The Phoenix Land (16 page)

It was pitch dark, and everything was closed. Hoping we might find somewhere to eat we drove straight to the harbour, but all we found here was a wooden hut that served as the port office. After much banging on the door some sort of night
watchman
stumbled out.

He ushered us into an ugly, freezing-cold room whose walls were of coarse planking, and after much discussion finally sold us some German sausage and some hardboiled eggs for an
outrageous
price and then left.

We lay down on some benches and very soon, despite nearly fifteen degrees of frost, fell into a deep sleep.

Now followed the most energetic morning of our journey.

Quite early we received the most dreadful news, really horrible news! Lolotte would not be allowed to enter Denmark, at least not until after forty days of quarantine. Not one moment less!

Our consternation can only be imagined, so much so that to this day my pen is unable to describe the happenings of that morning. The three of us – but not the dog, who remained calm: calmer and indeed friendlier than we had ever known her – became like the inhabitants of an anthill, swarming about in every direction.

Hither and thither we ran, holding discussions with the
frontier
police, customs officials and the port commander, all of them 
suspicious of these dangerous smugglers. It was all in vain. What we asked was impossible! Then we went to see the director of the Dog Pound, who turned out to be the same night watchman who had sold us two hardboiled eggs for such an exaggerated price the night before and who said that travellers to Copenhagen often left their dogs with him.

It was then that I noticed that he agreed to take care of Lolotte with oddly suspicious relish, and that when he stroked the animal’s fat back it was with flashing eyes and much licking of lips. Clearly, he would cheerfully have eaten poor Lolotte the very next day. I had heard that in Germany fat dogs were
considered
a delicacy, and indeed I remembered having seen notices in butchers’ shops which read
MORGEN WIRD EIN FETTER HUND GESCHLACHTET
! – ‘Tomorrow we will be killing a
well-fattened
dog!’

Mrs Andorján was on the point of accepting this strange
dog-lover
’s
offer when I intervened. Even though I thought Lolotte a mannerless beast, I could not wish her a sad end in a hot oven, so I drew Mrs Adorján’s attention to her pet’s likely fate in the man’s kitchen. So appalled was Mrs Andorján at this unhappy prospect that after an explosion of grief she decided she would rather poison poor old Lolotte on the spot and so save her from the roasting pan.

Her husband accepted this solution with no little joy and ran at once to find a veterinary. He came back later with the news that a veterinary was on his way equipped with a syringe and
strychnine
at the ready.

In the event his help was not needed. By the time Andorján came back I had found another solution. Moved by poor Mrs Andorján’s tears and lamentations, I swore that somehow I would find a way to save Lolotte.

It was a bold plan, but it worked. We wrapped the animal in the English blanket that I always carried loose when travelling, strapped it well with a luggage strap until, as the blanket was fairly thin, it looked like any other rolled-up travelling rug. Luckily, the dog was so sausage-shaped and her legs so short that they did not protrude. Then I carried her onto the ship like that.

When we boarded no one bothered to have my rug unfastened and so I crept down at once to the lowest possible cabin, opened a small slit for her nose so that she would not suffocate, but kept her well strapped in until we were able to let her out in the Danish train.

Mercifully she did not bark, not even once. And this is the true story of how Lolotte was saved.

It seemed a long time before the ship started to shudder and then smoothly glided out of the German harbour. I went up on deck to find that the sea was calm, as smooth as oil, and from its silken surface came occasional flashes of silver.

On deck I found some twenty or thirty soldiers, dressed in dark-grey uniforms, standing or strolling about, some of them gazing eastwards towards the commercial docks. They were all French officers, and in their brand-new uniforms, there was nothing to show that they were newly-released prisoners of war. They looked well nourished, had a good healthy colour and talked loudly among themselves with shining eyes and a proud happy mien.

Seeing them there was completely unexpected and struck in me a most painful note. Until that moment I had only seen the men of a defeated nation, exhausted, strained to desperation by desperate struggles, whose manner and bearing reflected only the pain of their country’s decay, no matter what their background or their loyalties. Now, for the first time, I met some of the victors.

