Read The Portuguese Escape Online
Authors: Ann Bridge
Tags: #Thriller, #Crime, #Historical, #Detective, #Women Sleuth, #Mystery, #British
âBut why were the pigs and the cows all mixed up together, so they had to find their own gates?' Townsend asked, rather puzzled.
âOh, but of course the animals from the whole village went out to feed together; Pappi gave the grazing, and paid the wages of the cowherd and swineherd. It is always soâI mean it
was
,' the girl said, rather sadly.
âDidn't the peasants have any land of their own, then?'
âEach house half a hectare, to grow what they likedâ and of course the garden round the house. But one cannot graze five cows on half a hectare, especially with calves too.'
âDid each peasant have five cows, then? For goodness sake! And how many peasants in the village?'
âIn Detvan there were a hundred-and-fifty houses; in the other two villages perhaps a little fewer; about a hundred in each, I think. But each peasant could keep up to five cows, and as many as forty pigsânot more.'
Townsend did sums in his head.
âAnd your father gave free grazing to sixteen hundred cows,
and
their calves? And paid the cowherds' wages with it? It's fantastic!'
âWhy?' Hetta asked flatly. âWith us it was always so.'
âFourteen thousand pigs too,' Townsend mused. âDon't know what
they
eat. And your father just
gave
the people all this?'
âBut naturally.'
âDoesn't seem at all natural to me, in the twentieth century.'
âI cannot see what the century has to do with it. They were our people; they worked for us.'
âDid they get any wages?'
Hetta laughed at such ignorance.
âOf
course
they received wagesâand some of the produce of the estate: maize, and wheat, and wine for each family.'
âI begin to see what Atherley meant about feudalism,' Townsend said thoughtfully, really to himself. âYesâon those lines it
is
pretty good for the peasants too. He's quite right.'
âWho is Atherley?' the girl asked, catching hold of something concrete in these rather puzzling utterances.
âA friend of mine in the British Embassy hereâyou must meet him; he's a grand person. And he knows Hungary.'
âNo! Oh, I should so much like to meet someone who knows Hungary.'
âYou'll meet him all rightâyour mother likes him. But tell meâI say, might I call you Hetta?'
âI had rather you called me Hettiâthat is what friends used to call me.'
âFineâthough I like Hetta better than Hetti. Anyway, what's become of all this free grazing and everything since the Russians came in? Weren't all the big estates broken up?'
âYes, indeed; everything was taken, and the land divided up among the peasantsâat first.'
âDid they like that?'
âHow should they like it?' the girl exclaimed vigorously. âEach family was given 4½ hectares, and a pair of horses or oxen to plough. But what is this, compared with what they had? You cannot feed two cows, and make hay for them, on 4½ hectares, and where v/ere the bread-grains to come from?âand the land for the pigs to feed? Concerning the pigs, this was soon settled'âshe gave an angry little laugh ââbecause the Russians took them nearly all away.'
âTook them away?'
â
Yes
. Over five million pigs they sent to Russia in the first year, and nearly all the turkeys. The women loved their turkeys; they fed in the fields after the harvest, and so grew fat; when they were sold the money was for the housewifeâthe birds were hers.'
Townsend was doing more mental arithmeticâAmerican career diplomats are very well-informed.
âThe hectare is nearly 2½ acres,' he said, thinking aloud. âNo, you couldn't do even subsistence farming on 11¼ acres. But why was there enough for everyone before?'
Hetta had her answer pat.
âBecause on a big estate, with huge fields and no divisionsâfences, do you call them?âand with good manuring, much more was produced than simple peasants can do, on these silly little plots. Also everyone worked then
together
at the harvest, as my father and hisâdo you say manager?âdirected; whereas now, except in the collectives, each man works alone, or tries to get his neighbours to help; and there are arguments and quarrelsâall is without organisation.'
In spite of the curious phrases she used, Townsend got a
clear picture of the two different epochs; so clear that it rather surprised him. âHow do you come to know so much?' he asked.
