Dacia Maraini - Train to Budapest

Please forgive me if I have bored you with my family history but you are the first person I have felt to be sympathetic and understanding, even though you are so much younger than I am. I know you are not only working as a journalist, but also trying to track down someone you love. I put myself at your disposal: Hans Wilkowsky, man of many occupations, resident in Vienna but temperamentally a vagrant, proposes to help you find the child who was deported so many years ago. Will you accept me as a companion in research?

What a strange letter. A man met on a train telling her such private things about his life. A man with a complicated and unhappy past, asking if he can come to her and help her. Should she trust him or not? Something she remembers in his smile inclines her to trust him, despite her doubts and a mass of unanswered questions.

Hans and Amara are sitting in the Cafè Mayakovsky on Izaaka Street. In front of them are glasses of white wine. Great drops of water are sliding down the window and lightly touching the amaranth-coloured damask tablecloth.

‘Our glasses are weeping,’ says Hans with a smile. Amara looks at the man with the gazelles who today is wearing dark trousers and a white shirt open to his long thin neck.

‘What shall we drink to?’

‘To research!’

‘Have you discovered anything?’

‘So far, no.’

‘I’ll help you in any way I can. I seem to know this Emanuele already: have you a photo of him?’

‘As a child, yes. Nothing later.’

‘When did he disappear?’

‘His last letter is from ’43. It’s in an exercise book sent to me after the war. I don’t know who sent it. He may even have sent it himself. This is another reason I think he survived.’

‘So you don’t know whether he died at Auschwitz or survived. What makes you think he might still be alive? They gassed the children at once. Useless for forced labour. In fact they caused nothing but trouble.’

‘Emanuele was fifteen when he was taken from the Łódź ghetto, and he had always seemed older than his years. I found no trace of him at Auschwitz. But, as the guard explained to me, the later records are incomplete: too many trains were arriving and unloading in a hurry and the Germans didn’t always keep a proper register of the new deportees, particularly if they were destined for the gas chambers.’

‘And what makes you think he ended up at Auschwitz?’

‘Everyone from the Łódź ghetto was sent there after ’42. Before that they were sent to Chełmno. Or so I’ve read.’

‘Wouldn’t it make more sense to let it go and stop looking for a needle in a haystack?’

‘I don’t believe he is a needle in a haystack. And I’ve dreamed he’s alive.’

‘You believe in dreams?’

‘When they’re as sharp and vivid as that, yes I do.’

‘Even if he is alive but hasn’t been looking for you, might not that mean he would rather keep himself to himself?’

‘I dreamed he was calling me.’

‘Can you describe the dream?’

‘I was at a railway station, a derelict one; the tracks had been abandoned and were overgrown with grass. I noticed a fresh red poppy growing in the midst of those rusty rails. When I went to get a closer look I felt a vibration accompanied by a hissing sound. Looking up I could see, in the distance, a locomotive belching smoke and struggling towards the station. But how could this be possible, surely the line was dead? How could there be a train arriving at that ruined station. I stood in a daze watching the engine advance down the ruined tracks. It was about to run me down and I needed to get out of the way. I wasn’t afraid, just reasoning in the same way as I do when I’m awake. I kept asking myself: if this station has been derelict for so long, where can this train be coming from? And how can it run on these damaged rails?

‘It still came on huffing and puffing and slowly reached the station. Then, squeaking and creaking, it stopped. And I noticed it was a train made up of cattle trucks sealed by planks nailed up in the form of a cross. I glimpsed a movement. I thought it must be animals, cows or horses being taken for slaughter. But, in a gap between the boards, fingers were moving. When I looked more closely I could see eyes shining in the dark. So there were people in those trucks. Even in my sleep I was astonished. Then a dirty little piece of paper fell from one of those hands. I quickly picked it up and pushed it furtively into my pocket for fear I might be seen. I knew danger was hanging over me and over these people. Looking round, I could see armed men standing pointing rifles at the train. Where could they have sprung from if until then the station had been deserted and derelict?’

‘Did you ask yourself that in the dream?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘A dream is only a dream, dear friend.’

‘I suddenly realised it was a train full of people being deported to the camps. I don’t know how I knew this.’

‘How old were you when you were watching that train?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe the same as now. Or younger. I snatched that bit of paper with a rapid, agile movement.’

‘What was written on it?’

‘I didn’t read it. I pushed it hurriedly into my pocket.’

‘And when did you read it?’

‘After the train left and the SS and their rifles had disappeared. I was alone again but the poppy was still there, a fantastic red colour basking in the sun.’

‘And what did it say on the paper?’

‘I didn’t think about that. I was focused on the poppy. It seemed such a clear, unabashed sign of life that it made me happy. I wanted to pick it but when I went near it moved aside as though it didn’t want to be picked.’

‘And the bit of paper? Weren’t you curious at all?’

‘I was distracted.’

‘So when did you read it?’

‘I’ve completely forgotten.’

‘Completely?’

‘Completely.’

‘So you never read it?’

‘Later I did. Years later.’

‘Years passed in your dream?’

‘I knew my body had changed and matured and my walk had become less bold and secure. The paper was still in my pocket.’

‘So in the end, even years later, you read it. And what was written on it?’

‘“I’m here”, that’s what was written, “Emanuele”.’

‘Was it signed?’

‘Yes, it was signed.’

‘“I do not know if I was Tzu dreaming he was a butterfly or the butterfly dreaming he was Tzu.” That’s what Chuang Tzu says, and it seems to fit the case. The dream tells me nothing about the survival or otherwise of your Emanuele.’

‘But I know he’s waiting for me somewhere. And I’m here to find him. If you can help me, Hans, I’ll be grateful; if not let’s just say goodbye.’

‘All right. I’ll help you. Give me more facts. His family name, the date of his disappearance, a photograph, whatever you have.’

‘His family name is Orenstein. His father Karl was an industrialist, his mother Thelma Fink an actress. I have no photographs of them, only one of Emanuele as a child.’

‘We must search the archives, Maria Amara, but where did your own unusual name come from? I’ve never heard it before.’

‘My mother wanted to call me Marlene after her favourite actress, Marlene Dietrich. My father wanted me to be Mariuccia after my grandmother. They argued for a bit, then settled on Amara, which was the name of a little newborn bear in a caravan with Togni’s circus, which had just stopped at Rifredi. It was in all the papers. It seemed a strange name, but also easy to say, so they settled on Amara.’

‘Your grandmother Mariuccia must have been unhappy.’

‘My name was registered as Maria Amara but they immediately started calling me just Amara. For my father, choosing such a strange name was also a way of cocking a snook at the fascists who only approved recognisable names, connected with the saints and above all, Italian. But on official documents I’m still Maria Amara Sironi.’