The Tightening String Read online

  ‘Shall you and the Committee be all ready to ship the stuff on the moment it comes?’ he asked Rosina. ‘It looks as though it may be a pretty close-run thing.’

  ‘I hope so. I rang up Geneva and got the latest figures from the Red Cross there for the numbers of men in each camp – the Boches will keep switching them from one to another – and we’ve allocated amounts for the camps on that basis. I’m getting lists typed to send to each “man-of-confidence”, and labels stencilled. Oh, by the way, I hope it’s all right, but I got onto Pista about persuading the railway people to relax the five-kilogram rule for this bulky stuff, and for the quilts, and to let it go through in units of up to 100 kilos.’

  ‘What did Pista say?’ Sir Hugh asked. (Pista Horthy, the Regent’s son, had recently been made Head of the Hungarian State Railways.)

  ‘Oh, he was helpful. He told me to talk to the National Bank and ask them to have the export licences ready, with the weights and contents, so that there wouldn’t be any hold-up or delay.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Sir Hugh looked thoughtful as he asked the question. ‘H’m. And have you done that?’

  ‘Oh yes. Dr B. is an angel; I sent him a list this morning, and he rang up and promised to have the licences ready to hand over the moment the stuff comes in.’

  ‘Well that’s all you can do. Now we must just wait, and hope it comes in time. You might pray that it does, since you’re such a pray-er’ he said with a sidelong smile.

  ‘Oh I do all the time! Even when I’m walking along the utca between here and home. Walking is a very good time for praying, I think’ Rosina said airily. Then her face changed. ‘Min. dear, how bad is everything? Do you think we shall be able to stick on here till we get all this stuff through? We must,’ she added urgently

  ‘Rosina, I can’t tell you, because I don’t know. But Bulgaria is practically in German hands now, as Rumania is already; when the Boches come in here is anybody’s guess.’

  ‘But if they come in, how do we get out?’ Mrs Eynsham asked, thinking of her sick husband.’

  God knows!’ the Minister said.

  Chapter 13

  Budapest during the early years of the War was still such a small and closely-knit community that everybody knew everybody, and met them, at least on large formal occasions. Countess Anna Dolinsky, rabidly pro-Axis, was naturally on close terms with the German Legation staff, including von Schaffhausen, and in time she learned that not all the five British officers whose names had been published in the Esti-Ujság had reached Scandinavia, but that three of them had been shot while escaping, including Hamish MacNeil. From Eleanor Wheatley – careless, and such a little snob that nothing could make her prudent about her contacts in Budapest society – she found out that he had been engaged to Lucilla Eynsham, an open secret in the British Legation. But nothing ever escaped observation in the small capital. ‘The night has a thousand eyes, and the day a million!’ an attaché had once bitterly misquoted – and the fact that Lucilla was so often seen dancing with Hugo Weissberger had been duly registered. The Dolinskys, with their Nazi proclivities, did not see much of the Jewish Weissbergers; but at a big party, to which all Budapest inevitably had to go, Countess Anna, seeing Hugo’s tall figure in the crowd, went over and spoke to him.

  ‘How sad that your little friend’s fiancé has been shot.’

  ‘Countess, you perplex me.’ (His perplexity was genuine, but he was at once on guard.) ‘Who is my “little friend55?’

  ‘But of course the lovely Lucilla. Do you not constantly dance together?’

  Hugo played this light, though his mind was immediately full of that scene on the golf-course at his home.

  ‘One dances with as many pretty girls as one can! But who is this famous fiancé, and why has he been shot?’ He spoke casually.

  ‘He was a British officer called MacNeil, a prisoner-of-war, and he was shot while trying to escape’ the Countess said inexorably.

  Hugo Weissberger’s emotions were as mixed as Lucilla’s had been when she learned of her fiancé’s death; but like her, he concentrated on preserving a façade.

  ‘How terrible, if she really was engaged to him’ he said, with careful incredulity. ‘She wears no ring.’

  The act he put on was convincing enough to irritate Anna.

  ‘Oh well, if you don’t believe me ask in the British Legation. Everyone there knows that they were fiancés.’

