The Tightening String Read online

  Mrs Eynsham’s eyes, absurdly, suddenly filled with tears. Here under her very eyes, today, in the twentieth century, was the reality that lay behind that most well-loved of Christmas hymns:

  ‘While shepherds watched their flocks by night

  All seated on the ground’ . . .

  Where else did shepherds do that? Certainly not in the Highlands – if the Angel of the Lord came down anywhere in Europe nowadays he would come to the Hortobagy, she thought, where earthly ‘glory shone around’ all the time, so far as she had seen.

  Presently, over their wine, the various groups began to sing – in turns, one table at a time; Hugo translated. For the most part they were rather sad ballads, about cruel girls who betrayed devoted men, or parted lovers – one described a shepherd watching a falcon sitting solitary in a tree: the bird had lost its mate, so had he. But in spite of their melancholy the airs were beautiful, and of an almost Gregorian severity, and the men’s voices strong, filling the room with sad noble sound.

  ‘They really sing splendidly’ Rosina said to Hugo, when one after another the tables emptied, and the singers galloped off into the night.

  ‘Their songs make love in Hungary out to be a very gloomy thing’ Count Endre said laughing. ‘Really we are rather gay lovers.’

  ‘Love-songs are so often sad; I suppose happy love, like a happy woman, has no history’ Mrs. Eynsham said, a little repressively. ‘But I was surprised that there were no drinking-songs – they’re such a feature of German and English folk-song.’

  ‘Forgive, but you and the Germans are both Teutons, races for which drinking is an end in itself; we are Magyars, who drink without noticing it’ Count Endre said. ‘Have some beer, now – the second parties will be coming in quite soon.’

  But Mrs Eynsham wouldn’t have any beer. ‘I shall hear them again tomorrow night. It’s been wonderful.’

  The second day passed as sweetly as the first. The weather held, the magic of the Hortobagy held: the inverted mirages hung in the cloudless sky, they watched the great quiet flocks and herds grazing on the boundless plain. Once near a large mere, early in the morning, they saw an astonishing sight – a flock of wild geese on migration resting quietly on the ground, too exhausted to move; they covered nearly ten acres, though set so close that they hid the rough grass. But when they went out to shoot in the evening Lucilla insisted on sharing her Father’s hide – ‘I want to see you shoot, Daddy.’ She did not want to risk a repetition of the evening before – it might be more, it might be less, but what she and Hugo had been ‘given’ sufficed. And on the way back to her room the night before Endre had suddenly kissed her, as they walked through the garden, the only way of reaching their rooms; she was not going to have anything of that sort again from him. Other men in Hungary had kissed her before, and she had not minded; her sudden resentment this time sharpened an uncertainty already lurking in her mind about her feelings towards Hugo.

  They breakfasted early on the Monday, David and all, before the long drive back; the gypsies, who usually lie in of a morning after playing late at night, were all up and dressed, and stood in the road outside the gate to play them off with a last rendering of the Hortobagy Song; the ass and her foal stood beside them. Rosina in her heart echoed the Minister’s words, ‘A beautiful people’!

  Back in Budapest the outer world engulfed them all immediately: the Chancery David, the Bulletin Lucilla, the concerns of the prisoners Rosina – Martha Beckley came in almost the moment she reached her office.

  ‘Have a good time? So glad. Look, we have some funds in hand now, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes. I shan’t know how much till we’ve paid for having the shirts and pyjamas made up.’

  ‘Oh, they’ve come – they’re all in the packing-room. Most beautifully done. Here’s the bill; quite cheap, I think.’

  ‘Incredibly’ Rosina said, after looking at it. ‘Yes, that will leave us quite a bit. I’ve paid for the mouth-organs and the orchestra. Why?’

  ‘Oh, some merchants came to see me while you were away; the Dendrassys sent them, but I think the Min had a hand in it. They’ve got masses of most frightfully useful stuff – six and a half tons of tinned sardines, and three or four of sultanas from Smyrna – just what we want, fats and sugar; but it’s all on Csepel Island, and it’s the question of getting it out. I’ve told them to send samples and quote prices; but you will have to handle this.’

  Mrs Eynsham had never heard of Csepel Island, lying in the Danube below Budapest, except as the seat of the heavy industry promoted by the Weissbergers and their like.

  ‘Why there?’ she asked.

