HUNGARIAN VIGIL

By CARL MARZANI

EVEN kilometres south of Bratislava we crossed the Czech frontier into Hungary. At the edge of the city the banks of the Danube-bristled with anti-aircraft guns and soldiers ready to man them, a picture typical of any large Czech city. Along the highway soldiers were stringing up wires for field telephones, and when we reached the frontier we found a quadruple barbed-wire fence with metallic posts and electric cables. There was little excitement among the soldiers, who were performing the routine tasks with more than routine care and a certain sense of " Get the job well done, boys, for this means business."

There was no difficulty at the Czech frontier and none at the Hungarian one. A man in plain clothes, with a Prussian haircut and an old pipe, chatted with us in a friendly way and asked questions in a disarmingly innocent manner.

" They have mobilised, haven't they ? "

I looked vague. " Who, the Germans ? I think they have but . . ."

"No, no, the Czechs ! There is a general mobilisation, no ?" " Not that I know of."

" But there are mobilisation orders on the walls ? "

Remembering the clusters of people reading the orders calling up the reserves, I evaded the question.

" I do not know because I could not read Czech. But I'll tell you what I did see. Everywhere on the walls are huge posters in striking colours. A giant of a soldier with his rifle ready is silhouetted behind a man and a woman, and underneath are the words : IN CASE OF NEED WE WILL ALL BE SOLDIERS ! " So," said Plainclothes, and puffed at his pipe. It was my turn.

" Do you think there will be war?" I asked.

He smiled. " I have no opinions on the subject."

We left the frontier post and marched the five kilometres to Oroszvar, a little village on the Vienna-Budapest highway. We were then five kilometres from Czechoslovakia and seven kilometres from Austria, the new German Ost-Mark. In a general store we found about a dozen Austrian women, chattering away. When they went, the storekeeper explained that they came to buy food, rather superfluous information in view of the huge loaded baskets which they carried away with them.

" They come over the border just to get food ? "

" Why not ? " .

" No reason at all. It's a pity that all the Germans don't live on the border."

He grinned and rubbed his hands.

" Yes, business would be good."

We bought bread and cheese and ate it in the store.

" Well, what do you think will happen ? " we asked.

" Hungary will have justice. Our people will come back to us."

" And Czechoslovakia will be cut up ? " " Of course. The Czechs stole our people and now Hitler will force them to give them back."

" But the Czechs didn't steal your people. They didn't steal anyone. It was France, England, Italy and the United States who fixed the frontiers, not the Czechs."

" Ah, but now England is our friend."

" Yot think Chamberlain is your friend, eh ? "

" But yes. A wonderful man, wonderful ! "

Edith took a hand in the conversation.

" But the Hungarians in Czechoslovakia do not want to come back."

" That is not true," he said vehemently, and clinched the argument irrelevantly. " The Germans want to go back to Germany."

" But we are talking about the Hungarians."

" It does not matter," he rubbed his hands with the smile of a horse-dealer. " Hitler is strong and he will have all the Germans back. And if the Germans go back, then Hungary must have justice too."

" But aren't you afraid of Hitler ? After Czechoslovakia he may want Hungary for a dining-room."

" Oh, no. He is a wonderful man and he is our friend. He sent an aeroplane to our Prime Minister so he could go to Germany to meet Hitler."

" That's nothing to be proud about, when Hitler gives orders to your Prime Minister."

" Oh, no, you do not understand. It is an honour for us. Hitler is such a great man. Ach, a wonderful man."

Edith could not resist the temptation.

" A more wonderful man than Chamberlain ? "

" But yes ! It is Chamberlain who goes to Hitler, not Hitler to Chamberlain. Ach, a wonderful man."

We left the storekeeper with his face wreathed in a cloud of wunderschons and went on towards Budapest. The sun was very warm, the Hungarian plain stretched out ahead and the mosquitoes waged implacable war upon us. On the outskirts of the sprawling village was a huge estate, walled in and aloof. Behind the wall we could see the church and the school, both belonging to the lord of the manor and marking the extent of his graciousness to his labourers. On a huge field six pairs of oxen were shouldering plows through the earth. Beautiful animals they were, these Hungarian oxen, all white, with great curved horns and imposing chests. The people who were doing the work, however, were all children, the eldest of them not more than 15 years old. This is Hungary of 1938, a semi-feudalistic State still with vast tracts of land in the hands of a few nobles.

" Heil Hitler ! " shouted the children as we passed, and we wondered whose radio broadcasts they heard, when they stood in the doorway of the local tavern, only possessor of a set.

A cart creaked to a stop alongside. On the seat were two old peasants, a man and his wife, tiny creatures perched gnome-like on the high board. " Good day," they said.

" Good day," we said.

" Where do you come from ? "

" From Prague," we replied.

" Prague ? " They shook their heads in wonderment and clucked their tongues. " And is the frontier open ? "

" Of course, we just came through."

" And what is happening in Prague ? "

" Nothing at all. The frontiers have many soldiers, but the cities are quiet."

" So ? And there have been no fights in Prague ? " said the man.

" And is there enough to eat ? " asked the woman.

Edith and I looked at each other. It was laughable if these were times for laughter.

" No," Edith said, " there are no demonstrations. There is enough to eat. You must not believe the German radio." Her voice was sad, convincing. " We were in Prague when the radio from Dresden said such things. It said that there was no food in Prague, that the Jews had bought all the food and were keeping it while the people starved. It said that there were riots, demonstrations, fights. But it was not true, not one word. We were in Prague at the very moment and we could see that there was nothing happening, nothing at all. The radio was saying lies, all lies."

The peasant shook his head and looked at his wife who nodded as if to say, " Such things, such things ! "

Edith saw that they believed her and she went on.

" The radio also said that the Czech soldiers were going about with torches, burning the houses of the Germans. That too is not true, not true at all. The radio makes believe that it is little Czechoslovakia attacking big patient Germany, but that is not true. It is Germany attacking Czechoslovakia."

" Dirty politics," said the peasant. " Dirty politics." They both shook their heads.

" Do you want war ? " I asked.

'They shook their heads again. " Not even to get your Hungarian brothers back ? "

The peasant looked at me.

"My brothers are dead," he said. "We were six of us. Four were killed on the Isonzo, one on the Rumanian front. Only I came out alive after four years. No, I don't want war, for any reason."

He clucked at his horse and started off.

" Let those who will, fight."

" Good luck," we said.

" Good trip," they said, and went jolting away, not slow, not fast, in that dreary tempo that pervades animals and men on the Hungarian farms.

Many peasants stopped us on that day, eager for news. We were back to the Middle Ages when news was carried by word of mouth. Today the very multiplicity of com- munications bewilders these people. Radios and news- papers, blaring and screeching, they know not whom or what to believe. But on one thing there is almost unanimity. The peasants do not want war. We spent the night in a little village and the mayor summed up his feelings amongst approving nods : " We want one million Hungarians. But if there is a war, two millions of us will die. That is the arithmetic of the devil himself."

In Budapest huge demonstrations are being held ; news- .

papers, radio and posters are hammering on the single idea : the Hungarians which the Czechs have stolen must come back. And the patriots are going further. Not only the Hungarians, but the Slovaks must come back to Hungary, too. Like the Germans, they have visions of a Greater Hungary, of pre-War days. On the Square of Liberty, flanked on one side by the Stock Exchange and on the other by the National Bank, irredentism is flaring up, fanned by Nazi broadcasts.

But Budapest is not Hungary, and I remember the peasants, with their fierce black moustaches and their muddy boots. Today those peasants are asking questions, thinking, and they don't want war.