Introduction
Prelude
and The Raft of Poverty
In the Circus
Ring
The Pedlar's
Prediction
Hail Caesar!
Jealousy
is Dead
A Steam Engine
for a Piano
Stalin
Organs
Hungarian
Rhapsody: a failure
White
Nights
All
or Nothing
A STEAM ENGINE FOR A PIANO
1943
was drawing to a close. We were beginning
to suffer from the harsh winter, not
yet having received the required equipment
to confront the snow-covered landscape.
As expected, our division was sent off
towards the Ukraine by the German-Hungarian
Command (which had, in the last resort,
decided to collaborate). Unfortunately,
our corps did not have a single motorized
vehicle and the cavalry to which I belonged
was supposed to delay the incessant
advance of the Red Army towards that
part of the front under our responsibility,
where the German divisions had been
decimated and could no longer put up
a worthy resistance to the landslide.
We had to ride to their assistance and
reinforce their ranks, confronting huge
armoured tanks, long-range cannon and,
worst of all, the latest flower of Soviet
technology: Stalin organs.
Horses
against tanks! A hand-held machine gun
and grenades against artillery bombarding
us from several miles away. A few Hungarian
light aircraft, each with its small
machine gun, trying to silence artillery
which spat out as many as one hundred
and twenty rockets a minute! It needed
no great scholar to realize that for
Higher Command we were cannon fodder
rather than a combat unit. Though the
order "conquer or die on the spot"
applied to the Germans as much as to
us, our Commander, thank God, wanted
to limit losses and as far as possible,
on his own initiative, used us as decoys
or for sabotage work rather than large-scale
attacks. He knew the enemy front line
was getting nearer by the hour from
the rumble of tank regiments preceded
by the apocalyptic wail of fire from
artillery and other heavy weaponry.
At
each encounter, we expected the final
confrontation to occur. Our ranks were
gradually thinning out. Not only were
men lost in each routine skirmish but
every bush or tree was a potential hiding
place for a partisan or sniper. With
an angelic patience equalled only by
their fanatical determination, they
would spend days and nights on end crouched
in a hollow tree, putting a bullet between
the eyes of a reconnoitrer whenever
possible. Such had been our lives for
several months now.
Every
time the enemy made a foray some ten
per cent of us were wiped out by their
long-range weapons before we had even
had time to spot them. After a time
it was all too obvious that we cavalrymen
were fighting the wrong war. When our
captain asked for volunteers to train
for the tank corps, I had no hesitation
in accepting. After three months’ training
I became a tank driver. It was evident
that my life was less at risk than on
a horse as I did at least have an efficient
means of self-defence at my disposal.
Naturally, a direct hit by a shell,
a tank trap or a cunningly concealed
mine would put an end to me. Our model
was a recent one but was already showing
signs of wear. Spare parts were so scarce
as to oblige us to patch up anything
badly worn, praying the repair would
last a while. In that respect, I was
very lucky. However, it was all too
evident that the enemy tanks were far
more shell-proof and powerful than ours,
which were lighter and more mobile but
had to get close up to the T-34s if
they were to attempt to dent, let alone
pierce, their thick armour. With the
bore and length of their carefully focussed
barrels they could flatten a Hungarian
tank as soon as it appeared on the horizon.
Their only weak point was their lack
of speed. Thirty-four tons of metal
on the move has as much grace as a brontosaurus.
Once battery fire supported by long-range
cannon had cleared a passage, the T-34s
started off in their hundreds towards
their target and all we could do was
to make ourselves scarce.
One
December day shortly before Christmas,
we had beaten a hasty retreat and found
ourselves in a completely deserted village.
We were to await reinforcements of men
and equipment before returning – probably
for the last time – to the front. It
was, as it so happened, my turn for
guard duty on the outskirts of the village
that night. I was cleaning my rifle
without much enthusiasm before turning
in for a few hours’ sleep. In general,
one soldier in five was reported missing
after a night out of doors. As I tried
to calculate my chances of survival,
I vaguely watched the others talking
loudly, happy to have a few days off
guard duty. Suddenly the door opened
and a lieutenant came in. He signalled
to us not to stand to attention and
asked at random, "Can any of you
play an instrument well?" "No!"
they all answered in unison.
