They Were Divided (52 page)

All around them the snow-clad peaks glimmered softly in the light of a crescent moon. Below them, as far as they could see, stretched the frozen clefts of a great glacier. There was nothing to see but ice and snow, only ice and snow, a petrified world where there could be no life. Ice everywhere, like the frozen inferno of Dante’s seventh hell. Even the sky seemed carved from ice, clean, majestic … and implacable … and even the stars held no mercy.

In front rose the ink-black outline of the Matterhorn, seeming more than ever like a claw, Satan’s claw, reaching for the Heavens. The great peak was no longer a natural pyramid of rock but rather some fatal razor-sharp milestone threatening
death to the sky above – a milestone that pointed to the end of the world.

The next evening Balint left the express at Salzburg. Later he had no memory of the journey. He had bought a ticket for Budapest, but on impulse got out at Salzburg instead.

He felt he could not possibly go home to Hungary. In Budapest he would meet so many people he knew; and it would be the same in Transylvania. And if he went to Denestornya he would everywhere be reminded of so many fruitless plans and of all those hopes and dreams which had come to nothing. People would greet him and talk to him, and he would be forced to reply hiding his hurt behind a face of stone and pretending that he was still interested by the farce of everyday life. He decided he wanted to see no one and speak to no one; for all he now desired was to hide, to creep into some concealed corner and die.

He left the train and had himself driven to some small
anonymous
hotel near the station where he could be alone without the risk of seeing anyone he knew.

He did not count the days but passed his time sitting aimlessly at his hotel window hardly hearing the trains that rumbled past, neither the goods trains that shunted to and fro, nor the slow-
moving
passenger trains that sometimes stayed half an hour or so at the station before moving leisurely on, nor even the fast expresses that hurtled into the nearby station, brakes screaming with
senseless
haste, and then almost at once clattering over the points as they hastened away. At dusk the lamps started to glow, little points of white or red light, some of which moved and vanished and then returned and some which remained constantly in place. Whistles shrilled and shrieked, some short and some long
drawn-out
, until it seemed as if the very engines were crying out in pain.

At night Balint would go for long walks partly so as to escape from the four walls of his dismal little room and partly to tire
himself
out so that perhaps when he returned he would be able to sleep, to sleep as if he were already dead.

One afternoon, as he was sitting at his window staring at nothing, he gradually became aware of some unusual activity below;
newsboys
were rushing down the street excitedly calling out:

‘Extraausgabe
–
Ultimatum
zurückgewiesen
!
–
Extra! Extra! Ultimatum rejected!’ Passers-by were stopping and buying and then gathering in groups to discuss what they read. Balint could
not imagine what had happened and so hurried down and bought a paper himself. He read the news quickly. Serbia had rejected an ultimatum from Vienna and the Austrian ambassador, Giessl, had already left Belgrade.

War! This could only mean war!

He could not stay a moment longer; so he packed hurriedly and took the first train out.

Home! He had to get home!

T
HE RAIL TRAFFIC WAS SO DENSE
that it took two days for Balint to get to Budapest. He arrived at three in the afternoon.

The capital was in a fever of excitement. As yet there had been only partial mobilization, just enough to overrun Serbia.

‘At last!’ people said. ‘Now we’ll teach that rabble a lesson!’ Everyone was saying the same thing; the porters in the hotels, the shopkeepers, and even the newspapers. It seemed as if all the world had awoken from some enchanted sleep and in
consequence
was in high good humour. At the Casino Club it was the same, and some of the younger members were already strutting about in the gold braid of the Hussar uniform or the red and blue of the Lancers. ‘We’ll teach ’em!’ they cried.

All at once the air was filled with heroism and glory, and politics were forgotten. All those petty issues, which formerly had aroused such bitter hatreds, had been blown away by the winds of war.

Balint took refuge in the library. There he read all the papers of the last few days, both the national and international news, so as to learn what had happened between the sending of the
ultimatum
and its rejection. Then he went to the party headquarters which overlooked the boulevard at the corner of Dohany Street and the Karoly Ring, where he would learn the most recent news. Above all he wanted to see Tisza himself and ask how it was that they had got to that point, what preparations had been made and what he believed would be the result. Above all he wanted to know whether, if war did come, it could be limited to Serbia, or whether Russia was expected to intervene thereby starting a general European conflagration.

