by Derek Hansen
‘This is the story of Heyman Milos. My story. In Hungary, the surname precedes the given name. I will endeavour to present my story as authentically as possible, without embellishment or embroidery. If at times I appear brave, then I was brave. If I give you reason to think less of me, then you are justified in doing so. There is an imperative in the telling of my story and to do it full justice I, too, may have to break with convention but not in any way you could anticipate. Bear with me. It is the nature of the debt that the repaying of it may take an unexpected form. Grant me egy kis turelmet. Grant me a little patience.
‘If I change the story in any way it will be slight and only to aid comprehension. Magyarul, the language of Hungary, is an orphan. If you search back far enough you will discover it is related to the Finno-Ugric group of languages, but very, very distantly. Suffice to say, knowledge of any other languages will not assist you in the understanding of Magyarul. It is ranked with Japanese in terms of difficulty. It is not my intention to give you a lesson in its complexities and idiosyncrasies so, where necessary, I will anglicise the names of people and places. Erzsebet, for example, will become Elizabeth and given names will precede surnames. These are the only changes I will make. At the end of it all you may conclude that there was, and is, weakness in character. This may certainly be Neil’s conclusion. But I contend there are some things time cannot heal, can never heal, and that there is no escaping the past. Only in having the strength to accept the inevitability of defeat can there be triumph. I believe my story is a triumph of will, a triumph of character, a triumph of love. I believe that, ultimately, it is a triumph over death itself.’
There was defiance in Milos’s voice but also uncharacteristic passion, and the reddening of his eyes spoke of a sorrow they could only speculate upon. Lucio dragged his eyes away from Milos to see if Ramon had somehow picked up on it. The blind man had missed nothing. He fidgeted with his table napkin, folding and refolding it. Lucio and Neil glanced uneasily at each other. What Milos promised made a mockery of both Ramon’s and Lucio’s breach of their convention. He was threatening to do no less than bare his very soul. The prospect was unwelcome and a sense of foreboding settled over the table.
‘Primo piatto,’ said Gancio emphatically and laid the platter of antipasti on the table.
‘Primo piatto,’ said Ramon pensively. ‘Primo piatto.’ He turned to Milos and smiled. ‘Yes, the first dish. And beautifully served.’
CHAPTER TWO
Spring 1948
Something was wrong and the two hunters sensed it. Gabriella could hear them whispering above the sounds of her own labouring breath, the crunch of their footsteps and the pounding in her ears. They were arguing softly but urgently. They stopped so suddenly that Milos collided with the younger of them, stumbled and would have fallen had Gabriella not been holding on to him. Had he not been holding on to her. The older and stronger of the hunters slapped his hand over Milos’s mouth, held it there so he couldn’t cry out. Gabriella could barely see them in the darkness though they were less than an arm’s length away. But she saw enough to realise what they were doing. The hunters straightened, listened, sniffed the air and scanned the night with their eyes, as cautious and fearful as the pigs and deer they hunted. Their instincts told them something was wrong. But what? And why? How? Their plan was good and she knew Tibor would have shared it with nobody. Nobody who didn’t need to know. Nobody they couldn’t trust with their lives.
They stood huddling together on the narrow track. Gabriella felt Tibor push past her, heard him curse the two hunters. Tibor wanted to keep moving but Gabriella was grateful for the rest, however brief. Her pack weighed heavily on her back even though she carried the bare minimum and less than half of what Milos and Tibor each carried. She sucked in the bitterly cold air. It had lost none of its sting in its journey south-west across Russia. It burned her lungs but she could sense it reoxygenating her weary blood, slowing the pounding of her heart, bringing back strength and the will to keep going. Milos wrapped his arms around her to keep her warm.
‘We have to leave the trail.’ Tibor stood over them. As usual he invited neither comment nor argument.
Leave the trail? Gabriella leaned back so she could look around her. She tried desperately to pierce the darkness but the larch, oak and hornbeam canopy which crowded over the little-used trail was thick enough to blinker their vision even in daylight and deny all but the briefest glimpse of sky. But for Milos supporting and guiding her, she’d have been unable to follow the trail as far as they had. How could she possibly cope if they left it altogether? She wanted to object and protest her inability but knew her objection would be ignored and, besides, she lacked the strength to argue.
