The Phoenix Land (13 page)

At that time we still believed that someone abroad would be interested in what we had to tell.

To realize such a project it would be necessary to obtain a passport and also sufficient money in foreign currency, which was not available to ordinary citizens. I was delegated to get this through Károlyi. If I remember rightly it was the afternoon of the military revolt that I went to see him. He was still shaken by that day’s events and deeply shocked by them. It may be because of this that he received the Szekler National Council’s plan
sympathetically
and agreed at once to provide that whoever was sent should travel as a private person. We talked for a long time of the dangers that threatened from all sides, dangers which would reduce him to being an empty puppet, deprived of all power, and how the whole political aesthetic of his plans for the nation, on which he had placed all his hopes, would be destroyed. It was
with these fears in mind that he agreed to authorize the necessary foreign currency. I took this news back to the Council.

Now, however, an unexpected difficulty arose. None of the names we put to him proved to be to his liking, even though the first names we suggested had all been diplomats. He did not like any of them, saying that they would all make propaganda against him and he would be mad to send any of them abroad.

I went several times between the Minister-President’s office and the Council, always proposing new names – but Károlyi would have none of them. His answer was always the same: he would not give passports to his enemies! This went on so long that I began to wonder if perhaps he had only pretended to agree to something that in reality he did not want. Therefore, only thinking to put him to the test, I asked, ‘Well, would you give me a passport?’

He thought for a moment and then said, ‘To you, yes! But I tell you, to no one else!’

That was when it was decided that if anyone was to go, it had to be me. And the decision had been taken because of a single, unpremeditated question.

For me this unforeseen turn of events was most disagreeable because, even though my friends urged me to accept the mission, I explained that I really wanted to go back to my home in Transylvania and had only remained in the capital to help settle this matter, as I knew that I was the only one who could handle Károlyi due to our connections in the past. And now it seemed that I had landed myself in it and would have to accept it. Nevertheless, I did make some conditions. One was that I should contribute from my own pocket one fifth of the money I was going to take with me – it would be in Swedish crowns – as I did not want the Szekler National Council to pay my personal expenses. The other was that before starting I should have time to go home to say goodbye to my father. Both conditions were accepted.

Since the negotiations with Károlyi had taken over ten days, my visit to Kolozsvár had to be very short. I was not able to leave until 23 December. The French Colonel Vix gave me permission to travel, provided I was escorted by one of his officers. I only
had permission to remain there from morning to evening so, on Christmas Eve, I found myself on the night train to Kolozvár.

I only had a week before starting my journey to the west.

(This is the true story of how and why I went abroad on the last day of 1918. Count Tivadar Batthyány has written in his memoirs, which are suspiciously redolent of self-justification, that I left as Károlyi’s envoy. That was a mistake. I was sent by the Szekler National Council and not by Károlyi from whom I did not accept any mission or any instructions. It is not
surprising
that Batthyány should be misinformed because by then he was no longer a member of Károlyi’s cabinet. At the time of my departure Károlyi had no need of someone who was setting off into an unknown vacuum. A man such as myself, who had only the most uncertain connections with whom to negotiate, would hardly have been useful to him when Count Antal Sigray had been in Paris since 5 December. Sigray, whose son-in-law was the American ambassador in Paris, had far better connections than I did.)

As the train plodded slowly on through the night, my mind was filled with memories of all that had happened in the last few days, especially going back to Kolozsvár, my birthplace, and saying a painful farewell to my father. I was also filled with worry and distress not only for everything that had been destroyed but also for all the destruction still to come. My thoughts were like some devilish kaleidoscope, surfacing and resurfacing always in a different form, as visions changed and then vanished only to give way to others whose new form was as tormenting as the last.

As we travelled ever further from Hungary there was one overriding torment in the chaos of my thoughts: it was the
feeling
of homelessness. I felt torn from everything I held most dear. It was Fate that controlled my actions, not my own will. And so I, who from the beginning had wanted nothing but to go home, was now rolling further and further away from it.

Since then many years have passed, and in those years I have often thought how strange are the ways of Fate. Set on one’s way
by a single ill-considered spontaneous remark, one is led into a course of action that cannot be stopped whether one wants to or not. At the moment of departure we do not even dream of where our voyage will take us. Even when we have started we delude ourselves for an unconscionable time that in a short while it will soon be over, and we shall be free again to do as we please.
Sometimes
, in forests, one meets two such paths that, although divided perhaps by a stream or ditch, seem at first sight to run parallel to one another. One imagines that whichever one chooses will led us to the same place. However, slowly the paths diverge … and never meet again.

Chapter Five

During our long slow journey – I remember it was noon before we arrived in Vienna – I ran over in my mind the names of those acquaintances who might be able to help me in the adventurous enterprise upon which I had just started.