  ‘Tiens! And how interesting that you know that he is dead’ Hugo said rather recklessly. ‘I remember the name, now that you say it; surely MacNeil was one of the five British officers who were mentioned in the Esti-Ujság as having escaped to Scandinavia? But you know better it seems.’

  He was so angry with Anna Dolinsky, and so upset by this news, that he might have given himself away completely if at that moment one of the old Hapsburg Archduchesses had not come waddling up to them, ‘Oh my dear Anna, how are you? You never come to see me and August. Ah, Baron Weissberger, and how are you?’ – as he bent and kissed her hand. ‘Still making railway engines? So useful – one must have these things today, and I hear you even export them. Dear Anna, I wish you would come to luncheon with us one day.’

  Hugo seized the oportunity to escape. He was in complete disarray. If Lucilla’s ‘Haymish’ was really dead the situation was quite different; he might have a chance – anyhow he must talk to her about it. But he didn’t trust Anna Dolinsky – not many people did; he must make certain. He walked uncertainly through the large crowded rooms; in one of them, propped against the wall – huge, monolithic, making no attempt at social intercourse – he observed the British Military Attaché. Him he knew; he went over at once.

  ‘Good evening, Colonel Morven.’

  ‘Oh good evening, Weissberger. Glad to see you. Ghastly, aren’t they, these shows? I mean, they mean well, of course; but this standing about in crowds is frightful, to me – though my life loves them.’

  ‘Yes, they have their boring aspect. I wonder if I might ask you a question?’

  ‘Ask away, my boy’ the Colonel said benevolently. He knew quite well that it was this young man who had escorted the two officer-prisoners over the frontier and down to Budapest.

  ‘Is it true that an officer called MacNeil was shot while he was trying to escape?’

  ‘Who told you that?’ the Colonel asked sharply.

  ‘Countess Dolinsky. Of course she is very pro-German – I wondered if it was true.’

  ‘Yes, it’s true all right. God help the poor chap’s parents!’

  ‘Yes indeed’ Hugo said.

  ‘When did she tell you?’

  ‘Just now. Thank you, Colonel.’

  ‘Thank you for what you did for the others’ the Colonel said. ‘They’re safe in Cairo now – we got a signal.’

  ‘This is excellent. Good night.’

  ‘Good night, Weissberger.’

  Hugo scoured the big rooms looking for Lucilla, but it was one of her nights on duty; he saw Mrs Eynsham in the distance, and avoided her – this was between Lucilla and him, alone. He left early – early for Budapest, that is, namely about midnight – and on reaching his parents’ house he rang her up at home. He knew that the Bulletin monitoring stopped at eleven-thirty, and guessed, rightly, that she would still be awake – in fact she answered the telephone; David Eynsham had had an instrument put beside every bed in the house, as well as in the living-rooms.

  ‘Hullo? Who’s that?’ she asked in Hungarian.

  ‘Me – Hugo’ he replied in English.

  ‘Goodness, what a time of night to ring up! What’s the matter?’

  ‘I must see you. At what time, tomorrow?’

  ‘Wait while I get my diary.’ A pause. ‘Is five-thirty too early? I must be back in the office at six-fifteen.’

  ‘No, I come then. Thank you.’ He rang off before she could say anything else.

  Lucilla wondered rather why Hugo should be in such a hurry to see her; why hadn’t he made one of their usual assignations to di
ne and dance? She was totally unprepared for what took place when he arrived, punctually at five-thirty, the following day. Hugo for his part was wishing that he had managed to find out if Lucilla knew. Colonel Morven was really his only contact in the Legation besides Lucilla and her Mother, and he had shied away from asking him, as he had avoided meeting Mrs Eynsham – in either case it would have been something of a give-away, and the good boy had all the devout lover’s shyness. But as he drove up to Buda in the blue early dusk, at the bends in the road seeing the lights beginning to come out along the Danube and in the big streets of Pest – the beautiful city putting on her evening diadem – he regretted his caution, and that he had come so ill-prepared.

