Ernő strode away from Éva and Patrik without looking back. It took all his willpower. Deep in his gut, he knew this was a permanent parting, at least until glory.
Éva had called this a difficult choice, but though it was hard, it was easy too. He loved Zofia with every bit of his being. He would never, never turn his back on her and their child. The day he married her was the day that became his destiny.
György and Patrik had popped his shoulder back into the socket, but it continued to throb. That ache was nothing compared to the pain in his heart though. His Zofia, his szerelmem. So beautiful. So sweet. Carrying his child. Where was she? God, what is happening to her?
Keeping to the back alleys and side streets, Ernő wound his way through the unfamiliar city. The stunning Baroque architecture, the river shimmering in the early dawn, the pastel-colored homes waking from their slumber—under other circumstances, he would have been moved by their beauty. Now he was focused on surviving and finding Zofia.
György had told him the general direction to head. For a while, he followed the misty moon. Once the sun burned off the haze, his way was less uncertain.
By the time he reached the edge of the city, his feet screamed. Why was he even on this quest? It was nothing more than chasing after the wind. He had no idea where Zofia might be, just that the soldier told him she had been taken by train. Where should he even start to search?
He meandered down the road until it crossed a railroad. Then he pursued the tracks as they ran parallel to the street. Perhaps there was an open boxcar or a flatbed where he might hitch a ride. He could find his way back to Budapest.
To home. That was the logical place to begin, on familiar territory where he could think. The Gestapo might have taken Zofia to their main headquarters in the capitol for questioning. She was a key in the Zionist organization, after all. That made sense. Igen, that’s what he would do.
He had to collect his thoughts and devise a plan. No matter how difficult or how dangerous, he wouldn’t give up until he held Zofia in his arms once more. He would never let her go. Never allow those Nazis to rip from him the most precious things in his life.
Suddenly a convoy of German trucks was upon him. He’d been so absorbed in his thoughts, he hadn’t heard them approaching.
He glanced around, a quick survey. He couldn’t jump into the ditch or hide in the woods. They’d seen him. No other option remained besides continuing forward as if their presence didn’t send adrenaline rushing through his body, weakening his legs.
The first canvas-covered truck passed. As it did, he searched the back of it for signs of Patrik and Éva. Had they been picked up at the crossing? Were they being transported to a camp?
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. But the truck was empty. He didn’t release his pent-up breath, because another truck whizzed by. Another empty truck. Where were they headed?
The third truck slowed as it pulled alongside him. “Where are you going?” The raven-haired man spoke Hungarian heavily laced with German.
What should he say? What answer would keep the Nazi from asking for his identification, would satisfy his curiosity about himself and the others? Perhaps these trucks were out scouring the countryside, attempting to locate them. He swallowed hard. “Budapest.”
“Why do you want to go there? The Soviets are bombing it day and night. There’s very little left of the city.”
His breath hitched. His parents were there. Already they had lost one home. Were they safe? Was it only a week or so ago that he and Zofia and the others had left? “I’ve received word that my father was injured in a blast. I have to see him, but I don’t have enough money for the train.”
Ernő didn’t dare move while the man examined him, even though his hands trembled. He pressed his arms against his body to still his quaking. How did an instrument maker from Budapest end up in a situation like this?
“I’ll need to see your identification.”
Tightening every muscle in his body so the Nazi didn’t see his shaking, Ernő pulled the book from his pants pocket. He dropped it on the ground.
“Let’s go. I don’t have all day.”
Ernő retrieved the papers and handed them to the pointy-chinned man. He flipped through the pages, scanned the information and Ernő’s photo. Finally the man snapped the book shut and tapped it against his palm. “What hospital is your father in?”
“Hospital?” Ernő’s voice squeaked.
The Nazi narrowed his deep blue eyes. “That’s what I asked.”
“He’s not in a hospital. They’re all full.” That much he remembered. “My mother is caring for him, but she needs help.”
“You planned on walking to Budapest?”
“I’ll do what I have to in order to reach him. No matter how long it takes. I’ve lost my sister to this war already.” And probably his wife, but mentioning that might not be a good idea. “I can’t lose any more of my family. Apu and Anya are all I have left.”