âOh, before my parents went away I used to go with Pappi when he drove about the estate to overlook everything; the harvest, especially, was in the holidays, so that I was at home, and he liked to have someone with him. Mama did not care so much for the country things, she liked Pest better; so it was I who went.'
I bet she liked Pest better, Townsend thought. Aloud he only saidââBut how do you know what it's like nowâ were you in the country? Didn't you stay in your convent in Budapest?'
âTill the end of 1948, yes; then the Communists forced all convents to close. It became a crime to be a nun!' Hetta said, her dark eyes huge. âAll had to put on civilian dress; they looked so strange without the habit!âin fact in ordinary clothes they looked
awful.
'
Her tone made Townsend laugh. âAwful in what way?' he asked.
âSilly!' Hetta said crisply. âIn the habit, and living their own life of work and prayer they looked as they felt âcalm and full of purpose; therefore dignified. But thrown out into the world, which they had given up and forgotten, they felt utterly lost; and again they looked as they feltâ lost, and very silly.'
This time the young man did not laugh. Some strange ring, of a strangely objective compassion, in the young girl's voice as she pronounced the last four words precluded laughter.
âWere they always silly? One hears nuns get so,' he said.
âBut not in the least! Living the life they had vowed themselves to, of prayer and works of charityâor of education, like my nunsâthey are perfectly competent; noble, heroic even. But suddenly obliged to take jobs as servants, or as waitresses in factory canteens, which is what most of them did, can you wonder if they were at a loss, and seemed foolish?
Oldish
women, please reflect. No Mass to begin the day, and Holy Communion; no times of meditation before the Blessed Sacrament. Instead, hustle and bustle among pots and pans, or handing plates of food to young
Communists! This they willingly did for the love of our Lord, who blessed even a cup of cold water given in His name; but how should they be good cooks, or quick waitresses? Of course they seemed silly.'
As Hetta poured this outââShe looks like a sybil'âthe young man thought to himself. It was all surprisingly reasoned, too; she was no fool, if she did seem a bit ultra-religious.
âYes, I get all that,' he said. âWell, go onâwhere did you go when your convent broke up? You wereâlet's see âfifteen then, I suppose?'
âNearly sixteen. Mother Scholasticaâshe was one of the nuns, who taught us Latinâtook me with her; she went first to the house of a friend in Pest, as a cook, and I helped her. To strangers we had to pretend that I was her daughterâ
imagine
, for a nun!âbut I was accustomed to calling her “Ma mère”, so it was not too difficult. Then after a time the deportations began, and the lady we were working for was threatened, so we had to leave.'
âWhat deportations? To Russia?'
âNo noâfrom Pest to the country; the May deportations. All who were not “workers”, in industry or something the Communists thought useful, were sent away, to make room, so they said, for the workers; but really it was just'âshe hesitatedââanimus. Should I say spite, or malice, perhaps?'
âAnimus will do,' Townsend, who had received a classical education, said, smiling a little. âWhere did these deportees go, in the country?'
âTo peasants' housesâin a
good
room, if the peasants were friendly, as usually they were; but then often the village Commissars came, and said that they were “enemies of the people”, and must sleep in the barn, on straw. Oh, the wickedness and cruelty! Shall I tell you what I have seen with my own eyes?'
âPlease do,' Townsend said, unable to repress a secret wish that Perce's press correspondents could hear what he was hearing.
âThere was an old ladyâover seventyâthe widow of a former Prime Minister, the Countess X; this is a great name in Hungary, and he had done much for the people,
and was beloved. She was sent to the same village where Mother Scholastica and I went, and naturally the peasants treated her like a queen, and gave her the best of whatever they had. But the Commissars came and said she must work for the nation, and since she was far too old to do any real work they took her out into the cornfields, and tied branches to her head and hands, and made her stand there in the burning sun, waving her hands to frighten the birds from the grainâshe was to be a bird-scare.'
âScare-crow,' Townsend muttered automatically. âGood God! You
saw
that?'
