STALIN ORGANS
All those outlawed soldiers were vaguely
aware that events were soon to take
a new turn and burst in upon their
darkness. We lived in expectation
of a visit without knowing whose hands
we were going to fall into. Most probably
it would be the Red Army’s: rumour
had it that it was pressing forward
relentlessly. Deep down, we knew only
too well that the Front was only a
few dozen miles off. A complete reversal
of the situation was still possible
in the sector since the allied forces
under German High Command had been
ordered to die on the spot rather
than retreat.
Certain
battalions had regrouped and treated
themselves to large scale punitive
sorties, making lightning raids on
territory they could no longer control,
using the scorched earth policy, sabotaging,
setting booby traps, burning, mining
and worse – anything which might hinder
the enemy in its steamroller-like
advance. These units of political
fanatics specialized in picking up
all the deserters and runaways. More
and more soldiers, seeing the turn
events were taking, ‘forgot’ to return
from their missions and wandered aimlessly
in search of something to eat before
surrendering to the Liberation Army.
They were recaptured manu militari
by their own forces. There was no
time to waste on court marshals: they
were brought back, arms securely bound,
and shot in front of the troops by
way of an example as traitors to the
fatherland.
In
short, we were at the mercy of Providence
as we crouched in our hiding place.
If just one Partisan were to be caught
and tortured till he revealed the
whereabouts of this underground hideout,
an Extermination Squad would arrive
and turn the place into a Golgotha.
There would be no need to waste ammunition:
if one charitable soul just dynamited
the exits we would all be dead within
a few hours. The more I thought about
it the less attractive the prospect
appeared. I had a mad idea: why not
escape and go back home? It was worse
than foolhardy. I worked out that
I was somewhere in the wilds near
the Russian-Polish frontier, several
miles on foot from home. Hang it all!
I was dying to leave this place and
see daylight again.
Getting
out was not a problem. There was only
a token sentinel who snored with the
rest of us by night, so certain was
he that no-one would be reckless enough
to go out into the darkness and get
a stray bullet in him, whether Russian,
German, Partisan or Hungarian – not
to mention the local guerrilla groups
patrolling the forests and as eager
to shoot soldiers on the run as were
the latter to fire back. They did
at least have one thing in common:
both fired at anything that moved
– local Partisans because it meant
one less Superman to be fed, and deserters
whose nerves were on edge for fear
of being either captured or re-captured.
It was a veritable free-for-all.
I
could not help repressing a bitter
smile at this pigeon shooting when
I thought of the two chief instigators
of the chaos taking a hard-earned
rest in soft beds, one in the Chancellery
in Berlin, the other in the Kremlin.
I
was in luck that night. The sentry
on duty was the harmonica player whose
nostalgic tunes I had heard when I
arrived on Christmas morn. The instrument
echoed faintly in one of the upper
galleries. We had got to know each
other through his instrument, which
was a fine large chromatic one made
in Germany. He had probably stolen
it somewhere. Outside, it must have
been pitch-dark because all those
around me had been sleeping for some
time. Whenever he was on guard, I
used to go closer and listen. In theory
this was forbidden but, having become
his official teacher, I was allowed
as a supreme reward to spend a little
time outside at my own risk. It had
been a boyhood dream of mine to have
such an instrument but it was not
to be and, strange to say, without
ever learning to play I have always
been able to, even winning a cup once
in some competition.
Leaning
against a wall with his belt full
of grenades, a machine gun in one
hand and his harmonica in the other,
my pupil was already waiting for me.
Two very appropriate masterpieces
were on the day’s programme: Kalinka
and Lili Marlene. So the lesson
began. He launched into an extract
from the first piece then passed the
instrument to me, smiling apologetically.
It was not exactly difficult to play
better: he was hopeless. I took up
the piece, adding such a frenzied
accompaniment and such rich harmonies
that the poor man in despair took
out a large bottle of eau de cologne
from his pocket, smelling so strongly
of patchouli that it evoked
the Casino de Paris backstage, and
took a huge swig to give himself courage.
After the demonstration I handed him
back his instrument and we repeated
this little game four or five times
in succession as usual. I waited till
his eyes turned a little glassy before
getting down to the more romantic
part of the session. That particular
evening, my friend did not want anything
to do with Lili Marlene, while
I for my part wanted to be out of
this hospitable place before dawn.
So, after playing him Viens, Poupoule!
[Come on, my
chick], I went straight into
my favourite bravura number, Nuit
de Chine, nuit câline,[sultry
China nights]and, as he turned
his back on me to light a cigarette
beneath the tiny oil lamp on the wall
opposite, I struck him on the back
of the neck with his harmonica, which
was as hefty as a cudgel. Silently,
he crumpled into a heap like a wet
rag. I felt sorry about it but if
he had alerted his toadies, who knew
the forest far better than I, they
would have caught up with me in no
time.
