The Tightening String Read online

  This is the sort of phrase which most appals a woman on returning after an absence – Rosina had visions of the cook having left, or the always uncertain kitchen range having finally conked out.

  ‘Goodness, what’s wrong?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘That woman Martha would get round the devil himself her husband replied obliquely, as they walked towards the station entrance. ‘She said they absolutely must have a room to pack the prisoners’ parcels in, as close to the Legation as possible, and that our dining-room would be just the thing, it’s so big and so near – in fact she practically requisitioned it!’

  ‘Oh.’ Rosina laughed, relieved. ‘So where do we eat?’

  ‘In your little morning-room. Where you’ll keep all your trash and write your letters I can’t imagine.’ He told the chauffeur to get a taxi, and they stood in the cool morning air while the miscellaneous collection of bundles was stowed.

  ‘It had all better come to our house, so’ Rosina said, checking her acquisitions carefully from a list.

  ‘Everything comes to our house – and everybody! People tramp in and out all day long. Thank goodness that infernal little man from the Hunk Red Cross had stopped coming up with his wretched labels and seals’ Eynsham said as they drove off.

  ‘Oh dear! Why? And now what happens?’

  ‘Why, I imagine because he found it too much trouble! But he left the seal in the Legation, with endless strips of lead, and Morven or Horace seal the parcels themselves. And Chalgrove arranged for us to use their block, and have our own labels printed.’

  ‘But with the Hungarian Red Cross name on it?’ Rosina was thinking of those quilts, and the cigarettes from Athens, for which this cover was so essential.

  ‘Certainly. I said we use their block – you don’t listen. Oh, a lot has gone on while you were away’ David said, looking slightly amused. ‘That woman Martha! She’s had writing-paper printed with a quite brazen letter-head:

  “BRITISH PRISONERS OF WAR RELIEF

  ORGANISATION.

  VERBÖCZY UTCA 1.

  BUDAPEST.”

  Not a word about the Legation. And how are the Boches to know that it lives at No. 1 Verböczy utca? There are no flies on Martha.’

  Rosina did certainly find her entrance-hall rather dusty, and bits of straw and paper blowing here and there; but she didn’t mind – in fact she was delighted. After an early breakfast, while she was taking up again the reins of her easily-running household, checking the cook’s account-book, and hearing Bertha’s eager recital of what the Fraulein had worn to what parties, the front-door bell rang.

  ‘That will be Herr Schmidt’ Bertha said. ‘Will the lady see him?’

  Herr Schmidt proved to be Mr Smith, an English businessman from the town; while work was slack, owing to the war, he had taken on the formidable task of doing most of the actual packing of parcels for the prison-camps. With him Mrs Eynsham now entered what had been her dining-room; she stared in astonishment. The carpet had gone; a trestle-table stood down the middle of the long room, with two smaller ones at each end, one covered with flaring red-and-black Red Cross labels, balls of string, a huge set of kitchen scales, and the sealing-machine with its attendant strips of lead; the other piled with heaps of chocolate, cigarettes, and various tinned edibles. The things she had brought had been dumped down under the windows; against the opposite wall strong cardboard boxes in various sizes were neatly ranged.

  Mr Smith explained all the arrangements enthusiastically. The Hungarians were being absolutely splendid; they made special cartons for the Relief Organisation at cost price or below, and a lot of the food-merchants sold their goods at the same rate. As for him, he loved doing the packing – ‘And the staff are so busy, it’s more than enough for them to go and buy things.’ His eye lit on the pile of bundles under the windows – ‘Oh is this what you’ve brought? How grand! May I undo them?’ Mrs Eynsham said by all means, and left him muttering joyfully over the chocolate, the cigarettes, the khaki flannellette, the figs and sultanas.

  ‘Let us now praise famous men,

  Men of little showing’

  - men like Mr Smith, to whose labours in the Eynshams’ dining-room thousands of prisoners, who never heard his name or knew that he existed, owed the well-packed parcels which did so much to lighten their lot during those first terrible six months when practically nothing reached them from England. Others packed too: Gina Morven, with her small strong hands, and Horace Wheatley, whose fins were more efficient than they looked; the Colonel tugged at knots on parcels for the Camerons. But Mr Smith carried the main burden. Over 100 5-kilogram parcels, the maximum permitted weight, were already being sent off every week – not only to those whose wives or parents sent cheques, but to all camps whose initials and numbers were known – so Mrs Eynsham learned from Martha later that morning; some had already been acknowledged. ‘They seem to get there in about four weeks; some in less.’