"What
about you?" he said, turning to
me, having noticed that I had not answered.
I propped my gun against the wall and
replied sulkily, "I was a pianist.
Once." "Why ‘was’?" he
said, coming up to me. "Because
I haven’t touched a keyboard for two
years." "If that’s the only
reason," he said brightly, "then
you can make up for lost time this evening.
Some high-ranking Wehrmacht officers
have just turned up unexpectedly at
HQ. They probably want to discuss what
they’ve got to offer our friends over
the border. These gentlemen have sensitive
ears," he continued mockingly,
"and would like a little background
music while they knock back their schnaps
and count their chickens. Since you’re
on guard duty tonight, I’d advise you
to accept. It’ll be better for your
health than hanging about in the snow.
The Germans will provide a piano and
allow you a little time to warm up."
I
longed to play again but my immediate
reaction was to refuse. He insisted,
"Think it over carefully. You’re
the only one who can do it. What’s more,
it will let you off duty until midday
tomorrow. You’ll escape six hours’ guard
duty in the snow, so how about it?"
"OK," I said, more worn down
than convinced by the logic of his arguments.
"Splendid. I’ll tell the Germans
and they’ll come and fetch you to show
you the piano. Just before nine this
evening it’ll be taken into the mess.
You must be there sharp on nine."
He went towards the door. On reaching
it he turned round, "Forget your
tank now and smarten yourself up. Be
sure to make a good job of the concert!"
"Lucky beggar!" said one of
the others. "Try and eat enough
for us tonight," he added in a
low voice, "and if you can get
a little bottle of something from the
Kommandant’s cellar we won’t hold it
against you."
I
promised to do my best. A Mercedes came
to take me to the German camp, where
I had a good look at the instrument.
To my surprise, it was not the battered
upright I was expecting but a very acceptable
baby grand. The hour of truth was about
to sound. After a two-year break, I
had by the irony of Fate two hours to
make my hands as supple and accurate
as they had once been. I did an hour
of double-note scales, scales in fourths,
fifths and sixths, etc. Then I decided
to take the plunge and began to improvise
on a number of themes from Liszt’s Les
Préludes and, as things got
better and better, went on to a medley
of extracts from Wagner: Tristan,
Walküre, Meistersinger. The
idea was to liven up the atmosphere
which, in the presence of our ‘benevolent
protectors’ was likely to be pretty
chilly. I intended to end with a medley
of themes by Johann Strauss with as
a finale military marches and folk tunes
from my own country as a tribute to
the Hungarian Command. It was eight
o’clock when I stopped and I went back
to clean myself up.
As
soon as I was ready I went into the
building indicated by the lieutenant
(the village school cum town hall) where
a large room served the officers as
a place for meetings and receptions.
There were about twenty small tables
on which stood bottles of wine, beer
and cognac, with five or six people
seated at each. In the midst was my
piano for the night, shiny as a new
penny and open ready. A few yellow uniforms
stood out against the greyish outfits
of the Hungarian officers. Monocles
flashed in the eyes of certain Germans
weighed down with medals. Each wore
an immaculate white cravat loosely tied
round his neck and raised his glass
to his lips with a gloved hand. One
of these ‘supermen’, without deigning
to look in my direction, languidly made
a sign to me to take my place at the
piano. I complied and began to play,
ignoring the chatter. As I started on
my first piece I vowed to do everything
I could to silence the audience and
so chose to improvise on Khatchaturian’s
Sabre Dance. [It
is possible that Cziffra's memory is
at fault here. 'Gayenah' was not premiered
until 1942 and it is unlikely, though
not impossible, that he would have heard
the Sabre Dance yet.]An embarrassed
silence settled over the room at once.
I sensed a feeling of disapproval behind
me. The spectacular nature of my interpretation
turned the atmosphere in my favour.
I took advantage of the silence to extemporize
on a number of themes from The Ring
and then superimposed several. When
I had finished I looked up and noted
with satisfaction that all conversation
had ceased and that every chair was
turned towards the piano.
