Introduction
Prelude
and The Raft of Poverty
In the Circus
Ring
The Pedlar's
Prediction
Hail Caesar!
Jealousy
is Dead
A Steam Engine
for a Piano
Stalin
Organs
Hungarian
Rhapsody: a failure
White
Nights
All
or Nothing
HAIL,
CAESAR!
The
autumn of 1942 was drawing to an end
when my call-up papers arrived. True,
I had been expecting the Hungarian State
to give some sign of its solicitude
for several months. I knew my turn would
come. In fact, most of my classmates
had already made brief appearances in
uniform, grey-faced and undernourished,
their hair cut in regulation style.
They had twenty-four hours’ leave to
visit their families and disappeared
just as suddenly from civilian life
the following day. Such lightning visits
became rarer and rarer as the situation
constantly worsened and the training
camps had to speed up their work so
that, after a little preparation, all
this human matter could be carted off
to the various fronts.
When
I left my family one winter dawn, I
was bitter at heart, so certain did
I feel that I was leaving this life
behind for a considerable time. My presentiment
turned out to be true. My young wife
was expecting our son, György,
when we parted. This, far more than
the possibility of dying on the Front,
really upset me. The thought of being
sent there at once did not worry me
unduly. I knew that, though there was
need of us there, the minimum training
period was ten weeks. With a bit of
luck, I thought, if I pretended to be
a bit of an idiot, this might be prolonged
to my advantage. After that, we’ll see.
Something is bound to happen – perhaps
Hitler will visit Stalin in Moscow and
tearfully beg his pardon. Or the armament
factories may go on strike. Anyway,
something unforeseeable or unexpected
might alter the politicians’ minds and
we’ll all be sent back home. Anything
was possible: that was how things stood.
In any case, a lot can happen in ten
weeks, I whispered in the ear of my
little wife, who was crying softly.
And I might even be home earlier, I
said to myself, none too convinced.
It was not to be.
Military
training is nothing more than the art
of drilling a civilian once he has been
tamed and crushed. It seemed to me an
unspeakable aberration. Amongst other
examples I remember a brutish drill
sergeant, who looked like a caveman,
making me wash down the whole wardroom
because my boots were not clean. Standing
stiffly to attention, we were expected
to salute, looking him straight in the
eye, and say loud and clear, "Yes,
Sergeant! Your order has been understood
and will be obeyed without fail!"
After which, raising one’s leg briskly
and as high as possible, one had to
let it fall and strike the ground three
times: once saluting him; once doing
an about turn and a third time before
departing in the direction of the task
to be performed. Something about my
manner of saluting must have displeased
him as I was made to repeat it eight
times in succession. "What’s the
use of such idiotic antics?" I
often asked myself and never found an
answer. In short, I was more often ‘in
solitary’ for insubordination than training
with my platoon. The heavily-barred
cell window looked onto the yard of
the barracks. In the morning I would
peep out at the company off on manoeuvres
and saw them returning at midday dirty,
exhausted and looking decidedly less
soldierly. So the days passed and I
was beginning to think I could have
been worse off. True, I was unlikely
to put on any weight. A soldier’s rations
‘in solitary’ were the worst part of
the punishment: three hundred grammes
of bread and a little water per day.
The two sentinels on duty outside my
cell were relieved twice daily. They
must have been a little older than I
was: the ripe, pertinent aspersions
they cast on army soup revealed a far
greater experience than mine. My jailors,
thinking they could easily find themselves
in my place some day, occasionally slipped
me a bit more food or even a cigarette.
On such occasions they were much more
vigilant, fearing the sudden arrival
of a superior officer, which would certainly
have got us all into serious trouble.
Another time, during my fourth spell
in the ‘institution’, I managed to get
myself another four days for not saluting
an officer who had his back to me. One
fine day all that changed.
