‘Most of all, it will never come so long as our leaders and governments, our newspapers and our propagandists teach us incessantly, insistently, that we must hate and fear and despise all the other peoples who share this same tiny world with us. The nationalism of those who cry, “We are the people,” the jingoistic brand of patriotism – these are the great evils of our world to-day, the barriers to peace that no man can overcome. What hope is there for the world as long as we cling to the outmoded forms of national allegiance? We owe allegiance to no one, Dr Jennings, at least not on this earth.’ Jansci smiled. ‘Christ came to save mankind, we are told – but maybe he has made a special exception in the case of the Russians.’
‘What Jansci is trying to tell you, Dr Jennings,’ the Count murmured, ‘is that all you’ve got to do is to convert the western world to Christianity and all will be well.’
‘Not quite.’ Jansci shook his head. ‘What I say applies to the Russians even more than the western world, but I think the first move must come from the western world – a maturer people, a more politically advanced people – and not nearly so afraid of the Russians as the Russians are of them.’
‘Talk.’ Jennings was no longer angry, not even ironic, just thoughtful. ‘Talk, talk, just talk. It’ll require a great deal more than that, my friend, to bring about the millennium. It needs action. First move, you said. What move?’
‘Heaven only knows.’ Jansci shook his head. ‘I don’t; if I did know, no name in all history would be so revered as that of Major-General Illyurin. No man can do more, no man dare do more than make suggestions.’
No one spoke, and after a time Jansci went on slowly.
‘It is essential, I think, to hammer home the idea of peace, the idea of disarmament, to convince the Russians, above all things, of our peaceful intentions. Peaceful intentions!’ Jansci laughed without mirth. ‘The British and the Americans filling the armouries of the nations of Western Europe with hydrogen bombs – what a way to demonstrate peaceful intentions, what a way rather to ensure that Russia will never relax its grip on the satellites it no longer wants, what a way to drive the men of the Kremlin, scared men, I tell you, inexorably nearer the last thing in the world they want to do – sending the first intercontinental missile on its way: the last thing they want to do, the last act of panic or desperation, because they know better than any that, though in their deep cellars in Moscow they may survive the retaliation that will surely come, they will never survive the vengeful fury of the crazed survivors of the holocaust that will just as surely engulf their own nation. To arm Europe is to provoke the Russians to the point of madness: whatever else we may not do, it is essential to avoid all provocation, to keep the door of negotiation and approach always open, no matter what the rebuffs may be.’
‘It is essential to watch ’em like hawks, I would say,’ Reynolds commented.
‘Alas, I thought we had made him see the light,’ the Count mourned. ‘Perhaps we never will.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Jansci agreed. ‘But he’s right, all the same. In the one hand the big gun, in the other the olive branch. But the safety-catch must always be on, and the hand of peace always a little in advance, and you must be endlessly patient – rashness, impatience could bring the world to catastrophe. Patience, endless patience. What matter a blow to your pride when the peace of the world is at stake?
‘You must try to meet them in as many fields as possible – culture, sport, literature, holidays, all those things are important enough – anything that brings people into contact with one another and lets them see the idiocies of Chauvinism is bound to be important – but the great opening lies in trade. Meet them in trade, and never care how many concessions you make – the losses would be negligible in exchange for the goodwill gained, the suspicions allayed. And get your churches to help, as they are helping now here and in Poland. Cardinal Wyszinski who walks hand-in-hand with Gomulka of Poland knows more about the way to achieve the peace of the world that must eventually come than I ever will. People all over Poland to-day walk in freedom, talk in freedom, worship in freedom, and who knows what another five years may bring – and all because men of vastly different creeds but of an equally great goodwill, determined that they were going to get on together, and get on well, no matter what sacrifices they had to make, no matter what blows to their pride they had received.
‘And that, I think is the real answer – not the proposing of courses of action, as Dr Jennings suggested, but in creating the climate of goodwill in which those actions can flower and bear fruit. Ask the rulers of the great nations who should be leading our sick world to a better tomorrow what their greatest need of to-day is, and they will tell you scientists and still more scientists – those luckless, brilliant creatures who have long since traded in their birthright of independence, buried their consciences, and sold out to the governments of the world – so that they can strive harder and still harder until they have in their hands the ultimate weapon of destruction.’