The
way was clear and I had at least four
hours until dawn, when the search
could begin. It was a good thing they
no longer had any dogs – they must
have eaten them long ago. I snatched
up his gun (so as to be able to shoot
something to eat), took a few grenades
from his belt (in case of any trouble
with armoured vehicles – whether invading
or liberating), his matches (to light
a fire if need be) and, most important
of all, his cap with its Red Star
to make me look like a soldier. It
was obvious from such a get-up I was
from the enemy camp but I hoped the
assortment would act as a pass key
in the course of the long journey
to come. True, got up like this, I
was liable to be court martialled
by any of the opposing armies but
quite frankly I was past caring. All
wanted was to see my family again
and the rest was of little consequence.
I
silently slipped away. Outside, even
a solitary star, like a dark, melancholy
sun, was more heartening than the
sinister atmosphere in the mine, where
we wallowed in a nauseating stench
of decay. I was in the heart of a
great pine forest somewhere on the
frontier between the Ukraine and Poland,
but where exactly? A distant rumble
to the East gave a clue: it could
only be the Russian Army’s heavy artillery
moving inexorably towards Hungary,
for we did not have any such toys
and the sound of the great Krupp cannons
of our beloved protectors were quite
different. As I plunged among the
trees to go in the opposite direction,
I reflected that a musical ear was
of some use after all. I could not
see a thing and was reduced to feeling
my way along, making as little noise
as possible and stopping whenever
I heard anything suspicious – the
slightest crack of a branch or the
crunch of dead leaves. The forest
of lofty trees grew denser and more
impenetrable. I took care to avoid
clearings and pathways. The moon shone
on coppice-covered slopes and woods
of giant pines. The tree tops were
hazy in the pearl-grey light. There
were bound to be swarms of snipers
about and now that I was obliged to
play ‘piggy-in-the-middle’ with the
Partisans as well as regular soldiers
from both sides I did not feel I had
much chance of getting out alive.
The endless, threatening roar like
a mountain storm acted as a compass.
So it was that I walked till dawn
when, spotting the very forked tree
I needed, I hoisted myself up to try
and get a little sleep.
A
few hours later I awoke and continued
walking south-west, slowly chewing
as I went on the first of four slices
of stale bread I had managed to put
to one side. On the way, I threw away
the gun, cursing the previous owner:
the magazine was empty. I still had
the grenades, which were not exactly
ideal for shooting rabbits. Still,
they came in useful the following
night when I ran into half-a-dozen
wolves fighting over the carcass of
a young wild boar, a piece of which
would have been most welcome. I had
to do something, and quickly too,
for the creatures were all set to
leap on me and kill two birds with
one stone. I just had time to pull
out the pins of two grenades and throw
them into the fray, with devastating
results: no more wolves…and no more
wild boar. I continued on my way on
my jockey’s diet, using Dr Coué’s
precept to persuade myself I was not
hungry.
The
following day I had my first bit of
luck since starting out: there was
a brief shower and I was at last able
to drink a few drops of water and
was also overjoyed to see the forest
thinning out at last to give way to
an apparently boundless steppe scattered
with stunted bushes. At last I was
able to make more rapid progress but
I had to be twice as vigilant on such
open terrain. Far away on the horizon
stood burnt out tanks and lorries,
not far from a small hamlet. I decided
to have a closer look. As I approached,
an old peasant wielding an ancient
magazine-rifle came out of a shed
and, on seeing my uniform, said in
a guttural Hungarian accent: "Where
are you going?" "To Budapest,"
I replied, in a quite matter of fact
tone. "You’re either mad or a
deserter," he said resignedly.
I had to agree – he was not entirely
wrong.
"What’s
your job normally?" "I’m
a pianist?" "That’s no sort
of job," he said, looking pityingly
at my unshaven face. "I bet you’re
more dangerous at a piano than with
a gun. Now, listen, if you want to
find your compatriots, keep straight
on and go through the wood ahead.
Watch out: it’s marshland and that
maquis lot have put mines along the
only footpath. When you come out you’ll
find a chapel full of wounded Hungarians
and Germans waiting to be evacuated.
Try and get a place on one of their
lorries. After that, you’ll just have
to hope for the best. Anyway, come
in to have a wash and a bite to eat."
I
hesitated: the sudden, unexpected
kindness of the old man seemed a little
suspicious so I preferred to get going.
It was nearly dusk by the time I reached
the chapel, without a hitch but exhausted.
There was nobody about, just a few
Hungarian lorries, each with a large
red cross on it, parked before the
entrance. It was a large, Orthodox
church with an onion-shaped belfry
atop an impressive tower eaten away
by verdigris. It was a good half hour’s
walk from any other building and was
probably a place of pilgrimage. The
walls had been pitted by bullets of
every possible calibre and much of
the stained glass in the high, narrow
windows had been shattered. One part
of the ancient roof over the Baroque
nave had been hit by a pretty hefty
mortar and a cannon shot had left
a gaping hole in the belfry. By the
time I crossed the threshold it was
nearly dark. The foundations, the
thick walls and even the arches inside
the place of worship echoed and re-echoed
with distant artillery fire. The extraordinary
echo outside as well as in had probably
been intended originally to swell
the liturgical chant. It took my eyes
a little while to adjust to the dim
light inside and when they did I saw
some hundred bodies lying motionless
on stretchers as a dozen doctors in
overalls saw to them. By the light
of a few candles, using a single makeshift
first aid kit, they tried to extract
various sorts of ammunition and shrapnel
from their wounds. They operated and
even amputated entirely without anaesthetics.