It
must have been around ten in the morning
when a voice barked outside my cell
door asking the guard, "Where is
this celebrity, then?" I could
not see him as the door was shut. A
moment later I heard a short, sharp
backhander resounding on the face of
my sentry. "Oaf!" yelled my
visitor. "That’ll teach you to
open the door a bit quicker!" "Good
God!" I thought, "That must
be the Boss." I had never seen
him in the prison but remembered the
many stories running round the camp
concerning his sinister reputation.
He was more of a myth than a real person
as far as I was concerned. When I arrived,
he had been temporarily been posted
elsewhere on account of his unspeakable
behaviour. His dreadful brutality was
one of its lesser manifestations. At
any rate, he was back and this visit
boded no good for me. All were agreed
that it was impossible to get on with
him. His mood-swings were extreme and
the apparent calm with which his cold,
blue eyes appeared to be looking into
the distance without noticing the subaltern
standing stiffly to attention before
him or the regulation salute of those
he passed was only a sly game. In a
fraction of a second he was quite capable
of giving a loud bark as he stopped
to bawl out some lower-ranking soldier
going peacefully about his duties. The
poor fellow, taken aback by such aggressiveness,
at a loss for words and petrified with
fear, could expect the worse for the
man’s aim was sure.
Such
was the potentate who burst into my
cell like a cannon ball, putting to
an end my tranquil solitude. To start
with, he grabbed me by the lapels and
threw me out. I was expecting yells
and blows but nothing happened. Instead,
he stared with his expressionless blue
eyes into mine and said quite calmly
that this life of luxury had to end.
He promised that in future he personally
would organize my time – the final days
of a life which I had done nothing but
waste up till then. "Yes, your
final days," he said with an icy
glare, "because you’re soon going
to die in any case, you dog!" He
pointed to the ground as a sign that
I was to precede him. He took me back
to my hut, which created genuine panic
among the sub-officer instructors who,
despite their stripes, were under his
orders. They were petrified with respect
and fear and stuck out their chests
even further than regulations required.
Motionless, they waited for the ever-unpredictable
orders of the great swollen-headed barrel.
It was a barrel tipping the scales at
more than seventeen stone and looked
it, with its enormous, deformed belly.
His face, though shaved with great care,
sagged and he was on the short side,
which made him look even more out of
proportion. His complexion was strangely
waxy. Even his liver hated him.
Though
this is a mere detail, his been equivalent
to that of a lieutenant in the French
army. The Commander of the barracks
– ‘the father of the regiment’, as he
was commonly known – was his superior.
Normally, he should have used his authority
to put this lieutenant in his place.
Yet the latter was so insolent to his
chief that even we common soldiers were
shocked. He was so bursting with arrogance
one might have thought they had exchanged
uniforms. Strangely, the Commanded seemed
– or pretended – not to notice anything.
How was it that the superiors of this
creature put up with him without having
him downgraded or at least struck off
the officers’ roll? Perhaps a domineering,
dictatorial person makes an impression
on every social group. People certainly
seem to feel the need on occasion to
accept that some arrogant person among
them – not necessarily the strongest
physically – should be permitted to
override their opinions.
One
often feels the best way to treat a
vain, aggressive megalomaniac is with
silent contempt. It is also the easiest
way out, even if it cannot be called
cowardly. However, such passivity does
have a major flaw in that it gives the
advantage to the adversary so that he
has a free hand to impose himself on
all around him: silence is, after all,
consent. Such individuals excel at forcing
their opinions on others. I would go
so far as to say that such people are
to be found in every walk of society.
Let
us climb the wall of the barracks to
escape for a while from this tin-pot
potentate. You can meet such types in
civilian life who use methods more insidious
than physical violence. The servility
which we in our weakness are led to
adopt when faced with a megalomaniac
is a widespread phenomenon.
The
first thing to note is that this disease
finds the elements necessary for its
survival everywhere it goes: in offices,
factories and in that hothouse where
it flourishes best, social life. The
tyrant is one of the mad Caesars: his
mania bedevils the life of those closest
to him, their primary duty being to
serve him faithfully and without question.