Jansci paused and wearily shook his head. ‘The governments of the world may not be mad, but they are blind and their blindness is but one step removed from insanity. The desperate, most urgent need this world knows or will ever know, is the need for an effort without parallel in history to get to know ourselves and the other people of the world even as well as we know ourselves, and then we will see that the other man is just as we are, that right and virtue and truth belong to him as much as to us. We must think of people not as a conglomerate mass, not conveniently, indiscriminately, as a faceless nation: we must always remember that a nation is made of millions of little human beings just like we are, and to talk about national sin and guilt and wickedness is to be wilfully blind, unjust and un-Christian; and while it is true that such a nation may go off the rails, it never goes off because it wants to, but because it couldn’t help it, because there was something in its past or in its environment that inescapably made it what it is to-day, just as some forgotten incidents, some influences that we can neither recall nor understand, has made each one of us what we are to-day.
‘And with that understanding and knowledge there will come compassion, and no power on earth can compete against compassion – the compassion that makes the Jewish Society issue worldwide appeals for money for their sworn but starving enemies, the Arab refugees, the compassion that made a Russian soldier thrust his gun into Sandor’s hands, the compassion – a compassion born of understanding – that made nearly all the Russians who were stationed in Budapest refuse to fight the Hungarians, whom they had come to know so well. And this compassion, this charity will come, it must come, but men the world over must want to make it come.
‘There is no certainty that it will come in our time. It’s a gamble, it must be a gamble, but better surely a gamble from hope, however tenuous that hope, than a gamble from despair and pressing the button that sends the first intercontinental missile on its way. But for the gamble to succeed, understanding comes first; mountains, rivers, seas are no longer the barriers that separate mankind, just the minds of mankind itself. The intolerance of ignorance, not wanting to know – that is the last real frontier left on earth.’
For a long time after Jansci had finished speaking only the crackling of pine logs in the fire and the gentle singing of a kettle broke the silence in the room. The fire seemed to fascinate, to hypnotize everyone sitting there, and they stared into it as if by staring long enough they could see the future of Jansci’s dream. But it wasn’t the fire that fascinated them, it had been the effect of Jansci’s quiet, insistent hypnotic voice, and what his voice had said and the memory lingered long. Even the professor had lost all his anger, and Reynolds reflected wryly that if Colonel Mackintosh could only know the thoughts that were running through his mind at that moment he would be unemployed as soon as he arrived back in England. After a time, the Count rose to his feet, walked round replenishing the empty glasses, then took his seat again, and all in silence. No one even looked at him as he was doing it, no on
e, it seemed, wanted to be the first to break the silence, or even wanted the silence to break. They were all deep sunk in their own private thoughts, Reynolds was thinking, almost inevitably, perhaps, of the long dead English poet who had said centuries ago almost exactly what Jansci had been saying then, when the interruption came, the harsh strident ringing of a telephone bell, and it came so pat with Reynolds’ thoughts, the bell tolled. The answer was not long to wait: it tolled for Jansci.
Jansci, startled out of a deep reverie, sat up, transferred his glass to his right hand and picked up the telephone with his other. As the phone was lifted off its receiver, the ringing stopped abruptly, and in its place, clearly audible to everyone in the room, came a high-pitched shriek, a long-drawn-out scream of agony which faded away into a thin, horrible whisper as Jansci pressed the phone to his ear. The whisper gave way to staccato words, then a lighter, higher, sobbing voice, but what the words were no one could distinguish, one ivory-knuckled hand was pressing the receiver so hard to Jansci’s ear that only vague incoherent sounds could escape. The others in the room could do no more than watch Jansci’s face, and as they watched, it hardened into a mask of stone and the ruddy colour drained slowly from his cheeks until they were as pale, almost, as the snow-white hair above. Twenty seconds, perhaps thirty, passed without Jansci speaking a word, then there came a sudden crack and a splintering of glass and the tumbler in Jansci’s hand crashed and broke and shivered into a hundred fragments as it fell on to the stone floor, and the blood from the scarred, misshapen hand began to well and flow and drip steadily down among the shattered pieces of glass. Jansci didn’t even know it had happened, his whole mind, his whole being was at that moment at the other end of that telephone wire. Then he said, suddenly, ‘I’ll call you back,’ listened for another few moments, whispered, ‘No, no,’ in a low strangled voice, and thrust the phone violently back on its rest, but not before the others had time to hear the same sound as they had heard when Jansci had picked up the phone, a hoarse scream of pain that ended as if sheared by a guillotine as the connection went.
