take the only route left to them – going on foot across the ‘green’ border into Austria. Mines and barbed wire had been cleared just months before as a symbol of the thawing relations between Austria and Hungary. Now this land route was a conduit for scared civilians, terrified of the Soviet crackdown and desperate for a new way of life in the democratic West, free of communist rule.
Lying on her prickly straw mattress on the top bunk, staring at the swelling dawn, Rachael had an almost overwhelming desire to be sick. Her mouth filled with saliva, but she was reluctant to climb down the rickety ladder to the floor, and risk disturbing her father, sleeping peacefully on the bunk below. She found the gentle sound of his snoring comforting. It was part of the soundscape of her life – something she had listened to since she was a child.
She swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on the glimmering sky to the east. She had been feeling ill for several weeks, and had been physically sick at least once a day. It was not easy to cope with illness in the camp: the lack of running water, and barely functioning lavatories, made hygiene difficult at the best of times, let alone when ill. Many people in the camp were sick. In spite of the support of the Red Cross who visited the camp regularly, infectious diseases spread like wildfire.
Lying on her bed, resisting the urge to vomit, she made up her mind to brave the queue for the nurse, later that day. It was time she found out what was wrong with her. Besides, she was aware her father was concerned about her deteriorating health.
‘I am worried about you, Rachael,’ he had told her the evening before. ‘You hardly eat. The food is basic, I know. But it’s not actually that bad and they are very kind to supply it.’ He tried to sound encouraging.
Rachael had smiled faintly, hoping to assuage his anxiety. But although she felt hungry between bouts of queasiness, she found it almost impossible to eat. Even a glimpse of the vast vats of goulash cooked up in the mess hall by kind women volunteers triggered a violent bout of sickness. Just the smell of the meat was enough to send her running from the canteen.
Rachael hauled herself up in bed, positioning the threadbare pillow behind her head, so she could watch the sun rise. New glass had been put into the windows, and although the room was still cold, it did, at least, prevent the wind whistling in from the icy plain to the east. Volunteers were gradually working their way through the camp, replacing broken windows, repairing light fittings and redecorating; the tiny room Rachael shared with her father was to be painted that day. She could hear the clatter of metal painting equipment, and men’s chatter outside in the corridor. She climbed down the ladder of her bunk bed and touched her father’s shoulder gently. He stirred in his sleep.
‘Papa,’ she said quietly. ‘The decorators are here… I can already hear them outside. We ought to get up… take a shower and have breakfast. Then maybe we could go to the library. They won’t be able to do their work if we’re in here.’
LINE BREAK
When Rachael returned a few hours later, she found two young men painting the walls.
‘Hi there.’ The taller of the two introduced himself. ‘I’m Chuck… it’s a nickname,’ he added, ‘my real name is Charles, Charles Bailey, but everyone calls me Chuck. And this guy here…’ he indicated a gawky young man with red hair standing on a stepladder, painting above the window, ‘this is Heinrich.’
The redhead smiled and nodded to Rachael.
‘We’re students,’ Chuck explained, ‘at the University of Vienna… and we’ve volunteered to make the camp a bit more habitable… I hope you like white paint… that’s all we’ve got.’ He’d grinned and held up the large paint pot filled with whitewash. ‘We should be out of here soon – we’ve nearly finished… Heinrich has just got that bit in the corner to do. Oh… and we fixed your window yesterday.’ He gestured towards the new pane of glass.
‘Thank you,’ said Rachael, admiring the freshly painted walls. She was genuinely grateful for their help, but the clawing, sickly smell of new paint brought on a fresh wave of nausea.
‘I’m just sorry,’ Chuck said, as he’d packed up their painting things, ‘that it’s not warmer in here. I wish we had some proper heating for you.’ He looked helplessly around the tiny room, with its bare walls, straw mattresses and thin blankets.
Rachael smiled sympathetically at him.
‘Thank you,’ she’d said in faltering English. ‘You are very kind. We are happy.’
Rachael did not feel happy. As she had struggled to wash that morning beneath a trickle of lukewarm water in the shower, she had caught sight of herself naked in the cracked mirror. She was almost unrecognisable – her ribs protruding from her hollow chest, her legs and arms stick-thin.
Now, she followed Chuck’s eyes, as he took in the ring on her wedding finger. She wondered if he had seen the small photograph frame that she kept beneath her pillow. Perhaps he had come across it as he painted the ceiling above her bed. It was a photograph of her with József, laughing into the camera, in happier days.
‘Well… we’d better go,’ said Chuck. ‘We’ve got to make a start on the room next door.’
