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Ooo...My children kept urging me to tell them the wonderful story of our escape (from Hungary, 1956) one more time. Reading aloud had never been easy for me; they already knew "And Again, No One Looks" or "The Language Craft Book" by heart, not to mention "At Night All Ravens Are Colorful." So I increasingly succumbed to the temptation of telling stories (or rather, anecdotes) from my life. And the escape story simply had to be retold again and again—it was a matter of honor! Of course, it went exactly as expected. Instead of falling asleep, the child sat up indignantly in her crib and complained that last time the "..." had been completely, completely different! And why weren't there any evil policemen involved this time?! The part with the rocket was also missing...
Caught out, the father's ignorance turns red, he searches for words, for excuses, and flails his arms frantically. "Child, you don't understand yet, but we older folks are sometimes forgetful." "Okay, fine," he says, "I'll tell you about the "..." again, trying to remember the details [what on earth did I say at this point last time?!]." The child nods and obediently continues sucking his thumb, listening intently and shaking his head vigorously whenever the policewoman story comes up again at the wrong moment. His little lips move silently, reciting the text without sound, his little eyes are already longing to close, but his distrust of his father's storytelling keeps the poor thing awake...
The mother cautiously poked her head in the door and grumbled that the child certainly wouldn't fall asleep like that...
But you all know that.
A few years ago (1996, for the fortieth anniversary), I decided to write down the story of our escape once and for all and give it to my children for Christmas. Perhaps (and I say perhaps because – as mentioned above – I am rather forgetful), perhaps even back then I was already fed up with this stupid Christmas gift-buying frenzy, perhaps I was already repelled by the junk and tinkling noise on the high street and was looking for something that came from me and that might bring joy to my children.
Perhaps it was also the case that my children were discussing their father's stories and noticed that one or two details didn't quite match up (I deliberately say: not quite). After all, no two children are alike, so you have to adapt your inventions, would be my excuse if I needed one. In any case, one day the children confronted me with the "not quite" matching details. (Now comes the bit about the red ears again...).
Be that as it may, I sat down at the computer and thought. Could I begin as trivially as, "One day I decided to escape..."? No, and no again. I don't write like that. Rather, I had to have the story (and its embarrassing little differences) told by several people, thus creating THE ESCAPE as a Rashomon hybrid. Yes, of course, the participants each told a piece of their subjective truth, deliberately only a piece, and the reader/the child has to piece the fragments together themselves.
I liked the idea, so I had Aunt Elli (whose real name is Elisabeth and who is called Elly by my father) tell the whole story – I deliberately didn't portray Elli as hysterical as my father might have experienced her, but that's how she was to me. Then I let one or two of the soldiers we came into contact with have their say – of course, this is all pure fiction, but based on what I could remember. What must have been going through the mind of such a guy when he was confronted with a group of refugees consisting of four adults and eight children?
Since I was already so engrossed in writing, I naturally also wrote a fictitious correspondence between the Hungarian and Russian commanders, and I ask you, why not?!
In retrospect, our behavior towards and assessment of the Russian soldier, who presumably came from Mongolia, seemed arrogant and presumptuous. So I quickly jotted down a few lines: the Mongolian writes about us and wonders why we consider him a hillbilly: "...or do you monkeys really think I can't tell a violin case from a monstrance?!"
Uncle Ákos was also allowed to "take notes"; he is the same Feri whose son, Feri, was my father's best friend at the time and who fled with us. The reason I named him Ákos is probably because I consider Feri a horrible Teutonicization, and I liked the rather rare and old name Ákos (back then). After that, I had my sister Juli tell the last part (the mix-up of the bottles); I simply liked letting her rant a little against the adult world—that, too, was true back then, just a little bit.
One small difficulty couldn't always be overcome permanently: the linguistic peculiarity in Hungarian of using different "pet forms" for given names. So, when we talk about Bandi and Endre, it's the same person (as you now know), meaning they can't possibly play tennis together. Some of these names are very old, and often their origin and context can no longer be determined (for example, why István can become Pityu). Let me give you a few examples:
It is easier to understand forms that are known almost everywhere:
I had christened my work THE BLUE RIBBON, referring to the last chapter, printed four copies with different forewords and afterwords for my children, and bound them myself in cardboard. (Note well, printing the cardboard with the PC was an adventure in itself and led to a long-lasting friendship with an American named Bill Gates, I believe that's his name). The thin little book got lost among the other presents under the Christmas tree; several days passed before the children read it. I waited impatiently to see if they liked it (because every author is really eager to know if the reader liked it), and whether they might notice that something was "not quite right" again. But they were probably too grown-up and perceptive; not a peep, not a single complaint. My siblings read it later, too, laughed heartily, and thought I had become a real storyteller. No, one couldn't claim that any of it was untrue, but the whole thing is certainly nicely presented, isn't it?
My father sat down and wrote his own version.
Was I mistaken, or did he mutter something about "tasteful - unserious" to himself before he began to write? - Be that as it may, ultimately, even in RUSHOMON, the wise man must have the last word, and the viewer may only understand the whole thing after everyone has told their truths (and nothing but the pure truth).
Besides the many true parts, there must also be something like the whole truth.
PS: An early and very tearful version of ESCAPE received the 1st prize of the Austrian student competition in 1967 and was submitted by the Salzburg Lions Club to the headquarters in New York for the 50th anniversary of the Lions Club.
(The second night, as told by Aunt Elisabeth)
Not that I'm a particularly anxious person. But even now, when I think about it, my knees tremble, and I know it's not just amusing, but also frightening. Anyway, it's been forty years already, and I'll try to tell the story in order. So, we arrived in Austria on December 8, 1956, and the first place we entered was Deutschkreutz in Burgenland. On the morning of December 7, we were caught by the border guards, which means we left Budapest on the morning of December 6. "We" are my husband Feri, our three children aged 8 and 5, our baby, just a few months old, and me, Aunt Erzsi, or Elisabeth in German. Yes, and there was also Feri'Ää's work colleague Endre (also called Bandi), his wife Maria and their 5 children János, Juli, István, Johanna and the almost one-and-a-half-year-old Tomi.