There was not even any ether left
and, in desperation, they gave certain
patients pure alcohol, slightly diluted,
to drink until they lost consciousness
– their only way of lessening the
agony of an operation.
The
surgeons had been working in these
dreadful conditions for thirty-six
hours on end. One of them came up
to me. I gave the regulation salute
out of habit. "It’s odd to see
someone who can still walk on his
own two legs," he said by way
of a greeting. I told him briefly
about my escape from the mine, passing
discreetly over how I had managed
it.
"Your
misfortune brought you luck,"
he said. "Your battalion was
wiped out in a surprise attack by
the Russians. When the Partisans captured
you, this makeshift hospital was twenty
miles behind our lines. Now it’s twelve
miles in front. The Red Army is on
our heels and there isn’t even enough
petrol in the lorries out there to
evacuate anyone. Heaven knows what
will become of us!" I asked him
what I could do to help. "Nothing,
my poor chap," he replied wearily.
"What did you use to do for a
living?" I told him and his face
lit up. "In that case there is
something you can do for us. Go up
there to the organ. It’s the only
thing more or less intact in the place.
Go on! Sit at the keyboard and play
something for us. Anything. We could
do with it."
I
silently obeyed. I glanced over the
centuries-old instrument and asked
for someone to work the forge-like
bellows, which were essential to keep
the air pressure in the pipes constant,
and began to improvise on some old
Hungarian hymns and then on the National
Anthem. My fingers attacked the melodies
in a kind of fury, transforming them
little by little into a flood of grief
whose resonance and power were redoubled
by the resounding noise outside. As
they mingled with the constant roar
of explosions, they seemed to be appealing
to the heavens to witness the inner
and outer suffering of us all. Above
the choir stalls, through a breach
in the roof, blue flashes seemed to
spatter the frescoes and faded icons
whenever there was a blast. The long,
final, dissonant chord spun between
the arches of the nave before fading
away outside.
It was heartbreaking to think of what
would happen to all the injured if
they were not fetched by the next
day. I came down from the organ loft,
passed between the surgeons, still
rooted to the spot, and silently left
the chapel.
I
walked towards the woods a few hundred
yards off, hoping to get through to
the new Hungarian HQ. I had barely
taken ten steps when I felt the cold
touch of a barrel in my back. Two
freedom fighters were standing one
on either side of me. It was like
a reunion: I recognized the greasy
fur hats with the tiny star twinkling
on the front. Luckily for me, I had
not shaved for four days so they did
not recognize me. Just as one of them
was going through the routine search,
an almighty bang laid us all out flat
and blasted us with hot air. As I
lay full-length on the ground, I glanced
over the plain and saw the rafters
of the chapel outlined in raging flames.
All that remained of the nave was
a heap of rubble and we could hear
the crackle of all those silent, motionless
bodies. The tower with its wooden
belfry was like a firebrand. It gradually
leaned backwards and toppled slowly
and majestically down into the inferno.
Apparently, the building had been
struck by a long-range missile. But
why just then? The tarpaulins of the
lorries flared up one by one, then
the lorries themselves blew up, setting
off the blaze inside the chapel once
more until nothing was left save a
blinding ball of fire.
I
looked away, full of remorse. Had
the organ resounding down the valley
like a huge bell brought about the
horrific tragedy? Seen in that light,
the idea was not very plausible. The
enemy’s heavy artillery must have
been dozens of miles away on the other
slope of the mountain which I had
glimpsed in the falling dusk. Stunned
by the very thought of such a possibility,
I got up on a sign from the two ruffians
and walked on ahead as if in a trance.
Unlikely as it was that the music
could have set off the bombardment,
there had been one shot, just one.
A
few weeks after my attempted escape
I was back in the burrow like a rat,
in the same state of degeneration
as the other prisoners. I had become
incapable of attempting or even considering
running away again. My chief aim in
life had become to get to the cooking
pot at midday. One or other of the
peasant women, her face reddened by
the steam from the boiling soup, served
us a portion of a hot but lamentably
watery substance which ensured our
survival, however precarious, till
the next day.
Day
after day, sitting up or lying down,
we gazed blankly at the little flame
of the old lamp and waited only for
the broth prepared by the Partisans’
wives’. There were not enough bowls
to go round so that some drank their
portion from their helmets. The soup
was boiled in huge cast-iron cauldrons,
which could each have held several
people. I realized that our ‘hosts’
must after all have had a considerable
stock of food. Though we were wracked
with hunger, it never occurred to
anyone to try and find where it was.
They were happy enough in the knowledge
that it was inexhaustible.
In
an attempt to fight off boredom I
sometimes took a stroll along the
neighbouring galleries, strolling
as slowly as possible. There was no
reason to hurry. Sometimes I stopped
when I came to family or a man sitting
by himself on the ground. We exchanged
a few banalities before I went to
the other gallery, whose dimly-lit
entrance looked from a distance like
the gaping jaws of some weird beast.
I went in and was soon able to make
out other lights. By the light of
the flickering flames first the forms
then the features of the people sitting
or squatting there gradually became
visible. Other people, other faces,
more questions, followed by more vague
answers, in an attempt to keep up
a semblance of optimism, as was expected
of the others – usually in vain. I
seemed to have been wandering for
all eternity when I finally found
my way back through the maze of grottos
and galleries to my heap of straw.
