Dacia Maraini - Train to Budapest

Now the soldiers doze, lulled by the slow regular rhythm of the wheels. One snores with his head propped on a companion’s shoulder. They have thrown their rifles onto the netting racks that hang above their wooden benches. It isn’t easy to sleep. The seats are hard and hunger is gnawing at them. Amara watches the countryside fill with shadows beyond the dirty window. A delicate bluish mist descends on the landscape, hiding trees and fields and even a little river running beside the track punctuated by black and white stones. The moon is closer now and has become more human, hinting at an unfocused smile. Through the dirty window Amara can make out the small figure of woman walking fast. Strange: either the train has slowed down, or the woman is running or rather flying. She tries to see the woman’s face but it is hidden by a cascade of nut-brown hair leaping and dancing in time with her steps. There is something familiar about the woman. Her strong, rapid step, her rebellious head, her long muscular arms are those of … there can be no doubt about it, her mother Stefania! How can it have taken Amara so long to realise it? The beautiful young Stefania, long dead but now more alive and active than ever. Where are you going? asks Amara with her mouth closed. Stefania doesn’t turn to look at her but seems delighted simply to be running beside the train. She is completely engrossed in her flight as if in some childhood contest. Amara timidly reaches out a hand to knock on the glass window with her knuckles. Finally Stefania lifts her head. She has the most beautiful big eyes but they do not see Amara. She can’t recognise me because the glass is so dirty, Amara tells herself. She goes on knocking discreetly on the window. Stefania smiles, but more to herself than to Amara. Where are you going, Mamma? Stop a moment, sit down with me. But in that instant her mother vanishes, leaving only her smile. The smile of the moon hanging there in the dark. You always cheat me, Mamma, you always have cheated me, like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland . You slip off without speaking to me, not a single word, stop, say something to me! She tries to remember how it was when her mother bent over her when she was a child and hummed the tune of the wordless chorus from Madam Butterfly . Her mother was so beautiful that it hurt Amara’s eyes to look at her. And her voice rose from her throat like a tender breath of air. Why did you go away so soon? Then she sees her, covered with soil and blood, being raped by that friend of the lover who wanted to punish her. Papà has told me about it but don’t be ashamed, it wasn’t your fault. She sees Stefania move her hand to her bleeding legs and spit with rage. She sees her run towards a stream and crouch to wash the blood off her thighs. This is not what I wanted, says a well-dressed young man watching from behind a tree. I didn’t want it to end like this. I only wanted a light punishment, not a massacre. But Stefania turns her back and walks off, determined never to see him again. Will you go and report him? Do that, Mamma Stefania, please do that! But at that moment a whistle pierces her ear and she feels a hand on her shoulder.

‘Budapest, Amara, wake up!’

Outside, the intermittent light of yellow street lamps and a voice booming from a loudspeaker. The engine snorts, ready to start again. Horvath is lifting her luggage down from the rack.

‘Thanks.’

Hans pulls on the sweater with the running gazelles. His fingers rake the hair back from his brow. More than ever he looks like a child grown old before his time, with grey stubble on his cheeks, and a mouth pouting with sleep and hunger.

‘Where are all the soldiers?’

‘Got off before us.’

‘Did you pick up the book that slipped down on the seat beside me?’

‘I’ve got everything. Let’s go.’

In her state halfway between sleep and waking everything seems new and astonishing: why are those girls in white shirts with badges on their hats standing to attention before the train? Singing in melancholy voices to welcome some bigwig. And whose are those suitcases that shine like gold in the early morning sun, piled up in the station entrance hall? And where is that exquisite smell of freshly made coffee coming from, and that mixed smell of apple tart and dirty latrines?

‘I’d like some coffee’

‘Me too.’

‘The shutters are still down on the bars. D’you know what time it is?’

‘Seven?’

‘No, five.’

‘Then where can that smell of coffee be coming from?’

‘Some private house.’

The three set off, gloomily stretching themselves, lugging their large and small bags along the platform among the cigarette ends.

‘Look, the river!’

A great dark serpent that unwinds slow and powerful before them. It has a majestic air. Above them stands Vajdahunyad Castle, grey stone glowing in the early sun, beautiful and proud.

‘Your father isn’t meeting us?’

‘I told him not to. We’ll take a taxi. But first let’s find some coffee.’

The first place they find open is a milk shop. A tall sturdy woman is rolling up the blind. She switches on the light and watches them come in weighed down by their luggage, faces contorted. She smiles with amusement, and moves quickly behind the counter to put some milk on to heat.

Hans’s father has generously decided to put all three of them up. The man with the gazelles and Horvath are to sleep in the living room and Amara in the kitchen; while Hans’s father Tadeusz and Ferenc Bruman share the main bedroom.

Tadeusz Wilkowsky has a talent for making cakes. He has set aside some hard bread and combined with pieces of apple and raisins and lard bought in the Sunday market, he has concocted an excellent strudel which crumbles the moment you touch it, though not the smallest bit is wasted. His friend Ferenc, after the dessert and a small glass of homemade apple brandy, delights them on this first evening, when he takes up his violin to play Bach’s Chaconne , as though filling the house with an austere song of welcome.

Everyone has his or her own story to tell. Horvath talks about his experience at Stalingrad and his work as a librarian in Vienna, Hans describes his curious activities as a surrogate father for brides, and Amara remembers little Emanuele who she is sure is still alive and whom she will sooner or later find. She is unable to stop herself reading one of the boy’s letters aloud. The men smoke in silence thinking of who knows what. They would like to help her, they say. But how? Each proposes a different plan: go back to Auschwitz and check the new lists. Or make a thorough search of his home in the Łódź ghetto even if there can’t possibly be anything left of it after the long allied bombardment. Why not study the newspapers of the time? Or ask special permission to rummage in the SS archives. And what about that Peter Orenstein who claims to be the Emanuele they are looking for?

‘In my opinion he’s a swindler.’

‘I think so too.’

No one has any confidence in the self-proclaimed Emanuele Orenstein. Particularly Amara whose senses refuse in the most categorical manner possible to recognise him. It isn’t him, she says firmly, it absolutely can’t be him. A person may change, but only up to a certain point. Something must always remain of what he was before, even if he was a child then and is now a man.

Yet she still harbours a doubt and every now and then wakes in the night with her heart in her mouth, thinking she has got it all wrong. What if it really is Emanuele? And if he is hiding simply because he is afraid he will not be accepted? Can affection depend so much on appearances? What if someone can be so completely transformed by painful experiences that they even destroy the memory of the person they once were? Is it a particular body one loves, or a being undergoing transformation?