A more predictable tyrant would not
be so bad: he would be easier to pay
court to. But his own mania turns him
into a social tyrant and that is what
makes his disease more deadly. For a
start, he crushes those around him by
showing off his knowledge. His culture
descends on his subjects like an avalanche
and makes them incapable of thinking
for themselves.
We
crawl before his greatness and the least
of his affirmations – or rather edicts
– passes for gospel truth. We are so
fascinated by his charisma as to lose
control of our own actions and decisions.
Not only does he give the illusion of
being all-powerful, he is the great
steersman of our destinies and careers.
If an interpretation of Chopin is not
deformed according to the wishes and
rules he lays before his adoring public,
the punishment will be exemplary. The
world of the arts to which I belong
also has its ‘Miraculous Mandarins’
who control the artist’s rights and
prerogatives. To take an example, a
potentate of the first water would not
accept being spoken to like an ordinary
mortal but with luck, providing His
Majesty is in the right mood, one might
perhaps dare to stay timidly, "Sir…"
only to be frozen to the spot by his
pale, indifferent stare. Without so
much as hearing the sound of his voice,
you realize his whole being is crying
out, "Call me ‘maestro’, my dear
fellow!"
His
face puffed up with pride, his blank
gaze quickly sizes you up. Then with
a sharp movement of his neck he dismisses
you and turns his inspired features
elsewhere. What is he thinking? Perhaps
he believes in the apothegm concerning
the Académie française:
"Run it down but get elected if
possible."
For
my part, I feel he is to be pitied.
Despite his efforts, he never really
makes the grade as a true potentate.
He knows as well as anyone that a few
facts about music history learnt from
second-rate books full of platitudinous
phrases, which he juggles with in order
to shine, will not suffice any more
than his obsequious manner of spouting
this knowledge in an attempt to scale
the Olympus of professional critics.
A ram cannot pick its teeth with its
horns. Yet we go on begging the great
man to reveal the mysteries of perfection
so that, by his example, we may come
to worship him even more.
He
is that rare bird who cannot survive
without a daily bath of homage and devotion.
I do not dare to think what would become
of us without him. There should be a
campaign to protect the species so that
it may be fruitful and multiply.
Megalomania
is despicable, a sort of virus, the
worst to have hit humanity since the
Creation.
Such
were my thoughts on coming across my
first tyrant during military service.
True, he was more clodhopper than intellectual.
Even so, all things considered, his
methods were the same: getting others
to respect him through fear, which was
the only way open to someone so insignificant.
The stripes on his uniform gave power
to his ideas on human relations and
his systematic crushing of subordinates.
Thus, in the guise of a warlord, the
great Barrel could put into practice
his favourite maxim: "An iron fist
in an iron glove."
I
will pass over in silence the dreadful
treatment I had to endure subsequently
thanks to this man. My physical resistance
was sorely tried by his insane, gratuitous
cruelty and the flood of contradictory
orders this lunatic submitted me to.
I was constantly exhausted and he took
a malign pleasure in maintaining me
in this state. There was still some
time to go before I was due to be sent
to the front, and so much the better,
I thought. This was to underestimate
the Barrel.
One
morning on parade we were standing to
attention waiting for the day’s orders.
Suddenly, my name was called out. I
took three steps forward in the manner
described above, saluted and remained
motionless. I was trying to guess what
sort of disciplinary task was to be
the reward to redouble my enthusiasm
for dying on the battlefield. I already
knew the joys of twenty-five mile marches
under a boiling-hot sun, in full kit
– apart from a water bottle. Then there
were the charms of the marshes I was
made to wade through certain nights
(rainy, if possible) until dawn, under
the orders of a valiant drill sergeant
strolling casually by my side and giving
friendly encouragement in language obscene
in the extreme, intended to prove once
and for all that there was a parallel
between an animal’s sex organs and the
first words of Hamlet’s soliloquy. To
add weight to his argument, he cited
my ancestors as an example, tracing
my family tree as far back as Attila.