The sheer toughness of the French, which in the past had been stupidly underrated by so many people, and especially by the Germans, had just been demonstrated in a world war.
Personally
I had always believed in it, but until this moment I had never seen so strikingly evident that Gallic self-esteem which not only characterized their disdain for everyone else but also strengthened the national characteristics of daredevilry and
self-sacrifice
which are one of the French nation’s most marked
qualities
. It is not a particularly sympathetic quality, but it carries
with it great force. As they stood there, so jaunty and defiant, with legs arrogantly thrust forward from the hip, all this passion radiated from them. Their very stance was witness to the
flaming
patriotism that had helped the nation to wait silently for nearly half a century so as to prepare themselves for the moment of
revanche – revenge
37
.

‘Y penser toujours, n’en parler jamais!’
had been the motto of the whole nation. It had been there deep inside men engaged in hand-to-hand fighting, and there whenever the common
soldiers
, the French
poilus
, perhaps subconsciously aware of their own weakness, felt the need of some extra boost to morale: some drug to give them endurance beyond their natural strength. This passion, too, would inflame their cruelty and the joy in wreaking pitiless vengeance, just as, after the chase, the dogs prepare to tear apart the prey they have just hunted to death.

And suddenly all these thoughts were made manifest in song. From far away came the sound of the ‘Marseillaise’.

Two large troopships had just put to sea, and as they left the quayside, the singing started up. On board were two thousand French soldiers, also ex-prisoners of war, who had just started their journey home; and, as the sound of their voices reached us, the officers began to sing as well.

Never again have I heard that anthem sung as the soldiers sang it that day, singing triumphantly, with such boldness,
defiance
and so much joy in victory, that as the men, leaving the German sand-dunes behind them, were beginning their glorious and momentous journey homewards, their song took wings.

It sounded quite different from those occasions when we
normally
heard it – at concerts or other festive occasions. To begin with, it was far faster, with a quicker rhythm and with the words somehow broken up so that sometimes it seemed as if we were hearing two versions simultaneously: one drawn out and the other contracted. It was like a fanfare of trumpets: all embracing, merry, boastful and exaggerated. Here was the very essence of French
blague
mixed with what the Italians call the ‘
furia francese
’.

‘…le jour de gloire est …
arrivé
!’
– how true it was for them!

I went back inside the ship. It was better there, for no outside
sound penetrated those portholes so firmly secured against the waves. All one could hear was the asthmatic breathing of the steam engines and the grinding of metal plates.

When we got further out to sea, the waves grew stronger, smashing themselves against the hull, and then one could hear the water on deck draining away with the rhythm of the waves.

The eternal indifference of nature to man throbbed
relentlessly
against the ship’s sides. Cut by the churning propeller, the water soon became smooth, clean and virginal once more, just as if that manmade monster had never sliced it apart – that element that could carry so much passion, so much joy … and so much sorrow.

Chapter Seven

A big disappointment awaited me in Copenhagen, for there I learned that Esmé Howard was no longer in Stockholm. He had left two days before for Paris to join the discussions of the
‘Grande Cinq’
, that committee of the five principal victorious allies at which President Wilson, Clemenceau and Lloyd George were to redraw the map of Europe into that which we know today.

With this news my whole plan went up in smoke.

I knew that Howard would have received me even though, from the English point of view, I was still an enemy alien; and he would have listened to what I had to tell him because he was an intelligent and broad-minded man.

Now it had become impossible for me to reach him since he was already in Paris, and I would never be allowed to get there.

I had no idea what to do.

Our ambassador in Copenhagen had left for home, leaving Stanislaus Deym as chargé d’affaires at the embassy. I spent
several
afternoons in his company learning something of what was happening in Hungary from those emigrants who had just got out. Later I was to learn much more at The Hague.

In the elegant rooms of the Copenhagen embassy we would drink tea in the company of Deym’s Spanish wife, the lovely Countess Claruchitta. The tea was excellent, and the furniture – lit by beautiful, well-placed silk-shaded lamps – was superb. Loveliest of all, however, was the hostess herself who, having broken a leg a few weeks before, used to recline on a sofa, dressed, in a lacy negligee, amidst a pile of brocade cushions and shawls and was, I fancy, bored to death. Not many people called to see them, and these were limited to a few neutral diplomats
and junior members of their own embassy. That was all. The Danes had always been friendly to the Allies, both because of traditional friendship and also from fear of the Germans. I saw none of them there.