  ‘Oh, excellent.’

  ‘But someone will have to keep the lists,’ Martha pursued. ‘We must know what has been sent to whom, or to which camp. So far we’ve just scribbled it all down in a copy-book, but that’s very muddly and unmethodical.’ Mrs Eynsham realised that she would have to keep the lists, and volunteered to do so.

  ‘Good, I was sure you would.’

  ‘I’m not very methodical.’

  ‘Oh, Horace will keep you up to the mark – he’s a mammoth for method!’ Martha said, with her brief laugh. ‘But Mrs E., we must find out somehow how many of our people there are in each camp. Look at this.’ She took from her desk – they were talking in Martha’s office – a letter in German from an indignant Camp-Commandant; Rosina could not help laughing as she read it. The Hauptmann X’s complaint was that eight parcels of food had been sent to his camp by the Prisoners’ Relief Organisation in Budapest, for British prisoners – ‘whereas here I have of these only six, all diabetics or with stomach ulcers, who are receiving special foods from the International Red Cross in Geneva. Such cannot eat smoked goose-breast and chocolate!’ He ended by saying that he had sent on the parcels to the nearest Stalag, where there were over 1000 British prisoners.

  ‘Well, that’s splendid of him,’ Rosina said, still laughing.

  ‘Yes – but will you answer it? He ought to be thanked, but I simply haven’t the time. And this nonsense has got to stop. We must know how many of our people are in which camps; we can’t waste our parcels. Could you find out?’

  ‘I’ll try. Is H.E. free? If so I’ll go up and see him. Oh and Martha, when you have a moment I wish you’d come over and see my wool; the Turkish stuff is lovely.’

  ‘More wool? Pounds and pounds have come up from Sofia already.’

  ‘Really? Good. But this is better quality. Anyhow now we can start Mrs Chalgrove’s ladies knitting.’

  ‘That’s something you will have to do’ Martha Beckley said firmly. She and Rosina were on such good terms that they could afford to be firm with one another. ‘You might talk to the Min about it. I think it ought to be done here – doling out the wool, and checking the products; all that part. In the mornings – we could give them coffee; they’d like that. I’m sure the Min will give the drawing-room once or twice a week.’

  ‘Of course the Legation is the proper place’ Rosina said. ‘Right, Can you find out if H.E. is free now?’

  The Minister was free, and Mrs Eynsham went up to his study, taking with her the letter from the indignant German Hauptmann. Sir Hugh studied her face rather more carefully than her husband had done, but reached much the same conclusion.

  ‘Well apparently you haven’t killed yourself, as I fully expected you to’ he said. ‘In fact you look remarkably well.’ (By now Rosina had changed out of the crumpled dress in which she had slept on the corridor floor.) ‘Now sit down and tell me everything.’

  Rosina told him enough to amuse him; the episode in the Brown House she reserved for a later occasion, since she had business on hand. When she had made him laugh abou
t his Belgrade colleague’s remarks about women’s illegal activities, she raised the question of the knitting-parties. As Martha had foretold, Sir Hugh at once promised to give the use of his drawing-room once a week, and to provide coffee for the knitting ladies. Rosina suggested Thursday mornings – ‘The day after the jour, and well before the week-end.’ He agreed. ‘But I suggest that you rope in that Mrs Starnberg to help you over this’ he said. ‘She’s far the most competent of the Englishwomen here.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Knowing is my business. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yes, entirely – only I can’t think how you find these things out.’ Then she produced the German Camp-Commandant’s letter. When he too had finished laughing over it she explained that she had told Martha that she, Rosina, would keep the lists of parcels. ‘But look, H.E. dear, how are we to find out how many of our men are where? Obviously we must do that.’