Heinrich clattered out of the room carrying his ladder and bucket of paint, but Chuck lingered in the doorway. Rachael sensed he wanted to stay and talk. Most of the volunteers kept their distance from the refugees, but Chuck seemed different – friendly and respectful. How could she explain to this stranger, especially in a foreign language, what she was really feeling?
‘At least you have a ceiling light that works now…’ Chuck flicked the light switch and the solitary light bulb flashed on and off. He smiled, encouragingly. ‘Good… yes?’
‘Good – yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
Rachael heard George coming down the corridor towards the room. She knew it was him by his gait. He shuffled these days, something he had never done in
Budapest. But his time in the camp had obviously exhausted him, even though he tried hard to hide it from her.
‘Ah, young man,’ George said to Chuck. ‘Thank you for helping to make our room so much more comfortable.’
‘You’re welcome, sir,’ said Chuck. Like everyone who met George, he was quickly impressed by the older man’s facility with languages, his openness and erudition.
‘You are American?’ asked George.
‘I am, sir. I did my degree at Yale, but at the moment I’m a student at the university here in Vienna. I came to study German – not a popular language in my country… But I like it.’
‘Ah… good; all academic study is valuable. I am a professor myself – from Budapest.’
‘Oh… well it’s good to meet you, sir. What did you teach?’
‘Archaeology…’
‘Well, that’s so interesting. We volunteers were thinking… there must be so many people here with useful skills and knowledge. In the block on the other side – one of your people has just opened up a barber’s shop. I got a haircut this morning.’
He ran his hands through his newly shortened blond hair and blushed slightly when he realised Rachael was smiling at him.
‘So…’ he continued, ‘we’d like to organise some classes – teaching different subjects – for the children mainly, but for adults too.’
‘I’d be happy to help with any classes,’ said George. ‘I could teach English… or history – and not just about the ancient Greeks and Romans…’ he chuckled.
‘That would be great, sir – thank you. I’ll put you on the list of teachers.’ He turned to leave, but at the door he paused. ‘Your daughter, sir… I hope you don’t mind me saying… looks a little unwell. Is she OK?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered George. ‘She has been sick. We need a doctor.’
‘Well, I could ask the Red Cross nurse to take a look. I think a doctor may be coming later, but there are so many people to see.’
‘Thank you – we would be very grateful.’
‘I’ll go and talk to the nurse now…’
The Austrian nurse arrived the following day, just after breakfast. She spoke quietly to Rachael as she examined her, while George waited outside in the corridor. When she had finished, the nurse called George back into the room.
‘Your daughter is pregnant. About three months, I would say. She’s been quite ill with morning sickness, poor thing. But it should get better any day now. It’s unusual for it to carry on much longer. But she must eat a little more – she is very thin. Make sure she goes to the canteen each day – we have good food there. Sardines are often on the menu – they would be excellent for her.’
She smiled sympathetically at Rachael, who lay on the lower bunk, stunned by the news, her mind a whirl of complex emotions.
When the nurse had left, Rachael burst into tears. Her father lay down next to her on the little cot bed and tried to comfort her. He understood why she was crying.
‘It must be so hard for you… without József.’
‘Yes…’ she mumbled through her tears. ‘To be alone, without him and yet… to have his child.’
Rachael pondered on her situation. In part, she was excited at the prospect of becoming a mother. At the same time, she was fearful. They had no home, nowhere for her to care for any baby. And the child’s presence inside her reminded her constantly of how much she missed József.
Her father tried to comfort her. He spoke of new beginnings, of fresh life… But she could see that he, too, was anxious that she was bringing a child into such an uncertain, chaotic world. She remembered József’s words to her a few weeks before he was killed: ‘This is a difficult world in which to bring a child. Our country is not our country anymore… times are hard.’ How right he had been. What would he say about her having a child here… in a refugee camp?
She tried to distract herself by reading. A meagre library had been set up in one of the classrooms, and after lunch she wandered down and borrowed a tatty copy of Anna Karenina. She had read it before, but, in some way, Anna’s tragic tale distracted her from her personal distress. She spent the rest of the day on her bunk bed, absorbed in the story, until she realised it had grown dark. Turning on the light in their room, it occurred to her she was actually quite hungry.
‘Papa,’ she called down to her father, who was snoozing in the bunk below. ‘I am hungry… for the first time. Now I know what is “wrong” with me, I must try to eat more. Shall we go to the dining room?’
‘Yes, Rachael… good idea. Let’s go.’
As they walked down the corridor, they heard Chuck whistling. He was painting the ceiling of the neighbouring room.
