Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  As they turned the final corner before their destination Jozsef spotted a group of boys lingering sullenly on the opposite side of the street. He felt Milos’s grip on his hand suddenly tighten, yet Tibor showed not the least concern. His older son stared at the boys as if committing their names and faces to memory should retribution be required and, unbelievably, waved at them as though inviting comment. Jozsef knew immediately there would be none. No calls of ‘Jew boy’ or ‘filthy yid’ nor the accusatory ‘Christ killer’. Tibor simply commanded too much respect. Besides, the circumstances compromised their insults. They walked on, the only sound coming from their shoes on the cobblestones shined by overnight rain. Soon it would all be over and they could get on with their lives, his sons with an immeasurably brighter future.

  Jozsef paused briefly at the foot of the steps leading to the church entrance. Once inside, he knew they would be welcome. If not himself, then certainly his two sons who would be greeted as two souls saved from corruption, a triumph of the Holy Roman Catholic Church over Judaism. When Jozsef had told trusted friends and colleagues of his intentions, they’d not only expressed bewilderment at the proposed conversion of his sons but at his choice of the Roman Catholic Church. Sarospatak had achieved fame as a bastion of Calvinism and the Calvinist College was still a dominant factor in the life of the town. But Jozsef had his answer ready. He told anyone who asked that the boys’ mother had been Roman Catholic and had practised her faith right up until her death from tuberculosis. Those who knew Jozsef found the answer credible and in line with his claim to be an agnostic. As an agnostic, what would it matter which faith his wife chose to follow? Jozsef claimed he allowed his sons to follow their mother’s religion on the grounds that he adhered to no religion himself.

  But he had another reason. He was determined not to transfer his sons from one minority group to another. There was strength and safety in numbers and four out of every five Hungarians were at least nominally Catholic. Jozsef had also made no secret of his determination to spare his sons the effects of the numerus clausus legislation, the discriminatory laws which severely limited the number of Jews able to enter the professions, or take senior positions in public service, education or the arts. His critics protested that this was his sole motive and deemed his actions an affront to both their religion and the law.

  While it was easy to question Jozsef’s claims, resolving any doubts was anything but. Nobody in Sarospatak had ever met his wife or even known Jozsef at the time of her death. Nobody knew whether she was Roman Catholic or not. That piece of his personal history had occurred in Budapest, before he was banished to Sarospatak. Nobody could check Jozsef’s claim that his wife’s religion was clearly stated on the boys’ birth certificates, because the documents had been lost when he had been forced to surrender his job and his apartment to his successor. Of course, there were copies in the Budapest town hall, but finding and verifying them took both time and effort.

  Jozsef was met at the top of the steps by the priest’s unsmiling helper. Old Ignac, or Misery Guts as he was universally known, had served the church in a lay capacity for more than sixty-five years and tended to regard it as his domain. He may have been happy to admit the two boys but was far less convinced about allowing a Jew into the church, even one who wasn’t practising. He waited impatiently as Jozsef removed his hat and coat to reveal a shining pate completely devoid of hair except around the back and sides, and a portliness which, together with his short legs, made his body appear oval. The acolyte made little effort to hide his disgust.

  Once Jozsef had helped Milos out of his coat, Old Ignac led them down the aisle towards the baptismal font. Jozsef took in nothing of his surroundings. Instead he searched ahead, anxious for confirmation that his clerk and his wife had kept their promise to act as godparents to both boys. His clerk was a good man in his late fifties, gifted with intelligence but lacking in ambition. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the great composers and nothing thrilled him more than the emergence of contemporary musical talent. From time to time he performed recitals on the magnificent two-hundred-year-old organ in the Castle Church. Music and butterfly-collecting were what he lived for and he was content with a job that provided enough for himself and his wife and didn’t intrude on his real interests. Jozsef smiled warmly when he spotted the Zelks standing in the nave with Father Hegedus and his small entourage, awaiting their arrival. He guessed his clerk and his wife had stayed on after mass rather than face the accusing eyes outside.

