The Burning of the World: A Memoir of 1914 (20 page)

Now that we had got here, it seemed only right to make a sketch. I drew, while Ervin lay on his back, softly whistling the intermezzo from
Cavalleria rusticana.
[16]

It was dark by the time we got home, tired but happy. We met Mauser in front of the house. He was in a hurry to leave, and his “good evening” was crisp and stiff.

“Is he always this formal?”

“He’s a thoroughly decent chap, but I’ve never seen him smile.”

That evening, Miri told us that the master had brought serious news about the moves that the Italians were making. It thoroughly spoiled the good mood I had been in.
Post equitem sedet atra cura.
[17]

We visited Tersatto, a castle above Fiume. The Croatian guide explained that it had belonged to the
famiglia Frankopana
. He spoke Hungarian with poor pronunciation, but comprehensibly: a believer in the friendship between Croats and Hungarians, or maybe it was just for our benefit. We parted on friendly terms. We called out: “
Živio
!”
[18]
He replied: “Hurrah!”

We continued wandering around the ruins on our own. Eventually I found a detail for a drawing—a little staircase through an archway, fragments of an old ruined tower. The lighting gave it a decorative effect. It would have suited a stage set for some Italian opera.

Ervin had found a subject a little further off, and I could hear him cheerfully whistling
Cavalleria rusticana
.

We strolled back along the
lungomare.
Neither of us spoke. The sea had settled down to sleep; at long intervals, a smooth wave lapped against the rocks. We did not meet another soul the whole way home. The friendly warm ochre light of its windows beckoned.

I had kept getting delicately reproachful glances from sweet little Elsa for spending all my time with Ervin since his arrival. I hadn’t played cards with her or asked her to play the piano; instead, tired out, I had been going straight to bed.

Well, now it was her turn. Even the usually reserved Ervin charmed them. We asked Elsa to play some Chopin. She played as if in a state of rapture, quite beautifully. Ervin listened, his head bent forward, and wiped tears from his eyes.
[19]
I felt that I loved these people. It was not a good thing to be this happy in the present situation, for it brought with it thoughts of paradise lost.

We had also planned a trip over to Novi, to bring back the memories of our last carefree summer. However, it was not possible to accomplish this in a single day, and we didn’t fancy spending a night somewhere unfamiliar. We only got as far as Fiume-Sušak, but this was a very pleasant trip. The weather continued to favor us, and on the way home the sunset was so magnificent that we couldn’t take our eyes off the sea. Before us, the sun’s rays shining through the rising and falling waves ranged from turquoise to Mitis green, through ultramarine, to the deepest Prussian blue. The waves’ crests shone in shades of pale violet—almost white—and cerulean blue. When one turned around, the setting sun bathed everything in purples, oranges, and glowing pinks. It was unforgettably beautiful.

In the course of our daily wanderings, we still came across some ancient Italian street life in the little streets that clung to the Fiume hillside, but the shore and the port appeared to be almost devoid of life. This had a very depressing effect on us.

“It’s the war that’s caused it.”

“Was it already like this when you arrived? There are rumors in Budapest about the Italians.”

“Here too. To have to escape from here as well would really be all I need. I decided that I was going to try to avoid even thinking about the war, but now that it’s come up, what’s the mood like in Budapest?”

“Well, everyone’s getting sick of it. Nobody really believes the official announcements any more.

“Both sides are reinforcing their positions. One side comes up with a new weapon, the other side comes up with a defense against it. There are torpedo boats to launch torpedoes, there are destroyers to sink the torpedo boats, there’ll probably be destroyer-destroyers to sink the destroyers, and so on.

“Both sides talk about ‘final victory,’ and both struggle for peace against the war that each has forced on the other.

“The grand statements don’t really have any effect any more. Everyone’s become completely impervious to them. Which means they’ve got away with it. I used to stick little flags into the map I had pinned on the wall so that I could follow the movements on the various fronts. I’ve given up on all that.

“There’s no trace now of the romantically enthusiastic send-offs from the start of the war. The problems of everyday life—so far, hardly noticeable—are starting to press to the fore. And, let’s be honest, everyone’s starting to pay more attention to the matter of their own security than to matters of war and peace. It’s only among the older people now that you still find enthusiasm and hope. There’s nothing, really, at stake for them. They feel relatively secure, and they have the time for it.

“Sadly, this was inevitable. It’s natural when the passing of time brings no decisive results. This is, in fact, ‘total’ war, which directly affects ever greater masses of people.

“I think the longer it lasts, the worse it’ll be for us. We’ll be more and more shut in, and we won’t be able to take it economically. And all this is nothing compared with what still awaits us.

“Let’s not sigh yet. It’ll make no difference anyway. Let’s look at the sea and think about how we’d paint it.”

It was time for Ervin to leave for home. I had decided to stay on until Easter, which was approaching. After that, I would return home and spend the time that remained until I had to report for duty there.