  Martha explained rapidly. Besides the factories where locomotives and rolling-stock were produced, the island had another function. Up the Danube, the great river-road from the South, a high proportion of its imports reached Central Europe; Csepel Island, furnished with quays and warehouses, was used as a sort of entrepöt, where goods were deposited pending further disposal. Those going upstream to Austria, Czecho-Slovakia and Germany were shipped on free of duty; but anything which came out through the gates in the high wire fence to cross the bridge to the mainland, and be sold in Hungary, had to pay the full local tariff. ‘Pity to do that – and one oughtn’t to, for Red Cross stuff. I’m sure you can fix it, Rosina. I’ve told the merchants to call on you tomorrow morning at eleven sharp, at your house. They’re petrified of being seen coming here, poor devils.’

  ‘Jews, I suppose?’

  ‘No, oddly enough Hunks. But no one is safe here, today.’

  Mrs Eynsham found the samples when she got home after a rather long afternoon’s work. Oflag VII C.H. had written to say that the Germans would allow them to have part of their yard flooded, so that they could play ice-hockey for exercise – to get exercise was always one of the prisoners’ main preoccupations. So could she send thirty or forty ice-hockey sticks, plenty of pucks, and thirty or forty pairs of skates and skating-boots, in assorted sizes? Here, Rosina decided, was where her Hungarian friends came in, and she dictated a letter asking for skates and skating-boots – ‘sixty copies, please, Miss Maudsley’ – before driving down to Pest to buy the ice-hockey sticks and pucks, which she was given at the usual discount.

  The sardines were very good – thick, tender, swimming in oil; each tin weighed just over a pound; the sultanas were plump, golden, and clean. Punctually at eleven next morning the merchants appeared. They explained about the duty on any goods leaving Csepel Island – ‘But for the Red Cross, if the lady could arrange it, it could come in duty free, if it were consigned to the Legation. You have franchise.’ (Franchise is the technical expression for diplomatic exemption from paying duty on anything.) Mrs Eynsham told them that the samples were all right, but to their evident surprise she bargained rather hard over the prices asked; they were not high, but she wanted to save every penny. At last she told the men that she would let them know later, but meanwhile to reserve for her the whole six and a half tons of sardines and one and three-quarter tons of sultanas – she had been doing some sums beforehand, and reckoned that this would provide quite a good bite for most of the 44,000, if a tin of sardines were shared between three. Of course the men ought to have that amount sent every week, but this was all they could afford at the moment. Pray God Uncle Jim raised some money!

  There remained the question of getting the goods out. She debated with herself whether she should consult David about this, and decided against it; he had too much to do as it was, and she would get a better hearing from the Minister – who would have the final word in any case. She walked round to the Legation; on her desk, as well as the usual pile of appeals and cheques was a chit from Howard, enclosing the latest report from the U.S. Embassy staff in Berlin, who visited the prisoners’ camps. It made gloomy reading. Against Oflag after Oflag, Stalag after Stalag, came brief comments: ‘Serious need of more clothing and shoes, cigarettes, soap.’ Soap! The Committee had never thought of that – Rosina made a note. ‘Warm under-clothing, blanket
s, cigarettes.’ ‘Warm clothing, more blankets, underwear.’ ‘Blankets, socks, cigarettes.’ ‘Gloves, socks, clothing, Balaklava helmets, blankets.’ Blankets, blankets, blankets! – if only the Red Cross would answer about those quilts, and give the money, every man in every camp could have a quilt within a few weeks. Anyhow here was superb ammunition for the letters to those in high places which she had not yet managed to get written – wise Min! After enquiring through Martha she went along the corridor to see him.

  ‘I gather from David that the Hortobagy party was a great success’ he said. ‘You, I may say, never came to tell me.’

  ‘No. Such a huge back-log of letters. But it was heaven – such rest and peace.’

  ‘You look the better for it’ he said. ‘But I fear you haven’t come in just for a happy gossip; we never seem to have time for those now. Have you a problem?’

  ‘Yes, as always. I am sorry to bother you so often.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish. You know that you are never a bother, and I know what you are doing. Go on.’

  Rosina told him about the sardines and sultanas. ‘I gather you may have heard a murmur about them’ she said carefully. ‘Can we have them sent here?’