  Since her Father and Mother were both at work in the Legation, Lucilla received her young man in the pretty drawing-room, where the usual Hungarian idea of tea was set out – tiny sandwiches of ham and cheese on the table beside the big English tea-tray, with its monumental Victorian Eynsham silver.

  ‘Ah, there you are. Don’t wait, Erich, we will serve ourselves’ she said in German to the hovering man-servant, whose training had led him to believe that it was his duty to hand those plates of sandwiches to host and guest alike. Reluctantly, he withdrew, and Lucilla began to pour out tea – the beauty of the movement of her hand and slender arm wielding the massive teapot made Hugo’s heart turn over.

  ‘No tea, thank you so much. I came to talk with you. I bring bad news.’ She abandoned the teapot.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your Haymish is dead, shot. He was trying to escape. I thought you ought to know this.’ He blurted it all out, not in the least as he had meant to say it, carefully, feeling his way.

  ‘I do know it’ the girl said.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Oh, for quite a long time now. Those prisoners you brought down told me – they didn’t know about him and me, of course.’

  ‘They told you?’ The young man was staggered. ‘But – but when I sent you flowers, and came to see you, you knew this already?’

  ‘Yes’ Lucilla said flatly. ‘But I was rather upset, and I’d only just heard that you were in on the job; I simply didn’t want to talk about it then.’

  He looked both startled and hurt.

  ‘This is extraordinary!’

  ‘No it isn’t, Hugo. Everyone was sending me flowers and congratulating me, and I just had to say “Yes, yes” to them all – and it seemed easier to say “Yes, yes” to you, too. I did think of telling you’ – she remembered her conversation in the Minister’s study – ‘but when it came to the point I funked it. I’m sorry I lied to you.’

  He digested this explanation in silence for some moments.

  ‘I think I understand’ he said at last.’ It must have been terrible for you – all those flowers, and having to keep silent. Only to me! – since you knew that I knew about the prisoners. How did you know that?’

  ‘The Minister told me.’

  ‘Why should he tell you?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Because he knew that I was engaged to Hamish, and when the M.A. interviewed those two officers they told him that Hamish had been shot, so he – H.E., I mean – thought I ought to know, and sent for me to talk about it; and he mentioned that you had brought them down.’

  Hugo considered this rather revised version of Lucilla’s conversation with Sir Hugh; he apparently accepted

  ‘Nevertheless it is strange’ he said presently. ‘AH these weeks we meet, and dance, and talk – and you say nothing!’

  ‘No, nothing’ Lucilla said, setting her mouth obstinately. The young man looked half-exasperated – then he suddenly gave her a glowing smile.

  ‘Oh, you English! Who can ever understand you?’

  Lucilla was rather glad of the tea-table with its massive array of silver; it was a sort of rampart between her and this eager creature. He rose – then sat down again.

  ‘Well now, let us be rational’ he said. ‘The two prisoners we can forget; they are safe in Cairo – so Colonel Morven told me last night. So we should speak about you and me. When I asked you to marry me before you told me that you were affianced; but now your betrothed is dead. Requisca’ he said. He crossed himself, and paused.

  ‘So you are free’ Hugo pursued. ‘Now there is no question of being false to an imprisoned lover. You know that I love you – could you ever love me?’

  Lucilla waited for a moment. Then – ‘I do love you’she said.

  The young man stared at her.

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Yes, truly.’ She got up from behind the rampart of the tea-table, and went over to where he sat on a sofa and gave him a long deliberate kiss.

  ‘Oh, du mein liebstes Herz!’ He held her away from him and studied her face. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Oh, a long time now. I think really since you were so nice in the hide on the Hortobagy’ the young girl said reflectively.

  ‘How was I nice?’

  ‘Not squeezing my knee, or trying to kiss me! Anyhow you were nice.’

  ‘It was hard to be’ he said, smiling.

  ‘I know – that’s why you were nice to be nice’ Lucilla pronounced, making him laugh. Then his face turned sad.