After
a few variations on the inevitable Lili
Marlene and some acrobatics based
on The Blue Danube, the illustrious
audience had even stopped pouring itself
drinks. I almost felt as if I was taking
an exam as there was no applause between
items. They stared at my hands as if
I were some kind of freak. After Berlioz’s
Hungarian March in the arrangement
by Liszt, I arose to my feet amidst
a stunned silence as a sign that I needed
a short rest. There was a sudden outburst
of thunderous applause and officers
crowded round to congratulate me. They
stood aside almost at once to let a
man in full regalia through. Looking
up at his adam’s apple I saw the iron
Swastika in the open neck of his shirt
with two intertwined oak leaves shining
on either side. A Major General. He
was holding two glasses of champagne
and handed one to me, saying, "I’m
the General of this unit. May I congratulate
you on your playing? I enjoyed it all
the more as I am myself a pianist. I
studied at the Berlin Academy."
"The Devil looks after his own,"
I thought as I politely thanked him.
"What
I mean is," he went on, "Busoni
was probably the greatest virtuoso of
his generation yet not even he could
have played like that. Whatever is someone
like you doing here?" he asked
with a perplexed look. I gave a bitter
smile: "There’s a war on, General."
"Of course," he said, looking
at me. "I’m sorry. I didn’t explain
myself properly. What I’d like to know
is who is the fool who is letting such
talent go to waste here and endangering
your life quite needlessly on the front."
"General," I said, "that
is rather an awkward question."
"Why’s that?" "Because,"
I went on, weighing my words with care,
"you are a high-ranking officer
in the army I happen to be serving in."
He
burst out laughing. "That’s very
true," he said jovially, "And
that is why I’m going to do something
for you. Come into the next room."
He shut the door behind us and invited
me to take a seat while he stood reflecting.
He began to pace up and down before
finally coming to a halt before me.
"Now," he said, "in less
than a week I’ve to be back at Chief
HQ in Berlin to report on the general
situation and receive further instructions.
If you come with me I will present you
to Dr Richard Strauss and once he has
heard your playing he’s bound to talk
to the Führer about it. The war
is probably going to last longer than
the Führer originally believed
but we shall win. I advise you to accept
because in the next few days the whole
division will be taking part in a large-scale
operation intended to halt the advance
of the Red hordes. It really would be
a pity if you were to be involved in
it. What is more, Germany will acknowledge
your exceptional talent to the full.
So, what do you say?"
The
offer was too good to be true. Comfort
in exchange for Hell; Richard Strauss’s
protection for the sharpshooters across
the border. I started to daydream. He
went on, trying to put me at ease, "Look,
I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think
it over. Now, get along back to camp
and have a rest." He took a flat
leather-covered bottle from his pocket
and held it out to me: "French
brandy, as a souvenir of our meeting.
You more than deserve it."
I
got to my feet, said goodbye and left.
The cold night air did me good. Dazed
by all that had happened, I did not
feel like sleeping just then and decided
to take a stroll. As I walked, I thought
over the General’s words.
Firstly,
the possibility of going to Germany.
I was fairly certain my playing would
attract the interest of the great Strauss.
With his help I would able to practice
in peace and quiet and later, perhaps,
even arrange for my family to join me.
Suddenly, I realized that was impossible.
Why? Because my wife, though born in
Rome, was of Egyptian origin. Our son’s
dark complexion and a strong dose of
gypsy blood in my own veins meant we
could not, with the best will in the
world, be considered typical Aryans
and permitted to live among Germans
undisturbed.
Secondly,
the General had announced a decisive
offensive in the next few days. More
decisive for us than for the Red Army,
that was a sure thing. I did not mind
fighting but had no wish to die for
a lost cause since at that very moment
we future conquerors were virtually
encircled by heaven knows how many Soviet
troops and thousands of flame-throwing
weapons were aimed at us some sixty
miles off. Conclusion: if I wanted to
see my beautiful motherland again it
was advisable not to linger within range
of either.
By
this stage in my musings I had reached
the station, our only source of supplies
and our sole link with the outside world.
My eyes had adjusted to the darkness
and could make out a great black mass
quite close to. A jerky puffing and
blowing alternated with showers of cinders
and sparks. An engine under steam!
I
went nearer. A tender, full to the brim
with cheap-looking coal – probably a
sort of lignite – was hitched to it.
There was a single ancient restaurant
car, dating from the 1900s, to complete
the convoy. I realized it must have
been the train which had brought the
General and his retinue. Two sentries
stood on guard. I walked swiftly up
to them, knowing they were bound to
have received orders to shoot on sight
at anything suspicious. Luckily, they
belonged to my unit and recognized me
at once.
