Outcasts (37 page)
"According to article 5.1 of the guard rulebook," he began, maintaining an air of professionalism, "we are commanded to hand back the station house in clean and good order."
Patak looked up at Aykler.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" he replied briskly.
Bela realized Patak was in a fowl mood, but persisted.
"For the past couple of times you have handed the command of the border post over to me, this guard house has been filthy, sprayed with -"
Before he ended his sentence, Patak clenched his teeth and yelled, "Why you little spoiled shit! You were barely out of diapers when I was already in the army." Then, without a moment's hesitation, he slapped Bela across the face with a force that made him briefly lose his balance, but didn't knock him down.
Bela had had it with the cruelty of sadists like Patak. The screams of the defenceless woman as she was being assaulted were still ringing in his ears, and the knowledge of Patak's brutality with other victims fuelled his rage. He jumped on top of Patak, grabbed his head with both hands, and smashed it against the cold concrete floor. Over and over and over again, Bela smashed Patak's head on the floor until three of the men from his platoon came in and physically pulled him off.
An ambulance was called, and Patak was taken to the nearby hospital. Within a few hours, after changing his bloodied clothes, Bela went to one of his superior officers and told him what had happened. The officer advised Bela to leave the country immediately, but did give him written permission for a leave for the purpose of "work study."
Bela told his platoon guarding the border that night that he was leaving the country permanently. The moon was just bright enough as he walked west toward Austria. It was a relatively mild November evening. With each step he hoped one of his men would shoot him in the back - after all, they would have been justified, since he was escaping across the border. For the second or third or fourth time in his life - he had lost count - Bela just wanted it all to end. He wanted to die. But the shot never came.
Bela Aykler, dressed as a member of the Canadian Scottish reserve in Cornwall, Ontario.
Nussbach, Austria
November 1947
Dearest Hedy,
Father passed away at the end of November. He was sixty-one. Another shock to the family, especially my younger brother, Bela. I have to tell you honestly, the combined forty-two years of military service broke our father. He was a ghost of his former self here in Austria.
The day he passed away, he went to see his doctor, a military surgeon, a Dr. Szollosi. They say he requested a shot of some kind - his heart had been ailing. By the time he returned home, he collapsed on the cot, said goodbye, closed his eyes, and died.
My mother and my sister prepared him for the burial, and washed and dressed him in his finest dress uniform. All his medals were gleaming on his chest for the few local farmers who came to see him and pay their respects. I hammered together a simple wooden coffin, and a nearby family donated a single plot in the local cemetery. We had no money to pay the priest who said the burial mass, but we promised we would pay him as soon as we could. From the surrounding farms, people came to the house, graciously offering milk, sugar, and flour so that Picke and my mother could make a few pastries. After the funeral, we were able to invite some of these kind people over for tea.
I will stay and help my mother for a few more months, but in February I am determined to leave for Paris, where friends of ours have already secured a visa and passage to Argentina. I am told they are looking for qualified, European-trained engineers in Argentina. I am willing to go anywhere where hard work is rewarded and a man is able to make something of himself.
I am still desperately awaiting news from you. I need you more than ever.
Your loving fiancé,
Tibor
Paris, 1948
Spring
Dearest Hedy,
One of the most difficult things about living in Paris is that I am reminded each minute, hour, and day that I am alone here. It is a city full of lovers and it is difficult to be reminded of the state of my sorrowful heart each time I take a walk or look out the window.
I have applied for a visa to go to Argentina, and while I am waiting for the bureaucrats to do their job, I wander the streets by day and night. I have been told that I am scheduled to leave aboard the ship
Partizanka
in two weeks, on May 9. While I wait, unfortunately, I am unable to get any kind of work visa. There are literally hundreds of thousands of refugees seeking jobs while their cases are being heard and processed by third countries. It's very hard to be poor in Paris, especially when one is alone.
My brother, Bela, is now working for the United States Army. He hopes to gain entry to either the United States or Canada through his connections. Think of it: the great northern country of Canada. I've always thought of it as the land of ice and snow, but I hear it is an enormous country with a small population. They are looking for farm labourers and domestics. I am neither. We've decided that when I land in Argentina, or Bela in Canada, whoever gets settled sooner will eventually sponsor the rest of the family.
I have received a letter from Bandi. He mentions you only in passing, that you are healthy and living in Czechoslovakia. That's all. It seemed to me that there must have been further news that he simply doesn't want to divulge. I don't understand why I haven't heard from you, but I don't blame you for that. Possibly you have simply fallen out of love with me. Until I hear officially from you that it is over, I will continue to dream and hope.
With much love,
Tibor
T
HE
MARINE
PERCH
ARRIVED
in Halifax early in the morning on July 25, 1948 and docked at a place called Pier 21. The pier was shrouded in mist, and it was still dark. Bela couldn't believe they had actually arrived at a city - it looked like a deserted rocky outpost. He could barely make out a few surrounding warehouses. Many of the sea-weary passengers skipped the breakfast being served on board, their stomachs churning with excitement and apprehension.
The ship was eerily quiet. Most people had slept little, knowing their arrival to their new homeland was just a few hours away. They were elated that the frequently rough seagoing journey was coming to an end. That expectation soon turned to disappointment and depression, however, on seeing the port of Halifax.