‘That was a silly thing to do, wasn’t it?’ Jansci, staring down at his hand, was the first to speak, and his voice was quiet and empty of all life. He drew out a handkerchief and dabbed at the streaming blood. ‘And such a waste of all that good barack. My apologies, Vladimir.’ It was the first time that anyone had ever heard him call the Count by his true name. ‘What in the name of God was that?’ Old Jennings’ hands were shaking, so that the brandy spilled over the lip of his glass, and his voice was a trembling whisper.
‘That was the answer to many things.’ Jansci wrapped the handkerchief round his hand, clenched his fist to keep it in place, and stared into the dull-red heart of the fire. ‘We know now why Imre went missing, we know now why the Count was betrayed. They caught Imre, and they took him down to Stalin Street, and he talked to them, just before he died.’
‘Imre!’ the Count whispered. ‘Before he died. Heaven forgive me. I thought he had run out on us.’ He looked uncomprehendingly across at the telephone. ‘You mean that –’
‘Imre died yesterday,’ Jansci murmured. ‘Poor, lost, lonely Imre. That was Julia. Imre had told them where she was and they went out to the country and took her, just as she was leaving to come here. And then they made her tell where this place was.’
Reynolds’ chair crashed over backwards as he rose to his feet and his lower teeth were showing like a wolf’s.
‘That was Julia screaming.’ His voice was hoarse and unreal, totally unlike his normal voice. ‘They tortured her, they tortured her!’
‘That was Julia, Hidas wanted to show that he meant business.’ Jansci’s dull voice became muffled as he buried his face in his hands. ‘But they didn’t torture Julia, they tortured Catherine in front of Julia, and Julia had to tell.’
Reynolds stared at him uncomprehendingly, Jennings looked baffled and fearful, and the Count was swearing to himself, over and over, a meaningless, blasphemous litany of oaths, and Reynolds knew that the Count understood, and then Jansci was talking, mumbling to himself, and all of a sudden Reynolds understood also and he felt sick and fumbled his chair upright and sat down, his legs seemed to have become weak and nerveless.
‘I knew she hadn’t died,’ Jansci muttered. ‘I always knew she hadn’t died, I never gave up hoping, did I, Vladimir? I knew she hadn’t died … Oh, God, why didn’t you let her die, why didn’t you make her die?’
Jansci’s wife, Reynolds realized dully, his wife was still alive. Julia had said that she must have died, died within days of the AVO taking her away, but she hadn’t died, the same faith and hope that had kept Jansci searching the breadth of Hungary in the sure knowledge that she lived must also have kept the spark of life burning in Catherine, firm in the faith that one day Jansci would find her. But now they had her, Hidas had left the Szarháza because he had known where to find her, these devils of the AVO had her … and they had Julia, and that was a thousand times worse. Unbid, shadowy pictures of her crossed his mind, the mischievous way she had smiled at him when she had kissed him good-bye near Margit Island, the deep concern in her face when she had seen what Coco had done to him, how she had been looking at him when he wakened from sleep, the dead, dull look and the clouded eyes when foreknowledge of coming tragedy had touched her mind … Suddenly, without being aware that he had had any intention of doing so, Reynolds rose to his feet.
‘Where did the call come from, Jansci?’ His voice was back to normal again, no trace of the ice-cold rage showing through.