Time passed inexorably yet seemed
motionless.
I
now realize, with hindsight, that
I had reached the depths of despair
at this period in my life. Such a
feeling is difficult to shake off
for it only takes a hold on someone
once he is past caring. During my
stay, or rather captivity, I was foolish
enough to leave my mind and will to
hibernate, believing that a vegetable-like
existence would increase my chances
of survival. In any case, I was not
there to think but to suffer, endure
and – who knows? – do penitence. Unconsciously,
I must have imagined – and the environment
certainly contributed – that in plunging
to the depths without the possibility
of resurfacing for air, I could for
the time being leave my brain, which
was more of a hindrance than a help,
in storage. I had suffered deprivation
for so long that it did not seem too
high a price to pay for some kind
of hope. Unfortunately, I did not
take into account the physical deterioration
provoked by such living conditions,
soon to be followed by a dulling of
the mind. After several months without
once leaving the depths of the mountain,
I thought I had attained an ideal
state of equilibrium? How wrong I
was: I had reached zero, the point
of no return. I had not yet sunk,
as I thought, to the depths of insensitivity
and indifference. In fact my downward
decline was only just beginning. Until
then I had not understood, though
it diminished day by day, the primary
importance of the subconscious energy
that feeds one’s actions and still
more one’s thoughts. Will-power, which
might be thought to be fundamental,
is no more than the visible part of
the life force, like an iceberg floating
in the consciousness of each one of
us, whereas four fifths of it lie
deep in our subconscious and are subject
to its laws. There is little joy to
be had in observing one’s mental decline
when one is lucid but helpless to
do anything about it. For me, the
worst catastrophe which can strike
a human being is to witness hour by
hour the inexorable destruction of
his spiritual vitality. I would rather
have been struck down by a physical
disease which I could have come to
grips with and used my will-power
to overcome. A bodily disease would
have numbed my mind and set it at
rest, but waiting helplessly while
nothingness gradually invaded, submerged
and paralysed all one’s resilience,
that I could not accept. It was worse
than death: one’s innermost self was
destroyed. The victim was transformed
into a living corpse and yet, paradoxically,
though its inner substance was no
more, the body was spared. I had grown
to accept the idea of physical death
but the finality of spiritual annihilation
is something that still makes me shudder
with horror.
Looking
back from afar over that period of
my life, I can take a more balanced
view of the ravages of that hideous
cancer of the mind which grew perniciously
until it transformed me almost into
a living corpse. Thank God, my physical
resistance was once again a match
for all my sufferings or else I would
have fallen victim to the same sad
fate as the others. Again, I do not
mean death: physical death in such
cases is a merciful release. I mean
a particular form of existence in
which a person’s organism merely vegetates.
Many people die like this, their will-power
eaten away by the void within. In
the case of the least resistant, even
the desire to survive rotted away.
One merely needs a body to go through
the motions of living, but experiences
like this mercilessly sweep away any
lack the inner force to surmount them.
What
point was there in wandering about
the mine, that labyrinth of nothingness
from which time had been banished?
First I cut down on the number of
daily walks then stopped them altogether
and lay most of the time on my heap
of rags. This gradual withdrawal was
a matter of complete indifference
to me. All notion of day and night
had gone and I fell asleep at any
time. Disordered fragments of my past
would come back to me in my dreams.
I even on occasion dropped off while
the one and only meal of the day was
being served. Hunger and thirst tormented
me less than when I had first arrived
and my state of torpor became more
or less permanent. A curious numbing
feeling was the sign that outside
night was falling – it replaced the
notion of time. However, this instinct
was not to be trusted since I was
sometimes aware of it more than once
a day. In any case we were some fifty
yards below ground level, which made
any real judgement impossible. The
difference of atmospheric pressure,
hygrometry, etc., between the inside
and outside worlds, further accentuated
by the surreal effect of the constantly
pale, flickering light, threw out
even the most assured in their calculations.
Our watches had been taken away from
us on arrival so that time was no
longer something tangible.
And
so I lived from then on, an exact
replica of all the others, until I
lost even the longing even to see
daylight again. Sprawled out full-length,
reluctant so much as to get up, I
suffered the pangs of hunger yet left
half my portion uneaten, whereas it
was no so long ago that I had thought
we never got enough. As I stood in
the queue, it dawned on me that I
had not seen a number of familiar
faces for quite a time. "They’ve
escaped?" I whispered rather
enviously in the ear of the man next
to me, in the rough and ready German
everyone was obliged to use. He shook
his head: "No, they’ve gone."
I nodded knowingly, thinking, "He’s
even madder than me. I mustn’t upset
him." He guessed my thoughts
and continued, "It’s quite true.
The furthest gallery is fifteen miles
long and ends in a precipice about
sixty yards below where we’re standing
now. There’s nothing to stop those
who are tired of life going there."
He looked me straight in the eye and
repeated, "All those who prefer
death to a life spent waiting for
the supposed arrival of the Russians.