After consulting with Endre on December 5th about the reason for his threat of arrest on December 4th, we came to the conclusion: now or never. Feri was also in danger, and we women were afraid not only for her, but above all for the future of our children. We prepared everything, practicing marching in columns with the older children, following the men's commands. "Jump—forward—take cover!" I will never forget that for the rest of my life.
Of course, we told the children a tall tale: that we were going to Aunt Anni's in Sopron, formerly the Austrian Ödenburg, because she was slaughtering a pig again and we would finally get some meat, real meat. We disguised the military preparations by telling them about the current situation and the dangers lurking along the way. The children were very quick learners; although the girls initially acted a bit silly, they were soon spurred on by the ambition to emulate the boys.
The men took on the task of packing the documents, money, and other important family possessions into manageable pieces of luggage. We women first had to take care of the older children and their equipment, and then ourselves and the babies. Oh, I won't even go into detail about what that entailed—in any case, it was a piece of cake compared to equipping a Himalayan expedition! But the men hadn't drawn the better lot, because while they packed what little they had, they had far more time than we women to dread the undertaking and its consequences, and to reconsider the wisdom of their decision a thousand times over...
Even today I remember discussing with Feri and Endre how much bribe money we would bring in small, handy bundles (and each one was "truly, our very last money!"). Feri had the brilliant idea of also taking a small bottle of schnapps so we could immediately celebrate our successful escape. He would have preferred cognac or something else fine, but in those difficult times, nothing like that could be found; it was already a real struggle to get hold of this cheap rotgut. I also took another small bottle of schnapps, just in case, in case we ran out of bribes and needed to soften up a border guard with a good drink. To distinguish this one from the bottles of baby tea, I took a blue ribbon and tied it around the neck of the bottle: Juli, the overeager one, kept fiddling with it and complaining that the ribbon didn't look pretty enough, but I shooed her away because I wasn't in the mood for games at the moment...
The next morning, it all began; the train journey seemed to last forever. The train kept stopping, and Revolutionary Guards, regulars, and Red Army soldiers took turns checking passengers, luggage, and any presumed loot. I became slightly hysterical every time a soldier's hand stroked my baby; I breathed a sigh of relief when the fellow disappeared again, and I was almost indifferent when some brazen hand brushed against my body as if by chance—so what? As long as these degenerate men left my children alone.
We arrived in Sopron, prepared everything, and went to bed early. The guides, friends of Endre, woke us long before sunrise, and we drove to the border in a very old van. There, our guides waited with us until dawn, described the route once more, and then scurried back into the undergrowth. We, the "Twelve Apostles," marched along the railway tracks to the point where they split south and west; here, as planned, we were to "get lost" and follow the tracks westward. While the two men tried to agree on the cardinal directions (in the fog, without sun or compass, that certainly wasn't easy), we saw a Hungarian border guard approaching us.
We were startled at first, but he looked peaceful, and when he arrived, he really just wanted to alleviate his loneliness and chat with us, smoke a cigarette, and find out the children's names, etc. All in all, it was a rather peaceful situation, and when he noticed the restlessness among us adults, he said, "Yes, yes, I know! Well, I didn't see you, I'm going on a bit further now, and now you see that you get on your way!" he grumbled kindly and turned to leave.
Had the higher being whom some of you worship intended to create the borders for escape purposes, he would probably have created warm waiting rooms, well-signposted paths such as "This way to Austria!" and "To freedom, please keep left", squeaky escalators, and bored officials.
But His Excellency was, as everyone knows, in the Holy Land at that time, witnessing the Suez Crisis live from a bank of clouds, so we had to cope with our fate alone. Yes, of course I still believed in guardian angels back then, but when we arrived at the railway junction, they merely flapped their wings briefly and whispered almost inaudibly, "We'll fly ahead"—and then we were truly alone.
Not quite alone after all. The friendly border guard's foot stopped. A small group of Red Army soldiers, looking cold and hungry, were coming towards us. Our border guard turned around, yanked his gun off his shoulder, and shouted at us: "Halt! Stojeto! Scum! Stop right now!" and whispered through clenched teeth: "I'm sorry, guys, but I know those guys, and you don't mess with them. Understand me, but I have to think of myself too. They won't hurt you, just come up with a good excuse, and they'll send you home..."
The Russians took us with them; we rode in an open truck to the commandant's office. There, we had to go from interrogation to interrogation all day, but we had practiced that beforehand, and they only heard the same story about our Sunday outing and getting lost, repeated stubbornly. Eventually, though, even a commandant like that has to call it a day, and grumpily, he threw us out, threatening that if he caught us again, then...; and we scampered, as fast as our feet could carry us, relieved, back to Aunt Annie's house and licked our wounds.
Our guides, father and son, knew their area intimately. They pored over the general staff maps for hours with Feri and Endre, then found a route, which the men memorized. We set off late that night; the guides led us to the death strip, located the trail markers for us, and then whispered directions to our men. Then they embraced us once more, firmly refused any payment, and disappeared silently into the pitch-black night.