This
time it was nothing of the kind. The
warrant officer on duty ordered me to
the Commander’s office. The top man
was actually waiting for a common soldier!
I hurried off with all the haste of
a criminal anxious to know his sentence.
What else could I have done? As the
order was being read out I noticed the
Barrel standing not far off. I felt
his empty gaze on me until I reached
the veranda, when I was lost to view.
I went up the steps four at a time,
froze in salute before the Commander
and stated my identity. I was ordered
to get all my kit together and prepare
my combat equipment as I was one of
the ‘volunteers’ leaving for the Russian
Front next morning at six.
Enough
said. I gave the regulation salute and
left the office feeling completely drained.
I slowly went back down the steps looking
vacantly ahead. Up till now my life
had been a series of foregone conclusions.
Civilian life had accustomed me to hardship
and I had learnt from a variety of unpleasant
events and experiences, accumulated
in record time during my military ‘training’,
to take the blows of fate without a
murmur. As I reached the foot of the
steps and came out of the shade into
the dazzling, sunlit yard, an object
rose up before me: I found myself face
to face with the Barrel. Once again
I gave the regulation salute. Very gently,
he asked, "Well, you poor chap,
is the news bad?" I told him briefly
what had occurred. He listened without
comment, glanced over the top of my
head (hoping to see the halo which was
soon to encircle it) and walked slowly
away. In a flash I realized my rapid
promotion to the rank of volunteer was
entirely due to him. I was in my eighth
week of training and logically was not
due to leave for the front for another
fortnight. The procedure was of course
illegal, but effective and unassailable.
The Barrel had said he would see to
my final days personally and had kept
his word. So before finishing my regulation
ten weeks’ stay in the barracks I was
to leave my final haven the following
morning. I tottered to my room and sat
on the bed stunned, incapable of thinking
clearly. Then I started examining everything
around me down to the tiniest detail.
I do not know if it was a way of saying
farewell or of fixing in my mind objects
which, quite insignificant not so long
before, now seemed so important because
they might ensure me a further fortnight
of life. No fatigues or punishment could
have plunged me into such despair as
that news. The Barrel truly had accomplished
his task well.
I
was suddenly seized with anger, not
so much at him as at my own inability
to defend myself. The boom of Stalin’s
death-bearing cannons was already resounding
in my ears. Plunging my head in my hands
once more, I feverishly tried to think
out some way of defending myself by
detailing all the injustice I had been
subjected to. I was sure that when the
top men at the War Ministry got to know
of this the entire General Staff would
be so indignant that their first humane
action would be to search for me, combing
the whole Russian Front if need be,
and the second to repatriate me so that
I could finish my fortnight's training
at the barracks.
In
such a topsy-turvy world, aberrations
like this one were frequent. The unnatural
rhythm of the kind of life I had been
subjected to for some time now was beginning
to shake the foundations of my mental
stability.
When
I came down to earth again I was resigned
to the fact that any attempt at putting
off my departure would be like attacking
a windmill. If I did not want to join
the next convoy of cannon fodder, I
would have to die before morning. Nothing
doing: I had no inclination whatsoever
to hang myself and even less to be killed
in two days’ time somewhere out in the
Ukraine. What I wanted was the fortnight
here which was my due, far from the
marksmen who, if the Barrel had his
way, would transform me into a sieve
on the first day. So I got up and went
out into the yard. All of a sudden a
solution occurred to me: I had to fall
ill there and then.I wasted no time
pondering on the unlikelihood of my
plan working. I put it into action on
the spot in full view of all the others.
Without cushioning the blows with my
hands, I threw myself on the ground
and lay there quite still with my eyes
shut, wondering how things were going
to turn out. I could not be accused
straight out of faking a fall in which
I had hurt myself badly. I knew what
a risk I was taking because anyone caught
shamming just before leaving for the
front was cured once and for all by
the comforting words of a priest sent
by the military tribunal before summary
execution.