  ‘No. They won’t be consumed by the Legation staff. This is a matter for the Commercial Department of the Hungarian Foreign Office. I think you had better arrange it by yourself – it will simplify things for me.’

  ‘But I can’t!’ Rosina was horrified. ‘How can I?’

  ‘See old Willie about it. Tell him I said you must do it. Oh by the way, you’ve heard about the raid?’

  ‘No – what raid?’

  ‘The R.A.F., on Milan and Turin. They flew slap over the Alps, and did terrific damage. This will make a good party tomorrow, I fancy – the whole place is ringing with it. Quite a surprise for the Duce! Oh, and one other thing’ the Minister added, ‘don’t discuss your problem with Willie on the telephone – you will have to see him. Fairer to him.’

  Mrs Eynsham accordingly merely told the Prince when she rang up that she wanted urgently to see him. He was not coming up to Budapest for some time; she was bidden to stay at Siraly. David was so much better that she decided to go – but she rang up Dr Mendze and asked him to keep an eye on her husband while she was away.

  She arrived at Siraly shortly before All Souls’ Day, and on the first morning the Prince took her down to the garden, where all was bare and neat, the black empty beds ready dug to receive the blessing of the loosening frost – there were no flowers save in the green-houses, which were a scene of intense activity. The gardeners were busy tying evergreens and moss onto wire frames for wreaths of all sizes, three or four hundred of them; the head-gardener and his two immediate assistants were cutting white carnations and chrysanthemums and fastening them onto the green-clad wreaths, and then carrying them through into a cool house.

  ‘Goodness, are these for Budapest?’ Rosina asked. For once the Prince gave her his famous cold stare.

  ‘No. These are for myself and my people. I always supply the wreaths for their families on All Souls’. You will see.’

  And on All Souls’ Day she did see. After a thronged Mass in the village church the whole congregation, led by Prince Willie, carrying a wreath almost as large as himself, walked in procession to the cemetery, laden with wreaths, and deposited them on the graves; many of the women, kneeling, lit candles and stuck them in the ground, muttering prayers for the souls of the departed. It was something Rosina never forgot, this practical thought and care for the beloved dead; the Mass, the flowers on every grave, the murmured prayers, the candles flickering under a dark lowering sky. And there was such a solidarity, such a close link of affection between the Prince and his ‘people’, his peasants and tenants – before he left they all came to kiss the Durchlauchfs hand, and thank him, and promise their prayers for him and his. How the Roman Catholic religion did tie people together, she thought – most of all the living, but the dead were tied in too.

  Women never normally entered the Prince’s study; it was a male preserve. But when Mrs Eynsham told him that the Minister had advised her to consult him privately on an extremely confidential matter, she was admitted to this sanctum – full of books, cigar-smoke, and leather armchairs. She there unfolded the problem of the stores on Csepel Island.

  The Prince tapped his fingers on his desk, and considered.

  ‘It is complicated’ he said at length. Rosina’s heart sank, – he gave his little dry laugh at the dismay in her face. ‘No – I am sure it can be done, but there will have to be a formal agreement. Will the Minister sign this?’

  ‘He said I was to do it’ Rosina said unhappily. Oh dear

  - she did want the prisoners to have all those tons of sardines.

  ‘Sir Hugh is a clever man’ the Prince said. ‘Well – yes – perhaps – everything will be sent under the aegis of our Red Cross.’ He pulled out a sheet of paper, and wrote on it, ‘Yes – “Parcels in Transit for Prisoners of War” – I think some formula of that sort will do. But I shall have to come up and see the Regent myself.’ He paused.’ And who will sign on the English side?’

  ‘Me, I suppose’ Rosina said doubtfully. ‘Sir Hugh said I was to do it all.’

  Prince Tereny laughed consumedly.

  ‘This will be something quite new in international relations – a lady in a Legation signs a Treaty with a foreign government! Never mind; I daresay it can be made to work, in the very exceptional circumstances. I will arrange somehow to come up the day after tomorrow, and have a little talk with the Old Boy.’

  The ‘Old Boy’, Admiral Horthy, Regent of Hungary, was another of the people to whom England, in the shape of her prisoners and their relations, owed more than they ever realised. This very unusual arrangement was made to work; Mrs Eynsham signed a document concerning the release of ‘Goods in Transit’ from Csepel Island, to be consigned to British prisoners-of-war in Germany, bearing the labels of the Hungarian Red Cross. Sir Hugh was quite right – the Hungarians were beautiful people.

