At home, the flat was empty. Elek had, along with everyone else in the block, taken refuge in the cellar, just as they had done during the siege in ’44. In a final act of defiance and rebellion, Gyuri climbed into his bed and slept indefatigably for the next twenty hours in truly passive resistance.
He was woken by István moving around in the lounge. István was taking down a landscape picture off the wall, an oil painting so ghastly that it had been snubbed by legions of plundering Soviet soldiers and even when they had been starving Elek had been unable to find anyone willing to take it off their hands for a few forints. ‘A tank put a machine-gun round through our still life,’ said István. ‘Ilona insisted that I find something to replace it. Been fighting, have you? I can tell you, you look frightening enough.’
Gyuri rummaged in the kitchen for food, out of reflex rather than hunger. ‘Where’s Jadwiga?’ asked István. The look that Gyuri gave him made everything plain.
Gyuri started putting on layers of clothing. When he got to his overcoat, he reached into a pocket and put Jadwiga’s effects, some identity cards and rings, on the table. He kept the passport. ‘I need a favour. When things get settled, could you send these to Poland?’ Grabbing his scarf, he said to István. ‘I’m off. Have a good life and so on.’
Hamstrung by sadness, it was a long walk. Dear God, thought Gyuri, does it really have to be like this? It was colder than usual for November, and it seemed much blacker at six than it should have been, as if the Russians had imported extra darkness with themselves and dawn had given up. There weren’t many trains running, but the Keleti Station had a train, greatly over-subscribed, getting ready to leave. It wasn’t a train taking people anywhere in Hungary, although nominally it had a Hungarian destination. Although no one said so, everyone knew it was the slow train to Vienna.
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.