Our tiny compartment, piled high with luggage, was the ideal place for contemplation. Through the patched-up windowpanes and the slits between the wooden laths with which they had been fixed, I could get glimpses of the snowless land outside gleaming in the wintry sun.

Andorján and his wife, both tired out, were asleep. Even Lolotte was quiet and did not stir, no doubt sensing that the smallest movement could disturb her coverlet and let out some of the comfortable warmth created by her own body heat.

Once again, too, for the hundredth time, I rehearsed the
arguments
with which I would plead our cause.

Much care and attention is needed when negotiating with men we do not know. Not only do all men react differently in the way they take in what they hear, but there are also the very different national attitudes seemingly inbred, for example, in the French, the Germans, and the English, who will all find different aspects of an argument important or interesting. The matter under
discussion
may be the same, and so are the points one wants to make, but they have to be presented differently, with the tone, colour and emphasis all carefully tailored to the sensibilities of he to whom one is talking. Here it is vital to be able to sense the differences in human mentality and understand them; otherwise all presentation of one’s argument will be fruitless. We ourselves must look at our case not with our own eyes but with those of the man we are trying to convince. As the French so aptly say
‘entrer
dans la peau du bonhomme’
– to get in under his skin. Whatever we have to say must be phrased according to his standpoint. Of course, one must always keep to the truth not only for its own sake but also because the smallest lie will sooner or later wreak its vengeance upon us; but it is vitally important that the truth must be expressed in terms of the other man’s habit of thought. The greatest mistake of German diplomacy, during and before the war, was that it never ever took into consideration anyone’s way of thinking but their own.

Then I began to wonder if the first man I wanted to see would be willing, solely on the basis of our old acquaintance, to discuss affairs of state with someone who had no official status.

I was thinking of Esmé Howard, who is now British
ambassador
in Washington, and who was then
en poste
in Sweden. I had thought of him firstly because he was within reach. Sweden had remained neutral during the war and, among the neutral states, had been the one that had shown most sympathy to the central European powers (probably from fear of the Russians and Bolshevism). I should be able fairly easily to obtain a visa for Sweden and perhaps find there some measure of support.

My second reason for thinking of Howard was that when he had been consul-general in Budapest some years before the war we had begun to strike up a friendship, rare between men from different countries, probably because we had many tastes in common. He too loved classical music and had much
appreciation
for the fine arts. His wife was Italian, and that may have accounted for that fact that he understood Europe and
Europeans
better than many of his countrymen who (as he himself wrote in
England and Europe
) can live for any length of time in any part of the world and never understand anyone who was not English.

Howard had another great advantage in being a cousin of the Duke of Norfolk, head of one of England’s oldest noble families who ranked there almost as high as royalty. A man with such an exalted background was not likely to be biased by current public opinions, especially if these have been swayed by popular
slogans
of the moment and are infected by the shallow hatreds of the mob. I clung to the hope that in him remained some vestiges
of that medieval chivalry which was based more on social
sympathy
than on geographical frontiers. With his privileged
background
he would surely, if he thought it right, be unafraid to flout any diplomatic veto, if such existed, and listen to what I had to say.

As soon as I arrived in Vienna I tried to get a visa for Sweden but was unsuccessful as both the embassy and the consulate were shut for the New Year. As I did not want to waste time in Vienna I decided to try again in Berlin.

The former notary-public Charmant, who was Károlyi’s ambassador in Vienna, and Andorján took on the task of getting our passports stamped at the German Embassy, and so I had some time to see what the old imperial capital looked like after the revolution.

For anyone who had not been there for some time the first shock was the uncollected dirt and debris everywhere to be seen on the streets and sidewalks. Vienna, which had formerly been one of the cleanest of all big cities, was now a depressing sight. It looked as if the streets had not been swept or watered for months. Most of the shops were closed, there were hardly any cars to be seen, and all those pretty women who used to throng the streets of the capital had vanished into thin air.

I found myself in front of the Hofburg, and there another
surprise
awaited me. The great doors with the dome above, which led from the Kohlmarkt to the Maria Theresia statue, were closed. Only a tiny door at the side was left open, and in it stood an armed soldier. Other armed guards were posted all round the entire palace complex, including the two great museums. They were all armed to the teeth, with hand grenades hanging from their belts and guns on their shoulders as if they expected the enemy at any moment.

I asked about this and was told that a few hundred officers, of their own free will and dressed as common soldiers, had
occupied
the palace and the museums and in uninterrupted shifts, guarded the place so strictly that no one was allowed in or out.

