Silesian Station (2008) (29 page)

Once inside, Russell asked for the quickest way of reaching Bratislava.

'You mean Pressburg?' the young German at the desk responded.

'I mean the town that used to be called Pressburg,' Russell agreed. Until 1918 most of Slovakia had been ruled from Vienna.

There were several options, the young man told him curtly. He could take the gratis automobile into Vienna and take a train back out again. He could try his luck at the local station, which was much closer to Pressburg. He could take a boat down the Danube, though that would take around seven hours. He could look for an autobus outside.

Following up the final suggestion, Russell walked into an argument between a cab driver and a rather ancient German. Their dispute, he quickly discovered, was over the fare to Pressburg - the old gentleman insisting that it was only half of what the cabbie was demanding. 'I'll pay the other half if you'll take me too,' Russell offered.

Both seemed angry for a moment, as if he'd deliberately spoiled their fun, but his suggestion was accepted.

The capital of the newly independent Slovakia was about sixty-five kilometres away, and the drive took about ninety minutes. The border formalities consumed around thirty of those, the Slovaks keen to demonstrate their new independence. Every item in Russell's suitcase was meticulously examined, leaving him highly relieved that he had left Isendahl's leaflet and article behind.

During the final leg of the journey he asked both driver and fellow-passenger about Friday night's pogrom, but neither had much to say. The old German had been visiting relatives in Berlin for several weeks and the driver - a Slovak - pleaded a lack of fluency in any language but his own. Russell hoped his reticence had something to do with shame.

Bratislava looked down on the Danube from the end of a range of hills. Dropped off in the square at the centre of the Old Town, Russell consulted the street map in his vintage Baedeker. German cartographers were still including synagogues in 1929, and a cluster of them signified the Jewish quarter.

It was only a few blocks away, and easy to recognize from the debris littering the pavements. A whole line of shop fronts had been staved in, and while some were covered with hastily-nailed planks, others still gaped open, their shelves bearing nothing but shards of glass. There was a normal flow of people on the narrow street, but there seemed less noise than there should be, as if someone had turned the city's volume down.

The first synagogue he came to was daubed with swastikas and other insults, but the entrance was guarded by a posse of Slovak policemen. Russell showed his press card to the likely leader, but the man just shook his head. Pleas in German and English were met with a brief but noticeably hostile burst of Slovak.

Russell gave up for the moment. A cafe-bar down the street offered food, drink and the possibility of conversation. He was not an expert on central European cuisines, but the menu seemed like a mixture of Hungarian and Jewish, and most of the clientele looked the latter. One young man was staring at him from a nearby table. His face and angry expression reminded Russell of Albert Wiesner.

'I'm a journalist,' he said in German. 'An American journalist.'

The boy looked surprised. 'Can you prove it?' he asked in perfect German, looking around him as he did so.

'Yes,' Russell said simply, taking out his passport and journalistic accreditation.

The young man came over to examine them.

'Have a seat,' Russell offered. 'Can I get you a drink?'

'Whatever you're drinking. I'm Mel,' the youth added, offering his hand.

Russell took it and called for another Pilsen. 'Tell me what happened on Friday night,' he said.

Mel took another precautionary look around the bar. 'It was actually Saturday morning,' he began. 'About a hundred of them came roaring down from Masarykplatz. They were mostly Germans, but there were some Slovaks. You can see what they did.'

'What set them off ?'

'Nobody knows for sure, but most people think it was organized by the Freiwillige Schutzkorps - the local storm troopers.'

'Was anyone killed?'

'No. A miracle really. A lot of people were hurt, though. Some were punched or battered with staves when they tried to defend their shops, and a lot of people were cut by flying glass.'

'Did the police come?'

'Oh yes. Four hours after they were called. Their station's up on Stefanikstrasse - a five minute walk away.'

The story - and the bitterness - seemed all too familiar.

'The worst thing for most people - not me, because I'm not religious - but the bastards destroyed a lot of important stuff in the synagogues. Stuff that was hundreds of years old.'