In that scented drawing-room and in the presence of that beautiful lady, we all tried to appear light-hearted and merry, but the sense of the whole world turning topsy-turvy lay heavily upon us. The disastrous news arriving from central Europe grew daily more depressing and left us feeling lost and homeless like men in a lifeboat tossed about at the mercy of a great ocean.

Deym, whom I had known superficially since our days in Vienna, had at first received me coldly, but later, when I had
convinced
him that I was not travelling as Károlyi’s envoy, his
stiffness
disappeared. Of Károlyi he had many hard things to say, and this was not only because of Deym’s fierce sense of loyalty to the king but also because they had formerly been close friends. He had twice been asked to shoot at Karolyi’s country place at Parád and had also been Károlyi’s companion in that crazy adventure in the hot-air balloon of which I have already written.

There was no reason for me to stay on in Copenhagen, and in any case I found the atmosphere of that city intolerable. The streets were filled with all those French soldiers who had started on their journey home from Warnemünde at the same time as we did. The Danes gave them a tremendous welcome, and naturally their mutual celebrations largely took the form of drinking together; and the night was filled with sound of yodelling as, arm in arm, they staggered about the streets.

Mrs Andorján at first thought she might be able to go to France by ship, but this plan had to be changed, although she did not seem to mind, because the North Sea was still littered with mines, and almost every day we would read of boats and ships that had been sunk. So she then decided to try to get home by way of Holland. Andorján decided to go with her, and I joined them in the hope that somehow I could reach England from there.

For a long time we discussed which would be the best route. On paper the most direct way would have been through Berlin, but this was ruled out since we had been stuck in the German
capital once already due to the Spartacist rising. Instead we chose a longer route by way of Hamburg, Bremen and Osnabrück, hoping that by so doing we could avoid any further adventures.

Off we set. Once again to Warnemünde, and from there due west.

The express was very crowded and very slow, but we were accustomed to both.

When we were already close to Hamburg the train suddenly stopped. We were in a small station, a very small station, and there we had to wait – and wait and wait without the train
showing
any signs of movement. The train attendants were busy
discussing
something with the stationmaster.

We asked ourselves what could have happened. What was going on?

Finally a train attendant walked the length of train. Everyone out! The train was going no further.

No further, at least not that day. No further? Because that very day the Spartacist rising had broken out there too, and the old Hanseatic city was already in their hands.

There was something fatalistic, and also comical, in the fact that we had all over again run straight into precisely what we had tried to avoid. It was just like Berlin. If we had gone by way of Hanover we would have had no trouble – and here we were!

I went to talk to
‘Herr Stationschef’
, who told me that Altona was still controlled by the central government, and that we could wait there to see what happened next.

‘How far away are we?’ I asked.

‘About twenty kilometres, but you might have to go rather more as you’ll have to keep away from the Hanseatic city limits.’

It was two or three hours before I could find some means of transportation. Finally I was able, with the help of the village innkeeper – with whom I adopted my best
Norddeutsch
accent to avoid arousing suspicion since foreigners were not much liked there – to get an ancient four-wheeler drawn by two sad-looking nags delivered to the station.

It was a dear old hackney cab, not unlike those old fiacres I remembered from my childhood, which used to ply the streets of
Buda when they still bore white number-plates. It was oddly constructed: half open carriage, half glazed-in coach. In the 1850s they were nicknamed
batár alahátt
, which was probably derived from
bâtard à la hâte
– a mongrel in a hurry. The rear part had a fixed roof with a perpendicular back to it, while the front seats only had glass windows at the sides and back. God knows how many hands this old rattletrap had passed through before landing up in a tiny village in North Germany.

Anyhow we piled in all our luggage – bags, baskets,
strappedup
rugs and all that had now become so familiar – and then squeezed ourselves in: all three of us or rather four because Lolotte was still the Most Important Person among us.

Dusk was falling as we set off once again.

Where we went, through what villages we passed, I have no idea. Late that evening we arrived in Altona, where we found that order still reigned. There, too, was a hotel and, just as important, dinner as well.

The next day I managed somehow to telephone to Karl Mönkenberg, who lived in Hamburg and whom I had known from our days in the
Süd-Armée
– the army of the south. He was as astonished as I was that I had got through. At first his manner was coldly laconic, but this did not upset me, as I knew that since the Károlyi takeover in Budapest everyone had been
ultra-careful
about what they said on the telephone. I asked him if he could think of any solution to our problems. For example, were there any trains that could take us through to Holland? Could I see him somewhere? No, he knew of nothing; and as to meeting, no, not at present. However, as to trains he did not know for
certain
but believed that negotiations between representatives of the two cities were just then being held.