Deeply loyal, in spite of all that had been happening in the last weeks
33
, they felt it their duty to guard what they considered imperial property. There, right in the centre of the city, the Hofburg was like a warship alone at sea, hopelessly battling against a raging storm and yet, manned by a loyal crew still
faithful
to their duty, still fighting on despite the fact that the leader to whom they owed that duty had abandoned them.

The sight of these men reminded me of the story of the
faithful
hound that guarded his master’s grave until he died himself. But here in Vienna the tomb was empty for the master had long since fled to Eckartsau, no doubt he had been given no choice, and so the steadfastness of those guards was in vain. All the same it was beautiful to see and touching. It was the last time that there was to be seen the true spirit of
Mannestreue
, that ray of moral sunshine such as had been sung in the
Nibelugenlied
34
.

Knowing that assessment of the finances of the joint Austrian and Hungarian foreign offices had been given to a man I had known well ever since we had several times served together
en poste
in Germany and with whom I had remained good friends, I went to see him in the famous building on the Ballplatz. When the government had collapsed, my old friend had already reached the senior rank of councillor, perhaps even with the title of ambassador. Now he had been entrusted by the Austrian
government
– and also possibly by that of Hungary too – with the task of bringing order to the department’s complicated financial and personnel problems.

The elderly porter on duty at the massive old doorway of the Ballplatz building seemed overjoyed to see me. This, I fancy, was not because he knew me but because he now had so few visitors and was longing to have someone to announce. He at once showed me up the huge staircase which had been mounted a hundred years before during the Congress of Vienna
35
by all those kings and princes big or small who were eager for Metternich to restore to them the lands they had once ruled. Upstairs I was greeted by an official with obsequious politeness
and a moment or two later I found myself in that great
writing-room
from which the far-flung Habsburg Empire had been
controlled
for two centuries.

There was very little furniture and what there was had been arranged along the walls. At the far end of the room was a vast writing table of some highly polished dark wood on top of which gleamed some gilded Empire bronzes.

My friend got up from behind the table, obviously pleased to see me. Then he sat down again, and I seated myself in an
armchair
at the end of the table. After some little chat about the past we started to talk about the general breakdown of order and how it had come about. Somehow, in the voice of this man
deputizing
for a minister I detected no trace of that natural sorrow one might have expected from a high-ranking member of the empire’s former diplomatic service. On the contrary, I sensed a sort of hidden joy as he expressed his regrets for what had occurred in the most banal terms, a joy that became less and less suppressed as he spoke. At first our talk was sluggish, but it was suddenly to change.

‘Who would have thought,’ he said, ‘even a short time ago, that I would soon be sitting at this desk, the desk of the great Metternich? What a stupendous feeling! This is his inkstand that I use! This is his chair on which I sit! It is truly a stupendous feeling!’

It was obvious that he was very happy. In that room he saw only the furniture, the magnificent pictures and carpets of the palace of which he was now lord and master. He brushed aside the fact that in reality he was only an official brought in to list the assets of that once famous establishment prior to its liquidation. That the power had flown away and only the husk remained, like a gilded shell void of life,
that
he did not see. It was with pride and gracious condescension that he received me there.

And when I left he escorted me to the outer doors and shook my hand warmly as he said goodbye, saying that I must come again to see him next time I should be in Vienna.

‘I am at your disposal in everything!’ he said in the encouraging tones of one offering me the shining prospect of an embassy.

Then he returned proudly to his place of work, where Kaunitz and Metternich looked down upon him from the walls. The footman closed the great double doors behind him with much deference.

I went away feeling that, in spite of everything else I saw around me, I had at least found one happy man, reflecting what a treasure it must be when naïve joy in personal success can cloak reality with the thin pink vapour of content.

The next day we left for Germany.

It was the same crowd, the same broken windows with patchily mended glass and the same dirty seats. The train, crowded with dark-faced men and whining frightened women, dragged itself along just as slowly. After endless dawdling at a snail’s pace we arrived at last at Salzburg.

During the long stretch that led to the Austrian border my anxiety had grown until I felt like a schoolboy who, after much special coaching, has to face new masters. What will they be like? Will they be over-demanding, or perhaps bad-tempered?

Just as when, for the last time before the examinations, I would revise algebraic formulae or Greek aorists, I asked myself for the hundredth time if I had properly hidden the considerable sum of money with which I had been entrusted.

It was well known that at the Austrian border there was a
Leibes-visitation
– a body-search – meaning that they would examine not only one’s luggage but also the clothes one wore, all of them even down to one’s shoes, to stop anyone carrying
foreign
currency, be it banknotes, gold or jewellery. The same occurs again on the German side to all travellers arriving in the country. Then everything had to be surrendered in exchange for local paper money and that, of course, at whatever rate they choose to apply.