There
was no going back now and no knowing
the outcome: not just my freedom but
my very life were at stake. The many
years in military jail (where discipline
was even more draconian) to which I
might at best be sentenced would give
me the chance to meditate at length
as to whether I had the right to simulate
a giddy turn. But I no longer had any
choice: the die was cast.
The
Barrel cannot have been around at that
moment. My eyes still shut, I realized
people were crowding round me. Then
I heard a warrant officer order me to
be carried to my hut and, once I had
regained consciousness, to be helped
to the Infirmary – to my greater satisfaction.
I was lifted to the camp bed which had
been my home and place of rest for two
months but disaster always strikes when
least expected. Once I had recovered
a little, two soldiers supported me
by the waist as we went towards the
Infirmary some way off, my body covered
in bruises and my face bearing an apt
expression for the occasion. A male
nurse came in and as quickly left: the
medical officer had already gone. His
locum was ready to examine me but eve
if his diagnosis were in my favour could
not – since he had not the right to
do so – give me a certificate exempting
me from serve for a while, which was
my last hope. At this news, I really
did begin to feel unwell. It meant that
the medical officer would not be back
before ten the following morning whereas
I was supposed to be in line with all
my kit and in battledress ready to leave
at 6 a.m. sharp. Officially, then, my
fainting-fit would not be taken into
account; that was the ruling. All I
could do was go and get ready, making
quite sure not a gaiter button was missing
when the time came to depart. Once on
the train, if my condition was such
that the health officer responsible
for the convoy had to consult his pocket
medical dictionary and, in the unlikely
event of his not being able to diagnose
that my condition was caused by my being
sick of living, he might decide, once
we had reached the Gates of Hell, to
have me sent back. However, a musician’s
daydreaming has nothing to do with a
soldier’s duty. The locum knew his job
and was sympathetic, explaining with
a trace of irony that it was "a
slight, temporary dizzy spell caused
by the surprise announcement of my departure."
So
off to the stores I went to get my new
outfit: boots, helmet, machine gun,
ammunition, bayonet and other such peace-bearing
utensils indispensable to mutual understanding
between the belligerent citizens of
the world before they were sent off
to war by their paternalistic armies.
The
building was an endless succession of
rooms. Apart from the first few, which
distributed clothing, thus transforming
the little soldier into a fiery warrior,
the others overflowed with light arms
of all kinds, original as well as attractive
and intended to aid their owners in
despatching the adversary into the next
world with all possible speed.
The
pile of equipment in my arms mounted
as I moved mechanically from room to
room. I overheard a storekeeper vaunting
the merits of a new kind of close combat
dagger to a group of young recruits,
showing them yet again the ideal angle
for penetrating an enemy’s ribs. The
climax of his explanation was: "and
you’ll see, lads, twist it just before
pulling it out and that’ll be the end
of him." I was pretty disgusted
and thought, "I give up. If I leave
for the front tomorrow, it will show
I’m not even capable of putting a spoke
in the wheel of my own destiny."
That was, incidentally, also the opinion
of the locum.
"There
we are; it’s too late now," I thought,
returning heavily-laden to the barrack
room. Then things took an unexpected
turn. At the end of the afternoon someone
came from the Infirmary to say that
the medical officer had had to return
for an emergency and would examine me
– straight away. This new turn of events
had me worried: it would not be easy
to re-enact to order the role in which
I had invested so much. If this man,
who was reportedly hard-hearted, were
to think he had been troubled for nothing
it would mean a one-way trip to the
courtroom. I could already see myself
advancing handcuffed towards the execution
post between two armed soldiers.
I
was obliged, despite my apprehension,
to answer his summons, which I had so
fervently wished for not so long ago.
According to instructions, I was in
the Infirmary waiting room at 6 p.m.
sharp. The walls were plastered with
consulting room doors behind one of
which was a man I did not know and on
whom my destiny, so merciful with me
so far, was to depend once again.