The hunters pushed on up the trail for another two hundred metres before plunging sharply left into the bushes. The path they now followed, if it was a path, was steeper, narrower and cross-hatched with roots. Foliage from the undergrowth whipped off Milos’s body and stung her face. She clung on to him for a tow, using her free hand to pull her hat lower over her face, and burrowed deeper beneath the upturned collar of her greatcoat. She stumbled often, landing heavily on her knees, but the muffled curses told her she wasn’t the only one to trip. Minutes passed agonisingly yet the hunters showed no sign of slowing. Somewhere in the darkness, the summit of Mount Nagy-Milic towered above them. Gabriella wondered how many of its nine hundred metres they would have to climb before beginning their descent to the Hernad River and the relative security of Czechoslovakia, wondered how many metres there could possibly be left to climb.
An hour passed but any reassurance the hunters had hoped to gain by their diversion had eluded them. She could again hear them muttering and arguing. The going was steep but became easier as the trees thinned out and the larches gave way to linden and ash. Finally the hunters paused in the lee of what Gabriella could clearly see was a ridge. She felt no elation at the knowledge that their climb may be over and sank helplessly to the ground. She slipped off her pack, rolled over onto her back gasping for air and closed her eyes. She was vaguely aware of Milos lying down beside her. Above she could hear Tibor in earnest conversation with the hunters. Something was wrong. She heard one of the hunters say how they’d been following pig trails and yet they’d encountered no sign of pigs or any other animals. Why were there no startled pigs crashing away from them through the forest? Why had they heard no deer? Why were there no animals at all? The younger of the hunters crawled up to the lip of the ridge and peered over, listening, listening …
‘Drink.’
Wearily, Gabriella pushed herself up onto her elbows. In the darkness she could just make out the shape of Tibor kneeling in front of her, bottle extended towards her.
‘Water?’ she asked.
‘Better. Barack.’
Gabriella took a mouthful of the fiery liquid, swallowed and felt its warmth suffuse her body.
‘Thank you.’ She passed the bottle of barack to Milos who handed her a flask of water in exchange. The barack took the chill off the icy water and she swallowed greedily.
‘Not too much,’ warned Tibor softly. He took the water from her.
‘Is there a problem?’ she asked.
‘There shouldn’t be.’
‘But is there?’
‘We don’t know.’ Tibor handed the water flask back to Milos in return for his barack. ‘We have a steep descent before we rejoin the trails. That is the source of dispute. My friends do not believe the trails are safe. They are convinced there are border patrols and that the patrols have scared off the animals. I believe that is unlikely. However, we have no choice. The trails bisect our path to the boat. At the very least we must cross them. But we will reach the boat much sooner if we use the trails. I believe whatever risk there is, is justified. That is what we will do.’
Tibor rose and rejoined the hunters and began to placate them with his barack. Gabriella tried to listen in but their whispers were too soft and easily carried away on the wind. She closed h
er eyes.
‘Gabi! Wake up!’
Milos was shaking her. Wake up? She’d fallen asleep?
‘Time to go.’
How long had she slept? A few seconds, a minute? She slipped her arms wearily through the straps of her pack and stood. Just as she turned to Milos to take his arm so he could help her on the final leg to safety, she heard the sound that never failed to chill the blood in her veins. No amount of barack could have prevented the sudden surge of fear. No amount of warning could have prepared her.
‘Dogs!’ Tibor charged at the two hunters, one of whom backed away from him, arms raised. ‘Scum! Who did you tell?’ He no longer bothered to whisper. The dogs had found their trail and the rules had changed.
‘No one! We told no one!’ The big man, Janos, stood his ground.
‘I should shoot you and leave you here.’
Shoot? Tibor carried a gun? The tone of his voice convinced Gabriella as well as the hunters that he would not hesitate to use it.
‘Tibor! We have no time for this.’ Milos let go of Gabriella and confronted his brother. ‘We’ve got to go. Now! While we still have a chance of outrunning them.’
Tibor ignored Milos. ‘How much did the AVO pay you?’