  ‘Shall we begin?’

  Father Hegedus neither offered his hand nor made any attempt to make Jozsef feel welcome. Clearly the priest was anxious to conclude the ceremony as quickly as possible.

  Unlike Jozsef, the boys were no strangers to the church, having attended instruction from the priest prior to their baptism to make certain they understood the tenets of their new faith and what was required of them. Jozsef tried his best to follow the proceedings but was distracted as he finally took in his surroundings. The church was far more austere than he had expected, nothing like the great synagogue in Rakocsi Street. And so much more sombre! Yet it did nothing to dim his determination. He assumed the church would be more lively and welcoming with a congregation in attendance, when voices were raised in hymns. Satisfaction welled up inside him as he watched Father Hegedus make the sign of the cross in holy water on the brow of each of his sons in turn. In his heart he was certain he was doing the right thing. Unlike him, his sons would not be persecuted by legislation. His sons would not have their careers curtailed and their options limited. Neither would his sons have anything to fear from the growing menace of Hitler’s Germany. His sons would no longer be Jews but Hungarians.

  Milos again held his father’s hand as they left the church. The priest had spoken of the joy and elation at being admitted into the faith and taking Christ as his saviour, but he felt none of that. Instead he felt confused and ashamed. Although religion had played little part in his upbringing, his brushes with it had been decidedly Jewish. What now of Hanuka and Yom Kippur? What of the Seders when they had celebrated Passover at his grandmother’s house in Budapest where he, as youngest, had been accorded the honour of asking questions? It didn’t matter that his father now maintained that to be born a Jew his mother needed to be Jewish and insisted she was not. He had been raised believing he was a Jew and been told every day at school that he was a Jew. How could he cease to be one? He felt no different as a Christian than he had as a Jew. When he went to school he would still be branded a Jew. The boys in the schoolyard had made that perfectly clear. Once a Jew always a Jew and undeniable evidence resided within his trousers. Milos could see no benefit in no longer being a Jew, only humiliation.

  Another thought struck him and he closed his eyes as though in pain, unwilling even to consider the possibility. What if ceasing to be Jews meant his father would no longer be friends with Gabriella’s father? What if they were no longer invited around to Tokaj Street for Sunday lunch? A month never went by without them going to Tokaj Street for Sunday lunch at least once. What would happen if they never went again? Milos glanced over at his brother to see if the thought had occurred to him. If it had, he gave no sign, but that was only to be expected. Tibor’s disinterested expression was unchanged. Earlier in the week, as the day of baptism had approached, Milos had tried to discuss things with his older brother but Tibor had contemptuously dismissed his questions. Tibor never let on what he was thinking until he’d made up his mind. He never admitted to doubts and regarded any form of vacillation as weakness. More than anything, Milos had wanted to ask him what effect their conversion would have in Tokaj Street, but lacked the courage. Tibor would have laughed at him and that would have been unbearable. Milos turned his attention back to the street. The cobblestones were finally drying out and reverting to their normal drab grey. The spring air had not entirely shaken off winter but, out of the shade of the sombre two-storey stone houses lining both sides of the street, the direct sunlight was warmin
g. However, it did nothing to drive the dark thoughts from Milos’s head. Were they still going to Tokaj Street?

  Milos had been aghast when he heard his father invite Father Hegedus and his new godparents home to celebrate the baptism, and mightily relieved when they had declined. There was a celebration to attend but it had nothing to do with their baptism. When they reached the door of the small cottage provided by the railways, he turned accusingly to his father.

  ‘Why did you invite Father Hegedus and Mr and Mrs Zelk to our house?’ he asked.

  His father laughed. ‘Because it was the proper thing to do.’

  ‘But what if they had accepted?’

  His father put his arm around him. ‘They would never have accepted. It would have been an embarrassment for all of us. Father Hegedus understood and so did the Zelks. The Zelks are good people and good friends. Now, let’s go inside.’

