Lunch with the Stationmaster

by Derek Hansen

  ‘Poland?’ asked Thomas. ‘Why Poland?’

  ‘Why indeed. Sometimes it is dangerous pulling isolated pieces of information together. In all likelihood, they are unrelated. Particularly when the source is third- or fourth-hand and of questionable reliability. I have heard whispers that these trucks have been left under guard in sidings for two and three days at a time and that people are inside them.’

  ‘People!’

  ‘The original sources claim to have heard people crying out for food and water. They say the stench from the wagons is indescribable.’

  ‘Who are these people?’ asked Balazs. ‘Prisoners of war?’

  ‘Only if you consider women and children prisoners of war.’

  ‘Women and children. Surely you’re not suggesting they are Jews?’ asked Thomas quietly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jozsef. ‘I don’t know what to think. My contacts in Hungary are good but not so beyond the borders. I’m led to believe most of the movement is from the German–Polish border eastwards, but there are suggestions that some of these trains originated in Germany and Austria. What isn’t clear is what their final destination is. There’s talk of rounding up Jews and concentrating them in ghettos. But so far it is all rumour, stories passed down the line from one railwayman to another. Railwaymen always like to know the point of origin and destination of trains that use their track. It’s in their blood. But to answer your question: yes, it is rumoured the people in the box cars are Jews.’

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ said Thomas. ‘Why would the Germans take Jews to Poland? Poland already has plenty of Jews.’

  ‘Of course you are right,’ said Jozsef. ‘I’m beginning to wish I’d kept this information to myself, that’s if it merits being called information. I’ve probably alarmed you for nothing. But if there is any truth to these stories, we had all better hope that Germany loses the war and loses it quickly. In the meantime, you could do worse than become Christians.’

  Jozsef smiled wryly, uncrossed his legs and stretched them. They met with resistance and Jozsef realised instantly what it was. His smile vanished.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Enough of this gloom. I think we should join the others.’ He paused momentarily. ‘It goes without saying that these rumours are best left in this room. No good would be served by discussing them with anyone else.’

  Thomas and Balazs looked at each other, surprised and not a little perplexed. When had it ever been otherwise?

  Milos remained huddled tightly in a ball after the men left, too stunned to even consider his next move. He didn’t know what to think. He’d been paralysed with fear the instant his father’s foot had touched him and was in dread of the consequences. But his mind also raced as it tried to deal with what he’d overheard. Living by the railways, he was familiar with the box cars that transported livestock and tried to imagine what it would be like to be crammed in one for days on end without food or water. What if they had been filled with Jews? What if the Germans came to Hungary, to Sarospatak? What if they knocked on the door of Tokaj Street?

  The sun was long gone before Jozsef and his sons left to walk back to their little cottage. They’d filled up on sandwiches and cake before leaving but Milos was also burdened by guilt and his terrible knowledge. As usual, he held his father’s hand while Tibor walked alongside them. They walked in silence for the first ten minutes before Jozsef spoke. To Milos’s relief, he addressed Tibor, not him.

  ‘So tell me, Tibor. How did you get hold of that record?’

  Even in the dark Milos knew his brother’s face would have eased into a knowing half smile.

  ‘Contacts,’ said Tibor.

  ‘Which contacts exactly?’

  ‘Whichever were needed,’ said Tibor. ‘You have always pressed upon us the value of contacts. I have learned well, no?’

  ‘I saw the sticker on the sleeve. The price was in Austrian schillings.’

  ‘So? According to the Nazis, this American music is degenerate. All good Austrians are getting rid of it.’

  ‘The record was not new. Did you consider that it may have been stolen? That it may have been looted?’

  ‘No,’ said Tibor evenly. ‘Did Milos ask for the provenance on his book?’

  ‘That’s enough,’ snapped Jozsef. ‘How do you think Gabi would feel if she discovered that the record was stolen from a Jewish family in Vienna? How would any of them feel?’

  ‘Why would she even think such a thing? I made a list of records I thought would make a suitable present, distributed it to contacts and waited for a response. All I know is the record came from Austria, but who knows how many hands it went through to reach me? It was available. I bought it.’

  ‘Before you try anything like this again you should consider all possibilities,’ said Jozsef darkly.

  They walked the rest of the way home in silence. With every step Milos feared his father would turn on him and raise the serious matter of his eavesdropping. The moment he stepped through the front door of the little cottage, Milos decided to make a dash upstairs for his bedroom. His father, however, held on to his hand, preventing his escape. Milos realised the time had come to face up to the consequences. He hung his head, mortally ashamed.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked his father softly. He let go of Milos’s hand and crouched down with a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders. ‘Are you all right?’ he repeated.

  Milos nodded. He was prepared for anger, not for compassion. For the second time that day he felt tears welling up behind his eyes. He turned away.

  ‘You’ve had a busy day,’ said his father gently. ‘Promise me you’ll put it all out of your mind so it doesn’t spoil your sleep.’

  Again Milos nodded.

  His father smiled and hugged him. ‘Good boy. Now think about this. Right now Gabi is in bed reading a wonderful book given to her by a very precious friend. Think about that, Milos, think what your best friend is doing. Think of the pleasure you are giving her. Yes? Now kiss me good night.’