Bandi (that's what Endre was sometimes called) went ahead, his youngest son asleep on his shoulders, a metal strip in his hand, which he intended to use to locate mines, and we all followed in complete silence. The older children had by now realized what time it was, so they were very focused and quiet. Every few hundred meters we had to change direction whenever Bandi found another mine, or even just suspected one. He was very reliable and an expert in these technical matters. Several times we had to throw ourselves flat on the cold, wet ground because flares went off and wild gunfire erupted all around us. Once I was lying next to Bandi and saw his sweat-drenched bald head reflected in the flares' light. I whispered to him that he could surely be seen a hundred miles away, and he pulled his little son, who was sleeping peacefully, over his head. Another time I let out a soft cry because, while throwing myself down to "Defense!", I landed on a dead body. I sobbed and couldn't be calmed down for minutes.
Well, we were getting closer and closer to the barbed wire fence, and Bandi and Feri got to work on it. Feri had brought his thick chemical gloves for this purpose, and Bandi had some metal wires, which he deftly threw at the fence, causing it to spray vicious blue sparks and hiss nastyly. Then they snipped the wires and tore a small hole in the electrified fence. Bandi attached some insulators, took off his glove, and—after a moment of hesitation—touched the fence with his bare hand. He turned around grinning and said, "All right! Just stay inside the hole, nothing will happen to you!" And so, heads bowed, we crept into Austria.
That is to say, I thought we were already in Austria. But no sooner were we all across than a cigarette ember flared up not ten paces away, and a hoarse, muffled male voice said, "Well, you did a good job!" Feri, the well-mannered city boy, who hadn't even attempted the escape without a tie and meticulously pressed trousers, thanked us warmly and said that we were finally across the border. The other man laughed softly, and as we drew closer, I saw with rising horror that his coat bore badges and gleaming buttons; indeed, when he stood very close to us, we all stared at him: it was an armed Hungarian border guard.
For what seemed like an eternity, he savored his entrance. Then his wrinkled face broke into a broad grin, and he said: "Well, I'm not a monster. I don't hurt anyone and I help everyone with this wretched fence if they get stuck. Perhaps you could give me something if you can."
Feri fumbled a small bundle of banknotes out of his jacket pocket and began to awkwardly divide them. Smiling, the border guard took all the bills from his hand and said, "Good bloke, you won't be able to do anything with these in Austria anyway!" I was standing very close to this insolent fellow and could smell his sharp breath. I immediately remembered the schnapps bottle, and I reached into my pocket, found the bottle with the ribbon, and handed it to him: "To your health, sir, and God will thank you for letting us go!"
Perhaps this boorish fellow became somewhat embarrassed, because he didn't want to upset God (the higher being whom some of you worship), or it was simply the thirst of the eternally thirsty: he thanked him with unintelligible muttering and slunk away.
Only then did I notice how much my knees were shaking; I quickly handed my baby to Feri and said, "I have to, I have to go right now, or it'll happen!" and took a few steps away. The child woke up in Feri's arms and immediately began to scream. I ran back to him as fast as I could, took a bottle of baby tea out of my bag, and gave it to him. The little one swallowed and swallowed, then indignantly spat out the tea and screamed bloody murder. We were at a loss; Feri helplessly tried to cover the child's mouth, I hit him and shouted, "You'll suffocate it, you monster!"
Bandi thought the tea might be too cold and tasted it. He immediately spat it all out and gasped, "Good heavens, this is rotgut!" I froze. The child! I yanked another bottle out of my bag, tasted it first (yes, it was lukewarm children's tea), and gave it to the still-screaming child, who stopped screaming in surprise and then sucked greedily and blissfully.
We walked another half mile until we could clearly make out the houses and streetlights, then we sat down, had a bite to eat, and sang our old national anthem. We were deeply moved, not ashamed of our tears, and took turns looking from our abandoned homeland to our new one and back again.
We were already in the village; the Austrian border guards had kindly shown us to the school, where sleeping quarters, hot soup, and warm meals were waiting for the refugees. We had taken care of the babies and the older children and were just about to go to bed when Feri and Bandi, who had been whispering quietly to each other, suddenly burst into loud laughter. Like mad, they slapped each other on the back, clapped their thighs, and laughed like idiots until tears streamed down their cheeks. They could hardly calm down, and Feri stammered, the fit of laughter shaking him between each word: "Imagine the border guard's face when he takes a deep swig from your bottle and then realizes it's just baby tea..."
My children are grown now. Peter is an engineer and architect, Paul a successful dentist, and Feri and I have been retired for years. Feri has had a brilliant career as a chemist, making several inventions and filing patents worldwide. He fulfilled a childhood dream, as even as a schoolboy he always talked about wanting to be a famous inventor one day. He hasn't changed in one respect, though: even now, well into his eighties, he insists on wearing a crisp white shirt and a nice tie every single day. He'll probably keep it up for the rest of his life, even though my eyesight is failing and ironing is already quite difficult for me. I hope I don't leave this world before him, because who knows who will iron his shirts for him then?
(The third night, narrated by Sergeant Béla)
Well, at least I'm still wearing my own boots. Those damn Russians took everything from me: belt, cap, and winter coat. This thin uniform jacket is the warmest thing I'm wearing. They tried to steal my wallet too, but since it contained nothing but a picture of my wife and kids, they let me have it.
The damp December fog creeps through the concrete walls, the small barred window, even penetrating the floor. A few cockroaches scurrying busily back and forth are my only cellmates. How good a drink would be right now, even if it were just water! My split lower lip burns, I think not just from the punches, no, it burns because my insides are burning from top to bottom. I want a drink, just a tiny little drink!
Four of them overpowered me, threw me to the ground, and took me to the commandant's office. Interrogated, beaten, interrogated again, and beaten some more. The commandant questioned me at length. He wanted to know exactly who had crossed the border, and of course, I didn't tell him everything right away. But then, at some point, when I was lying there half-dead from the pain, I told him how these city dwellers had suddenly appeared before me, with a good dozen women and children. And that I had then thought of my own family and let them go.