'The local police wouldn't let me in,' Russell told him.

'You want to see it? There's a back door.'

'Show me.'

'When we've finished our beers.'

A few minutes and several alleys later, they reached the small yard at the rear of the synagogue. The door opened to Mel's push, and they found them-selves in a small storeroom. Another door brought them through to the main chamber, and a scene of devastation. Pools of water lay across the stone floor, and still-sopping carpets had been thrown across seats to dry out.

'They turned on the water hydrants,' Mel whispered.

Hangings had been ripped from the walls, and replaced with more red daubs.

'Who are you and what do you want?' a voice asked.

'He's an American journalist, Uncle Ignaz,' Mel shouted. 'He's come to see what the scum did.'

'Has he? Then bring him over here.'

Uncle Ignaz was leaning over a desk that contained several scrolls of scripture. All were torn and some were stained.

'They defecated on the Torah scrolls,' he said. 'They squatted over them and they forced their shit out with their hatred.'

'Did they steal the ornaments?' Russell asked, remembering Kristallnacht.

'Oh yes. They took everything that glittered. But these are what matters,' the man almost cried, looking down at the scrolls.

Back on the street, Russell thanked his young guide and headed for the town centre. A lone policeman gave him directions to the Freiwillige Schutzkorps headquarters, which were down near the port. Two Slovaks gave him further help en route, both with expressions of surprise at his choice of destination. Reaching the flag-bedecked warehouse-turned-barracks, he was told that the local leader was in Vienna for a conference. One of his deputies, a young dark-haired German with blue eyes, was happy to explain the recent outrage.

Friday's violence, he claimed, had been provoked by an attack on two of his men. A gang of Jews had fallen upon them in the ghetto and beaten them very badly.

Could Russell speak to these men?

The young German regretted that that would not be possible.

Russell went in search of a hotel. The Central, an elegant old pile at the bottom of Stefanikstrasse, seemed both adequate and eager for his custom. The German officers all stayed at the Savoy-Carlton, the manager remarked after seeing his passport, and the German presence had discouraged other foreigners from visiting the new country.

Russell asked whether any other foreign journalists had come to investigate Friday's events.

'Only one stayed here,' the manager said. 'And only for one night,' he added, handing Russell his key.

His room overlooked the street, with a chair and table placed by the window. He spent the next hour writing up his story, and hoped that Cummins would think it worth the expense. He could have written most of it in Berlin, but his description of the flooded synagogue and soiled scrolls had added an extra dimension. Where were the boys from Pathe News when you needed them?

He reached the post office a few minutes before closing, and persuaded the clerk he had time to wire the story off. That done, he walked down to the Danube in search of a restaurant with a river view. As he waited for his food he read through that morning's
Beobachter
, which he had earlier abandoned in favour of the
Times
. Only one story caught his eye. A 'renowned German economist', interviewed by the paper, claimed that recent border changes had resulted in the Poles having too much coal. 'The nation which needs coal most is entitled to it,' the Professor noted, leaving little room for doubt as to which nation that was.

It was an interesting argument, Russell thought. He imagined Africa laying claim to East Prussia's farmlands on similar grounds - surely they needed the grain more than the Germans did.

He should have been collecting stories like this, he told himself. There had been enough of them over the years, and once Hitler and his thugs were confined to history no one would believe the Alice in Wonderland aspects of the world they had spawned.

If they ever were confined to history. He had always assumed that they would be - 'when?' and 'how?' were the questions which mattered. But were he and the old Marxist inside him kidding themselves? Perhaps a rolling programme of conquests could keep economic logic at bay, like a locomotive consuming the carriages it pulled.

So much insanity, and here he was, eating a lovely meal, enjoying a beautiful view. As night descended a crescent moon slowly rose above the distant Hungarian plain, flooding the Danube with pale light and sparkling in the wake of the passing barges.