A small group of stern-looking immigration officers stood waiting for them as they disembarked. The officers got to work, checking lists, making sure everyone's papers were in order, handing out tags. The tags were affixed to the jacket or blouse of each newly arrived passenger, like luggage identification labels - everyone was "labelled" according to destination.
Bela's tag read "Cornwall Employment Office."
The immigration officers seemed anxious to process the group quickly - they barely looked up at them as they checked for their names on the lists. No one said any welcoming words, no one smiled.
Where had they come to? After leaving the beautiful port of Genoa, Bela thought they had arrived at the ends of the earth.
There was little processing to be done - they had passed their medical exams in Europe. After they received their tags they walked through the warehouse and were directed to board trains standing behind Pier 21. The individual train cars were elegantly emblazoned with "Canadian National Railway."
Bela grabbed a window seat in a compartment with his fellow Hungarians. The inside of the train was sweltering. Bela had put on his dress pants, black shoes, and a white shirt in preparation of meeting his new employer. The sweat was already gathering in the small of his back.
Officially, Canada took in 10,151 Hungarian displaced persons between 1948 and 1952. Displaced persons could enter Canada under two schemes: the Close Relative Scheme, whereby an individual could be nominated by relatives living in Canada, and the Specialized Workers Scheme, whereby immigrants were contracted to work in a specific industry for one year. Canada required men for employment in heavy industry, farm labour, rural construction work, building construction, lumber camps, and mines.
At mid-morning the train pulled out of the station and headed west, they passed through what must have been the outer edge of Halifax. Houses made of wood, here and there painted light blue and green, occasionally yellow. Hardly a building of note to be seen. An ad for Black Cat cigarettes painted on the side of a garage. In a short time, there were fewer and fewer houses. The train ploughed through seemingly endless low-growing brush, trees, and bushes, rushing past glimmering lakes and over rivers.
The locomotive slowed each time they passed through a smaller community. Bela was surprised to see black people in front of tiny houses that looked more like sheds. Little children were playing in front. The adults stared silently and sadly at the train as it passed, as if they wanted to get on board themselves.
They travelled all that day, and through the night, making a number of stops along the way, arriving in Montreal some twenty-four hours later.
When they finally arrived in Montreal, Bela felt relieved that there was life in this country: they rode past roads with row upon row of big automobiles, the kind military officers rode around in in Europe, and saw multi-storey buildings. As the train slowed, they saw the sidewalks were crowded with elegantly dressed people.
Bela's friend, Janos, the mechanic, who had been dozing through most of the journey, suddenly became animated.
"See that?" He was pointing to a large black sedan. "That's the newest Ford. I read about that one in Europe. It has a lounge car interior, and hydra coil for a smoother ride in front."
Bela didn't know what any of that meant, but nodded anyway.
As they pulled into Montreal's massive train station, they saw there were dozens of lines and thousands of people milling about, conductors blowing whistles, couples hugging and saying goodbye, children crying.
Another passenger, Dora, had been translating French billboards along the way. As the train came to a full stop in the station, she suddenly became gravely quiet. Then she started to quietly translate a billboard at the station, and something in the timbre of her voice forced everyone to become silent.
"The Liberals will allow into our country 180,000 immigrants who will grab your homes, your businesses, your work, your capital, your farms, your future, your positions. Duplessis won't bring or allow -" Dora stopped and questioned her translation, then continued after taking a breath. "Any more immigrants."
"Who is Duplessis?" someone asked.
But no one in the compartment knew the answer. They sat quietly and pondered the message - the excitement of arriving in Montreal vanished.
The trip to Cornwall from Montreal was forty minutes, just on the Quebec-Ontario border, but in Ontario. Bela and his travel companions were pleased to get off the train. It was hot, they had slept little, and they were hungry.
Cornwall must have been even smaller than Halifax. Two men in uniform were there to greet the seven Hungarian men who got off the train. They all had contracts to work as farm labourers for one year.
One of the uniformed men asked, "Do any of you speak English?"
Bela raised his hand a bit and the official said, "Okay, you'll be our translator. Will you tell everyone to follow me?"
Bela translated.
The seven men were led to a truck, benches on two sides on the inside, light coming from one window in the back. They sat quietly, tired from their long journey. The short ride led to the employment office. The first person Bela noticed was a bald short man with wire-rimmed glasses pacing up and down impatiently outside the office. When he saw the group coming toward him, he stopped and grimaced, looking at his watch.
"You told me they would arrive by nine this morning," the bald, short man barked at the official. He spoke about them as if they weren't yet there.
"I told you, Mr. McGee. These things cannot be predicted precisely. The train was late."
The new arrivals were lined up. Other local men started to arrive.
"Does anyone speak English?" the bald man McGee asked.
"I do," Bela said tentatively.
McGee looked at Bela's form and asked, "What's your name?"
"Albert."
"So, you're Bert," he replied.
Bela nodded.
McGee went over to one of the officials, signed some papers, then told "Bert" to come with him.
Bela was led to a blue Ford Fairlane covered in dust. He recognized the car from the many American magazines he had seen in Europe.
McGee started the engine and drove. The engine sputtered a bit, then ran smoothly.
"What nationality are you?" McGee asked, giving Bela a sidelong glance.
"Hungarian."