He wanted to know exactly how many there were, what they looked like, and where they came from. I tried my best, although in the dark I probably saw little more than that dandy or the quiet man carrying a child on his shoulders. But all of a sudden he seemed to know precisely what and whom he was looking for, and his deliberate kicks helped me remember. Yes, there was also a small, delicate woman who had nothing but her children on her mind.
I didn't remember much of the conversation, perhaps that they'd talked about the Raab-Eisenstadt railway tracks, about a Sunday outing where they'd gotten lost and been caught, and then all I saw was his fist flying towards me, accompanied by a furious curse, "Job toi Matj!" The Russian had completely lost it, his face was dark red and the veins on his forehead were bulging alarmingly. I ducked as he continued to hit me, but the merciless first blow had badly torn my lower lip.
As if through a fog, I can remember that at some point he let go of me and had me dragged down to the cellar. His henchmen had attacked me roughly when they brought me out of the commandant's interrogation room, but in the corridor they loosened their grip and led me down in silence. Downstairs, one of them gave me a cigarette; we smoked in silence at first, then one of them said the old man had been completely out of his mind today. "It can't be, buddy, that you upset him so much that he got so angry, just because you were drunk and shooting. What did he want?"
Well, I started cautiously, but then quickly and fluently recounted the whole story about the city folk. They looked at each other and burst out laughing at the same time: "Those were the Budapesters!" Grinning for an awkward moment, I asked if I could join in the laughter, and they said these city folk had already been there yesterday. The Red Patrol had caught them as they marched merrily along the railway tracks toward Austria, humming a little tune. The Red Army soldiers certainly felt sorry for them, but they knew they wouldn't get their own food until they had captured refugees, so they took them to the barracks and then immediately ran to the cook. The old man had interrogated the people, but they were hardened and couldn't be cracked. They admitted nothing, couldn't be persuaded to abandon their simple stories and excuses, and didn't contradict themselves. They must have been either cunningly well-prepared or completely bonkers. In the evening, the old man was furious because he had to send them home, if only for the sake of the children.
The small black cockroach tries to climb up my boot. Fascinated, I watch its efforts. I see it get a little way up, then it starts to slip and lands back on the floor.
My situation is actually no different. They simply forced me into service; they didn't ask me if I wanted to be a border guard or not; they shoved a rifle into my hand and sent me out into the cold. I haven't seen my family or heard from them in weeks.
And then those city folk. I was friendly to them, almost brotherly! Well, I took their money, but what good is it to them in the West? It's worthless there, and I have to provide for my family somehow. But the fact that they pressed a bottle of lukewarm tea into my hand instead of schnapps—that I can never forgive—"Enjoy, sir!"—those two-faced snakes!
I hadn't had a proper drink for hours, and then this mockery, this disappointment! I greedily opened the bottle and immediately put it to my lips, taking a deep, greedy gulp, and only realized after the second or third sip that it was lightly sweetened tea.
Rage surged within me like boiling lava rising from a volcano. Suddenly, all I saw was red. I smashed the bottle against a tree and bellowed like a bull. I grabbed my rifle and emptied the entire magazine into the air, firing and bellowing until there was nothing left in the chamber, and then the four of them attacked me...
To the
Commanders of the glorious Red Army
Colonel Vladimir J. Kniezewski
Field Marshal Von-der-Trenck Barracks
SOPRON
Subject: Sergeant Béla HANCSÁR Sopron, 9.12.56
Dear Colonel!
I have learned that one of my subordinates, Sergeant Béla Hancsár, was taken into custody by your brave armed forces last night.
Since I do not believe this is anything serious, I request, esteemed Colonel, that you release the otherwise impeccable sergeant from the custody of the glorious Red Army and transfer him to my area of responsibility.
Down with the revolution!
Yours sincerely, your servant,
János BÁNFFY
Major in the National Defense Forces
Prince Eugene of Savoy Barracks Sopron
To
Regular National Defense Force
Border Security Department
Major J. Bánffy
Prince Eugene of Savoy Barracks
SOPRON
Subject: Zl. 8934/56.01 Sopron, 10.12.56
Major!
Did your so-called loyal subordinate lose valuable ammunition because he was completely drunk, firing worthless shots in the area and hitting nothing? Thank Lenin. He first smuggled a bunch of imperialist spies and traitors across the border and let himself be bribed with a small amount of money that's practically worthless now.
Our esteemed Commandant, Colonel Vladimir J. Kniezewski, personally interrogated spies and uncovered some unbelievable facts. Among other things, he discovered that capitalist imperialist spies hide behind children, but also feign strolls along the border, singing and carrying walking sticks, playing the innocent fools with whistles to their lips. Our esteemed Commandant, Colonel Vladimir J. Kniezewski, immediately reported this to the Main Commissariat via telegram.
And the esteemed Chief Commissioner Colonel WJ Kniezewski has instructed me to tell you that the fool shouldn't think it's nothing serious, because he'll tell him himself soon enough. And that Private Béla will of course be interrogated further, because he has always been a collaborator with the imperialist border spies and probably knows even more, most likely.
At the end, the Commissar, Colonel Vladimir J. Kniezewski, says that after the execution they might eat a good goulash together and drink vodkas with the Major, and then everything will be over.
Long live the glorious Soviet Revolution!
Jan Tschech, translator for
Mr. Colonel Commissioner WJ Kniezewski,
Main Command of the Victorious Red Armed Forces SOPRON
URGENT!!!! OFFICE MAIL!!! PERSONAL!!!
To the
Commanders of the
glorious Red Army
Colonel Vladimir J. Kniezewski
Field Marshal Von-der-Trenck Barracks
SOPRON
Subject: Sergeant Béla HANCSÁR Sopron, 12/10/56
Ref. 8934/56.01
But my dear Colonel!