‘The Andrassy Ut. What does it matter, Meechail?’
‘We can get them back for you. We can go now and get them back. Just the Count and myself. We can do it.’
‘If any two men alive could do it, I can see these two before me now. But even you cannot do it.’ Jansci smiled, a slow, wan smile that hardly touched his lips, but none the less he smiled. ‘The job, only the job, nothing but your job. That is your creed, what you live by. Your job is done, what would Colonel Mackintosh think, Meechail?’
‘I don’t know, Jansci,’ Reynolds said slowly. ‘I don’t know, and God knows I don’t even care. I’m through, I’m finished. I’ve done my last job for Colonel Mackintosh, I’ve done my last job for our intelligence service, so with your permission, the Count and I –’
‘One moment.’ Jansci held up his hand. ‘There’s more to it than that, it’s even worse than you think … What did you say, Dr Jennings?’
‘Catherine,’ the old man murmured. ‘What a strange coincidence, my wife’s name is Catherine also.’
‘The coincidence is affecting us even deeper than that, I’m afraid, Professor.’ For a long time Jansci gazed sightlessly into the fire, then he stirred. ‘The British used your wife as a lever against you and now –’
‘Of course, of course,’ Jennings murmured. He was no longer trembling, but quiet and unafraid. ‘It is obvious, is it not, why else should they have rung up? I shall leave at once.’
‘Leave at once?’ Reynolds stared. ‘What does he mean?’
‘If you knew Hidas as well as I,’ the Count said, ‘you wouldn’t have to ask. A straight trade, is it not, Jansci? Catherine and Julia returned alive in exchange for the professor here.’
‘That’s what they say. They’ll give them back to me if I return the professor.’ Jansci shook his head, slowly, finally. ‘It cannot be, of course, it cannot be. I cannot give you up, I cannot give you back. God only knows what they might do to you if they had hands on you again.’
‘But you must, you must.’ Jennings was on his feet and was staring down at Jansci. ‘They will not harm me, I am too useful to them. Your wife, Jansci, your family – what is my freedom compared to their lives? You have no choice in the matter. I am going.’
‘You would give my family back to me – and you would never see your own again. Do you realize what you are saying, Dr Jennings?’
‘Yes.’ Jennings spoke quietly, doggedly. ‘I do know what I’m s
aying. It’s not the separation that’s so important, it’s just that if I go to them both our families will be alive – and who knows, freedom may come my way again. If I don’t your wife and daughter die. Surely you can see that?’
Jansci nodded, and Reynolds, even through his anxiety, through his almost overpowering anger, could still feel pity, could feel heart-sorry for any man presented with such a cruel, inhuman choice: and that the choice should be presented to a man like Jansci, a man who only moments ago had been preaching the creed of loving his enemies, of the need for understanding and helping and conciliating his Communist brother, made everything so bitterly intolerable. And then Jansci cleared his throat to speak, and Reynolds knew what he was going to say even before he said it.
‘I am more glad than ever, Dr Jennings, that I have helped in what little way I could, to save you. You are a brave man, and a good man, but you shall not die for me or mine. I will tell Colonel Hidas –’
‘No, I will tell Colonel Hidas,’ the Count interrupted. He crossed to the phone, cranked a handle and gave a number. ‘The Colonel is always so pleased to have reports from his junior officers … No, Jansci, leave this to me. You have never questioned my judgment before: I beg of you don’t start doing it now.’
He broke off, stiffened slightly, then relaxed and smiled.
‘Colonel Hidas? Ex-Major Howarth here … In excellent health, I’m glad to say … Yes, we have thought over your proposition, and have one to make in return. I know how grievously you must miss me – me, the most efficient officer in the AVO, a fact vouched for, you will remember, by no less a person than yourself – and propose to remedy this. If I can guarantee that Professor Jennings will not talk when he reaches the west, will you accept myself, a humble make-weight to be sure, in exchange for Major-General Illyurin’s wife and daughter … Yes, yes, certainly I’ll wait. But I haven’t all day.’