The Partisans turn a blind eye to
such disappearances – it means a few
less mouths to feed. I can’t take
much more," he said slowly, getting
to his feet slowly, "I’m Czech.
One half of my family was massacred
by the Germans, the other half by
the Reds. I’ve nothing left to live
for. I’ve got two last cigarettes.
We can smoke them on the way to the
pit. Coming? Not yet? Well, we may
meet again soon," he whispered
as he moved off.
I
never saw him again. I fell asleep.
When I woke up a few hours later,
I was no longer sure whether the conversation
had actually taken place or whether
it had all been a dream. To be frank,
I had been living as if buried alive
for so long that it was difficult
to know which were the cataleptic
waking hours and which the periods
of sleep haunted by strange apparitions.
However, the very thought of vanishing
quite unnoticed was enough to discourage
me for quite some time from yielding
to the temptation to go anywhere near
the notorious precipice.
I
did everything possible to this end.
I started going for walks again and
forced myself to eat regularly, thinking
that each bowl of soup might be the
last before our liberation. Then came
a change of events, though not in
the way I had hoped for. We were informed
that food stocks were getting low
so that from then on we would get
only a little ‘light’ soup every forty-
eight hours. Before that our rations
had comprised, besides the broth,
a few potatoes, old carrots and dried
beans with, on special days, a tiny
piece of salt-bacon rind, which had
to be chewed patiently to make it
edible. After tasting their ‘new recipe’
soup, a revolting liquid with potato
peelings and beetroot skin floating
on the surface, I realized the worst
was yet to come. ‘Keep going’ replaced
‘survive’ as my password. Time fed
us drip by drip as if we were voracious
stalactites and our experience of
it was like that of a foetus, a cosmonaut
lost in space or a prehistoric animal
living in light years. The worst hours
were not the waking ones now: the
sleepless nights with their periods
of dreams and hallucinations were
what I feared most.
During
one of those endless nights, I had
the unpleasant feeling someone was
observing me closely as I lay there.
I was at once on the alert. On looking
up, I was astounded by the sight which
my brain, accustomed as it was to
the most improbable happenings, registered
before my eyes could. A slant-eyed
Russian soldier with high cheekbones
and wearing a fur hat with a little
star was staring at me so fixedly
as to accentuate the trace of distaste
in his expression. His face, bent
over mine, was like an ogre’s – the
perfect identikit portrait as drummed
into us valiant warriors by the former
pro-German command which it had once
been my honour to serve. I had solved
the enigma before I could even shake
off my torpor: if he was there it
could only be due to the Partisans.
If so, he could not be alone, which
meant the whole sector was under Red
Army control. Conclusion: I was free!
The
flash of understanding in my eyes
must have surprised my visitor: he
suddenly got up and walked jerkily
off to continue his round of inspection,
with one of the men who had brought
me here going servilely ahead. God
alone knows how much I had been longing
for that encounter and that look.
Still lying there half asleep, I thought
of that face looking into mine as
though examining some freakish specimen
of ox in a zoo which did not quite
fit the description in the guide book.
But now, what with one thing and another,
I was not even pleased to see this
member of the Liberation Army. To
tell the truth, I was past caring.
My stay underground had left me completely
indifferent to my past or future.
This was the moment I had been waiting
for so long as to have given up all
hope. I was going to be able to leave
this tomb at last. I could not have
known that the arrival of the Russians
so far from meaning freedom was to
lead to another succession of tribulations,
another tunnel to get through.
The
Partisans in the burrow, wishing to
impress the Red Army, had quite simply
turned us over to them as prisoners
exactly as if they had fought and
captured us fully armed. This was
far from being the case. Nearly all
the ragged soldiers in the mine were
deserters. Some knew the area and
had come of their own accord to hide
until the Soviets arrived. Others
like me sometimes wandered for weeks
in the surrounding forest, hoping
to come across the Partisans and put
themselves at their mercy and were
brought here without the least resistance
after being found half-dead with exhaustion
and hunger. The lies of the Partisans
were to have a radical effect on our
destiny. Everything has its price,
as they say. What many of us had believed
to be a stay of our own choosing was
in fact nothing less than internment,
a mere foretaste of things to come.
Our freedom had been the high price
paid for our board and lodging.
The
rest of my captivity followed its
usual pattern: we were ordered up
to the entrance, where we were made
to line up. A few Russians sorted
out the grain from the chaff, so to
speak. On one side, the armed men
who had been our guards up till then,
together with their wives and children,
all shabby but clean. On the other,
the ‘enemy’, in rags and stinking
with the accumulated filth of many
weeks. Watched over by dozens of warmly-dressed
soldiers, we set off across the endless,
virgin snow of the steppe towards
Slovakia, i.e. the Czech-Hungarian
frontier. At the end of the first
day’s march we came to a village,
under Russian control of course. We
were herded into a shed after being
given a hunk of black bread and an
onion each. The well we had been given
permission to drink from was frozen
over so we ate snow. I thought with
regret of the vile soup, which had
at least been hot and seemed a luxury
compared with this fare. Still, no-one
left a crumb of his rations, knowing
we had a long march the next day and
that the Russian – and German – cure
for fainting was a bullet in the back
of the neck: tit for tat. As I chewed
on my bread, tough as mule, I felt
there lay a glimmer of hope in the
fact that our new masters obviously
had not paid too much attention to
the Partisans’ lies or they would
have shot us as potential enemies
in the first coppice they came to,
just as the Germans would have done
if ever, by some misfortune, they
had arrived first at the mine. Amidst
such turmoil, it was better to be
serving under a flag, whatever its
colours, than to be walking across
open country without belonging to
an army.