"Ah!
It’s the musician! What are you doing
here at this hour? Have you finished
entertaining the gents?" "Yes,"
I replied, "but I need to unwind
a little so I decided to go for a stroll
before going to bed." "Yeah,"
said the other, "he must have enjoyed
himself more than us. We can’t even
light up, though this heap of iron is
making enough din to attract any deaf
partisan in the area." "No
need to get angry," I said, showing
him the flask I had just been given.
"Look what I got from the General
‘for services rendered’. Here you are:
it’s yours. I’ve had enough for one
day. Go and drink my health. There’s
a great pile of wood about a hundred
yards off. You can hide behind it so
nobody will see you." Their faces
lit up when they saw the flask.
"Can
I have a look over the engine while
you’re away?" I asked casually.
"We aren’t even allowed on it ourselves,"
came the reply. "But," I went
on slyly, "the offence you’ll be
committing is even more serious under
military law so you can hardly stop
me looking over this masterpiece of
technology." "Very true,"
said the thirstier of the two. "Get
an eyeful while we’re wetting our whistles,"
he giggled.
Off
they went into the night, leaving me
a torch. I switched it on and climbed
up into the driver’s cab. The dials,
wheels and copper levers glowed in the
half-light. As luck would have it, there
was a little enamel plaque under each
indicating what it was for. I looked
at the pressure dial: just right! To
be sure of making a swift getaway, I
fed all the coal I could into the boiler
then waited about four minutes. The
pressure was beginning to cause the
engine to judder: I spun the wheel which,
according to the plaque, released the
brakes. There was an enormous, broomstick-like
handle, glinting and shining from the
wear of countless hands which had manipulated
it over the years. I tugged on it with
all my strength. Nothing happened, or
at least not what I had hoped for: from
the innards of the still immobile engine
rose an apocalyptic roar. As a last
resort, I pressed the button marked
‘steam’. I must have been psychic: the
old locomotive started up so suddenly
that it almost skidded on the rails.
Before I could touch another control
– I did not have time to, thank goodness
– we were off at a smart twenty-five
miles per hour, gradually gathering
speed, in the direction of the enemy
lines. It must all have happened very
quickly or the sentries would have caught
up with me. Probably they were not too
steady on their legs after so much brandy.
As a precaution, I had crouched down
in the cabin but no-one fired in my
direction.
With
one eye on the speedometer, I started
thinking frantically. The Russians were
about fifty miles away, which at 40
mph meant roughly an hour and a quarter
journey. It was too late to expect to
be welcomed at the next station with
streamers and the town band, especially
as the track had probably been sabotaged
or even mined. I was sure I was right
on both counts: the Red Army dismantled
and removed sections of track in case
we should decide to advance, while my
ex-Commander mined it to prevent them
advancing. In the meantime I had found
the button controlling the headlamps
and anxiously surveyed the track, imagining
at every instant that I saw a barricade
or some other even more dangerous object
on the line.
The
engine was now forging ahead at a steady
40 mph over a plain dotted with corpses
and doubtless swarming with Partisans.
I did not have a watch and so had no
idea of the time but the little counter
just under the speedometer (which I
must have re-set at zero without realizing
it) showed I had done fifty miles. My
conversation about music with the General
two hours earlier seemed years off,
as in a dream. I worked out that by
now I must be on Red Army territory
and started manipulating the controls
of the old engine again (almost certainly
in just as orthodox a manner as the
first time) in an attempt to bring it
to a halt. But the boiler, which I had
kept on re-stoking, was crammed full
of coal. I did not know that the very
first thing one should do was to reduce
excess pressure and that inertia would
act on the engine almost as much as
the brakes and eventually bring it to
a stop. Another three miles passed as
I tried all the levers on the control-panel.
Finally, I decided to jump from the
moving train. I did manage to reduce
speed a little. By now, we were doing
barely 25 mph but the boiler was giving
out worrying noises. Another idea occurred
to me: I released the brakes and put
the engine into reverse. All at once,
it skidded backwards and with a groan
started off in the opposite direction,
rapidly gathering speed. Meanwhile,
I had taken advantage of a brief moment
when it was almost at a standstill to
jump out, covering my head with my hands
and curling up to cushion the blow.