We don't want to talk about execution just because good old Béla has a drink or is shooting around! Nothing happened! I admit, the lad should hold back a bit if he can't hold his liquor, right, Colonel? We two have certainly downed a lot more and handled it with ease, hahaha!
I remember that delightful evening when we, dear Colonel, celebrated your esteemed wife's birthday together and...
I don't want to rehash old stories, but I need this Béla Hancsár, still alive and sober. Translate that literally, Jan Chekhov, or I'll open your lying mouth wide! — And, esteemed Commissar Colonel, I've made inquiries about the spies and assure you, they were really just a few crackpots who even knelt down and sang hymns after illegally crossing the border! No offense, my dear Colonel, but you should forget about those silly people once and for all.
Just send me that Béla, I'll take care of him, believe me, he's already caused me enough trouble and deserves a good dressing down, but execution, no, thank you! So, once that's done, come on over and we'll forget the whole thing over a drink!
Long live the glorious socialist revolution!
Down with the revolution!
Yours faithfully, always yours,
János BÁNFFY
Major in the National Defense Forces
Prince Eugene of Savoy Barracks Sopron
To
Regular National Defense Force
Border Security Department
Major J. Bánffy
Prince Eugene of Savoy Barracks
SOPRON
Subject: Zl. 8934/56.01 Soldier Béla H. Sopron, 12/11/56
Dear Major!
We interrogated Private Béla again vigorously. He confessed to everything, but also admitted that he was quite a fool. That at least saved him from the firing squad. But he had seen the spies crossing the border, and that's why he shot so much.
I think he missed because there weren't any spies there at all; it was just vodka-fueled nonsense in his head. So let's forget about the spies, and the child spies too. I've already sent a dispatch to the capital explaining: vodka and December fog, hahaha.
And you're doing some more vigorous drills with Private Béla to clear the December fog, because, as we have a Russian proverb: if you can't handle a bull's horns, don't go into the arena! If he has a small bump on his face, or a big one, then maybe he fell down the stairs. We certainly didn't hit him. Jan Czech didn't translate everything accurately, so I replaced him with a substitute interpreter, and now he's scrubbing potatoes for the whole big pot. He translated "December fog" as "imperialist spies," so he's scrubbing potatoes for the whole glorious soldiers' kitchen until the December fog is gone.
And we'll meet again on Thursday evening for a game of chess, okay?
Down with the revolution!
Long live the glorious Soviet Revolution!
Wojtech Czymielinek, translator for
Mr. Colonel Commissioner WJ Kniezewski,
Main Command of the Victorious Red Armed Forces SOPRON
(The first night — told by Uncle Ákos)
So, now everyone is settled in nicely; the children are upstairs in their grandparents' bedroom, and the adults are in the hayloft above the barn. Bandi, Feri, and I went over everything, and then they all went to bed.
I marked out the route for them through the last fields and then through the elderberry bushes to the railway tracks, drilled into them where they should "get lost," and marked some landmarks on the map, such as the dilapidated mill and the cutting in the railway embankment. If they're lucky, they'll cross the border unscathed and without major problems. I'll take them to the border early in the morning, along with my son Antal.
I made sure they had small bundles of banknotes with them in case of encounters with border guards. Feri, that dandy, initially acted a bit foolishly (no, of course you don't get a receipt!), but finally even he realized that only courage and improvisation would help here. I'm praying to God that they get across the border smoothly, because Feri's nervousness and clumsiness could still ruin everything.
During my walk-through, I checked to make sure everything was alright. Little Juliska was still rummaging through the luggage under the stairs; I think she was checking and putting away the baby bottles. She was a bit startled when I walked by, but I gave her a conspiratorial wink and then continued on my way. She's a dreamy, but also very headstrong child.
Behind the pigsty, I suddenly stop short; I hear someone whispering. I cautiously creep closer: it's Bandi and Ildikó, my only daughter, standing there talking quietly.
When Bandi was transferred to Sopron in the last weeks of the war and was quartered with us, little Ildikó fell madly in love with the tall and handsome soldier.
At twelve years old, she had suddenly become very quiet and shy and just adored him; damn, we had a hard time making her understand that he was already taken and much too old for her anyway. Bandi and I had a drink together then, and when I explained the situation to him, he was very upset. Honest and kind as he was, he remained very friendly to Ildikó, but he followed all the rules and then very soon left for the capital again.
Now they stand there, and Ildikó, now well into her twenties, speaks to him with her head bowed. Tears stream down her face, and it almost breaks my heart. I don't need to understand what they're saying; I understand it anyway. She suddenly embraces Bandi with all her heart, her head resting for a moment on his chest, time seeming to stand still. He awkwardly takes hold of her hair and gives her a gentle kiss on the forehead. Then he pulls away decisively and goes through the door, upstairs.
Ildikó stood frozen for a few seconds, then her shoulders slumped, and she entered the house through the back door. I stood there for a while longer, sensing how much this final farewell must hurt her, and then I went to bed myself.
I wake Antal and the townspeople before sunrise.
Mother and Ildikó have already prepared a good breakfast; there's even real beef broth for the adults and older children. As we sit down, Ildikó has already gone back upstairs, and Mother returns my questioning look with a grim shake of her head. After breakfast, everyone gathers in the back courtyard and waits for old Karcsi, who will drive us to the border in his ancient truck. When he arrives, they quickly climb onto the back in the darkness, and we pull the tarpaulins closed.
Karcsi is the worst driver in town, but he's determined to keep driving that old clunker himself. Every time he shifts gears, he winces because the gearbox makes a truly awful grinding noise, then he grins stupidly and says, "Ah, the clutch!" Antal stands outside on the running board, facing backward, and tells me when cars are coming. Then I knock three times on the rear window, and the townspeople know they have to be as quiet as mice.
