TRANSIT VISA

By GRAHAM HEATH " rp 0 Rumania?" He held the rubber stamp poised for 1 a moment in the air, then brought it down with a thump on to my passport. " You'll be swindled right and left, you know. We Hungarians have had experience."

I nodded politely. (You must never disagree with a frontier official who holds your passport.) " You know what they call it," he went on, " when some- one's always stealing? Kleptomania. But when a whole nation, from the King downwards, starts stealing, it's called Rumania." He laughed loudly, and the currency-control officer at the next desk joined in. " Now take the case of Transylvania, for instance. . . ." But I slipped out through the swing doors on to the airfield, where the big Junkers machine was waiting.

There are not many passengers in war-time, even in the peaceful backwaters of Eastern Europe, and I was alone in the plane except for a couple at the front, who had come through from Germany, and were nodding sleepily. A despatch-case on the rack bore the label " Hotel Adlon, Berlin." I gazed out of the window at the slanting panorama of the hills of Buda which rocked past the window as the plane banked steeply up towards the clouds. Then we were lost in enveloping white- ness, the roar of the engine muffled.

The plane stops at Arad for the Customs, and you have ten minutes to stretch your legs in the cool hall, with its marble fountain, while a Rumanian official broods over the passports in an anteroom. The German and his wife were studying the impressive map of the Lufthansa routes when they were called into the office. I'heard long explanations: " Following the orchestra to Bucharest . . . special perform- ance." (Horn-rim glasses and a silk scarf ; I might have known it would be the Berlin Philharmonic.) He emerged looking ruffled. " These wretched little countries," he was remarking to his wife, " such a fuss about nothing. Man spurt schon den Balkan. . . ." She stroked his sleeve soothingly.

I went into the ante-room where the official was regarding my passport negligently through a curl of cigarette-smoke. He stopped at the Hungarian visa and put down his cigarette.

" You have been some months in Hungary? " CC Yes."

" Ah. The Kingdom of Hungary:" He smiled sadly. " A kingdom, but it has no king, ruled by an autocratic admiral who has no fleet. You will be glad to come away from that feudalism to the free air of Rumania." He stamped my pass- port and picked up his cigarette again. As we walked back to the plane the orchestra player was still muttering: " . . . Wretched little countries. . . . Filling up one's passport with stamps and scribblings."

It was late afternoon when we landed at Bucharest. To be addressed by officials in French instead of the inevitable Ger- man ; to see the gay posters of the Lignes Aeriennes Roumaines, the kiosks stocked with French newspapers and American cigarettes. . . . Petrol costs sixpence a gallon ; the streets are crowded with enormous American cars, the pave- ments thronged with smartly dressed people taking their even- ing stroll ; summer frocks, white suits, and, outshining all, the azure uniforms of the Front of National Rebirth. New white buildings everywhere, emerging from their scaffolding—Unirea, Shell, Astra Romana ; with the war-time boom in oil, Bucharest is enjoying the heyday of its prosperity. Nestor's, in the Calle Victoria, is resplendent behind its plate-glass front, with elegant couples sipping coffee. But you can eat more pleasantly and more cheaply at the open-air café in the park, where a little lake is ringed by trees.

It is pleasant to see cream again, and sugar, after the austerity of rationed Hungary. The menu is comprehensible, too; even I can understand cafea cu lapte. The waiter has listened indulgently to my dog-Latin, and taken down the order, but it has yielded nothing so far save a reiterated Imediat, Imediat. So I have time to sit and listen. Near me a Rumanian couple are speaking French, apparently for the mere aesthetic satisfaction of it. But the bourdon of German is e er-present too ; there are said to be forty thousand tourists " the country, without counting the official spies. You hear German at the Prefecture of Police, too, in the immense queue which throngs the counters of the aliens department. To gain ad. mission to the building I have had to stand in a queue for a ticket, a ticket which is issued to everyone indiscriminately, but a little more speedily to those who slip a twenty-lei piece to the official. The ticket entitles me to stand in a further queue within, moving snail-like from desk to desk in a quest for stamps, doggedly following my passport, whose dark blue with sportive golden lion and unicorn stands out conspicuously among the ubiquitous German brown.

The girl at the second desk looks up enquiringly out of her liquid brown eyes : "Ingle's?" She almost smiles. That costs me twenty lei, apart from the aviation stamp. By the skit desk my passport is choked with aviation stamps, rubber stamps, pencil scrawlings, and more aviation stamps ; I have nearly paid for a Rumanian bomber. There is a harassed Serb on my right. " Been here every damned day for a month," he whispers in my ear, " and still they're not satisfied. They must be afraid of somebody." He laughs. "It's a crazy country. All countries are crazy, except perhaps Serbia." And he stumps out, jangling the coins in his pocket. But I like Rumania. I shall be sorry to leave it again tomorrow, just as I'm sorry to leave any country. If I could get my transit visa prolonged I should stay ; but the lion and unicorn are officially out of favour here, despite the girl with the brown eyes....

The passenger trains to the Bulgarian frontier amble hesitantly, as if aware that their movements are of no practical importance compared with the troop and munition trains which throng the line.

" Mind you, they'll never get the Dobrudja from us "—this from a majestically-moustached ticket-inspector, nodding in the direction of Bulgaria—" but we have to be prepared. You can never trust a Bulgarian." (There were three of us English in the compartment, almost the only passengers on the train. and he seemed glad of an audience.) " Fortunately our army is strong, and ready to defend our Latin culture against the Barbarian."

Mary, who has a way with officials, gazed up at him is smiling admiration, and he twirled his moustaches importantly. preparing to elaborate his political faith. But at this moment the train drew into Giurgiu station.

We had waited a long time at the customs-barrier in the drowsy afternoon heat before an official appeared, resentfully nursing his gold-braided cap.

" To Bulgaria?" He was plainly surprised. " Ah, English. I see." He blew the dust off the counter and began to look through our baggage.

It was an odd pound-note . which caused the trouble. Mary had forgotten to declare it, and he seized it in triumph, with- drew to his office, returned with a colleague, brandished his braided cap, called heaven to witness. " Send them back to Bucharest . . . contravention of the currency laws . . . diP1')- matic incident." Other officials appeared, joined the ring. examined the pound-note, shook their heads gravely. Out by the river bank geraniums were growing in tubs ; big- flowered scarlet geraniums. One of the officials must bask caught Mary's gaze, for he broke away from the ring. trotted off, and returned with a glorious bunch. Rumanian gallantl. had triumphed. The flood of accusations died down, the pound-note was forgotten, and we were waved aboard tile, waiting ferry amid smiles, handshakes, protestations of go will. A blast on the siren and we swept out on to the broad stream of the Danube. The captain, a jovial Bulgarian. look down from his little bridge, gold-filled teeth gleaming ill., smile. " Glad to get away from those dagoes, aren't Y°°. (His German was barely intelligible.) " You can never trust' Rumanian, you know. Now in Bulgaria. . ."