The Phoenix Land Page 21

  It was the same in Vienna. Despite the fact that Communism, as the logical outcome of the Károlyi regime, had ignored his radical opinions and landed him, that great industrial millionaire, in penurious exile far from home, he now adopted an Olympian pose and issued his approval or his objections as from a great height of empirical wisdom. Alas, it was only the waiters in restaurants who bowed deeply when they caught sight of that thin face whose carefully composed expression seemed to resemble that of Lucifer.

  One of the results of the great hostility his absurd vanity had provoked was that, one evening, while walking down the Ring, he was attacked and beaten up.

  At dinnertime one day he left the Imperial Hotel and was walking to the Grand Hotel, with a lady on each side of him and an Italian journalist – could this have been a precaution against an expected ambush? When they were halfway along this wide boulevard a dwarfish but muscularly built man tapped him on the shoulder from behind and said, ‘If it please your Lordship?’ Hatvany turned, thus letting his two female protectors get a step or two ahead, and was given two hefty blows to the face so noisily that they could be heard, it was said, from the Opera to Schwarzenburg Square. The Italian newsman jumped to his aid, but the attacker was not alone, and his companion at once landed him a heavy blow too. The Italian screamed out ‘Soccorso! Soccorso!’ – ‘Help! Help!’ which brought other members of the Italian Mission running from the Imperial Hotel to the aid of their compatriot. Unfortunately only one man was caught, the one who had struck Hatvany, while the other, he who had hit the Italian, escaped. By then, hearing all the noise, a crowd had gathered in the street, and so back into the hotel went the officers, together with their squat prisoner and the offended journalist. There followed a long discussion, but when they confronted the prisoner with the man who had been hit, the latter declared that that was not the man who had hit him; his attacker had been a tall skinny man. Excuses were made all round, and as the dwarfish muscular man spoke Italian there followed a general scene of reconciliation, with much hugging and toasts in champagne, to celebrate the renewal of peace. No one bothered any more about poor Hatvany who, as always, had stayed outside the hotel and so had taken no part in the discussion! He had been propped up on a bench between his two lady friends, bent double because it seemed that to defend himself he had flung himself down on his back, and someone had stamped on his stomach in the general confusion.

  No one bothered about him or his complaining. Neither friend nor foe seemed in the least interested, and indeed he could have been knocked silly a hundred times and nobody would have taken any notice. It would have been of no consequence compared with the real course of events. Once again he had merely been there, and this of itself was of no importance.

  ***

  While I was in Vienna the head of the English mission, Sir Thomas Cunningham, invited István Bethlen to a discussion with Vilmos Böhm, the communist Hungarian Soviet envoy. I encountered Böhm’s car just as he was arriving and recognized him immediately even though I had only seen him once before when he had been Secretary of State for War in the Károlyi government. He had somehow managed to obtain this post even though he had no precise position in the Socialist Party. Being a typewriter mechanic by profession, he had been employed for many years in the War Ministry to maintain all the typewriting machines in good order. Seeing him now, I was reminded of an amusing anecdote about him.

  The day after his appointment as minister he was mounting the stairs to his new office when a band of young female typists came down on their way to lunch. One of them gave the new minister of state a little tap on the shoulder and said ‘Böhm, old thing … nice to see you … Do take a look at my Remington, there’s something wrong with it!’ and ran down the stairs without waiting for an answer.

  Böhm was later to move on to greater things. After becoming army commissar he was appointed commander-in-chief of the Red Army, and in this position one must admit that he was sensible enough to let his Chief of General Staff, Stromfeld, act without referring matters to him. At the same time, he would defend him against those whom Stromfeld had antagonized.

  So it turned out that perhaps his years in the War Ministry had been useful experience for him, after all!

  It seems to be axiomatic that in revolutionary circumstances a big role often has to be played by a man who would in peaceful times be quite differently occupied and who would never, as they say in the theatre, be cast for anything more important than a member of a crowd or a soldier. A junior secretary becomes an ambassador and, for a few hours, a young lieutenant has to play the general. It is all luck. One is on the spot; there are no other candidates. If a man is there just when an emergency occurs and decisions have to be taken in the absence of any higher authority, then he may find himself filling a post he either never dreamed of or for which he would normally be fitted only after a lifetime of service. It might happen, from time to time, that a man of real talent will emerge and, with a tremendous leap upwards, gain a position that would normally have taken years to aspire to … and this is admirable. Most are not like that. Many of such upstarts will think of the part they have been called upon to play by so many extraneous influences as gained only because of their own exceptional merits. Often such men later find themselves, perhaps for the rest of their lives, disillusioned, bitter and ripe for intrigue. This is inevitable. Once order has been reestablished such men are soon cast aside, but will they ever recognize that this is due to their lack of ability? Oh no! It is rather that they are victims of other people’s malignance. Nothing is more difficult to forget than political responsibility, especially when it has come unexpectedly. In times of revolution there is not a man who does not feel himself capable of anything. He seizes the moment. He starts with great vigour, but how often are his actions foolhardy or ill considered … and how often are they unscrupulous?