Janos spat in disgust. His cousin, Laszlo, took another frightened step backwards.
‘Who are you? Why do the AVO want you?’ Laszlo turned on his companion. ‘Janos, who are these people?’
Tibor laughed, suddenly and unexpectedly. He put his gun away. Even in the dark he could see the hunters weren’t acting.
‘Get us to the boat. Try to run away and I will shoot you. Understand?’
He grabbed hold of Gabriella and dragged her to the top of the ridge. A blast of wind rocked her back on her heels. ‘Hold on to her, Milos. Don’t let her fall. She falls, we all die!’
The descent was steeper than Gabriella could ever have imagined but there was no time for caution. Again and again she stumbled, on the verge of falling, only for Milos to catch and support her. The hunters led the way with Tibor hard on their heels, keeping them honest. But they were experienced woodsmen. What their eyes couldn’t see their feet instinctively knew. Despite Tibor’s best efforts to keep up they drew away from him. He realised then that his threat to shoot them was worthless and he could do nothing to prevent them running off and saving themselves.
‘Slow down!’ he called, not expecting them to, was surprised when they did.
‘Give me the girl,’ said Janos. ‘You are too slow.’ He grabbed hold of Gabriella, pulled off her pack and handed it to his colleague. ‘You lead.’ Without another word he lifted Gabriella onto his massive shoulders. He adjusted her position once so that her waist wrapped neatly around the back of his neck and his arms trapped her knees and shoulders. ‘Try to keep up,’ he said and plunged into the darkness.
Time and again Gabriella thought she must certainly explode from his grasp as he plunged down the mountainside. She buried her face in her arms to shield it from branches and to cushion the impact if they fell. When they fell. Janos was strong but he laboured under the effort of carrying her. His breath came in pain-filled gasps and many times she felt him stagger. But any thought of rest was abandoned when they again heard the chilling baying of the dogs. That meant their pursuers had crossed the ridge and had descended to where the forest was thicker and the wind no longer carried away their sound. She felt the hunter stumble once more, barely heard him curse before he slammed into a tree trunk almost knocking her senseless. Gabi could taste blood in her mouth but was too stunned to identify the source. Had she lost a tooth? Split a lip?
‘Come on!’
Gabriella didn’t know who spoke, only that Janos didn’t bother answering before resuming the plunge down the hillside. He charged recklessly through foliage with no regard for her safety or even his. It was all she could do to hang on. She was dimly aware of him turning abruptly left and a lessening of the jarring. The hillside no longer seemed so steep. She opened her eyes and realised they were once more on the trail. Milos was just behind her and Tibor brought up the rear. Her befuddled mind recalled what Tibor had said: the trails were faster and worth the risk. She clung to the fact that the trails were faster, that they’d reach the boat sooner, that the pounding that drove the breath out of her lungs would soon cease, that the aching in her head would pass. But if they could run faster on the trails, how much faster could their pursuers run? She shivered involuntarily, more frightened of the dogs than the men who ran with them. Would they give her to the dogs to tear apart? Terrors she’d tried her hardest to suppress resurfaced. The terrible nightmares took on the substance of premonition. She was unable to prevent the sob that burst from her throat.
‘Hold on. Not far now.’ The hunter pulled her legs and arms tighter to his body. His breath hissed from his lips and Gabriella could tell by the shortening of his stride that he was nearing exhaustion.
‘Arrgh!’
The cry and the thud that followed were unmistakeable. Someone had fallen. Someone behind her. Milos or Tibor.
‘Milos!’ she cried. ‘Stop!’ But Janos only ran faster.
‘Keep going!’
Who called out? Milos, or Tibor? What did it mean? Were they both okay? What was the point of escaping unless Milos escaped with her?
‘Milos!’ She called again. Desperately.
‘I’m okay! Keep going!’
This time there was no mistaking the voice or the pain it carried. It was Milos. Milos had fallen. She knew he was hurt but how badly? Could he still run? Could Tibor carry him? She wanted to go to his help, to be by his side, no matter what.
‘Put me down!’ She thumped her fists into Janos’s hips. He slowed and swung her onto her feet but didn’t let go.