This, at least, seemed to hold some ray of hope. Then, around noon, came the news that the Spartacists would allow a single train to pass through Hamburg on the Bremen-Holland line
provided
that no one left the train while it was in transit – and that we had no intention of doing!

In less than fifteen minutes we were seated in our carriage. There were not many passengers, but not a few anxious faces since no one was sure that the Spartacists would keep their word
and let us pass through all those many stations in the ancient city-state. No one knew, in that time of temporary and local changes of government, what strange decisions might still be taken.

Our train moved on slowly, with much clanking as it
thundered
over points, sometimes proceeding smoothly, sometimes in fits and starts, as we puffed and whistled our way through the many large covered stations and innumerable smaller stops in the Hamburg territory. Everyone sat close to the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on; but no one liked to look straight out in case he was thought to be spying and got himself arrested. The picture was the same at every station we passed through: heavily-armed workers were standing at attention five paces apart beside the rails, all looking at the passing
bourgeoisie
with an expression of surly belligerence on their faces. There was something infinitely menacing about those lines of motionless men silently watching as our locked train passed slowly between them.

It took a long time for our train to get around the city and its great harbour. We could see nothing through the thick winter fog and so could not even guess where we were. Suddenly there was a tremendous clatter – we were on the bridge over the Elbe, the bridge that led to freedom. At once the train picked up speed, and the hazy vision of Hamburg faded in the distance.

Now the weather started to become clearer so that we could see how interesting was the countryside around us. We were crossing the northern end of Lüneberg Heath. It was wet and swampy, completely flat with seemingly endless meadowland and here and there groups of black pine-trees. Much of the ground was covered with some dark, faintly lilac-coloured scrub. It was a fascinating unusual landscape and made a strange
picture
– a lilac-coloured sea dotted with mournful groups of dark trees. It looked as if this land was almost uninhabited, for only occasionally did we catch a glimpse of one or two black-visaged men whose job was to dig for turf on the sides of the dyke along which ran the railway line. It was hard to believe that this deserted countryside lay between Germany’s two greatest ports.

At Sägedorn, before Bremen, we stopped again … and just
stood there waiting. There seemed to be some more discussion going on. What was the matter? Of course it was the Spartacists again! That very day they had seized power in Bremen … that very day!

We burst into peals of laughter; it was the only reaction
possible
. However, this time it did not matter since, after the urgent sending and receiving of numerous messages by Morse
telegraph
, our train turned south and so we were able to reach the frontier without any further mishap.

I have to admit that it was with great joy that we finally arrived at The Hague, and especially for me to see again that sweet,
old-world
perfect little capital with its apparently modest yet very fine buildings. All the houses appear to have been constructed of the finest bricks, their contours outlined with newly applied whitewash, and the windows, framed in yellow stone the colour of butter, shining and clean. The amazing cleanliness of the houses comes from regular washing. This is not just an imagined deduction; the Dutch really do wash the street façades of their houses – and the inside courtyards too. People who do not clean down the outside of their houses at least twice a year are
considered
dirty and neglectful. On that day, as we drove in from the station, we saw an example of just that sort of beauty treatment in progress. A man and a woman were at work in front of their house. The woman was spraying the walls with a hose while the man stood on a ladder wiping off the dirt with a special
long-handled
broom shaped like a rake.

We stayed at the Oude Doelen Hotel. The name means ‘the Old Shooting Gallery’, and I could imagine those hard tough burghers of old exercising their skill there. What people they were, those level-headed brave citizens, craftsmen, shopkeepers and grocers who defended their little strip of land, most of which had been recuperated from the sea, with the diligence of ants, their religion and their freedom, never yielding to anyone, neither to the fearsome Duke of Alba nor to the Sun King’s myriad armies! They even stood up to Napoleon. And they had been able to keep their colonies, not by force but by good
example
and understanding and, in the last great conflict, were
capable
of accepting hordes of Belgian refugees without ever
becoming infected by the hatreds that war provoked. Only a few million souls, but what a nation!