Authors: Tibor Fischer
The centre of the city had quietened but as the train chugged out of Budapest,
passing Csepel Island, explosions could be heard. Csepel, always referred to
officially as ‘red’, since it was inhabited exclusively by industrial workers,
was the last part of Budapest to hold out. They had a munitions factory. They
had anti-aircraft batteries so powerful they could be used to turn most tanks
into Swiss cheeses. Their own leaders had told them to give up. They had been
instructed to go to hell. Huge columns of smoke had hung immobile over the
island all day as if pinned there. People who lived in Csepel had a reputation
for tenacity, toughness and an implausible degree of violence second only to
Angyalföld.
There
were two people on the train that Gyuri knew. The first, Kórodi, who lived at
the other end of Damjanich utca. Gyuri hadn’t seen him for years despite his
proximity, and it was ironic to bump into him in a dash to see if the border
was still open. Clutching his violin-case like a life-belt, Kórodi was very
pleased to see Gyuri. ‘Haven’t seen you for a long time,’ said Gyuri sitting
next to him in the buffetless buffet car.
‘No one’s
seen me for a long time,’ said Kórodi laughing. ‘I’ve spent all my time
practising. Fourteen hours a day sometimes. No evenings without a violin. No
romance. No long baths. No trashy novels. No good novels. I may not be the
greatest violinist alive, but I’ve been the hardest working. I cut everything
out, because I knew, I
knew
one day I’d get out and then it would all be worth
it. Those lazy bastards in the West won’t know what hit them.’
‘The
streets may not be paved with gold,’ said a part of Gyuri’s mind responsible
for repartee.
‘You
know what? I don’t care if they’re paved with turds.’
Gyuri’s
other acquaintance was Kurucz. Looking for a seat, Gyuri hadn’t recognised him
immediately because most of his face was swathed with bandages. He was leaning
on a crutch. What Gyuri could see of his face looked awful, worse than some of
the corpses that had been lying around for a couple of days. They didn’t
acknowledge each other at first, the old caution having silently returned but
an hour out of Budapest, Gyuri noticed Kurucz having a cigarette in the
corridor. They had enough space for a hushed conversation.
‘What happened?’ asked Gyuri.
‘I got killed,’ said Kurucz, speaking with the mellowness of someone who hasn’t eaten
or slept for days. ‘Near the Rákoczi út. We were surrounded. Ammunition gone.
Have you ever tried to kick a tank in the balls? There was a chance if we
surrendered we might live. Not that we were expecting much. There were twelve
of us, mostly lads. They lined us up on the spot, shot us and tossed a couple
of grenades in for good measure. I was hit in the neck and I don’t have much
left ear left. Not to mention a generous helping of shrapnel. It must have
looked bad, thank goodness. Next thing I knew I was in a flat being patched up,
thinking what lousy wallpaper heaven has; the people who helped me said I was
the only one alive.’
They stared at the blackness outside the window. Solid gloom, a sinister aspic. No
features from outside made it through.
‘Did we kill too many? Not enough?’ asked Kurucz speaking apropos of the AVO and the
Party. ‘They always seem to find replacements. Quislings, shits, like hope,
spring eternal.’ Kurucz had done a spell of military service at the border; he offered
to take Gyuri through a very green part of it.
* * *
Elek,
bored in the flat and not eager to find out if he had a job to go to at the
hospital, greeted István warmly when he appeared.
‘Have
you seen Gyuri? I’m getting worried. I managed to buy his favourite cakes. Can
you imagine in the middle of all this, the patisserie’s back at work?’
István
sighed at Gyuri’s untidiness. ‘He’s gone,’ he said. That November there was no
need to say more.
‘Just
as he was getting interesting,’ remarked Elek.
People
got off the train at different points once it reached Western Hungary,
depending on how they saw their escape. There were families with two, three or
even four children and innumerable suitcases, solitary voyagers, couples just
carrying each other’s hands, and even a farmer who had voiced intentions of
trying to smuggle his prize pig out. There was an atmosphere of a grim holiday
excursion.
Kurucz
seemed to know what he was doing, although well on the way to being dead. This,
at least, saved Gyuri some thinking. He couldn’t be bothered to be afraid; the
events had quelled his terror, if at great cost. They walked slowly towards the
border, warily appraising any other figures, most of whom shunned them with as
much alacrity and distance as they did. The plan was to get within a kilometre
or so of the border, wait till dark, then move.
There
was a thin carpet of snow. Why did it have to be so cold? Gyuri had thought he
would remain unmoved by his circumstances but the cold was coming through loud
and clear. He wasn’t at all hungry. Nothing like death to dispel appetite; he
couldn’t even imagine wanting to eat. He would have happily traded some cold
for hunger. However, he couldn’t really complain. Kurucz, who had so much more
material to work with, hadn’t grumbled once.
‘They’ve
taken up the mines, haven’t they?’ asked Gyuri almost as an afterthought,
recalling that as an act of friendliness towards Austria, an announcement had
been made that most of the fortifications and minefields would be removed.
‘Yes,
the minefields should have been taken up,’ said Kurucz, continuing, ‘but can
you tell me one thing that’s ever been done properly in this country?’
Towards
dusk, according to Kurucz, they were in sight of Austria. There were just trees
and snow on all sides. Austria looked remarkably like Hungary. Waiting in the
woods, it was so chilling that Gyuri lost touch with several extremities.
Circling around to prevent himself completely freezing up, Gyuri stumbled
across three bodies, lightly covered with snow: two women, one boy. His
emotions, he discovered, were as numb as his fingers.
The
moon was fullish, which wasn’t very encouraging. But, probably because of the
cold, they could see the huge light of fires where shadowy sentinels of unknown
nationality were gathered, beacons which drew them away. Gyuri and Kurucz moved
very unhurriedly, very carefully, but still tripped up and stumbled a lot on a
surprisingly uneven border. They were especially circumspect when they reached
an open strip which was presumably the former minefield. Although his feet had
become very uncommunicative, somehow Gyuri suddenly felt there was something
unfield-like under his right foot. He seized up completely.
Eventually,
in a tiptoeing whisper, Kurucz, anxiety and anger split fifty-fifty, asked ‘What’s
wrong?’
‘Nothing.
I think I just trod on a mine.’ Gyuri had deduced by the thin light that he was
standing on what resembled an unearthed mine, finally, he walked on, surmising
that if the mine was going to explode it would have already done so. Soviet
rubbish.
They
found a barn. It was no warmer than outside, but it at least gave them the
possibility of believing it was. Gyuri spent a few hours in attempted sleep,
quivering with cold and misery. As soon as there was a suspicion of dawn, he
went out to piss. He could hardly find his dick, it had been so reduced by the
cold.
‘Right. Let’s find somewhere warm,’ said Kurucz as soon as there was enough light to
navigate by. Looking back, Gyuri could see that they were out, because of a
faraway row of guard-towers behind them. He was out. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he
started to cry. He walked half backwards, as best he could, so that Kurucz wouldn’t see.
Tears, in teams, abseiled down his face.