After about half an hour, we arrive unmolested at the fields that stretch to the railway tracks. The truck comes to a halt with a jolt, the engine dies with a final, desperate diesel pop, and Karcsi curses loudly and blasphemously into the silence. Antal sprints to the back, lifts the tarpaulin, and says, "Quick, quick, we only have a few seconds to get out!" The Budapest men crawl wearily from the truck, and I immediately walk a little way ahead along the path and gather them around me. Antal gives Karcsi the money, and after a brief whisper, he hurries to me, muttering that the old man wants more. I tell Bandi that we need more money, and Antal gives Karcsi some more, but then remains firm and sends the grumbling old greedy man away.
I take the back path, and everyone follows behind me in single file. Antal brings up the rear and helps the children with any small obstacles that arise. The children walk in pairs: Peter with Paulchen, János with Hanni, István with Juliska. And Antal, my eldest, walks behind them, making sure they don't lose track. It fills me with pride that I can rely on him completely.
At the end of the last field, I stop, say we'll take a fifteen-minute break, and then go around to make sure we don't encounter any unpleasant surprises. There are still a few mines scattered beside the railway tracks, so I show Bandi and Feri again in the beginning dawn where small craters from exploded mines can be seen next to the rails. I see them clench their teeth. "There are no mines on or between the tracks, just stay away from the embankment!" I say, and they nod.
The sun will rise soon, I think, and yet it won't break through the fog today. I show Bandi and Feri once more the small rise behind which the path branches off, then we say our goodbyes. I hold Bandi's hand for a long time and realize he wants to say something more, but then he presses his lips together. I say, "I know what you want to say, I'll pass it on," and he looks at me, concerned. I pat him on the shoulder, swallow the lump in my throat, and hug the others; then Antal and I quickly head back along the path.
The surprise was great when the Budapest residents reappeared at the door that evening. They excitedly recounted their adventure, and I thought to myself how incredibly lucky they had been.
The Russian commander is a bitter, brutal man, torn between depravity and duty. He has often personally tortured prisoners, and rumor has it that he is responsible for several deaths.
Antal not only helps me around the farm, he studied engineering until the outbreak of the unrest and has a very sharp mind. He listened quietly until every last detail had been recounted and the townspeople began to repeat themselves. Then he looked at me intently and said: "We can't wait until tomorrow! That's exactly what the Russian will think, because of the children, who have to sleep sometime. We should put them to bed for a few hours right now, but then leave before midnight. They should take the death strip as their route; the Russian won't expect that."
I know immediately he's right. So we sit down with the two men and examine the map very carefully. Bandi says he knows about electric fences, and we shouldn't worry about the mines either; he dealt with them during the war. Antal brings some mines he's dug up and defused, and he and Bandi study their construction together. Meanwhile, I make some detailed sketches of exactly how the electric fence and the death strip are laid out, and Bandi and Feri memorize everything. It's approaching midnight when we wake the children and get ready to leave. Antal comes in with Karcsi and says Karcsi will drive us part of the way. Karcsi grumbles to himself that this is surely the very last time he'll do it. Antal whispers to us that it won't cost anything this time, and I secretly wonder how he managed that.
The journey proceeds like the first, and for days we hear nothing. After about ten days, a call comes to the mayor: "The city apartment is free," the agreed-upon code word that they have arrived safely in Austria. I still chuckle to myself today that Bandi used that fat communist swine as the messenger of conspiratorial news. At least I was able to explain briefly and succinctly to the questioning-looking fatso that it was a student apartment for Antal.
Ildikó didn't speak a word for months. She silently did her work and then retreated to her room. I only saw her cry briefly once, when I told her what Bandi couldn't say. Her cheerful and lighthearted nature had become dull and sad. For many days, our house was quiet and oppressive.
One day, on a whim, she went to the city, completed teacher training, and returned after several years. Since then, she has taught at our school, and children and parents love her for her gentle nature. She still lives with my mother and me and helps care for my mother, who is no longer the same after her stroke.
Antal now lives in Budapest, works for the radio, and has become a successful director. He's made something of himself, and yet he hasn't forgotten his elderly parents and visits us quite often. His children are grown now, and some of his grandchildren have gone to university and are our pride and joy.
No, we never heard from the people of Budapest again.
Bandi sometimes meets up with Antal when he's in Budapest, but he's never come to see us again. I understand him.
That was about forty years ago. Now I sometimes sit in front of the house, breathe in the scent of the acacias and birches, and think how wonderful it is to have grown old in my old homeland. And that I, too, was lucky they never caught me: after all, I smuggled hundreds across the border back then...
(Afternoon of the first day — narrated by soldier Yuri)
When we arrested the two families, I felt quite miserable. I pictured the children from our village in my mind's eye and thought: what we're doing isn't right. I was brought to this country from my homeland of Tungusistan weeks ago. The officers had told us that we had to fight capitalist pigs and imperialist spies because they threatened the survival of the entire Soviet people. When we arrived here, we saw that we were actually embroiled in a civil war, that our enemies were women and children. The border troops were rotated every month because they lost their morale so quickly.
My comrades teased me because I looked Mongolian—well, I was of Mongolian descent, and the more they teased me, the prouder I became. As we loaded people onto our truck, I noticed the two men whispering to each other and clearly heard the word "Mongolian." One of the little girls had her violin case with her and was clutching it tightly to her body. She seemed afraid we might damage the violin. Yes, of course, after what this people had experienced with the glorious Red Army, this fear wasn't entirely unfounded.
I offered the little girl the seat; I wanted to allay her fears and convince her through my kindness that we were different from what people said about us. I repeatedly gestured for her to sit down and tried to translate my Russian and Tungusic words with the appropriate gestures.
The men whispered to the little girl, who now clutched her violin case even tighter and looked rather tearful. The finely dressed man, in particular, showered her with a torrent of words, and she looked at me silently and defiantly with her dark eyes, pressing her lips tightly together. It didn't exactly look like friendship.