  Chapter 10

  Packing six and a half tons of sardines was more than Mr Smith and the Legation staff could cope with – for one thing this quantity couldn’t be got into Rosina’s dining-room. She consulted Baron Weissberger, who put her in touch with a little Jewish expéditeur called Hasler; he and his lorries, armed with a paper signed by Rosina, collected the crates from Csepel, and re-packed them; she furnished him with the requisite number of Red Cross labels, and Horace went down to Hasler’s establishment and clamped on the seals. The Hungarian Red Cross now made a slight fuss; they were running out of lead! Somehow more lead was coaxed out of someone. When all this was duly reported to the Relief Committee Colonel Morven asked – ‘And what about the sultanas?’

  ‘Well we haven’t tackled them yet; I wanted to know what you all thought. Hasler’s bill is quite moderate, but it all mounts up.’

  ‘How many sultanas are we getting?’

  ‘One and three-quarter tons.’

  ‘That’s nothing! ‘said the Colonel airily. ‘Let’s do those ourselves – save money.’ This was agreed.

  But a ton and three quarters of sultanas – 3,910 lbs, to be exact – in fact occupy quite a lot of space; after taking one look at the lorry-load outside her door Mrs Eynsham rang up Sir Hugh, and with his permission had them transported to the Legation and dumped in the wide inner porte-cochère or passage off which the Bulletin office opened, to be dealt with there. They were in wooden cases; these had to be opened, the contents weighed, and repacked in grease-proof paper bags to meet the five-kilo parcel regulations. A couple of tables and a set of kitchen scales were brought down, and the whole Committee turned to to pack; Anton and several of the servants were laid on to help. While this business was happily – if rather stickily – proceeding, Sonia Marston strolled across the courtyard and watched.

  ‘How convenient to have the Minister in one’s pocket’ she observed. ‘Servants and all!’

  Rosina knew th
at this amiable remark was aimed at her, and bent her head over her work of tying up grease-proof bags. But Horace Wheatley, busy sticking labels on cartons and ticking them off on a list looked up and said – ‘Did anyone ask you to come here, Miss Marston?’

  ‘No – I was in talking to Geoffrey, and I just came over to see what all the activity was about.’

  ‘Well now you’ve seen, perhaps you’ll go away. We’re packing food for British prisoners of war, if that is of any interest to you.’

  ‘Horace, I’m English!’ the journalist said indignantly.

  ‘Oh really? Good ‘Wheatley said, rubbing a small damp sponge over a carton and sticking a label onto it.

  Colonel Morven, busy shovelling sultanas into the kitchen scales with a large flour-scoop, raised his great figure to its full height and said, with the utmost calmness:

  ‘Clear off, Sonia. You’re being tiresome.’

  ‘I shall see the Minister about this! ‘Miss Marston said furiously.

  ‘Which Minister?’ Wheatley asked, still plying his sponge. ‘The German, or ours?’

  ‘Sonia, I told you to clear off’ the Colonel repeated. ‘You’ll only get a raspberry if you go to H.E.’ Gulping with anger, Miss Marston went away.

  ‘Tiresome, silly creature’ the Military Attaché said, as he carefully tipped another kilogram of sultanas into a bag. ‘Poor girl. Wretched for her, though.’ He too knew about the girl’s home background.

  ‘She spent last week-end at one of those hotels on the Balaton with von Schauffhausen’ Eleanor Wheatley said.

  ‘Poor girl’ the Colonel repeated.

  A few days before this disagreeable scene Mrs Eynsham, in the small hours, had managed to draft several letters about the failure of the British Red Cross to get parcels to the prisoners to various highly-placed people in England, quoting the reports of the American Inspectors of camps – her letters were the more forcible since she had by then received poor Lady Otmoor’s missive, sent on by Uncle Jim; she quoted this too. ‘It is all rubbish to say that the Red Cross are sending parcels from the Balkan States; I was down there myself earlier, and I have just telephoned to the Legations to check. Nothing is coming from there, except through us. Canada I don’t know about, but as for Lisbon, the parcels are just sitting there – that I do know. If they can’t help it, they can’t; but I do hate bogusness.’