  ***

  As an example of this, let us consider the extraordinary tale of the so-called ‘brucki-puccs’ – the unsuccessful coup at Bruck. I tell it exactly as it was recounted to me by several men who took part in it. What led up to it is obscure enough, but the putsch itself happened like this: At the beginning of June news arrived that the counter-revolutionary government of Julius Károlyi53 had been formed at Szeged. The Allies did not then recognize it, as the victorious powers, according to Colonel Cunningham, would only accept a government formed on unoccupied territory – and Szeged was then still occupied by the French. This did not worry Bethlen, who at once entered into regular communication with Károlyi’s group in Szeged and sent there most of the exiled officers in Vienna so as to form the nucleus of a re-formed national army. He also sent money from the millions obtained from the Bankgasse raid.

  The exiles who gathered at the Hotel Bristol took a different line. All right, they said, if a new National government has to be declared on unoccupied Hungarian soil, so be it! Here they were close enough to Bruck-Királyhida. They would surprise the place, occupy it themselves and declare a new government there!

  They went at it without further delay.

  The following plan was quickly formed. Secret envoys would contact a group of suitable men of good will, who would hide near the station on the Hungarian side of the river Laitha. There they would wait for a group of officers from Vienna to arrive on the Austrian side.

  First of all they had to be sure of who and how many men would be able to be collected in secret beside the bridge over the Laitha. It seems that the numbers were mustered with not a little commotion, rather like bidding for the bank at baccarat. Some of the conspirators seem to have been carried away by typical Hungarian overconfidence, while others, more realistically minded, started thinking in terms of twenty or thirty. The more dashing thought of hundreds, and there were those who guaranteed that at least two thousand would rally to the call. Next the groups began to enlist the help of some of the officers who were gathering at one of the small hotels in Josefstadt. Many of those then waiting in Vienna were eager to join the venture
, all the more so because the leaders firmly declared that everything was in readiness. The recruits were assured that many thousands were only waiting to join them on the Hungarian side and that even machine guns would be available. It was wonderful how every detail had been worked out so brilliantly. On the night chosen they would be transported by taxis to Bruck, and there they would hide close to the bridge which formed the frontier. A locomotive would be reversed across the bridge, pushing empty wagons into which they would climb and so would be whisked into the station under the noses of the Communist guards. Once there – hee! hee! – they would be joined by the waiting recruits, disarm the Red guards … and Lo! They would declare a national Hungarian government on unoccupied Hungarian soil, which the Allies would naturally recognize!

  One thing remained: a government had to be formed before the raid, and this had to be done in secret so that no one on the other side should start talking about it. This was done; and at once they all began to talk about its members as if they were already ministers.

  Like all good Hungarian secret conspiracies – and Hungarians are unsurpassed at keeping secrets! – they all talked about it far too much, so much, indeed, that it was said the Vienna cabbies knew about it days in advance, and in their thick Viennese dialect, took much pleasure in saying to everyone: ‘Ti Kraffen kehn nach Pruck’ – ‘So the counts are all off to Bruck!’

  At last the long-awaited night arrived.

  Some forty officers gathered in front of the hotel in Josefstadt, where ten taxis stood ready to transport them to the field of battle. All of them had a little money, a travelling bag, soldiers’ caps and army belts; some even had a revolver. Then they asked where were the guns and ammunition that had been promised. These, they were told, were still hidden and would be supplied separately. Each officer would receive a weapon on arrival at Bruck because in Vienna it would cause something of a stir if a lot of gentlemen carrying arms were seen getting into taxis. They all congratulated each other – it had been well done, very cleverly done, they said!

  Off they went, into the wild summer night. In the first car was the leader of this military expedition and behind him, in proper military order, were the other taxis filled with helmeted, leather-belted but civilian-clad braves.

  A single car separated itself from the others. This took a roundabout route as it had to pick up the Mannlichers and the ammunition.

  After quite a while it arrived at the doors of an old monastery in a lonely street. This is it, they said. This is where the monks will hand out the weapons they have hidden for us.

  An officer got out and looked around. The street was empty. This was the moment. Now he could safely ring the bell, and when the doorkeeper looked out, the password ‘Jerusalem’ could be whispered in his ear.

  One of them rang the bell. Then they heard steps approaching, and finally a tiny window was opened in the massive oak door.

  ‘Was wollens?’ – ‘What do you want?’ said an unfriendly voice from the darkness inside.

  ‘Jerusalem!’ whispered the officer into the tiny opening.

  ‘Wa-as?’ – ‘Whaat?’ came from the darkness.

  ‘Jerusalem!’ repeated the officer, this time more loudly.

  The little window was slammed shut, and footsteps died away on the other side. Outside they waited, imagining someone had gone to fetch the arms and ammunition, although still thinking it odd the man had gone away without a single word of reply…

  And there they went on waiting … for a very long time. Nothing! Not a word, not a sound. Nothing to suggest that anything was happening inside, either to bring out the weapons or the ammunition that had been so carefully arranged by the new ‘minister’. An hour went by, and then an hour-and-a-half, and still nothing, nothing, nothing. And time was rushing by.