‘Hi…’ he called out.
He climbed down off his ladder.
‘Did you see the nurse? Are you OK?’
Rachael, not quite understanding his accent, smiled and nodded.
‘Yes,’ said George. ‘It turns out… Rachael is pregnant.’
Chuck looked surprised. Although he had noticed her wedding ring, the thought of her being pregnant hadn’t crossed his mind.
‘Oh… well that’s great news,’ he said at last. ‘Congratulations.’ He shook Rachael’s hand politely. His grasp was firm and dry – comforting. ‘Your husband will be pleased…’ he added.
Rachael looked down at the floor, tears welling in her eyes.
‘Oh… I’m sorry.’ Chuck was momentarily confused.
‘Her husband is dead, I’m afraid,’ said George flatly. ‘He was killed by the authorities in Hungary.’ He put his arm round Rachael’s shoulder. ‘Will you excuse us – we must try to get some food into Rachael. It’s important that she eats.’
Chuck stood aside, allowing them to pass.
As they did so, Rachael briefly took his hand and squeezed it. ‘It’s OK…’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
A few days before Christmas, Chuck found George and Rachael at one end of the dining hall.
‘There you are… I’ve been looking all over for you.’
‘Here we are…’ echoed George. ‘Rachael has not felt sick today,’ he said, proudly. ‘She has eaten a whole plate of food and the colour is returning to her cheeks.’
George glowed with pride at his daughter. In the warm dining hall, with the wood-burning stove at one end throwing out heat for several feet around, she looked flushed and pretty, her grey green eyes flickering in the firelight.
‘That’s good news,’ said Chuck.
‘Sit… sit.’ George shifted his chair to make room for him. He liked Chuck. His concern for Rachael, his quiet enthusiasm for their life in the camp, was infectious.
‘It’s snowing outside,’ said Chuck, settling into a seat. ‘It reminds me of home…’ He looked wistful suddenly.
‘Where are you from?’ asked George.
‘Vermont – north of New York. It’s always snowy in the winter there. It looks a little like here – wooded, little villages. I miss it sometimes – but especially now. I’ve never been away at Christmastime before… No one does Christmas like we do in Vermont. There are trees and lights everywhere and people have candles in their windows. In the dark evenings, all the houses look so pretty, you know? You feel you could get a welcome anywhere. And when you do call in on a neighbour, they offer you cookies and eggnog.’
‘Eggnog?’ George looked puzzled.
‘Oh yeah… Eggnog. You never had it? It’s fantastic. It’s a mixture of cream and eggs and brandy and sugar. It’s the best… the best thing you’ve ever had in your life. Really.’
‘My goodness,’ said George. ‘It’s been so long since we’ve had cream… We must try it one day – no?’ He looked encouragingly at Rachael.
‘Maybe I’ll try to get some of the ingredients and make some for you,’ suggested Chuck. ‘We’re organising a Christmas meal and celebration. I don’t know if everyone here is a Christian, but we thought it was a nice thing to do… What do you think?’
‘I think people will appreci
ate anything to relieve the boredom,’ replied George, encouragingly.
‘Good – we’ll get onto it. We have more time for cultural and academic matters now that the renovations are being done by professionals…’
‘Yes, I noticed there are many people here from the Swedish Red Cross,’ observed George.
‘They’ve taken over the running of the camp and they’re really efficient. The good thing is it’s freed up people like me. No one will have to put up with my terrible paintwork anymore.’ He winked at Rachael. ‘Instead, I’ve been asked to organise some lessons. Do you remember we talked about it? They want to create a sort of school here. So I’m going to need your help, Professor.’
‘Of course – I’d be happy to help.’
‘One other thing – after Christmas they’re sending teams of immigration people from the States, Great Britain, France, Italy, South Africa to talk to everyone who wants to settle in those countries. So those language classes are going to be more important than ever. I’ve worked out I need to teach people thirteen languages. I have no idea where to start. I can do English – obviously. But where I’m going to find someone who speaks Afrikaans, I have no idea.’ Chuck laughed, and for the first time since they had arrived in the camp, George allowed himself a glimmer of optimism. ‘Do you hope to move on soon?’ asked Chuck, almost reading George’s mind.
‘If we can… yes. We can’t stay here forever. I need to get back to work, create a home for Rachael and the baby.’
‘Sure,’ said Chuck. ‘Well, I’ll make sure you get near the front of the queue.’ He smiled at Rachael.
‘Don’t do anything special for us,’ said George firmly. ‘We’ll take our turn.’
‘No… it’s OK. I think, given the baby and all… you need to get settled as soon as you can.’