So much peace, until a convoy of lorries, their headlights blazing, rumbled up to the bridge on the German side of the river. There they stopped, and soon small fires were burning by the riverbank, groups of men gathered around them. War was coming, but not tonight.

He was woken next morning by a smiling young bell-boy with wire in hand. His story had reached San Francisco, and here was the grateful reply - REPORT FROM WARSAW SOONEST. He groaned, and the bell-boy looked as sympathetic as anyone could with a palm outstretched. Russell gave him the only coin he could find, got dressed, and went in search of a newspaper.

The local German paper offered some explanation for Cummins' request. Late on Monday the German authorities had closed the Silesian frontier in the Beuthen area and cut off all local telephone communications. This, the newspaper said, was in response to the 'terrible events in Kattowitz'.

That was it. No mention of a Polish response, or of wider implications. It could be another storm in a teacup; it could be the first shots of a second Great War. Warsaw did seem a good place to find out.

But how to get there? According to the hotel manager, the only passenger flights from Bratislava's tiny aerodrome went to Prague, so it had to be the train, at least to begin with. He walked up Stefanikstrasse to the station, intent on taking the train into Vienna, but a bad-tempered booking clerk told him he might have to wait all day. 'Address your complaints to your own government,' the man added disgustedly, mistaking him for a German.

Russell put him right, and asked if there were through trains to Poland.

'Who knows? If you take the Poprad train to Zilina Junction you may be able to reach Teschen. Or even Nowytarg. The Germans are running their military trains as if this was their own country. And they tell us nothing.'

A mystery tour through the Slovakian backwoods had limited appeal, but what choice did he have? He bought a through ticket to Krakow, and went in search of the Poprad train. It was waiting on the far platform, and rapidly filling up. In the yard beyond a troop train was waiting for a locomotive, soldiers sitting in the boxcar doorways, swinging their legs like bored children.

The time for departure arrived, and a collective whoop of surprise greeted the jerk into motion. The first forty kilometres raced by, but beyond Trnava the stops grew longer and more frequent. Time after time their train was held in a refuge siding for military trains to pass, those heading north with troops and equipment, those heading south to pick up more.

Russell had neglected to bring any food, and was fortunate in his fellow-passengers, a Slovak family of five who shared their lunch of bread and cold sausage with him. None spoke a word of English or German, but their simple pleasure in sharing lifted his heart. Another large family filled the compartment next door, but not with joy. They were Jews abandoning Bratislava, fleeing to the supposed safety of relatives in Poland. The words 'frying-pan' and 'fire' came to mind.

The train reached Zilina Junction at five in the evening. The footplate crew uncoupled their locomotive but left it where it was, offering hope that some-one might reconnect it. Russell walked down to the end of the platform and took in the view. Zilina Junction seemed to be a Slovakian Crewe, a station more important than the community it served. Hills rose on all sides of the small red-roofed town, yellow fields rising to pale green meadows, and these to dark green forests.

An hour or so later a station official arrived with the news that their train was going no further. Questioned about alternatives, he managed to sound vaguely optimistic. Services to the north and east were scheduled, he said, and he had no definite word of cancellations. A train might appear at any time, and passengers who wished to spend the night in the station hotel would be roused if one did.

As he finished speaking the sounds of an engine could be heard, and everyone turned to see the smoke pumping skyward above the trees, but it was a troop train, and it hardly slowed as it passed the station. Several soldiers waved to those watching from the platform, but only one child waved back. Russell heard the deep rumble as the train crossed the river, and stood there watching the tell-tale trail of smoke as it burrowed into the distant hills. The locomotive had been Slovakian, but the boxcars and troops had been German.

By the time he arrived at the station hotel all the beds had been let several times over. There were other hostels in the town, but it seemed wiser to stay within sight and sound of the trains. A bowl of stew and two Pilsens later he walked back across to the station, only to find that every square metre of the waiting room had already been colonised. It was still warm, so he stretched out on a bench in the open and watched the darkening sky reveal its stars.