  Anxiously they were thinking that the others would already be at Bruck, waiting for their weapons; and that the attack was planned for that very night. It was impossible to wait any longer, and so they decided to ring again.

  Ring again they did, several times. Finally, after a long wait, the same heavy footsteps were heard from inside the door. Once again the tiny slit was opened.

  ‘Was is?’ the voice asked again.

  ‘Jerusalem!’ repeated the officer and then again, very distinctly, ‘Je-ru-sa-lem!’

  ‘Go…!’ bellowed the unseen voice, using a vulgar command no one would want to obey and in a rage again slammed shut the tiny window.

  As this was obviously the only reply they were likely to get, it was now clear there was no more business to do there, and so the only thing to do was to follow the others as swiftly as possible and report that the excellent password had not worked. Otherwise the others might start something while still unarmed.

  Off they raced in their taxi and at last arrived in Bruck, where, on the Austrian side, they found some of their companions who had been posted there on guard, while the others had repaired to a neighbouring hostelry which was called, as if to emphasize that everywhere thy were pursued by the colour red, the Rother Ochs – the Red Ox. There they found the whole band, together with the ‘general staff’ and the ‘ministers’.

  The new arrivals then told of the failure of the password, but no one admitted responsibility, indeed they all accused each other before finally agreeing that the blame must lie with some of those who had stayed in Vienna instead of coming with the main group. The matter of ‘Jerusalem’ was never cleared up, not even years later.

  Neither did I ever get to know why they stayed at Bruck at all and, having stayed, why they did not attack that same night. This was because I heard the tale not from the leaders but from their soldier followers. Be that as it may, they did stay and decided to launch the attack on the following evening.

  What does one do if forced to spend the day waiting at an inn? What else but quaff a spritzer or a beer or some other heartwarming drink? And since they were so many, what more natural than that someone should start singing – many lovely songs, nostalgic sad Hungarian songs, interspersed with some crackling csárdás? Never mind if they could be heard on the sidewalks outside: there weren’t many people about and, anyway, the Lord loveth men who make music!

  Not only that, but as it is irksome to sit still all day long, some of them ventured out for a stroll or to the local tobacconist for cigarettes or picture postcards. After all, perhaps the sight of strangers in that little-frequented border town, gentlemen in civilian clothes wearing army caps and tight leather belts, would not really attract any attention. There was nothing special about them; it wasn’t as if they were in full uniform!

  And so the day passed.

  In the afternoon two workmen crossed the bridge and came into the inn. When they sat down at a neighbouring table, some of the officers thought they might have brought over a message – but no! It turned out they were Reds sent over to spy! So they found themselves arrested instead, dragged upstairs to a vaulted passage where they were interrogated and finally locked in one of the guest rooms with a guard at the door so that they should not escape and carry back the news of what was being so secretly prepared.

  At last the evening came, and the company moved off towards the bridge over the Laitha. There they lay down by the rails on the edge of the embankment. Again they waited for a long time.

  Night fell. Somewhere out of sight a locomotive’s whistle sounded. Perhaps that was the signal that it was coming? Then a red lamp was seen several times, swung to and fro and then extinguished.

  Finally there was complete silence: perhaps nothing was coming!

  General argument followed. It was clear that someone should go on ahead, but who?

  Only one man had a proper gun. It was one of my friends who had brought his own sporting rifle: a Mannlicher-Schönauer. The others said that he, the one with the gun, should be the one to go. He demurred.

  ‘Why me?’ he argued, forcefully pointing out: ‘with this weapon I can shoot accurately more than a hundred metres. The men with revolvers shou
ld go first. They can only shoot at close range.’

  And so this is what they did. Some five of them set off, one of the ‘ministers’ being among them.

  Then, forty or so paces behind, followed the main body, led by the only man with a rifle; and then, according to the accepted rules of strategy, came the recruits.

  The advance party set off. When they set foot on the bridge shots were heard and also what sounded like machine-gun fire. They stopped and conferred with each other: could it be that the Reds had noticed something and were aiming at the bridge? And if this were so, would it not be foolish to try to cross to the other side? So they returned to the main body of men most of whom, hearing the shots, had lain down between or beside the rails, while some sought refuge in empty trucks. (Eyewitnesses tell how one of the leaders, a large plump man, had flung himself down between the rails where, so the legend goes, he lay so flat that the others lost sight of him). There were still occasional bursts of fire from the other side, so they again consulted one another as to what they should do and how to do it. Again it seemed difficult to decide.

  In the end, fate took a hand. Those in the rear announced that the Heimwehr54 were marching up from Bruck, and soon their steps could be heard.

  ‘Run for your lives! Scram! Hide in the empty wagons!’ someone shouted. Once inside, in the pitch dark, they started sharing out the money they had brought with them – apparently about six or seven million from the Bankgasse raid – so as to save as much as possible. In a wild hurry they were saying, still in total darkness, ‘Here! Take this million!’ Others would call out: ‘I don’t want it. I’ve got two already!’ So they hid it, stuffing money into each other’s pockets or boots or wherever else they could find.