I asked Gregorij, who understood some of the language, what the men were whispering. He said he hadn't quite understood, but perhaps it meant that you considered the violin case a deity or a household altar, and you were asking her to "lay out" the god or altar on the seat.... Gregorij shook with laughter.
"Yes, and then you feed us bananas," I thought grimly, furious because international understanding was clearly not on the agenda today. This dandy seemed to divide the world into two categories: Hungarians and apes, and the little girl was intimidated and frightened, probably also because she had never seen such a stupid creature as me.
I was speechless for a few minutes. Gregorij was speaking broken German to the men, and I recognized his sly grin! He was probably spinning them the tale of the enchanted Mongol prince or something similar. That really made me angry.
Then it was Gregorij's turn to stand there looking stupid with his mouth open, because I knelt down, gently but firmly took the violin case from the girl's hand, and carefully placed it on the seat. Then I began to bow like a praying Muslim and rattle off stupid sayings like, "Your ticket, please? Anyone else getting on? Today is Wednesday, the fog is white, long live Mother Russia," and so on, whatever came to mind.
Gregorij couldn't stop laughing. The lieutenant glared from the driver's cab and grumbled. None of us had eaten yet and we were all irritable. My clowning around was just a sign of utter exhaustion, fatigue, and hunger. We were all relieved when we finally arrived at the barracks.
Years later, Gregorij visited me. He had lost a leg during the fighting and was now traveling the country, going from one friend to another, begging his way through life. We told each other this story—among others—over and over again, laughing heartily. At the time, I had a good position as a senior engineer at the oil refinery and was able to employ Gregorij for a short time until he moved on again.
I wonder what became of the little girl with the big sad eyes and the deity – pardon, the violin case?
(The evening of the second day — narrated by Juliska)
No. I'm always portrayed as stubborn, as someone who can't do anything on my own, and the adults never admit when they make a mistake. But if I try to say something, all they say is: be quiet, you're just a child.
No. I'm not a little child anymore. I know much more than the adults think. Only my dad is the only one who takes me seriously. My mother and that disgusting Aunt Erzsi, or her lecherous husband, they're all against me; they always find something to criticize and nag about me.
Then they tell us about the pig slaughter and the trip to Sopron to visit Aunt Anni. As if we were completely stupid! Of course, we already know everything. Pityu and I spent half the night lying on the floor, spying and listening through the crack under the door as they planned everything. Of course we know, they can't fool us. We are the Knights of St. Stephen (that's the name of our secret society). Pityu is my First Knight, and I am the Queen, naturally. We are currently recruiting more knights.
We also initiated János, even though he's not a Knight of St. Stephen; he probably thinks too highly of himself, even though almost everything about our secret society was originally conceived by him. But this matter is of the utmost importance, so we're initiating him anyway. He scratches his head for a long time and then says that if we cross the border, we'll probably never, ever get back.
Suddenly, I have a huge lump in my throat. The playground, my schoolmates, the secret society, my best and second-best friends, our dear nurse Mányika: are we never, ever, ever to see any of them again? I suddenly feel so small and shriveled. János then says we have to call a Grand Secret Meeting. I don't know what that is, but then he explains that all secret societies have a Grand Secret Meeting, and that everyone has to come, even the rival gangs, and that they have to abide by a general truce.
The next morning saw a flurry of diplomatic activity. Knight Pityu, Queen Julia, and Special Envoy János hurried from house to house, greeting each guest with the respective ceremonial salute of the local secret society and whispering the message into ears spit on three times. Everyone was astonished; no one had ever heard of a Great Secret Meeting, but it was another new adventure, and everyone would be coming. We met in the Royal Courtroom (a basement of the waterworks) and took our seats solemnly. János, Árpád, and Zoli, the three eldest, had perched on a higher water pipe and, for the special occasion, wore their dirty-white American cowboy hats, which Árpád's father had once brought back from America.
After the renewed announcement that an absolute ceasefire was to be observed, Zoli gave the floor to Árpád, who administered a completely novel, yet seemingly foolproof, oath to everyone, pledging to remain silent about the matter and never to speak a word to a human or animal soul. Now everyone was on tenterhooks, waiting until Árpád then laboriously passed the floor to János.
János rose dramatically slowly, threw his cloak over himself once more, and pointed theatrically into the distance: that was where we were going, far away, to a strange, distant land, and we would never, ever, ever return. The elders had decided this, and afterward, there was a profound silence.
Some remarked dismissively, "Aha, so they cross the border too," but the others were genuinely moved and shushed. Ceremonial oaths of loyalty followed, vows of silence were sealed with all sorts of secret symbols, and eternal friendships were promised. I could only say goodbye to Zoli with tears in my eyes, as we were practically betrothed, a fact known only to me and Pityu, my First Knight. Zoli's sister, Babu, howled loudly as she bid farewell to János, and Pityu, with a magnificent gesture, bestowed his treasures—his beautiful longbow and his infallible slingshot—upon the comrades of the First Wars. His eyes, too, were glistening with tears.
Then, one last time, the sacred mist rose from a fire of newspaper leaves, the princes and shamans murmured their incantations once more, and we went our separate ways in all directions.
Ah, then came the admonitions from those pesky adults again. They wanted to be absolutely sure that not a single word was whispered, and if they had known that about thirty neighborhood children were in on it, they would have had a heart attack! But we trusted in our sacred oaths, and we were right: no one ever betrayed us. It took a while until I had distributed my treasures, which I couldn't possibly take with me, among my friends. There was jealousy, squabbles, and some sore throats. But for my ego, it was good to act and be treated like a queen. I didn't give away some of my dearest treasures, though, but wrapped them neatly in a cloth and hid them in my violin case. It was obvious that if the adults found out about these activities, they would know that we knew what they knew. So everything was kept under the strictest secrecy.