Early
next morning, we set out again, stopped
for a few minutes at midday and by
evening reached another village, where
we collapsed at the spot designated.
Our march continued for at least a
week. The quantity of miles covered
put the finishing touches to our clothes,
not least our shoes, which had been
in a sorry state from the outset.
Despite all our sufferings in the
mine, I was among those who resisted
best. For one thing, I took care to
keep my evening rations for the next
day’s journey, eating a little something
from time to time so as to give my
body the illusion it was getting a
few extra calories as a reward for
the extra work required of it. Secondly,
I had learnt from my previous military
experience that inwardly to reject
an order one was obliged to obey made
things twice as hard for the body
because it put up a resistance which
it was then forced to repress, besides
having to make the effort demanded
anyway. So I plodded mechanically
on with the others like a robot, making
sure not even a passing thought of
giving up slowed down the pace set
by the soldiers. My body advanced
as though weightless and detached
from my will. I only became aware
of my physical exhaustion once we
reached our stopping place for the
night. For the soldiers leading us
from point to point it was mere military
routine: if we were worn out by the
previous day’s marching and advanced
less quickly they only had to accompany
us part of the way. Every morning
as we set off, insults were hurled
at us: in Georgian dialect one day,
Ukrainian the next, then Caucasian
and heaven knows what else. We did
not care. We had no idea where we
were going, though hoping deep down
in our suffering bodies that we would
get there as soon as possible. Heaven
was good enough to lend an ear to
the ardent hope which rose from our
exhausted carcases.
After
a good week’s march, we arrived at
a village which had obviously been
fortified quite recently. It was surrounded
by a high hedge of barbed-wire with
here and there a wooden watchtower.
We were herded inside and the iron
gates banged to behind us. In short,
we were in a newly-built concentration
camp. We were divided into sections
and allotted wooden huts. The blocks
were numbered but not laid out in
lines. Together with one of my fellow-sufferers,
I went into one. As soon as everybody
was inside, the door was slammed shut.
The way in which the sentinel on duty
had kicked it showed all too clearly
what he thought of us and presaged
a stay full of unpleasant surprises
and as yet unknown ordeals. Discipline
was strict but, contrary to my expectations,
this was not a penal camp: no-one
was deliberately ill-treated as in
the notorious German camps. It was
in fact a sort of open prison.
The
days passed slowly and monotonously
by. The first few were spent seeing
to the wounds and fissures the forced
march had inflicted on our feet. It
was a long time before they more or
less healed since we had been underfed
for so long and, in particular, were
lacking in vitamins. We took advantage
of the free time granted us each day
to leave our huts and hobble off on
visits to each other. To tell the
truth, we tended to seek out those
we supposed had a few shreds of tobacco
left. Nobody in the camp attempted
to count the passing days. Our jailors
aside, I am not sure any of us could
have given the exact date or even
said what day of the week it was.
At least we now lived above ground,
but the effects of the deep-seated
indifference and apathy contracted
in the mine were still apparent in
the dullness of our minds. Under such
conditions, why should I have cared
more about one day than another? Nothing
changed with the passing weeks, least
of all the menu: a little black bread
and a few pieces of sugar of dubious
taste each morning. At midday and
in the evening there was the habitual
queue for a bowl of soup, a blackish
beverage thickened with some fatty,
rancid substance more like lard than
anything else. Though prepared in
the Russian manner, this gruel was
a far cry from the delicious, creamy
soups which were the delight of Parisian
gourmets in the renowned Russian cabarets
and restaurants of the capital.
At
the beginning of my period of detention,
I spent most of the time trying to
think up a way of attracting the attention
of the nachalnik [commander
of a prison camp] to the injustice
most of us were victims of. Several
times I thought, without much conviction,
of asking to see him in order to explain
my case. Somehow or other the right
moment never presented itself. In
the end I lost courage and then, shortly
afterwards, began to hope again. It
was easy to understand why I should
have hesitated. Such a powerful overlord
as a nachalnik was not going
to waste his time giving credence
to the muddled stories of an insignificant
individual already listed by the Partisans
as a sworn enemy of the Russians.
What is more, I did not know their
language and only spoke German very
badly. It would have been too much
to hope for to find a Hungarian interpreter
able to speak at least one of these
languages. Even so, one day the opportunity
I had given up all thought of presented
itself in oddly unexpected fashion.
On
the day in question, I was going for
my daily walk on my own, as I mostly
did, lost in thought, my eyes fixed
on the ground and walking straight
ahead, passing between two rows of
huts bordering on the barbed wire
hedge round the camp. In general,
only I came to this spot at all regularly.