  But Milos didn’t move. He remained in the cottage doorway blocking his father’s entry. He had one more question, one that could no longer wait to be answered.

  ‘Are we still going to Tokaj Street? Now that Tibor and I are Christians?’

  His father crouched down so that his eyes were level with Milos’s, a broad smile spreading over his face, making Milos feel embarrassed for asking.

  ‘Do you think we would have taken so much care buying Gabriella’s birthday present if I thought you’d no longer be welcome there? Would I have insisted you become a Christian if I thought it would end your friendship with Gabriella?’

  His face grew serious as he began to appreciate the depth of his son’s concern.

  ‘Your Uncle Thomas does not agree with what we’ve done but he understands why. Are we still welcome in his house? Of course we are. Thomas and I disagree over many things. That is why we like each other. That is why we get on so well. I am certain all his family feel the same. Even Gabriella,’ he added mischievously.

  Milos turned and raced up the stairs to get Gabriella’s present before his blushing made him seem even more ridiculous.

  How old does a boy have to be before he can fall truly in love? At eleven years of age Milos was too young, but he was also too young to appreciate the limitations of his years. He was impatient to get to Tokaj Street where he knew that Gabriella could not help but be overwhelmed by his present. He knew of her love for the poems of Sandor Petofi and had wanted to buy her a collection of his works. But his father had guided him to a far more singular and precious gift: the magical book Peter Pan and Wendy. The book was printed in English, a language Gabriella had been taught by her English governess but, best of all, was illustrated by Mabel Lucie Attwell. One of Gabriella’s most treasured possessions was a pixie and toadstool tea set designed by Mabel Lucie Attwell, given to her as a farewell present by her governess. His was the most perfect gift and Milos had convinced himself that for once, in Gabriella’s eyes at least, his star would shine more brightly than his brother’s. More than that, he believed it was a gift to win Gabriella’s heart.

  Yet his brother worried him. Tibor had been unimpressed when he’d told him about his wonderful present and had simply smiled when Milos had asked what gift he’d bought for Gabriella. That smile worried him. It was a knowing smile, the kind of smile a cat reserves for a cornered mouse the moment both animals realise the inevitability of the situation. What had Tibor got for her? Milos looked at the flat rectangular present Tibor carried under his arm. It was beautifully wrapped in red paper with shiny bright blue ribbons yet Milos could not imagine how it could possibly be better than his book. He hugged his present to his chest.

  Tokaj Street was three kilometres from their little cottage and the overhead sun was making a mockery of the coat his father had insisted he wear. He was hot and uncomfortable but still wished his father would walk faster. The unpleasantness of the morning was past and he had an afternoon in his favourite place to look forward to. And, of course, Gabriella’s gratitude.

  Tibor was not the only obstacle in the way of Milos’s bid for Gabriella’s affections. Gabriella was two months older than Milos, at least seven centimetres taller, more confident and far more socially adept. Any onlooker would unhesitatingly match her with Tibor; Milos would not warrant any consideration at all. Milos was fully aware of the advantages his brother had over him, yet remained hopeful. He believed it was only a matter of time before Gabriella realised where her true affections lay. One day he would be taller than her and the two-month difference in their ages would no longer matter. With his increase in height would come the confidence and self-assurance now lacking. Then, he believed, he would be more than a match for his brother.