Helping Mother pack was all right. But Aunt Erzsi, a skinny, pale old goat who was always obsessed with the baby—oh, she really got on my nerves! While she packed and unpacked the baby things for the umpteenth time, I silently helped her sons, Peter and Paul, pack their things. Little Paul was quiet and still, but Peter, the older one, was quite cheeky. Once he tugged at my braid, then he pushed me here and there, tried to grab me—he was quite a nuisance. Of course, I knew what that cheeky toad wanted, but it would never, ever, ever happen that I would show him anything, even though that kind of curiosity was quite important in secret societies.
Aunt Erzsi was repacking the baby things again. Then she chirped to Feri, her slicked-back little darling, about how they absolutely had to take an extra bottle of schnapps for the border guards. Uncle Feri, as usual, wasn't listening and just mumbled "Yes, yes" over his shoulder. Erzsi-néni then took a bottle and very clumsily wrapped a blue ribbon around its neck to mark it as "the" bottle. I, of course, had much more delicate fingers than that whiny old goat and tried to make a proper, pretty bow out of her mess: but you should have seen it! Like a fury, she snarled at me to get lost, that she already had an insane amount on her plate and couldn't possibly have to deal with me, a "brat," too! And that her bow was perfect, I should just keep my hands off it!
The queen strode off, her head held high, but her heart was consumed by murder and mayhem. The First Knight was tending to Peter, who had cut his finger, and so I could take a little revenge on the wretched goat by helping with the bandaging and making Peter suffer more than necessary. The fool believed anything; blood poisoning and tetanus only had to be casually mentioned, and the coward would whimper with fear of hellish torments and gangrene, his eyes bulging. In despair, he ran to his mother, who saw yet another reason to curse the miserable brat—me.
I still remember the whole journey and the escape vividly (but you've already read all about that). Perhaps I should add that in the evening in Sopron, after everyone had gone to bed, I had to go out again "to the toilet." There they were, our travel packages, under the stairs.
I crept quietly over there, waited a moment to make sure no one would disturb me, and then searched Aunt Erzsi's bag. I simply wanted to do the trick properly, and if she wouldn't let me, I'd take matters into my own hands.
I had unpacked the bottles and untied the ribbon. I smoothed it down with my hand and began to tie a pretty bow when I suddenly heard Uncle Ákos approaching. I quickly shoved all the bottles back into the bag, holding only the ribbon in my hand, but there wasn't time to put it away, so I crumpled it up and hid it in my hand. Uncle Ákos came slowly towards me, a giant of a man, and I was a little frightened when I saw him. Mother had once told me that Uncle Ákos had bludgeoned his enemies to death with his bare fists in the war, strangled them with his bare hands before they captured him. If that was true, then he could easily crush me—or someone like me—between two fingers. I stared, mesmerized, at his hands, which were truly enormous, and felt my skin shiver, as if I were getting goosebumps.
But he just looked at me and winked in a friendly way. Had he noticed something? Why wasn't he saying anything? He must have noticed me crouching under the stairs, my hands in my travel bag, probably looking a bit defiant. I looked up at him, prepared to come up with some nasty excuse, but he just gave me a friendly pinch on my left cheek and said, "Good night!" Then he moved on and left the house through the courtyard door.
I waited a few heartbeats and then took the bottle out of my bag. It was this bottle, wasn't it? I looked at it, a little puzzled, because they all looked the same. Then I realized how time was slipping away. Yes, I could almost physically feel the seconds ticking by. On impulse, I tied the blue ribbon around the neck of the bottle, made a pretty bow, and put it back in my bag. I didn't think for a second about what might happen if I had mixed them up after all.
Then I went back to the toilet door, opened it quietly and closed it loudly again, went through the corridor and back into the bedroom.
Later, when the adults were wondering how the poor baby had managed to get schnapps at the border, and what the border guard might have said about his bottle of baby tea, I felt very uneasy, but nobody paid any attention to me.
And Pityu, to whom I confided, had to swear a hundred sacred oaths that he would never, ever, ever tell anyone.
Of course, anyone who was there will immediately realize that these stories aren't entirely true. Well, Erzsi's story really did happen—apart from a few tiny details. The electric fence wasn't charged that day; there probably wasn't always power during those chaotic events. This is just a small example of when a story can be embellished without resorting to outright lies!
The other stories, as well as the names of all the people, are invented, although anyone who was there will sense that it all happened almost exactly like that. But how else can I portray a mood, a time, and the experiences of people at a particular time, except through fantasy stories that are, in some magical way, nevertheless true?
Juli got the worst of it. Of course, there was never a blue ribbon, so she never snuck out at night and never mixed up the bottles. It's no malice on my part to attribute this role to her; I simply wanted to come up with a somewhat plausible explanation for the bottle mix-up. And, it seems to me, it's readable and enjoyable. Juli will forgive me, I'm sure...
My father (Bandi) also undeservedly kissed Ildikó's hand (that wasn't her real name). On the other hand, how was I, as an eight-year-old, supposed to reconcile things I saw but didn't understand with my imagination? The pretty young girl, eager to please and attract attention, fawning around her father? Of course, she wasn't even born during the war, and my father had more pressing concerns than fawning young women. But, that's how unfair our world of poets is, and Ildikó will remain for me the lonely, aging spinster, even though the real Ildikó is probably a grandmother many times over, heartily laughing, and otherwise quite wrinkled.
Perhaps you did enjoy this story after all, even if it turns out that not everything is quite as you wished. All I can say is: I like it this way. And next year I would rewrite it, completely differently, yet somehow still the same.
It happened exactly like that, every jot, I swear!
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Ooo...