The Longest Pleasure (13 page)

Kirsten sat beside him on the bed. 'Budapest is full of Russians now. They are all wearing that uniform. And out there .. .' She pointed to the west. 'There are roads full of fleeing people. They are going to Austria. They will be welcome there.'

'It is not less than a hundred miles to the Austrian frontier.'

'Two, maybe three hours by car. From Austria we will get to England. We will be safe in England. It is my home now. My British passport is in a safe deposit in Vienna. It is our only chance now, Irena.'

Irena scooped her lank brown hair on to the top of her head, smiled at herself in the mirror.
'Your
only chance, Kirs
tie.'

'Yours, too,' Kirsten said. 'If they take me, I will tell them where I stay in Budapest. Where I have always stayed. I am known to the Russians now. They even know who I work for. They would like to have me, and any associates of mine. That would please them very much. They would like to ask you questions, Irena. They will hurt you. There.' She pointed at Irena's groin.

'I could throw you out of that window,' Galitsin said. *You would certainly break your neck.'

Kirsten leapt to her feet, stood in the centre of the room, legs spread wide, hands on hips. 'What is the matter with you?' she shouted. 'That you can both lie here and accept death? Is there something wrong with you? Are you doped, or something?'

'Buda is dying,' Irena explained. 'It is happening all around us.'

'But
we
can live.' Kirsten grasped Irena's hands, drew her close. "Don't you want to live, dear one?' Yes,' Irena said. 'Sandor...'

'My uniform is torn, to begin with, and I have no weapon.'

You would be supposed to have just fought an action,* Kirsten said. .'And we would find you a weapon. What is the matter with him, Irena?'

'He suffers from guilt,' Irena said. "He is sorry he did not remain to fight with his comrades, is not fighting with them now. But at the same time he is glad he was here with me. Human beings are very complicated.' .

'And you call that an answer?' Kirsten sat beside Galitsin again. 'So you want to die. All right. Does it matter
how
you die? We want to live. We cannot, without your help. I am not asking you to kill anybody. Just to try to get us out of Budapest. Listen! I have already saved
your
life. I kept my word not to tell any of the patriots that you were here. You owe me that much.'

You are a fascist agent,' Galitsin said. You are already responsible for the deaths of too many people.'

Kirsten got up. You talk to him,' she begged.

Irena rumpled her hair some more. 'If there is a chance, Sandor,' she begged, '
We could make a new life in the
West. We could go to England. Would you not like that, Sandor? If there is a chance. For my sake, Sandor.'

II

Buda burned. The destruction of the city seemed worse in the morning light than it had during the night or in the dawn. The clouds had cleared, and t
he November sun was almost warm,
but the light was kept from the earth by man-made clouds of rolling black smoke, by leaping walls of flame,
by
showers of burning debris, by the rumble of collapsing houses. The liberators were back.

'We should be going that way.' Kirsten pointed to a relatively undamaged side street. In the heat and the gloom it was difficult to decide which was west, but the firing remained constant, revealing the east.

Galitsin shook his head, pointed towards the noise.

'Towards the Ivans, Sandor?' Irena asked.

'It is the only way,' he shouted above the rumble of sound. 'You wish to travel a hundred miles to the border. Where do you think we will find a car in this mess?'

Kirsten gazed at him. 'It is an idea,' she muttered. 'You "would not be thinking of betraying us, comrade?'

Galitsin almost smiled.
'You will have to trust me, Kir
stie. I am sorry about that.' He grasped Irena's arm, set off into the smoke and the dust, heard Kirsten running behind them, stumbling in her borrowed shoes.

They rounded a corner, came upon a crater, and around it a group of men. All were dead, three shattered hulks, one lacking
an
arm, another a leg. Their blood was still red, still liquid. The blast had been so recent there was not even any smell, except heat and sweat. Had they left the building only five minutes earlier, had he agreed to the women's plea just a shade more quickly, the three of them would have lain there, amidst the men. Galitsin wondered what he was doing.
Why was
he doing
this?
But how many times in his life
had
he wondered that? Why am I here? Why am I doing this, instead of that? Why am I watching Mother die, instead of dying beside her?
Why
am I a hero, when I am a coward? Why am I sitting here, playing chess, watched
by
thousands, admired
by
thousands, when so many better
men, women, than
I,
are dead? Always the answer had been,
I
am a soldier. Let the State, let Stalin, worry about the why.
I
do as I am told. Even when Mother had died that answer had been possible. The nation had been at war, and the war reached down even to twelve-year-olds. To die, without killing Germans first, had been pointless.

But why am
I
a Russian at all, and not a German? Or an Englishman? That would have been so easy. Where does the accident of fate come in, separating one man from another, deciding on a Scottish mother and a Russian father, and not vice versa?

And what makes Alexander Galitsin a likable fellow, when so many people, Tigran Dus, for instance, are clearly not likable? What made Michael Evenssohn like me, and thus give me a pass into Buda on the night of Monday,
22nd
October
1956,
when the regiment had been on standby all day? Without that special pass, life would be entirely different. He would not have become afraid again of a mob. And he would not now be about to die. Because Irena would have survived this fortnight. And he would have been able to find her again in Madam Csank's.