  Even if Gabriella had been born plain and foolish, Milos would still have looked forward to the visits to Tokaj Street with the eagerness of a puppy. He loved the big house his Uncle Thomas and Aunt Katica Horvath lived in with Gabriella, her elder sister Elizabeth and brother Balazs, the eldest. The titles ‘uncle’ and ‘aunt’ were affectionate courtesies because the families were not related in any way. Entering the house was like slipping into a big, warm bed, like sipping a bowl of hot, thick goulash in front of the kitchen stove on a winter’s day, like entering a storybook in which he was hero and a happy ending was guaranteed. His father did his best to make their little railway cottage cosy and comfortable but it could never compete with Tokaj Street. It wasn’t just that the rooms in his uncle’s house were large and spacious, the ceilings high and the walls bedecked with beautiful paintings. Or that being there awakened vague memories of the elegant apartment in Budapest in which he’d spent the first six years of his life. Whenever he was inside the house he felt happy, safe and significant. The Horvaths were always interested in what he had to say, supportive of what he did and generous in their praise. Their generosity of spirit extended to everyone and everything and their warmth was reciprocated by all who entered. It was impossible to conceive of sickness or sadness ever finding a niche, impossible to believe that harm could ever come to anyone in this wonderful house.

  When Jozsef tapped three times with the big brass knocker in the centre of the heavy oak door, Milos felt a sudden flutter of nervousness. His racing mind rehearsed the words he planned to say to Gabriella when he gave her his gift. He couldn’t wait to see her face when she’d unwrapped it. It really was the most perfect present. He glanced nervously towards Tibor. His brother caught his eye and shook his head. Milos realised he was shaking with anticipation. His father gazed steadfastly at the closed door though Milos could see he was trying to suppress a smile. Milos felt his face blush bright red. He shut his eyes and tried to tell himself to stay calm and be less eager but already he could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. The door opened.

  ‘About time!’ said Uncle Thomas. He was a tall lean man with kind eyes and a face that always wanted to smile. ‘We were beginning to think they’d decided to baptise your father as well. Come in, come in.’

  He shook hands first with Jozsef, then Tibor and finally Milos. He also tousled Milos’s hair. ‘How are you, young fellow?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you, Uncle,’ said Milos. He stepped quickly around his uncle, expecting to find Gabriella coming to greet them. He saw his Aunt Katy instead. ‘Where’s Gabi?’ The moment the words passed his lips, Milos regretted saying them. Suddenly everyone was laughing, not unkindly, but nonetheless he was the unwilling source of their merriment. Tibor rolled his eyes and shook his head once more as though in despair of his little brother.

  ‘Don’t worry, Gabi’s not hiding,’ said Aunt Katy. ‘Now give me a hug.’

  Milos responded politely to her greetings. ‘Csokolom,’ he said formally. ‘I kiss your hand.’ He resolved to not say another unnecessary word until it was time to give Gabriella her present. Nobody would laugh then.

  As they passed by the dining room, Milos noted with a slight tinge of disappointment the table cloth and place settings. He’d hoped that tables would have been set up outside so that they could lunch in the garden like they did in summer. That wo
uld have made the meal really special and Gabriella’s birthday celebration deserved nothing less. Uncle Thomas led them into the drawing room where Gabriella was attempting a new piece of music on the piano. Milos couldn’t help but notice the shiny new gold bracelet on her wrist. His shoulders sagged. How could his present possibly compete with that?

  The moment Gabriella noticed them, she stopped playing and raced to greet them. She looked absolutely gorgeous and wore a dress Milos hadn’t seen before. Another present! He noticed Tibor had slipped his present under his coat, out of sight. Perhaps he’d also noticed the bracelet, and was too ashamed of his gift to give it to her. He thought he should follow his brother’s example but his coat was still buttoned up and his package too bulky. He felt trapped. He watched helplessly as Gabriella kissed his father, then Tibor, then turned to kiss him. She kissed each of his cheeks then hugged him. He was overwhelmed, as always, by the fresh smell of her hair, by her touch and her astonishing softness.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ he mumbled. ‘I see you have a new bracelet.’

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ She held her wrist up to give him a closer look. ‘A present from Daddy.’

  It was beautiful. It was as though the craftsman who’d made it had anticipated that Gabriella would one day be the wearer and been inspired to greatness. The more Milos looked at it the more insignificant his present seemed. It hung leaden, like his sinking hopes, a dead weight in his hand.