âCertainly I did. As often as I could, when no one was about, I went and changed places with her, so that she could go and rest in the shadeâI put on her old hat with the branches, and she tied the other boughs to my hands, and so I stood, hour after hour. The heat is unbearable, in the Alfold in harvest time.'
âGood for you. What's the Alfold?'
âThe central plain of Hungary, down to the east of the Danubeâthe black-earth country, they call it; the soil is very rich. Detvan was on the edge of the Alfold,' the girl said, that bright look again illuminating her face as she mentioned her home.
âAnd what did you and the learned Mother What's-her-name do when you went to the Alfold, as I take it you did?'
âOh, we were so fortunate! The lady we had worked for in Pest somehow arranged for Mother Scholastica to take a position as housekeeper and cook to a
wonderful
man, Father Antal, who had gone to be a village priest down there.'
âWhy was he wonderful?' Townsend askedâhe was rather allergic to priests.
âBecause he was holy, and learned, and wise, and also very brave,' Hetta replied, with her usual clarity. âHe managed to say Mass almost daily, in spite of the Commissars; the peasants hid bottles of their wine for the Mass in the thatch. He went quite often to see Cardinal Mindszenty in his prisonâ'
âGoodness, was he allowed to do that?' the American interjected.
âOf course notânot allowed; he went disguised as a peasant, bringing in wood for the fires, or some such thing. It was a fearful risk.'
âDid you hear how the Cardinal was?'
âNot muchâit was better not to speak of such things. I gained the impression that he was not really ill, but not well; the confinement and the distress about his people were
eating
him,' she saidââand the loneliness too, of course. It did him so much good when Father Antal went to see him; they were friends, they had studied at the same seminaryâand it was a chance for him to hear a little truth, for a change. Lies, lies, lies, every day and all day long; these are suffocation. I think without the Father's visits he might have died. This is partly why I would do anything for Father Antal. I loved cooking for him.'
âBut were you the cook? I thought you said the nun was?'
âSo she was supposed to be, but she was a terrible cook! First, she had no idea how, and further, she was always leaving the saucepans in order to recite the Office!' Hetta said, with an honest girlish giggle. âSo, one cannot cook! No, I did most of it.'
âAnd can you cook? How did you learn?'
âAs a child at Detvan I was often in the kitchen with Margit, our old cook, who had been with us for ever; I used to watch her, and afterwards remembered, and did as she had done. Father Antal liked the food I made.'
âSounds as if the priest had been just as fortunate as you and the scholastic mother,' Townsend said. He poured himself out another drink, gave Hetta a second sherry, and returned to his chair. He was impressed by what she told him, although all the stress on saying Mass and so on passed him by completely, indeed rather alienated him. But he could not help realising that here was a first-hand behind-the-curtain story, from a person who had the power to make it vivid; he began to see all sorts of possibilities. He asked more questionsâabout the deportations, how much luggage people might take, and so forth; and also about how the village commissars were organised. Her replies were satisfyingly detailed and lucid, especially about
the commissars. âEverywhere are there not sometimes young men who are failures, and therefore dissatisfied? âand such turn often into
mauvais sujets
, small criminals; without conscience, and angry with a world in which they have no success. But give them the chance of
power
over other people, and they are delighted; they take this to be the success the disagreeable world has denied them, out of malice! Such were the commissars; sometimes from the villages themselves, or from some small town near by. Where we were, one was actually the village idiotâa lumping youth, with one eye squinting, his mouth hanging open always, his nose dirty! It was he who had the idea of sending the old Countess to stand in the fields to frighten the birds.'
For a moment or two Townsend was fairly silenced by the horror of this. At length, pulling himself together, he said, with an effort at lightnessâ
âI see that your nuns gave you a course in psychology, among other things!'
âPlease?'
âOh Hetta, you must learn not to say “Please”! Say “I beg your pardon?” or “Would you repeat that?”âanything but “please”!'
âVery well. Thank you for telling me. In German one says
bitte?
when one does not understand, but in English this is wrong?' she asked.