  ‘But dearest, what do we do? At this moment I can offer you a reasonable amount – wealth, two beautiful homes – my parents would make a flat for us at Derekegy-haz, and we could have another in Pest, or a house up here in Buda, if you preferred that. But who knows what comes, and when? If the Germans come here I may be beggared, as so many Poles have been.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Lucilla knew a lot of beggared Poles. ‘And of course if the Germans come in, we go out. No, I don’t see a lot of future for you and me, Hugo; these aren’t the sort of days for making plans. But’ – she paused. ‘I feel it’s something to know, and acknowledge, that we love one another’ the girl said, slowly. ‘Love is much more important than houses, or money, or horrible wars that destroy plans, and houses, and try to destroy love itself. They can’t do that- love is indestructible.’ She paused again. ‘So I suggest that we should just be happy in knowing that we love one another, and wait for what comes.’

  He took her in his arms.’ My darling! You speak eternal truths.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, Hugo! That’s just fact. Look, I must fly now. But we’ll simply go on seeing one another, and being happy, for as long as we can, won’t we? Oh, I do love you so much!’ She gave him a long eager kiss before she ran off to get her coat; he drove her back to the Legation for her evening work on the Bulletin.

  The Bulletin didn’t actually last much longer. It had never been posted or circulated; people had to collect it, or send for it, either from the Legation or from the Consulate down in Pest. But when some men from the Secret Police went so far as to seize from their messengers and confiscate the two copies addressed respectively to the Regent and the Prime Minister, Sir Hugh felt that the time had come to close down. He sent a formal and severe protest to the Foreign Ministry, though in fact he knew that they could not help themselves. The German pressure on Hungary was becoming extreme. Members of the Chancery staff who had been encouraged to take flats overlooking the West-Bahnhof reported long trains full of tanks, tracked vehicles, and guns passing through, their shapes clearly recognisable under the waterproof covers, bound for Rumania, or perhaps ultimately Bulgaria. The Serbs suddenly and recklessly got tough with Germany; they threw out Prince Paul, the Regent, whom they suspected of playing ball with the Nazis, and put the youthful King Peter on the throne. This display of independence infuriated Hitler; it was obvious that some form of action against Yugoslavia would be taken before long. Then the sack would be closed, finally and completely. In view of all this the Minister caused Martha to send out the last edition of the little paper which had brought truth into the heart of Central Europe for so long, and despatched the girls who had worked on it back to England ‘Athenswise’, the only route available, while the going was still good.

  When the Bulletin went out of ac
tion Lucilla suddenly found herself with a lot of time on her hands, after her months of unremitting work; but Horace Wheatley was glad enough of extra help in the Chancery in the complicated three-man business of decyphering and encyphering telegrams. All the same, she was much more free than she had been, and when Hugo could get off in the afternoon he would drive her out into the country for an hour or two. Spring was beginning: the ice on the Danube was breaking up, and big floes drifted down on the current; the sun had more power, the air was balmy, full of the scent of growing thing; thrushes and blackbirds began to sing outside David Eynsham’s windows in the trees that clothed the slopes of the Bastion, filling him with delight and reassurance – he had always felt birdsong to be one of the most definite evidences of the goodness of God. Birds sang too in the forests where Lucilla and Hugo wandered hand in hand, or knelt on the dark soil, which gave out a woody fragrance, to pick snowdrops and wood-anemones – sometimes they sat on a fallen trunk, and listened, and kissed; they were very happy.

  But Mrs Eynsham could pay little attention to the spring that year, after the one drive to Buda-Örs when she picked aconites; she was working a fifteen-hour day, till 1.30 a.m., and her thoughts were elsewhere. She was troubled about David. He seemed to her to have gone back since he left the nursing-home; she heard his panting breath when he walked upstairs, the outer corners of the palms of his hands were often a brilliant pink; he was working much too hard, and he wouldn’t stop. One morning, when as usual he was having breakfast in bed, the window open to the soft air – like all heart subjects David could not endure closed windows – he said:’ Listen to that cock-blackbird – he has such an individual song. There! – now! – “ Oh you pretty-pretty-pretty-pretty biiird!” Isn’t he lovely?’ He mused. ‘I wonder sometimes how many more springs I shall hear blackbirds singing?’