There was an immense crowd at the party headquarters,
more than Balint had ever seen there before, filling all the rooms and as animated and merry as if drunk on champagne.

Most were discussing the fact that a big pro-war demonstration was shortly due to arrive before the building to cheer the party leader Tisza. Any minute now they should be there,
enthusiastically
shouting for war. This was wonderful, for all at once the government party had become popular again after always
previously
having been scornfully labelled the ‘lackeys of Turkey’, or ‘foreign slaves’, or ‘Vienna’s paid gaolers’, which for years had been the epithets lavished on them by the Coalition press. Now, at last, they were allowed to be full-blooded patriotic Hungarians!

The doors onto the balcony were open and many people stood there watching for the march down the Karoly Ring of all those who were on their way to acclaim the government, while those inside kept on asking if the demonstration was yet in sight.

Suddenly the cry arose: ‘Here they come! They’re turning the corner of the boulevard. Where is Tisza? They’ll be here any
minute
! Tisza! Where is Tisza?’

The Minister-President was sitting on a low chair in the hall, smoking a cigar and looking as remote and introspective as ever. He barely said a word to all those close associates who swarmed round him.

‘They’re coming now, they’re coming!’ And indeed down the boulevard there poured a huge concourse of people who filled the street and the pavements in line after line that stretched right across between the houses on each side. They came with military precision, carrying banners and singing the national anthem, thousands of voices raised high as they marched steadily forward.

In front of the party headquarters they stopped; and, from above, it was a most impressive sight. The great wide boulevard from Deak Square to Emperor Wilhelm Street was black with people. They were so many that no one could count them, but there must have been twenty or thirty thousand, perhaps more. All that could be seen of the dense crowd was a sea of hats and waving banners. Somewhere below the balcony someone started calling out, but there was so much noise that the words could not be heard. Then came a mighty roar: ‘Tisza! Hurrah for Tisza! Tisza and the War!’

The cry rang out from as far away as Deak Square and minutes passed as ‘Tisza and the War!’ reverberated from tens of
thousands
of throats.

Then someone started to make a speech from the balcony
and, though he was cheered while speaking, and after he had
finished
, it was soon obvious that this was not enough. The people wanted Tisza, the Minister-President himself; and no one else would satisfy them.

‘Tisza! Tisza! We want Tisza!’ the crowd chanted from below.

Some men rushed in from the balcony. ‘They want you. They want you to speak to them,’ they cried. ‘What a day! They’re
calling
for you! They want you to speak to them. At last! At last!’

But Tisza made no move. He sent someone else in his stead.

Another speech was made; and another; and then several others and even one from a side balcony to show all those who could not find a place in front of the main balcony that their
war-fever
too was appreciated. This went on for some time, but though the people listened they were not satisfied. They had come for Tisza and they meant to hear him, only him, no one else would satisfy them. Again came the roar: ‘Tisza! Tisza!’ they shouted insistently, angrily.

Gabor Daniel, Pekar and several others ran back to Tisza.

‘You have to speak to them! They only want to hear you!’ they cried. For a long time they argued and insisted, distressed and upset by their leader’s stubborn refusal to move.

Further away some of his followers did not hide their
resentment
, muttering to each other that his stubbornness was
impossible
to understand. How could he, who for years had been the most hated man in Hungary, refuse to appear when everything had been changed and the mob was calling hysterically for him? Now they wanted to cheer him – and he wanted none of it! Now of all times, when it was so important. And they whispered to each other: ‘This is sheer masochism! He’s happy only when they hate him!’ The whole party was indignant.

They could not have known that Tisza was opposed to the war. No one knew, except only those who had attended the King’s Council meetings. On the day that the ultimatum had been decided, Tisza had at once resigned. He had remained in office only because ordered to by the monarch himself. He had resigned because he had thought that by doing so he would be able to modify the harsh terms of the ultimatum; but when he had found that his struggle would be in vain and that he would never be able to bring Berchtold and Conrad to his way of
thinking
, he had decided to stay as he knew that he alone was strong enough to hold the country together at such a critical time. At the express wish of the King he had agreed to keep his opposition
secret, principally because he knew that Hungary’s new-found unity would be shattered if it was known what he really felt. So he accepted responsibility for a war he had fought hard to prevent. Out of a sense of duty he had accepted a task he loathed, the task of organizing a war knowing well what it would mean. He accepted it in silence, a silence that lasted until his death. And he never changed his opinion, even though it was hidden from the world. In his public speeches he spoke only of effort, duty and self-sacrifice; but he never tried to justify the conflict.