  As Milos lay in bed and waves of tiredness threatened to engulf him, he did his best to think of his sweetheart reading her book and taking in every detail of Mabel Lucie Attwell’s glorious colour plates. But somewhere off in the background he could hear the rattle of cattle trucks and the despairing cries of their human cargo. He let the tears come and softly cried himself to sleep, vowing that if the Germans ever came to put Gabriella in a box car and send her off to Poland, he’d rescue her. No matter what.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  January 1942

  It took another nine months for the war to reach Sarospatak, and it came not with the crash of cannons but with a knock on the door.

  As Jozsef had predicted, Hungary lost its doomed attempt to sit on the fence and toppled over into the Nazi camp as a fellow belligerent, its fate sealed by Germany’s attack on Russia. Two months after Gabriella’s birthday and a week before his own, Milos stood alongside Tibor by the side of the railway track with their fellow students to cheer on the five young soldiers who were Sarospatak’s contribution to the token force Prime Minister Bardossy had committed to the Russian campaign. The token force was Bardossy’s last attempt to avert the inevitable. Believing a German victory to be imminent, certainly before the onset of winter, Bardossy sent just enough troops to placate Hitler without totally alienating the West, with whom he was attempting to engage in secret negotiations.

  The students cheered and waved their little paper Hungarian flags the moment they spotted the train that would carry the soldiers to the rendezvous with the rest of the force. It was just the regular service from Satoraljaujhely, the border town to the east, but someone had seen fit to bedeck it with ribbons. Milos waved as enthusiastically as any, obeying his father’s instructions. Besides, to do otherwise would have been plain foolish. He was now Christian, one of them, and he’d learned the wisdom of letting himself flow along with the tide. Yet he was confused, his head swirling with contradictions. He’d believed his teacher when the
class was told that this was a great day for Hungary, that the soldiers were going to Russia to bring an end to the war. The class had cheered and he’d cheered with them, only to learn that his father felt differently. In fact, he’d rarely seen his father so distraught. The following Sunday, when they’d gone to Tokaj Street, he’d heard his father debating the development with Uncle Thomas and Balazs. When they’d finally left the dining room, no one was smiling and the day had ended early. He was glad he had been forbidden to hide beneath the table.

  A marching band played on the station platform between the students and the local dignitaries, filling the air with bright brassy sounds rather than the doleful national anthem. Clearly this was an occasion for festivity. Milos looked along the platform to see if he could spot his father standing among the dignitaries. Normally he would have been proud of him but today felt only concern. That morning he’d shined his father’s shoes and helped him put on his uniform, not the one he’d been issued with by the railways but the trousers and jacket he’d had specially tailored. His father had paused midway through dressing and stared at him.

  ‘When the train leaves, I want you to cheer with all the other boys,’ said his father eventually. ‘Do it for the soldiers, do it for them. I’m afraid history will record this not as the train of heroes but as the train of martyrs. No good will come of this, not for Hungary nor for us. And certainly not for them.’

  When the train slowed to pick up the five self-conscious soldiers and the good wishes of the citizens of Sarospatak, Milos waved his flag with genuine vigour. Like his brother, he kept his true feelings hidden. But if his father was right, how could so many other people be wrong? He waved until the train slowly disappeared around the bend and out of sight. All around him were proud smiling faces. How could this be, if what his father said was true?

  Jozsef had also predicted that the troop train which would ultimately transport the five soldiers into Russia would only be the first of many, and that their departure would no longer occasion cheers but dread and despair. Milos fruitlessly searched the crowd for any hint that anyone shared his father’s opinion. Surely his father had to be wrong.

  It was late January, just seven months later, when the postman knocked on the door of Tokaj Street and delivered the papers that changed life in that wonderful house for ever. A knock had been expected, but not the one that came. If Milos had been aware of the postman’s knock, he would have run around to Tokaj Street the instant school finished to comfort Gabriella. As it was, he needed comforting himself.

  Milos ran all the way home from school even though his father always warned him about running when the roads were covered in snow and ice. He didn’t run to keep warm but because Tibor had refused to walk home with him. Milos had pleaded with him but Tibor claimed he had other things to attend to. Milos was used to walking home alone but this time he needed his brother’s company. All he could think of was getting home safely and throwing himself on the bed until all the horrible events of the day had worked themselves out. He changed his mind as he reached the door of the little cottage and instead ran on to the station.

  His father’s office was in the station building and Milos liked going there after school. When he was younger, he’d been allowed to spin on his father’s revolving chair and make patterns with ink on his blotter. But lately Jozsef’s little provincial outpost had become unexpectedly busy tracking down rolling stock and scheduling the increasing numbers of special trains heading east, not only on his line but over the eastern part of the northern uplands and the north-east. It appeared that someone in authority had realised the discarded Jozsef Heyman still had value and decided to utilise his skills. His instructions came by phone from the regional centre at Miskolc.

  Milos peered through the bubbled-glass office window to make sure his father was alone, knocked once on the door and entered. His father smiled tiredly until he noticed his son’s hot and red face and how close he was to tears.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

  Milos rushed over and buried his face in his father’s shoulder.