Where does the inevitable, the pre-ordained, come to an end, and the free will of man come into its own? Or is the free will of man nothing more than a dream, and is everything pre-ordained, from birth to the grave? For the soldier, yes. For the communist, yes. Over in the West, so it is said, everything is at the mercy of chance and individual ambition. The motto is succeed or starve. And so everything is in chaos, every man striving against every other man, with only a few fortunate ones, more ruthless, or better born, with wealthy fathers to leave them ready-made prosperity, rising always to the top of the tree while the rest labour in a dull grey purgatory. Surely in the Soviet Union the odds are better. Perhaps there is no height comparable with being a millionaire, but then there is no depth comparable with being destitute. Your passport to fame and fortune comes in the natural talents born into you. Galitsin had been born likable and been given the ability to play chess. There was riches enough. And yet fate had laughed at him, turned him into a wreck of a man, who had bartered his birthright for twelve days in the arms of a whore.

He glanced down at her, hurrying beside him, still holding on to his arm, and she smiled through her exhaustion. Not a whore. A woman. His woman. For him, all the woman in the world.

'I can go no farther,' Kirsten panted, and leaned against
a
wall.

‘
Then you will stay here,' Galitsin said.

'Come on, Kirstie. It cannot be far,' Irena said. They had moved out of the world of the barrage into the never-never world of man again, where the smoke and the dust was thickest, and the sun was never evident, and the occasional shot broke the silence. A world where everyone stayed close to the nearest wall, and where running was dangerous, for all movement was slowed down, as the pace at which, life was lived, and was ended, quickened.

'Over there.' Galitsin pointed at the next corner.

'There are men beyond there,' Kirsten said.
‘I
can hear voices.'

'Speaking Russian,' Galitsin said. 'They are the men we want.'

Kirsten glanced at Irena again, and Irena shrugged. Irena trusted him. But Irena was the trusting kind. He released her arm, walked in front of them, reached the corner.

'Halt!'

A man stood in a doorway, fifty yards to their right, his automatic rifle pointed in their direction. 'Wait here.' Galitsin stepped into the road. A rifle shot cut across the morning's noise, and a spurt of dust flew from the rutted tar of the street.

'Halt!'

Galitsin walked towards the rifle. 'Were you shooting at me, soldier?' It was like crawling on to the tank again, a fierce disregard of what was going to happen next, a singing defiance of the worst that
could
happen. But these were his own comrades. There would be no medals for this afternoon's work.

The rifleman peered at him, dropped the butt of his
weapon to the ground. 'Comr
ade Captain ! I am sorry. I did not recognise you. The smoke…
'

'Where is your commanding officer?'

'Down the street, Comrade Captain.'

'I will go to him. Cover me. Ladies!' He beckoned them, and after a moment they came, hurrying, holding hands.

The soldier gaped. Kirsten's raincoat was stained and dirty, her blonde hair wisped, she limped, wearing
a
pair of Irena's shoes. Irena was wearing her best black dress,
a
green coat, and a beret,
she looked as if she might be going to a theatre. Only her hair was untidy.

Galitsin marched down the pavement, towards the rest of the patrol, which was emerging from another house, driving two pale-faced boys from the doorway. 'Who is in command here?'

The lieutenant saluted, staring first at the women, and then at Galitsin's torn and bloodstained uniform. 'Lieutenant Kubbel, Comrade Captain.'

'A. P. Galitsin, Comrade Lieutenant. I need transport
^’

'Galitsin?' The lieutenant's frown deepened. 'A. P. Galitsin, the new Army Champion. I have seen your photograph in
Schachmaty,
Comrade Captain. This is
a
great honour.'

'Yes, yes,' Galitsin said. 'A car, man.'

‘B
ut you were reported missing on
22nd
October, Comrade Captain. It was assumed that you had been killed by the insurgents.'

Galitsin smiled. 'Someone was previous with that report, comrade. I was on a mission in Buda, certainly. Now it is completed. For the past twelve days I have been hiding from the fascists. These two ladies are agents of the Fourth Bureau, and it is my duty to get them to safety as rapidly as possible. You have a radio?'

'Of course, Comrade Captain.'

'Then call a car for me. One of these women is exhausted and can go no farther.'

'Of course, Comrade Captain.' Kubbel summoned his wireless operator, while Irena and Kirsten each took the hint and sank to the pavement.

'And, Comrade Lieutenant,' Galitsin said. 'As I have been reported missing, it would only cause confusion were you to mention my name. I will explain the situation when I return to headquarters.'

'Of course, Comrade Captain.' The lieutenant saluted, bowed to the two women, gave orders.

'It will not be long now, ladies,' Galitsin said. 'We will remain here, Comrade Lieutenant, and wait for the car. You and your men continue your duties. You are flushing out the fascists?'

'That is correct, Comrade Captain.' Kubbel lowered his voice. 'And we are under orders to take
no
prisoners, where it is proved that these people are disruptive elements. These men were found with arms in their hands.'

Galitsin looked from one to the other
of
the two boys,
Standing
close together, staring at the officers.

'So if you will excuse me, Comrade Captain,' Kubbel signalled his sergeant. The sergeant saluted, called two of his men, and tapped the first young man on the shoulder, pointing at the street corner. 'It will be done discreetly, of course, Comrade Captain, so as not to disturb the ladies. But I am not sure it is safe for you to remain here by yourselves. There will certainly be other fascist elements in the neighbourhood, not yet disarmed.'