Today, things were different. Head
still bowed, I was preparing to cross
a small junction when I suddenly bumped
into someone coming from my left and
nearly fell over backwards. Like me,
the man had been walking with his
hands behind his back ruminating so
that we saw each other too late. The
collision threw him off balance and
he landed on his backside, looking
at me crossly as he groped for his
officer’s cap, which had fallen to
the ground. From the insignia on his
jacket I realized I had had the misfortune
to knock over the Commanding Officer
in person.
The
incident was unintentional on both
sides but such was not the opinion
of the two officers walking a few
paces behind him. They each grabbed
me by an arm, shook me furiously and
yelled in my ears in Russian. Though
not knowing the language and despite
my astonishment, I understood perfectly
well what they meant. Meanwhile, the
Commanding Officer had recovered his
cap and, while his guards pushed me
about until they had recovered their
breath sufficiently to give me a real
going-over, he got to his feet and,
dusting himself down, made a sign
to them to let me go. I made a gesture
of apology, mumbling in what to him
must have sounded like Esperanto.
He had calmed down somewhat and muttered
a few equally incomprehensible words,
looking rather put out, and then asked
me in German what I was doing there.
Taken aback by his own idiotic and
inept question, he instead asked my
name, nationality, etc., as a way
of demonstrating to his subalterns
how magnanimous he was. From his unusually
calm, clear manner of speaking, I
could tell the incident was forgotten.
I seized my chance and tried to make
the most of it. I did not give him
a direct answer but began to explain
how I came to be in the camp. I tried
calmly to describe my escape. There
was no need to worry about talking
too much: my very basic German saw
to that. Since I wanted to be as clear
as possible, I gave a real one-man
show, miming – as far as possible
– various events I could not express
in words. The nachalnik’s attendants
were uneasy at the proportions the
St. Vitus’s Dance I was performing
before their Commanding Officer were
taking - unless they feared I was
unbalanced and might make an attempt
on his life - and grabbed hold of
me again. Their zeal annoyed him as
he was evidently interested in my
story, so he told them to release
me, pushed his cap pensively back
on his forehead and nodded to me to
continue. When he finally realized
I was just one poor deserter among
many who had surrendered of their
own accord, contrary to what the Partisans
had said, his eyelids, hooded up till
then, opened wide and there seemed
to be a glimmer of compassion, almost
of kindness, in his gaze.
My
story finished, I looked him straight
in the eye as if to say, "It’s
up to you now." He stood deep
in thought, apparently unaware of
the sound of my voice, and asked my
hut number. Then, to my surprise,
he gave a salute, which I returned
automatically, before walking swiftly
away, flanked by his officers. I went
slowly after them on my way back to
the hut, feeling there was a glimmer
of hope for the first time in ages.
Sadly,
for a long time to come, nothing much
changed in our daily routine. Quite
the contrary, as the weather grew
colder and colder with the advance
of winter and with clothes so worn
that even a tramp would have refused
them we felt it all the more. To make
matters worse, quite a lot of us had
torn our shirts or sweaters into strips
to make temporary bandages for our
injured feet, since it was preferable
to keep on the march in the cold than
get a bullet in the back of the neck,
the punishment for any show of weakness,
as I have said.
My
wardrobe was in no better state than
the others’ since we had all been
living in the camp for at least three
months, at a guess. One biting cold
morning, I was on the point of making
my usual round of the yard to warm
up before the midday soup. Suddenly
an officer yelled out in an arrogant
voice, reducing everyone to a deadly
silence. We were ordered to return
to our huts at once and remain there
until further notice. This unexpected
order dismayed us. Nobody knew what
to make of it and we feared the worst.
Some whispered that we were to be
deported to Siberia that very day
because of the Partisan’s false evidence.
Everyone’s spirits were at their lowest
ebb. For once, I envied the pessimists
who, long since resigned to their
loss of liberty, envisaged the future
with mournful indifference. Some went
as far as to give a doleful description
of life in the salt mines, in comparison
with which our stay underground had
been sheer bliss. Our agonizing was,
thank heavens, short lived.
At
lunchtime we were allowed out and
made to fall into rank. The Commanding
Officer himself was there between
a double line of soldiers, who towered
over him. A shudder ran down my spine
at the sight of so much ceremony:
previous experience had taught me
that this kind of pomp was a means
of announcing something important
and, in general, disagreeable (especially
in wartime). As soon as everyone was
in line and silent, the Soviets saluted
their Commandant, who then began reading
a speech – in Russian, of course –
which was then translated into several
languages for the benefit of our Babylonian
community. The essence of the declaration
was that the war against Nazi Germany
was in its decisive final stages.
Virtually the whole Czechoslovakia,
Romania and Hungary had either been
liberated or was about to be, thanks
to the efforts of the glorious Red
Army, now on the point of freeing
Vienna from Hitler’s clutches. To
celebrate these unprecedented exploits
in a duly dignified manner, the High
Command responsible for the Eastern
Front had decided to amnesty all those
whose military activities had not
exceeded certain bounds determined
by a number of committees likewise
responsible for vetting the political
past of each detainee. All prisoners
thus freed would be fully re-equipped
and transported to various assembly
points where, after a short period
of further training, they would be
able to participate in the final grand
slam which would destroy the German
hydra once and for all.