It was as well I did: on the other side
of the embankment there was a steep,
stony slope covered in brambles, which
tore my clothes and ripped my uniform
so that I reached the foot of the twenty-five-yard
mound with my face covered in dust and
blood, my body half-naked and my clothes
in shreds. The General would have needed
every scrap of his imagination to bring
himself to believe that the lively little
pianist and the half-stunned human wreck
sitting in a muddy puddle somewhere
in the Ukraine at three in the morning
were one and the same person. So would
I.
I
gradually got over my bewilderment and
was beginning to think there had been
enough events over the last twenty-four
hours. There was nothing for it but
to surrender to the first soldier to
brandish a gun in my face. I got up
out of the puddle and started searching
in the dark for shelter from the cold.
I had had nothing to eat (I had not
been offered anything) and my stomach
was protesting vehemently as I thought
back to the little pies and cold chicken
they were all stuffing themselves with
at that very moment - unless they were
trying to hitch a lift back home. I
was beginning to feel sleepy. "At
least you’re free now," I thought
before dropping off to sleep on a bed
of twigs I had made for myself to keep
off the frozen ground as far as possible.
Free – but not for long.
At
dawn, I half-opened my eyes and thought
I was having a nightmare: four men were
standing round me, each brandishing
a machine gun not a foot from my head.
"My God!" I thought, "This
is the limit. Four fellows with the
Red Star on their fur hats ready to
shoot at the least provocation."
I
shut my eyes again for a second, hoping
that what I had just seen was all a
bad dream. Alas! When I opened them
again they were still very much there.
"They didn’t take long to find
me out," I sighed to myself. True,
my arrival in enemy territory was hardly
as discreet as that of someone on the
run and hoping to save his skin might
have wished. So, accepting the situation
stoically, I waited in a state of blissful
torpor for the merciful bullet to despatch
me into the next world, where I could
continue my philosophizing. This was
not to be: one of the men raised the
barrel of his gun slightly as a sign
that I was to stand up. I tried to do
so quickly but my previous night’s wounds
caused me to fall down again. I got
up as best I could. I cannot have looked
all that dangerous since they then all
lowered their weapons while one of them
carried out a search on me. Thank heavens
I was not carrying so much as a pistol
for Partisans would shoot a deserter
on the spot. The man found nothing and
signalled to me to get moving. One of
them led the way with a torch (it was
winter and still dark). Two others walked
one on either side of me, each carrying
a machine gun but they were far less
wary than they had been. The fourth
brought up the rear and so we walked
along for at least two hours.
At
daybreak we suddenly came to a halt
on a hillside. Two of them undertook
the task of clearing some brushwood
placed at the spot as camouflage, after
which a third joined them to remove
a few boulders. By now they no longer
cared about me. In no time at all they
had cleared the opening of a small tunnel
which could only be entered on all fours.
Amazed at their efficiency, I just stood
there watching. In any case, the fourth
character had just stuck his gun in
my back. Although I could not see him,
I was quite certain he was all set to
shoot. Meanwhile, the three others finished
clearing the secret entrance to their
hideout. One of them crawled in while
the others beckoned to me to follow.
After a time, the tunnel grew larger
and soon it was possible to stand upright.
Ahead
of us I could make out a faint light
shed by little oil lamps hanging on
the walls. I realized we were in an
abandoned mine. My eyes had by now adjusted
to the sepulchral lighting and I was
able to make out a whole network of
galleries leading into the occasional
natural grotto. An incredible number
of people, all lying on the ground,
were crowded into one of them. We groped
our way forward, taking care not to
step on anyone. Another armed man came
towards us, spoke softly to the Partisans
in what I supposed to be a Russia-Slovak
dialect and waved me on ahead. I trod
carefully among the sleepers, the more
fortunate of whom were lying on heaps
of clothing or straw. On we went, until
the barrel of my companion’s weapon
pressed into my back a little harder
and I stopped immediately. He pointed
to some scraps of rotting straw on which
I was to lie. With the help of sign
language he indicated that I must get
some sleep and that he would be back
shortly. I tried to show him I was a
deserter by ripping off the remains
of my epaulette bearing my unit’s initials,
throwing it on the ground and stamping
on it. A smile lit up his face for the
first time. He shook my hand, pointed
to me once again to lie down and went
off. I sat on the ground staring blankly
ahead. Close by, a man like a grotesque
character out of Bosch was looking at
me. His face had been horribly disfigured
by a war wound. The pale, wavering light
accentuated the monstrousness of that
face. He whispered to me in German,
"Deserter?" I nodded. He patted
my shoulder in approval, curled up again
and fell asleep. I lay down in my turn
and, as I wondered what was likely to
happen to me, heard the distant sound
of a harmonica playing a tune I seemed
to recognize. It was Holy Night.