Tisza’s real views only became known years after his death when the secret files in Vienna were made public. At the time therefore the resentment of the party’s rank and file at their
leader
’s refusal to speak was only to be expected.

There was nothing to be done. They had to let the crowd go, explaining, with a lie, that the Minister-President wasn’t there, that he had had to be absent on some urgent business.

Morose and disappointed the great crowd melted away. Many of the party members also went home. Darkness fell and few people were left in the party headquarters.

Balint, who had been every bit as irritated by Tisza’s
intransigence
as the others, saw that the number of those surrounding him had diminished and decided he would try to speak to him. He started to move across the hall, but halfway across he caught sight of Tisza’s face and stopped in his tracks.

There the man sat, in a deep armchair, not speaking to anyone, with a dark expression on his face and teeth clenched. What a
tragic
face the man had! Abady was startled and he sensed at once that there must have been some deep compulsion to explain why he had refused to speak, why he had rejected all appeals from his
followers
, why he could not allow himself to go out and make a speech and allow himself to be cheered – at least not that, never that!

Balint knew he could not intrude, so he turned away and went home. But he never forgot the moment when he had seen him there, sitting in silence in the deep armchair with his legs crossed, his thick-lensed glasses making his eyes seem so much
larger
, a bitter crease on his forehead and even more bitter lines reaching down each side of his face. He had sat there motionless, staring ahead of him as if all he could see was the fate of his
country
. Silent. Chewing a cigar.

Balint stayed only a day or two in Budapest, just long enough to buy a uniform and some other equipment he would need, and
clear up some unfinished business in the head office of the
Co-operative
Movement before enlisting in the army.

Then he left for Kolozsvar.

In Transylvania too everyone was happy and full of confidence, even though by then it had become clear that their real enemy was Russia, while France and England had both declared war on Austria’s ally Germany. It was also fairly sure that their other ally, Italy, could not be relied upon and that Romania would remain neutral. Nevertheless euphoria was in the air and among the gayest were the young men, all reserve officers, who were eagerly preparing to rejoin their regiments. Only the women were anxious, the mothers and sisters.

Balint found a number of his old friends who were making the most of their last days carousing with gypsy music and revelling in the joys of saying farewell. At that moment life was suddenly freer – and the girls more complaisant. Some of the men were still dressed in everyday clothes, but most were already sporting their uniforms.

He saw the Laczok boys and young Zoltan Miloth, Adrienne’s brother. There also were Pityu Kendy, Joska Kendy, Aron Kozma with three of his cousins, Isti Kamuthy, Adam Alvinczy and his young brother, and even the eldest Alvinczy, Farkas, who had abandoned his vicarious travels and, though it was now rather tight for him, had donned his old sky-blue hussar’s tunic.

In Monostor Street Balint met the kind Ida Kendy, Countess Laczok, who had come in from Var-Siklod to see that her sons were well provided with a host of things they would not need, scarves to keep out the cold and other oddments so that they would not get wet at the front. She was out shopping when Balint met her and though filled with anxiety she did her best to hide it and smiled gaily when Balint greeted her.

The smile faded as soon as she looked closely at him. ‘Have you been ill?’ she asked. ‘You look so pale!’

Balint parried the question and they walked on together. This was when he encountered the three Alvinczys. Those tall, fair, good-looking and broad-shouldered young men were walking along arm-in-arm and keeping step, their heels tapping in true military fashion and spurs clinking as they went. They kissed Aunt Ida’s hand and shook Abady’s and talked loudly in high good humour.

Farkas gave Abady several hearty claps on the shoulder, as
befitted a military man, for there was now no trace of the
world-weary
melancholic that Balint had last seen at Magyarokerek. Now he was all merry and extrovert. The Alvinczy brothers were as happy and confident of success as if they were just setting off for a ball. ‘We’ll be back by Christmas!’ they cried, for had not the German Emperor said the same and he, of all people, should know. ‘It’s carnival time!’ they shouted. ‘Hurrah! Hurrah! The hussars are coming!’