The man handed the identification to Ernő. “Good luck to you.” He hit the gas pedal and zoomed away.
With a pft, Ernő exhaled. That had been close. Too close. Only because of God’s watchful care was he still a free man.
Not long afterward, a train’s whistle sounded in the distance, echoing throughout the countryside. The rumble of the engine intensified. Ernő picked up his pace. A small town lay in the distance, the church’s spire reaching into the sky, now darkening with clouds. Perhaps he could sneak on board this train while it was stopped at the station. It could be his ticket to Budapest.
He sprinted toward the town until he had a stitch in his side as the train’s rumble grew to a roar. The engine thundered past him, followed by a string of boxcars and flatbeds that clackety-clacked along the rails beside him and then left him behind. And still he raced. Was the train slowing? How long would it stop? The town ahead wasn’t large. It wouldn’t require much time for the train to unload and reload.
Ernő’s lungs were burning. This was for Zofia. For Zofia. For Zofia. He ran to the rhythm of the words in his head and gained ground until, finally, praise God, he entered the village. It was nothing more than a few red-tiled roofs, a church spire, and the small brick station. The train’s rearward cars hung beyond the platform like a snake too long for its cage.
He arrived as the conductor gave the last call for passengers to board. Nem, he couldn’t risk trying to get into a coach. Not that he had money for one. He tugged on a few boxcar doors. Locked tight. Wait. Up ahead—an empty flatbed. That was it, his ride home to Apu and Anya. And, hopefully, to Zofia.
The whistle blew, the engine chugged, and there was a clattering of cars as the train lurched forward. Tapping into the last of his energy, Ernő sprinted after the flatbed as it gained speed—and caught up with it. Not a second too soon. There was a step mount for the railroad workers. He grabbed it and, half leaping, gained his foothold and then hoisted himself onto the car.
Patrik’s heart pounded like the bass drum in which he was hiding. The German was demanding to inspect the cases, including the ones that concealed him and Éva.
What was György going to do?
Unfazed as if he were going on a drive to the country for a picnic, György conversed with the guard. “Are you a musician yourself?”
The cart shifted as someone climbed into it. Not the Nazi! Patrik’s pulse shifted into cut time. Whom would the German discover first? If he found Patrik, would he be satisfied and leave Éva alone? Perhaps Patrik should turn himself in and give her a fighting chance.
“This clarinet was crafted by one of the finest manufacturers in Hungary. All of Europe, really. Have you heard of the Bognárs?”
György must have gone insane, feeding Éva’s family name to this German. That was the only explanation.
“I think I’ve heard of them.” Off in the distance, a roll of thunder sounded, nature’s own bass drum.
Of course the German had heard of the Bognárs when he’d been briefed to be on the lookout for Bognár Ernő and Bognár Éva attempting to cross the border. What was György thinking? Had they walked into another trap? Perhaps György wasn’t who he claimed to be. Perhaps they had entrusted themselves to the wrong person.
“Sure you have. Finest clarinets money can buy. Shall I play for you?”
György must have lost his mind. If the situation weren’t so dire, Patrik might laugh out loud.
In a matter of moments came the toot toot of the clarinet as György warmed up. Could he even play?
Again a rumble of thunder, this one much closer. The storm was moving in fast. And then came another sound, the sweetest, richest melody ever. “Serenade” by Schubert. The haunting eastern-European music awakened each one of Patrik’s senses. The green lushness of the land planted in wheat. The fishiness of halászlé, soup loaded with carp and paprika. The sweet headiness of spring lilacs. The soft grass between his bare toes on childhood holidays.
Part of him would never leave this place. He would always belong here, a Hungarian to the core. György was a master. As he played, a tear tracked down Patrik’s face. He was leaving home.
When the last note of the music died away, a clap of thunder was the only applause György received. Errant droplets tapped on the lid of Patrik’s drum case.
“Impressive.” But the impassive tone of the German’s voice told a different story. He was anything but impressed.
“Ah, do you prefer the flute?”
