The Hungarian Student, 1958 (3. évfolyam, 1-2. szám)
1958-10-01 / 1. szám
Time, that most horrible of all confinements, moves on very slowly. The years are long and so are the days and the hours, but the longest are surely the seconds. The sun’s trip around the mountain seem to be shorter than the inching progress of the shadow under the pitchfork on the ground. The coffee we were given this morning seems to have come long before the four men dragged me out of bed on that night three years ago. Three years! Not the years, the seconds have to be defeated: one after the other. Yelling arouses me from my thoughts. Kreybig is shouting; he lashed Würzburger again because he did not bring the stones where he had been ordered to. Würzburger and Tamás Perczel bring the stones on a handbarrow from the quarry. This is heavy work too, but at least they can move around. But the stones coming from the quarry are not always the best ones and they have to distribute these too. That was what caused the trouble: they gave László Benke the bad stones again although Benke is a seventy-cubic-feet man. It was only yesterday that he began to speed up and yet today he is already detested by everyone. Seventy cubic feet are more than the prescribed norm; they are three times more than the minimum, which is the amount I used to break. Under the minimum there are half-rations; above, weakening, and consequently death. Of course, these people can break seventy cubic feet only because they are granted special favors. They are permitted to break stones into bigger pieces and occasionally they get double portions for lunch. As for Benke, I don’t understand him. He is a lawyer; he was once the Chief Constable of a county in Northern Hungary. He is tall but of a weak constitution. He cannot be stronger than I am; he might even be somewhat weaker. What happened to him? Does he believe the story that if he manages to break seventy cubic feet a day he will be permitted to write a letter? Because this is why they do break seventy cubic feet. In the past the quarry’s production could not be improved by threats or beating or jail. As a matter of fact, production fell during the past few weeks as the workers became weaker. Some new method had to be devised —by the commander of the camp, by Kreybig, or by who knows who else—to increase production. Our families were mobilized for the purpose. They have not received news from us for several years. They might even think us dead. Who would not like to reassure his mother, his wife or his children that he should be expected back because he is alive? This is why they break seventy cubic feet a day. This is why Benke pushes ahead too. But how can they be so completely out of their minds? Does Benke seriously believe the tale about the seventy cubic feet? Can anyone believe that story? That prisoners buried alive will be permitted daylight on the condition that they break seventy cubic feet of stones a day? Where will we end if even Benke begins to believe these stories? But why shouldn’t there be some truth in it? Perhaps they are tired of this great secrecy. Perhaps it isn’t a secret any more that we are here in the camp. Perhaps the news leaked out and now they are seizing the opportunity to make us work harder. And if this is true, then Benke is right and all the others who break seventy cubic feet are right, and those at home will know about Benke and the others; they will know that they are alive, but the rest of us will not be permitted to give news of ourselves at all. My hammer begins to swing with a faster rhythm. How much more would I have to break, in case I wanted to? Forty-nine cubic feet in addition to what I usually break. But that is impossible. I can hardly manage twentyone. And Benke? A week ago he could not break more either. He can manage it. Couldn’t I? And I am perhaps even stronger than he is. My hammer begins to chop the stones at a greater speed. It will be all right, I decide. If Kreybig would only send blue stones to me, then I could succeed. A letter! How wonderful it would be. My mother has had to worry so much about me. And now perhaps even my children will know that they too have a father. Seventy cubic feet. That is a great deal, a very great deal. But if Benke can do it. ... I hit, I smash the stones. A splinter cuts my hand again; another rips my face open. I wipe the blood off with my palm and go on breaking the blue andesite. Can I make it? Will I be permitted to write a letter? Blood is running down from my hand onto the shaft of the hammer. Now that it is slippery with blood, it becomes more difficult to handle. I wipe it on my pants and begin to break the stones again like mad. I look at the wound; it would be good to have it bandaged but I can’t afford to lose time now. No, today I have no time to lose. I want to write a letter, just like Benke, Tassy and the others. Perhaps I will die, but I will write a letter. 24 the hungarian student