  ‘I always like your calling me “dear”, but from you, especially, I dislike the expression H.E.’ the Minister said. ‘Wouldn’t it be much simpler if you called me Hugh?’

  ‘Nothing would induce me to, while we’re in the same post.’ Rosina spoke as firmly as Martha. ‘Terribly bad for discipline, and – and so on’ she said, blushing a little. ‘You are a dear’ she added; ‘so now be your name, and tell me how to find out how many prisoners of ours are in each camp.’

  He laughed a little ruefully.

  ‘Oh, you dedicated women! Well if you are going to do all the office-work for the P.O.W.’s you must have a room in this house, with the use of the Legation telephone, and of a typist. I know your scrawl – it wouldn’t be much use for official records!’ She laughed. ‘There’s a little room across the landing – come and look’ he said, and led her out of the study. The room was certainly small, and rather dark, but it contained a desk with a lamp, a telephone, two tables, and some bookshelves.

  ‘Perfect’ Mrs Eynsham said.’ I’ll tell Martha to send her papers up here. Oh, but I shall want something to keep files in — shan’t we have to have files? What about one of those spare-room chests of drawers that were cleared out to make room for the Bulletin?’

  ‘I’ll send something up. Come and have a drink – it’s after twelve.’

  Back in his study, over sherry, the Minister proceeded to answer Mrs Eynsham’s question about how to ascertain in which camps the British prisoners were.

  ‘The International Red Cross in Geneva will know that’ he said, ‘and by now they should have the figures for all the camps.’

  ‘But how do I get hold of the Red Cross in Geneva?’

  ‘Ring them up, of course. When you’ve finished your sherry go across to your new office, and ask Hanna or Bertha to put you through.’

  Rosina was so startled by this idea that she abandoned her sherry and went straight across to her new room to try it out; Sir Hugh looked gloomily after her,

  ‘I want the International Red Cross in Geneva’ she told the girl operator.

  ‘Any particular section? This may save time’ the girl said.

  ‘Yes – whoever deals with British prisoners-of-war.’

  ‘I will ring you back.’ And within ten minutes Rosina was having the first of many conversations with a Mademoiselle X. in Geneva about the prisoners and their needs. But during those ten minutes the Englishwoman was thinking how strange – and how maddening – it was that she could so easily telephone to Geneva about the prisoners, but could not possibly ring up Grannie Eynsham in England to get more news of Dick, let alone speak to Dick himself – wherever he now was. She would have given her eyes to speak to her son. When the call came through Mrs Eynsham put her question – how many prisoners, in which camps, and their correct addresses?

  ‘We have the total figure, about 44,000’ the Swiss lady replied. ‘But I cannot give you the numbers in each camp off-hand. Can I ring you up this evening? Say at 6.30?’ Rosina said Yes. And in under seven hours she took down, over the telephone, the exact numbers of prisoners in each Oflag and Stalag in Germany – this at a time when letters from the British Red Cross in London were taking six weeks to reach Geneva, telephone communication between the two places was impossible, and all telegrams subject to censorship and delays.

  On her return to lunch David said, to her surprise –’ I’ve told Ernest Erdöszy that we’ll all go down to Terenzcer this week-end. Martha says she can spare Lucilla, and I think the child could do with a breather. So could I, come to that – and it’s one of the few houses where they will let one go to bed if one wants to. You’re free, aren’t you?’

  Rosina was free – but she would have broken almost any engagement to get David away into the country for two or three days. And she loved Terenzcer, with its lake where one swam, and the quiet country life on the edge of the Bakony – the great forest, the second oldest in Europe to have been felled and re-planted continuously for six centuries; it stretched for miles, and was still full of wild life: deer, roe, wild boar, wolves. Ernest Erdoszy was a cousin of Count Endre’s, but of a very different stamp. He hated Budapest and lived on his estate, which he farmed with knowledge and enthusiasm; he bred Arab horses, was a fine shot, and – curiously – was also an eager student of modern philosophy; learned men came gladly to stay in his rambling comfortable house. He had surprised everyone by his choice of a wife, a girl from Vienna with no country roots at all; but Margit had taken to the life at Terenzcer like a duck to water; she rode and drove splendidly, and had become as good a shot as her husband, or better. She filled her house with guests as often as possible – and even philosophers like a gay pretty hostess, who sees to their every comfort. Budapest, that hot-bed of gossip, speculated as to how Margit Erdöszy passed the winter evenings, when the children were in bed and her Ernest in his library with the philosophy books; in fact she spent them doing exquisite smocking, copying patterns from an old English book, on frocks for her little girls, and listening to Mozart records on her huge radiogram. She only left her husband about once every three months, to see her dentist in Budapest about her teeth, of which she was rather vain.’