“Not another concert. Just open the case.” The soldier’s rapid-fire words were like the rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun. The rain was picking up at a matching tempo.
“Very well.” The latches on the flute case clicked open.
“Satisfactory. What about this bass?”
At that moment, the heavens opened. A downburst of rain and wind assaulted the cart, and a volley of bullet-like drops lashed the top and sides of Patrik’s hiding place. Overhead, thunder cracked.
“Sir, I cannot open the bass case in this deluge.” György shouted as the thunder boomed across the heavens. “Any water would ruin the instrument. It’s a Testore and is more than two hundred years old. Any moisture would warp it and ruin one of the finest double basses in the world. In fact, I need to throw a canvas over it. Please, excuse me.”
A moment later, complete darkness enveloped Patrik, snuffing out the little light and air that had been reaching him. Was this a miracle like Moses and the children of Israel when the plague of hail fell over Egypt?
Patrik suppressed the laughter that bubbled inside him, a lilting, jaunty melody begging for release. Of all things, rain would save them.
Nem, not rain but God. Köszönöm, Lord.
“If you would pull to the side, we will complete the inspection once the storm passes.”
“Please, sir, I must be going. The canvas will protect the instruments, but I cannot be delayed any further. If I am, the concert cannot go on as scheduled. The group is playing for some very important people tonight. People who will not be happy to sit in an empty concert hall.”
“Pull over or I fire.”
A lump stuck in Patrik’s throat. They had been so close, so very close. In the end, the rain hadn’t done them any good. This guard was proficient at his job.
The donkey hee-hawed, and the cart groaned as György drove to the side of the road. Or more likely, beside the guard station.
“Can I come inside, out of the rain?”
“I thought you weren’t bothered by traveling in bad weather.”
“Not traveling in it, but sitting in it when there’s shelter is another thing.”
“Come on, then.”
“I have a bottle of pálinka in my pocket. It may be early in the day, but it’s never too soon for a drink. You men will join me, won’t you?”
Ah, that’s what György was doing. Patrik should never have doubted him. The man was good. If he managed to draw all the guards inside, Patrik and Éva could come out and get across while the storm raged.
A crash of thunder shook the ground beneath them, and a series of lesser booms confirmed that storm was far from over.
For several minutes, Patrik didn’t dare move. If he made a sound, any sound, before the guards were tipsy, he and Éva would never get away. Rain pelted the cart, and the donkey brayed. At last, laughter floated above the din of the storm. The alcohol György had plied the Germans with must be working.
No other noises came. The rain kept the guards tucked inside the gatehouse. But how was he to get out of the drum? He had no way to unscrew the head, and breaking it would render the instrument useless. Such a waste. But he and Éva were much more valuable than a bass drum.
He waited for the next round of thunder. Ah, there it was—a rolling cannonade that sounded as if the very sky were at war with itself. Now! He fisted his hand and punched at the calfskin head, trusting the roar of the elements to disguise his own noise. Off came the entire head, which György had secured only loosely, and with it the top of the drum case.
Fast as a sixteenth-note run, Patrik scrambled from the drum, swept aside the tarp, and, with trembling fingers, opened the bass case. Éva flew out of it and into his arms, quivering from head to toe. “Patrik—”
He shushed her with a quick kiss, then whispered, “We have to get out of here. Right away.” He hopped from the cart and helped her down.
Together they sprinted, slipping and sliding on the muddy road.
Suddenly from behind them came a shout. “Halten sie. Halten sie.”
Stop? Not a chance. “Keep running, Éva. No matter what, keep going.”
Soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone, they raced down the street. A truck engine turned over.
Shots rang out.
Patrik sucked in as deep a breath as possible. “Don’t look back. Forward, forward.” Searing pain sped up the back of his leg.
The truck bore down on them. They could never outrun it. But what could they do? There had to be another option, some way to save themselves.
He spotted it on the side of the road. “The field. Let’s go.” It was nothing, one chance in a million they wouldn’t be discovered.
He grabbed Éva by the hand and tugged at her.
The truck was on their heels. They dove for the wheat.
Prayed for the best.
Waited for the worst.