Godspeed, says Dr Temesváry.
General Karl Pfeffer-Wildenbruch of the Waffen-SS, commander of the forces charged with defending Budapest, reports to Hitler by radio from his headquarters blown into the rock of Castle Hill that he has been obliged to pull back his forces from the north and east of Pest, because the front line is approaching Újpest and Rákospalota, and he requests permission to allow the remaining forces to break out of the encircling ring.
The general has all motor vehicles seized and orders that the troops be concentrated to make a breakout. Budapest must be defended at all costs, Hitler directs anew, and those who disobey orders and break out will face instant court martial when they reach German lines.
Vannay’s paramilitary shock-troop battalion, still comprising mainly officer cadets aged between fifteen and eighteen, recaptures positions the Germans had lost at the village of Csömör on the northeastern fringes of Pest. Soviet tanks, however, draw up in an unstoppable battle array on the flat terrain between Fót and Rákospalota, near the Danube, in the north-easternmost part of Pest. SS anti-tank gunners dig themselves in between Angyalföld in the XIIIth District and Újpest in the IVth.
We’re heading towards Angyalföld, says Gizi, and goes in front. Father follows a minute later. Mother takes Vera by the hand. I wait and count. Then I, too, set off. There are constant mortar blasts.
It may be that Gizi set off more to the left after all.
On a 1943 street map the block of the Albrecht Barracks lies to the right-hand side of Lehel Road. Past the Aba Street turn-off, on the right, are the buildings of the No. 1 Army Catering Unit, while behind the Albrecht Barracks on Lehel Road are the barracks of the Army Transport Corps and further on the Vilmos Barracks.
On that 1943 map only the sites of barracks, other military premises and railway stations are specially marked. The Albrecht Barracks are similarly marked on a 1903 map; the No. 1 Army Catering Unit is here called Military Catering Store; the barracks of the Army Transport Corps the Szekerész Barracks; and the Vilmos Barracks are the Tüzér Barracks.
It is unlikely that we passed in front of these barracks, so most likely we had set off more to the left.
I can see an army squad a couple of hundred metres behind us. They are leaning forwards as they run across a broad road, and on reaching the other side they throw themselves on to the snow. They are not firing but probably taking cover from mortar bombs, and we are far enough from where it strikes, although one can still feel the shock wave from the explosion.
The broad street was presumably Lehel Road.
It would be no bad thing to make it snappy, sonny boy, says a man next to me. I don’t know where he came from. He is in a black winter coat and has wrapped his head in a rag. No bad thing at all before they start peppering our arses. What are you doing wandering the streets at this time? Where are your mother and father?
Father is keeping his distance behind Gizi and I behind Mother and Vera. A growing number of people are wedging themselves in between. Everyone is in a hurry; some are running and some, like the soldiers, throw themselves on the snow when mortars impact.
The last time I saw so many faces was when we had soldiers escorting us and people stared at us from the pavement. Now no one stares at anybody; everyone minds their own business. Those damn fools still want to fight, pants a man who is pushing ahead beside me. Aren’t you in a Levente troop? Sure, I say, I’m a Levente. Make yourself scarce, because Leventes are also being pulled in. Yes, sir, I say. One can tell you’re a Levente, he says. You get trained to say, Yes, sir, Yes, sir. Take care no one mistakes you for a Jew. Yes, sir, I’ll take care, I say. Those bloody fools even took me to be a Jew. Now tell me straight. Do I look like a Jew?
He stops and rips the rag from round his head.
Father and Vera are drawing further away, but still I can see them better when I am stopped.
No, sir, you don’t look anything like one.
It’s all the same to them. If they’re in the mood they just bring out the submachine gun and pop! That’s a nice duffel coat. Are you from Transylvania? Yes, I say.
I can’t see Gizi, can’t see Father; Mother and Vera are now turning at the corner.
Nice to have met you! This is where I turn off.
Father’s steps are increasingly secure. Since we started he seems to have regained his strength. He waits for Mother and takes the haversack off her while Mother takes over Vera’s little suitcase.
Gizi is waiting for us on one of the corners. When I get there I can see there is an anti-tank gun no more than thirty metres away; around it eight to ten German solders are stamping in the cold. Their NCO is smoking a cigarette. The five of us walk on together with Gizi blowing kisses to the soldiers. The NCO salutes. One young soldier looks Vera up and down.
Gizi makes a sign, so I drop back again.
I have no idea where we are going, but maybe we have now covered about half the distance. Everyone is watching out for mortars, which are landing all round, and everyone is carrying something, whether a sack or a bag or a suitcase — some are even carrying boxes tied up with string.
Do you remember that route we took from Szabolcs Street? I ask Mother.
She reels off a list of street names. There were two air-raid warnings, she says; twice we had to go down into cellars.
I remember one air-raid shelter.
People got used to the wailing of the sirens, like bursts of submachine-gun fire or the crumps of mortars.
Collapsed walls of houses. Seeing houses in ruins.
Gizi stops again, Father as well, and he signals to Mother and Vera. If Gizi decides that we must turn back it will be my job to keep track of what is going on behind me. Perhaps she spotted an Arrow Cross patrol, maybe a patrol of Germans or regular Hungarian Army or policemen.
It only matters to us what she saw; the rest carry on as before.
A mortar hits near by.
Aircraft are coming over from the direction of Rákospalota.
Gizi beckons from a gateway. Down into the cellar, quick!
It’s like stumbling into the basement of the hospital once more. Pocket torches provide light. Women, children and some men. We press against the wall, Vera next to me, Mother hand in hand with Father. Gizi was carried further along by the jostling. It’s a good job she has a torch and can shine the light on herself.
It is rather as if we had not got this far across snowy squares and streets but along a lengthy tunnel that the sprinters, haulers, fugitives and those seeking a hiding place have cut deep underground. The yelling, the darkness and the pushing do not bother me; I have got used to it. Opening one’s mouth is not a good idea — I’ve learned that. The person next to me might be no threat, but then again they might. I still do not know precisely where we are headed, although I suppose Gizi must. According to our Swiss paperwork, Vera and I are sister and brother, and Gizi has warned Father that under no circumstances should he produce the letter if an Arrow Cross patrol, policemen or gendarme stops us to check our papers, because that letter requires us to wear a yellow star.
What am I supposed to say if we have to identify ourselves, Father asks.
That’s why I’m going first, Béla. That’s why you come behind. That’s why your son is keeping an eye out behind. To avoid anyone who might ask for our papers.
We are standing among men, pinned to the wall. I’m from Zugló. I hear this is the fourth air-raid warning since this morning. He is stand ing with his back to me, so I can’t see his face. He lists the streets where he had to take cover in air-raid shelters.
Vera wants to sit down on the concrete, but I don’t allow her. She might catch a cold and she could be trampled on if the crowd were to get going.
I said four years ago that it would come to this, says the man from Zugló. Even Napoleon came to grief. I said at the time, when that crazy painter roped us in, he was right about the Jews. Fair enough, that’s acceptable, but why did he bring this war on us? Put a sock in it, someone else says. I don’t give a shit about putting a sock in it, understand? Don’t you or anybody else tell me to put a sock in it. My son was shot before my own eyes for legging it from his company, before my own eyes, understand? Now that shut you up sharpish, didn’t it.