Christmas Eve, 1943 was coming to an
end. I fell into a dreamless sleep.
Days
passed, then weeks. Twenty-four hours
a day we lived crowded together in the
abandoned mine deep in the earth. Unlike
some refugees, I was not allowed out.
The caves were immense and the galleries
stretched for miles. Even so, I was
beginning to feel like a soul condemned
to Purgatory for its sins – indeed that
is what the place might easily have
been taken for. The oil lamps burnt
night and day, though the flame was
lowered for reasons of economy. There
was something supernatural about the
dim lighting which lent an oddly timeless
atmosphere to the interminable galleries
and the people in them. The same muted,
unchanging monotony began each day as
ended it. Difficult to define but ever-present,
it turned people little by little into
objects, objects without hope or a future.
The main symbol of life, in the sense
of existence, was our awakening each
morning. After a few seemingly interminable
hours came the high point of the day:
the serving of lunch. After that, all
we thought about was going to bed for
the night. Although we were so crammed,
there was no form of social life: everyone
killed time according to his particular
mood. Most had nothing to do or say
and spend the major part of their time
lying or sitting on the very spot where
they had passed the night. The people
all ended up with the same expression,
their faces like blank masks due to
such an aimless, meaningless way of
life. Whether lying or sitting, they
gazed blankly ahead, hardly moving all
day, like unplugged robots waiting for
the end of time. I did not take part
in any form of activity either. All
I wanted was to be alone and sat in
the shadows away from the crowd, my
back against the wall. On special days
I smoked a cigarette end made up of
a pinch of nauseous, stinking tobacco
which a few others shared with me out
of pity.
Our
gallery seemed to have been reserved
for foreigners – soldiers on the retreat,
deserters and some rather undesirable
escaped convicts. In others, life was
more fun. There were families from neighbouring
villages seeking shelter from the German
Occupation. They had taken refuge here
in the hope of better days to come.
During the day, men, women and children
talked loudly in some incomprehensible
dialect. As they chattered away the
women did their laundry, their sleeves
rolled up, their faces red with bustling
about their work. Then, as their plump
fingers wrung out the shirts, they talked
even more. That is why their families
were always cleanly dressed. They took
absolutely no notice of us, even though
they lived so close by.
After
that, the youngest women got down to
preparing the ingredients for lunch.
They cooked for everyone in the mine,
themselves as well as us – with one
difference: we ate their leftovers.
After the meal was over, they did the
washing-up, polishing the few tin pots
which did for saucepans. Very battered,
they had been abandoned by some army
or other. They filled in the short period
of rest remaining after their exertions
by seeing to the young children of the
community. Once that was over they began
preparing vegetables (mainly ageing
potatoes) for the next day’s meal, the
only one allowed us. Even so, we considered
this single course, however frugal and
inadequate, a miracle in view of how
scarce food was.
Like
outcasts in an underground ghetto, we
never came into contact with ‘those
lot up there’. In most of the villages
in the area there lived a few peasants
who adamantly refused to leave their
humble dwellings despite the threat
of imminent invasion by pro-German forces,
preferring to risk death on their plot
of land to losing their only reason
for living. They would never have been
able to help the Partisans feed the
eight hundred odd people crowded into
the mine. It must have been sufficient
worry for them to get enough to eat
for themselves as time went by. Even
the feeding just once a day of so many
destitute creatures squatting on their
heaps of rags, perhaps for ever, was
an exploit under the circumstances.
Apart from patrols of the sort which
had brought me here, it was not in the
interest of any of the refugees to go
outside even if, unlike us deserters,
they were not actually forbidden to
do so. The freedom denied us was no
good to them either. Where could they
have gone?