‘You must run now, run with me! You cannot go back! Hold on to my arm.’
‘No!’
‘They are coming. Your friends are coming. Listen!’
Gabi swung back the way she’d come, hardly daring to breathe. Sure enough she could hear the crunching of leaves underfoot and curses. Two people cursing. Two people!
‘Now run! They will catch us. Run, girl! Run for your life.’
Gabriella turned and ran, half pulled, half dragged. Somewhere behind her Tibor was doing the same for Milos and she owed it to both of them to do her best. Her head swam and the sticky thickness of blood oozing in her mouth obstructed her breathing, making her gag, making her want to vomit. But there was no time. Milos was behind her. Running for his life.
A sudden burst of gunfire made her cry out. The dogs howled as though cheering this development. She cried out again, scared, panicked, desperate. Another burst of gunfire shattered the night.
‘Run! Keep running!’ Janos grabbed her by the back collar of her coat, lifting her so that her feet skipped over the trail. ‘Nearly there!’
The downward grade steepened without warning and there ahead of her Gabriella could make out a clearing and something else. It wasn’t until she splashed into the muddy water that she realised the clearing was in fact the Hernad River and the something else was the boat. The younger hunter was holding on to it as though preventing the boatman from rowing away into the darkness. Gabriella felt hands lift her and drop her unceremoniously into the boat. She lay on the bottom, bruised, battered and exhausted, gasping for breath. Another burst of gunfire split the night and, to Gabriella’s horror, it was followed by a sharp, agonised cry.
‘One of your friends has been shot.’
‘No!’
Gabriella pulled herself up so she could see over the gunwale, turned back towards the trail, her eyes desperately trying to penetrate the gloom. Someone was coming. Milos or Tibor? She heard the splash as the fugitive staggered into the water, heard the splash above the shouts of their pursuers, above the baying of the hounds, the crackle of gunfire. Milos or Tibor? She saw the hunters reach out to haul him to the boat so they could all climb aboard and make their escape, heard the rasps as he gasped for breath.
/> Milos or Tibor? Tibor or Milos?
Dear God, she prayed, please let him be Milos. Please!
CHAPTER THREE
April 1941
It was not easy being a Jew in Hungary but not always hard. Jozsef Heyman nodded courteously towards the faces he recognised and to anyone else prepared to look him in the eye. People watched from doorways and from windows, often half-hidden behind curtains; without exception, the faces were sullen. Jozsef had no expectation of violence or abuse, no fear of anyone blocking their way and preventing him from doing what had to be done. No, for the most part the people of sleepy Sarospatak tolerated their Jews. What persecution there was came not from within but from without, not from the heart but by way of legislation, from the prejudices and political persuasion of those in power, faraway in Budapest. Though they destroyed lives with the pen not the sword, the bitterness and pain was no less. But Jozsef also accepted that, on this day, it was he who had brought about the dismay and disapproval, the collective sense that his action was both offensive and a desecration, at best an exploitation of their tolerance, at worst cynical opportunism. On this day, he had few friends, even among his own kind. On this day, when he sought to free his two sons from the burden of their inheritance.
Jozsef glanced at the boys by his side, wondering how they would remember and judge this day. Would they recall it with bitterness at his betrayal? Or with gratitude for his courage and his foresight? On his left his younger son, Milos, gripped his hand as though to lose grip would be to lose everything. The boy was clearly apprehensive and, perhaps, even ashamed. Nevertheless he held his head up, as he’d been told to, though his eyes studiously avoided contact with others. Jozsef wanted to hug the boy, do something to reassure him, but this was hardly the right time or place and, besides, there’d be plenty of time for that later. On his right, his other son, Tibor, affected an air of total disinterest. Jozsef had to suppress a smile. His elder son had not been born to be oppressed or denied in any way. Almost fourteen, he was only two years older than Milos but, in truth, a gulf separated the pair. Tibor was tall for his age and his body already showed the promise of the man he would become. Where Milos was timid and sensitive, Tibor was bold and forthright. Where Milos was concerned with consequences, Tibor walked his path regardless, confident he had the strength, intelligence, wit and charm to deal with anything or anyone who crossed it.