  ‘Is it Tibor?’

  Milos shook his head.

  ‘Then what? Come on. I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s troubling you.’

  ‘School,’ said Milos.

  ‘What about school?’

  ‘They got Izsac Janosi in the toilets. They made him take off all his clothes and pissed on them. Then they made him lie down in the urinal and pissed on him too. He was screaming and begging me to help him.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No.’ Milos began sobbing.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They told me that if I didn’t piss on Izsac they’d piss on me too. They told me I had to piss on the filthy Jew to prove I was a Christian.’

  Jozsef pulled his son closer to him and held him.

  ‘You did the only thing you could do. How would it have helped Izsac if you’d had to take off your clothes too and the boys had urinated on you? Tell me, how would that have helped him?’

  Milos was silent.

  ‘Izsac isn’t the first Jewish boy to be treated this way and he won’t be the last. This is exactly the sort of ordeal I want to spare you and Tibor. That is why I wanted you to become Christians. Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do, things that make you feel bad. But so long as you know within yourself what is right and wrong, and do your best to do the right thing at all times, then you can go to bed at night and know you have nothing to be ashamed of. What happened today was not your fault. Understand? It was not your fault. Therefore you have no reason to be ashamed. By all means apologise to Izsac when you get the chance. And from now on, do your best to make sure you’re somewhere else when this sort of thing happens. Understand?’

  Milos nodded.

  ‘Apart from that, how are you being treated at school? Are you still being treated fairly?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Milos. ‘My marks are still good.’

  Jozsef nodded. Tibor had told him how all the other Jewish boys at school were being victimised by their teachers, that their test papers got lost or were destroyed when coffee or ink was ‘accidentally’ spilled over them; and how gangs of boys stole homework off the Jews before they could hand it in and burned it in front of their faces. The Jewish children were being humiliated and made the dunces of the school.

  ‘Sometimes …’

  ‘Yes?’ said Jozsef.

  ‘Sometimes I think the only reason I don’t get beaten or marked down is because of Tibor.’

  ‘Tibor?’ said Jozsef puzzled. ‘Why would your teachers be afraid of Tibor?’

  ‘They’re not afraid of him,’ said Milos. ‘They like him. He does things for them.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  Milos was aware of an edge creeping into his father’s voice and wished he hadn’t opened his mouth.

  ‘He gets things for them. Like the record for Gabi.’

  ‘Does he?’ said Jozsef, and Milos could tell by the tone of his voice that he’d gone too far. ‘And what about the school bullies? Does he get things for them too?’

  Milos hung his head. He thought of the grubby, fingered postcards Tibor slipped to the older boys, the shameful pictures of brazen women who bared their breasts and worse. There was no way he could tell his father about them. Besides he’d been sworn to secrecy.

  ‘Come on,’ said Jozsef angrily. ‘What does he get them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Milos miserably.

  ‘Don’t know or won’t tell?’

  ‘Don’t know!’ said Milos and pulled himself free of his father. ‘I don’t know!’

  Jozsef stared at him for what seemed like ages and Milos didn’t dare move a muscle.

  ‘When you see Tibor, tell him I want to see him. I’ll be home at five-thirty. Now go.’

  Milos went, shamed by his secret and feeling guilty for betraying his brother. He was relieved to discover Tibor had not yet come home and sat down to
try and work out what to say to him. No matter how he tried to phrase things, there was no escaping the facts. Tibor would be furious. Seeking distraction, he turned to his homework but couldn’t concentrate. Instead he built up the fire in the fireplace, which was the cottage’s only source of heat, and went down to the cellar for another scoop of coal. The coal was one of the perks of working for the railway. Jozsef was given a sackful every month throughout winter, though lately it had been reduced to half a sack. Milos had just sat down to toast a piece of bread over the flames when he heard the front door open and his brother throw his school bag onto the floor. Tibor pushed open the living room door and came straight to the fireplace.

  ‘Move over.’

  Milos moved.

  Tibor stood as close to the fire as he could but it didn’t stop him shivering.

  ‘Dad wants to see you.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I went to see him after school,’ said Milos.

  ‘Why? Because of Izsac?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I heard you pissed on him.’

  ‘I had no choice.’

  ‘You didn’t have to be there, you idiot. Anyway, what’s that got to do with me? Why does Dad want to see me?’

  Milos looked away, ashamed.

  ‘What did you tell him, you little twerp?’ Tibor grabbed hold of Milos’s arm and squeezed it as hard as he could.

  ‘I told him you got things for the teachers so we’d get good marks.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I said you get things for the older boys.’

  ‘Did you say what?’

  ‘No! You made me swear to keep that a secret.’

  ‘Good.’ Tibor nodded approvingly. He let go of Milos’s arm. ‘Does he want me to go to his office?’

  ‘No. He said he’d be home at five-thirty.’

  ‘Well, that’s just too bad,’ said Tibor. ‘I saw Elizabeth on the way home, she was riding over here on her bike. Something has happened. She wants Dad to go see Uncle Thomas the instant he comes home. She said we can come too, there’s enough food.’