  The Eynshams drove down to Terenzcer on the Friday: so did the Morvens, who were invited too. Like so many other things petrol was in very short supply in Hungary in 1940, and diplomats, who could get all they wanted, were frequently asked to give lifts to fellow-guests. So the Morvens took down Count Endre and his sister Erszi, and the Eynshams (David grumbling) went to the Duna-Palota, the Budapest Ritz, and collected a rather fat and dreary man of learning from Dresden. (One of the things Margit Erdöszy had not learned was that one shouldn’t ask diplomats to carry enemies in their cars.)

  Before she left Rosina had telephoned to Mrs Chalgrove, the Consul’s wife, and told her to muster all the English knitting ladies she could at the Legation at ten-thirty on the following Thursday morning, to be given wool and to drink coffee; then, as the Minister had advised, she called on Mrs Starnberg. She soon realised how right Sir Hugh had been. Like most Scotswomen Rosina had been accustomed to knitting shooting-stockings and socks for her menfolk all her life, and imagined that all women could do likewise. Mrs Starnberg knew better.

  ‘Most of them won’t have the faintest idea’ she said. ‘But I have an old knitting-book which has all the directions for socks and gloves and so on in it.’ She produced a rather tattered paper-covered pamphlet. ‘I thought it might be a good idea to have the recipes, if that’s what one calls them, for socks and gloves typed out, so that you could hand one to each person who is given wool.’

  Rosina had never thought of any idea so practical as this; but she seized on it, and on the shabby book.

  ‘I’ll get that done. Thank you.’

  ‘And needles’ Mrs Starnberg had pursued. ‘Most of them won’t have any; and of course the size depends on the thickness of the wool.’

  Rosina hadn’t thought of that either.’

  Could you buy sets of needles, if you saw the wool?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes, I’d
gladly do that.’

  And there and then Rosina had swept the sensible creature off to her house, where she furnished her with samples of Bulgarian and Turkish wool, and an ample supply of pengoes with which to buy needles. Then she went along to her minute office in the Legation, and rather nervously rang up Horace Wheatley, who was Head of Chancery and controlled all the staff.

  ‘Oh, Horace, the Min said I could have a typist – for the prisoners, you know – if I needed one. Do you think I could have someone?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Well not to type now – only to be given a job to do in the next few days.’

  ‘Right. Where are you? At home?’

  ‘No – in that funny little room opposite the study. That’s my new office.’

  ‘Very handy. Right’ he said again. And a typist had come up and been told to make sixty copies each of recipes for gloves and socks from the tattered book, to be ready by the following Wednesday. After which Rosina went off to the country with a quiet mind.

  She never forgot the drive down, it was so beautiful. Also it was the last time for many a long day that she was driven by David. Lucilla sat with her Father in front; Rosina and the learned German behind – fortunately he was rather silent. The road-side banks, in the open undulating country, were covered with a mauve salvia, on which white butterflies were settling in thousands; as the car passed they rose in silvery clouds – Rosina could see them settling again through the back window. Her frequent movements to do this presently aroused her companion from his philosophical absorption—

  ‘Something happens behind us?’ he asked.

  ‘No – only butterflies.’

  ‘So.’ He relapsed into silence.

  Terenzcer was a long, low, white building, elegantly plain without, combining elegance with countryfied comfort within – none of the splendours of Siraly, but a benevolent homeliness. The beds, for instance, had fine modern hair mattresses coated with lambswool; but instead of an under-blanket a soft-cured deerskin, gentle as chamois-leather and nearly half an inch thick, was tucked in by the legs under the bottom sheet, a thing which always delighted Rosina.