I saw Ervin off to the steamer; we parted on the understanding that there would be no goodbyes. We had had enough of those. Life—in whatever manner—would go on. We were young, and we wanted to live. To surrender to lethargy was to be lost. One senses one’s destiny, but one can influence it by one’s will. So we parted cheerfully: “Until the next time! It’s been fun. We’ll do it again as soon as we can.”

I attended Easter mass with the Mauser girls at the little church, an intimate chapel in the Italian style. The locals sang as only Italians can. There was a festive lunch of every imaginable delicacy. I slipped away afterwards to my beloved abandoned old park, and caught myself paying it a farewell visit. I stroked the sappy, moist trunks of the cedars and cypresses, I gazed at the panoramic view, and as I ambled homeward I began to turn my mind to thoughts of packing. I would be leaving the day after tomorrow. How these three weeks of happiness had flown by!

It was time to say goodbye—or rather, to part. I thanked them sincerely for all they had done to lift me up from my fallen state.
Mama
Mauser was moved to tears. So, a little, was I.

“
Auf Wiedersehen am nächsten Winter. Im Weihnachten ist hier auch sehr schön.
”
[20]

I promised that I would.

I had to rise early, as my train left Fiume in the morning. But the whole family had beaten me to it. I left the drawings I had done of the girls as a memento, and I had ordered two huge bouquets of roses, one for each day that I had spent with them: red ones for Elsa, white ones for Miri. They put them in their windows, from where they waved to me as long as they could still see anything of my departing cab.

Auf Wiedersehen.

I stood by the window all the way up to Lič. From here, a thousand meters up, I caught one last glimpse of the panorama of islands lost in cobalt blue and violet, and the endless sea.

Auf Wiedersehen
.

The train raced down the northern slopes of the Karst, hammering down through long curves, between stone walls, and among dense forest, thickets of fern, ravines, and rushing mountain streams. The landscape became bleaker, and it got colder. Snow still lay in the depressions of the burnt sienna, russet, and ochre moorland. In the deep course of a stream, the water ran between banks covered in snow and ice, pale green and scummy. Here and there, among the great bluish-gray trunks of beech trees, flashed the occasional vivid green, mossy trunk of a Turkey oak.

Apart from the rushing of the train, there was silence. The few passengers spread themselves out, taking their pick of window seats facing in the direction of travel. No one spoke.

At Cameral-Moravice, the giant Karst engine was replaced with a fast big-wheeled engine. There was time to get out and have a cup of coffee. It was chilly; I’d got used to the spring. I decided to travel the remainder of the journey in the restaurant car.

We tore along through flat country now. A cheerless landscape: gray mud in the sloping road that ran alongside the tracks, the ruts in it half a meter deep. Poor horses! Not a human being to be seen anywhere. What could they do out there in the mud?

Zagreb: another change of engine. Bolhás, Kaposvár, Dombovár, Simontornya, Rétszilas . . . names that meant nothing, whose magic came only from their association with the sea.

I bought a newspaper. I had not read one for weeks. Bellicose guff about final victory. The big German offensive towards Paris had “stopped” at the Marne.
[21]
No decisive developments anywhere.

Slow dusk.

Budapest.

D
RÁFI
, the gypsy drummer, was a short, bandy-legged little chap. Whenever he saw me, he would salute and grin at the same time—contrary to regulations, but radiating goodwill.

Once or twice I called him over.

“Look, you’re not supposed to grin when you salute.”

A look of uncertainty and fear flickered in his eyes; then, seeing that I was smiling too, he once more beamed from ear to ear.

“All right. Don’t forget now!”

While we were waiting at Komárom,
[1]
on our way to the front, he asked permission to get off the train. I asked him what for.

“Wish to report, sir, my family’s here.”

A horde of gypsy children raced towards him with wide open arms. All had bare potbellies and all were barefoot. Their skin was a magnificent reddish brown. After them came a gypsy woman in a headscarf and brightly colored skirts, her gnarled hands pressed to her mouth. Then they fell upon each other, and their tears flowed without words.

Afterwards, back on the train, he trotted up and down amongst us during the endless days and endless nights as we headed north-east.

After we left Rava Ruska, we rested at the edge of the Dabrovka forest, beside a freshly ploughed potato field. A few paces from me, Dráfi was scrabbling about in the grass. He had a mate with him, one of the reservists. I stepped over.

“What are you up to, Dráfi?”

He was about to jump to his feet to report, when the mate spoke up.

“Sir, he’s found a potato. He wants to plant it in the ground.”

“It’s got such good shoots. It wants to live. I’m going to plant it. It might live longer than me.”

Poor Dráfi.

The potato did indeed outlive Drummer János Dráfi of the Royal Hungarian Army.

Béla Zombory-Moldován,
The Wave
, Lovrana, 1929. Watercolor.

The subject and composition correspond with the drawing described in Chapter 12, but this is a later work, evidently re-creating the (presumably, lost) drawing of 1915 on a post-war return visit to Lovrana.

Opposite:
Central Europe in 1914, showing the principal places referred to in the text and main military engagements on the eastern front to mid-September 1914. Present-day national borders and states are indicated with pale lines and type.

Rava Ruska and its vicinity, showing railway lines in 1914