"All
reinstated prisoners," the German
interpreter continued, "will
fight in the newly formed democratic
armies of their countries of origin,
under the guidance and benevolent
protection of the great Red Army.
The selection of prisoners to be liberated
has just been decided on. Those whose
names are called will break ranks
and line up at the far end of the
yard."
The
final pronouncement fell like a condemnation.
Hearts pounded and butterflies entered
many a stomach. Yet for the first
time in ages there was a spark of
hope in every eye. All trace of apathy
had gone form their faces and they
looked alive and human once more.
I was filled with happiness before
even knowing whether my name was among
those chosen. Anyway, it was called
and I went off at once to join one
of the groups at the end of the yard.
We all went into a building, one of
the few solidly built ones in the
camp. It was the stores. I was straightway
issued with a brand-new uniform, boots,
a machine gun, made in Russia with
a magazine shaped like a Camembert
cheese, spare ammunition and a combat
helmet adorned with a large red star.
I was so relieved at no longer being
a pariah that I did not even feel
the biting cold as I changed in a
corner of the yard.
After
a journey of some hundred miles, the
convoy of massive lorries dropped
us off in the yard of a camp on Hungarian
territory under the command of officers
of the recently formed Hungarian Democratic
Army. The soldiers billeted there
not long before greeted our arrival
with shouts of joy. The order to fall
in rang out once again as the lorries
left shortly afterwards. The Colonel,
flanked by his Hungarian staff, spoke
a few words of welcome with unexpected
warmth, more or less repeating what
the Soviet Commander had already said.
The officers then moved along the
ranks, stopping before each of us
for a few moments to ask for a few
details about our service record and
rank in the former Fascist army. I
gave a brief account of my adventures
and said that previously I had served
in the cavalry. Our regiment had been
decimated by the Russians almost as
soon as fighting broke out and I had
been transferred to a tank unit after
a short period of training, during
which I had graduated to bigger tanks.
I had fought on the Front until my
unit was almost totally wiped out.
Seeing no other solution, I had seized
the opportunity to leave the pro-Germans.
I told my story in a completely neutral
manner, using a telegraphic style
to avoid giving away the least hint
of my horror of war and my disgust
with army life. The officer listened
with a combination of attentiveness
and curiosity and asked me to continue.
I ended by insisting that desertion
had seemed the only solution seeing
as our territory and army were being
exploited by the Nazis. The former
Hungarian Command was by then completely
subservient to the German High Command
and had lost all right to make decisions,
thus forcing us to fight for a lost
cause, one for which I had not the
least wish to die. I was at the end
of a line and while I was talking
a few other officers, their tour of
inspection over, came to join their
friend, who was still listening attentively.
One of them came up to me, placed
a hand on my shoulder in a friendly
manner and said, "Nothing of
what you said surprises me in the
least. All the officers here are charged
with organizing a new democratic Hungarian
army after deciding, while on the
Front, to get in touch with the Red
Army at the earliest opportunity.
After a short period of military and
political training, we returned to
fight beside the Red Army to liberate
Hungary once and for all. But training
for our new army will be more tricky,"
he smiled, "because the Cavalry
Corps wasn’t adapted to this kind
of warfare and has been disbanded.
What is more, we can’t transfer you
to the Tank Corps for the moment as
it isn’t yet in operation. To be frank,
one might almost say it has been disbanded,"
he went on, trying to repress a mischievous
smile, "as the big new T-34s
still haven’t arrived. But don’t worry,"
he concluded blithely, "you’ll
have plenty to do in the meantime.
We’ll find you something."
He
then gave the troops the rest of the
day off so that they could get some
rest and moved slowly away again,
passing between the ranks of soldiers
standing to attention. Early next
morning, along with several warrant
officers, I reported to the sub-lieutenant’s
office to receive the day’s orders
for the unit I had been in charge
of during my somewhat hectic period
in the Tank Corps. It would be truer
to say I was a survivor of the unit.
I
was given the same rank in the new
army. Keeping the men in tip-top physical
condition was the order of the day
– I could not help smiling at the
graciousness of the expression – until
the Infantry received its required
quota of heavy armoury, when we would
return to the Front to fight alongside
Red Army in a final large scale offensive
which would finish off the Nazis,
by then on their last legs. It was
early in March, 1945 and the Germans
put up such a dogged resistance that
it was quite impossible to imagine
the war could end soon. Quite the
contrary: the latest offensive in
the Ardennes, though a failure, may
have lead those who were not actually
there to believe that Hitler’s troops
still had plenty in reserve. This
was the moment when the Red Army joined
up with the American troops, thus
splitting Germany in two. The Russians
did everything in their power to take
Berlin for they did not wish to share
such a glorious, historic victory
with the Allies. The Hungarian battalions
which flew to their aid knew this
and our unit was transferred to an
abandoned school, not far from the
barracks, reserved for the purpose.
There was, of course, no longer any
question of our being demobilized.
On the other hand, we were all very
happy with the turn of events when
we found ourselves back in our own
country after so many tribulations.
My
home and family were not all that
far off. Please excuse me if my life
story has been more redolent of gunpowder
than the sweet smell of success one
expects in a famous artist’s memoirs
but this unfortunate hitch was, I
can assure you, entirely beyond my
control.
