The Three Trees

By Carl Delprat

We start our journey back in the bleak world of 1947 at a dry old Northern Queensland town, and — then jump right across the world onto the Hungarian Great Plains of Hajdú-Bihar.
Your first introduction will be with a tough Australian horseman named Brian Campbell. During the 2nd World War he served for two years as one of ‘Curtin’s cowboys’ a secret militia that lived off the land in Northern Australia and forever on the lookout for Japanese infiltration.
Now take a dramatic leap into the damaged mind of István Gabor, a returned Hungarian soldier, Waffen SchutzStaffeln Oberscharfuhrer István Gabor 873-835K. — What! ... What was all that about?
It will all be explained ... and a few chapters on you will meet Mrs. Mária Vargha, or ... as the Hungarian’s say ‘Mrs. Vargha Mária,’ . . . yes she’s the girl on the front cover. And Mária will then stay with you right through this story and she’s a beautiful young Hungarian woman, a heart breaker to many, and an object of desire for men holding onto power.
Now be prepared for a change in latitude when this story migrates to Australia, this is a 1950’s version of that land, unlike in culture to the current array.
Threaded between these journeys of many remarkable characters, a serial killer vents his wrath against that society that stole his youth then sent him mad.
Perhaps this man’s distress was an echo from majestic oaks dead hearts blended with the epitome of eagle divinity, . . . or just another mind traumatized by unwarranted brutality?
Yes, you the readers will draw your own conclusions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carl Delprat
• Release date: Nov 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9780980737707

Carl Delprat

Carl Delprat is a prolific storyteller. His home is the Australian coastal city of Newcastle, New South Wales.

Book preview

The Three Trees

An amazing crime/fiction novel

Written by Storymaker

Carl Delprat.

Copyright 2014 Carl Delprat

Re-written 9/10/15. (Third Edition)

My family, to serve them all my days:

What a lucky man am I.

Cover design: painted by Carl Delprat. (04/01/15).

Yes you can judge a book by its cover.

Many thanks to Herb, Carmel and Carmen for all their help.

ISBN 978-0-9807377-0-7

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Please note: My stories are in Australian English and … indicates talking, while ‘…’ signifies thinking.

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Other excellent stories by Carl Delprat are ~

31 LAMAN STREET. Is where an evil ghost wreaks havoc amongst the locals.

GIRL SOLDIERS. A futuristic global adventure where the girls have taken over.

ALL STRINGS ATTACHED. Find out what happens after a mysterious glowing object is discovered in a coal seam. Based on Steven Hawkins ‘string-theory.’

DREAMMAN. Is where a young man uses his dreams to fight for good over evil.

THE STORY OF ANNIE. The long life of a MG-TC roadster.

THE TWO BROTHERS. A crime and passion novel with a serial killer on the loose.

A FEED OF FISH WITH FREDDY. A chocolate box selection of short stories.

HARPSICHORD MAN. Acriminal builds a harpsichord in the most unusual of places.

WHAT ABOUT MADELYN? Two political rivals fight to the death.

BAD BOY BILLY. That boy your mother wished she’d never met.

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Contents

About Carl Delprat, Storymaker

Other titles by Carl Delprat

A note from the author

Part One

Chapter 1: A farewell to ‘old-Malcolm’

Chapter 2: The mad way home

Chapter 3: Perhaps István’s dark days are over

Chapter 4: Beautiful broken Budapest

Chapter 5: Living on the river

Chapter 6: Another chance to disappear

Chapter 7: Guess who’s back?

Chapter 8: The three Hungateers

Chapter 9: Australia, land of milk and mutton

Part Two

Chapter 10: An extraordinary revelation

Chapter 11: Troubles in the camp

Chapter 12: The outbreak of acorns

Chapter 13: Sergey’s solutions

Chapter 14: Dud run at the dockyards

Chapter 15: Sergey makes an exit

Chapter 16: The Magic of Madam St Clair

Chapter 17: Tucker takes over

Chapter 18: Ups and downs for Brian

Part Three

Chapter 19: The big raid

Chapter 20: Time finally runs out

Chapter 21: Curtin’s cowboy bites the dust

Chapter 22: What will we do with her?

Chapter 23: Moments with Mária

Chapter 24: Nature’s way

Chapter 25: Apprehended

Chapter 26: A much needed change of scenery

Chapter 27: One in the bag

Chapter 28: Back home to stay

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A note from the author~

The story of THE THREE TREES starts in the bleak world of 1947, a now faraway place once filled with real people just like you and living their life and death struggles without today’s necessities. It will first take you into a dry old northern Queensland town then jump right across to the Great Plains of Hajdú-Bihar in Hungary. Into where! Well that’s where my fickle finger landed on a globe. I knew very little about Hungary and what better way to change that than to parachute my head into its eastern-end and have a good look about.

The first drafts commenced around 2001 well before I discovered the Internet, yes this story has been on the boil that long and so that’s plenty of time for it to ferment and rise into this tasty-treat.

Your first introduction will be with Brian Campbell a tough Australian horseman. During the 2nd World War Brian served as one of ‘Curtin’s cowboys’ a secret militia that lived off the land in Northern Australia forever on the lookout for Japanese infiltration. Then we take a dramatic leap in Chapter (2) and enter the damaged mind of István Gabor, Waffen SchutzStaffel Oberscharfuhrer István Gabor 873-835K.

Then a few chapters on you will meet Mária Vargha or as the Hungarian’s say ‘Vargha Mária’ and Mária will stay with you right through this story because … Mária is an object-of-desire that power hungry men cannot resist.

Be prepared for a change in latitude when my story migrates to Australia and a 1950’s version of the land you may know of. Threaded in between all this a serial killer vents his wrath against a society that stole his youth then sent him mad. Perhaps this man’s distress was an echo from the dead hearts of three majestic oaks blended with the epitome of eagle divinity?

Or maybe a mind traumatized by unwarranted brutality and drug addition to a Wehrmacht (German World War 2 Army) prescribed stimulant named Pervitin?

You the reader will draw your own conclusions. How this story slipped from my skull onto white paper is still a mystery.

Perhaps this simple storymaker has little choice . . .

Picking up loose messages from the ether and pickling them on paper.

So dear reader, enter my book and start on this journey.

Perchance these people are now all dead and gone.

Then they never really die while you wish to read of them

So go on, turn a page or two,

Resurrect their lives.

They deserve it.

And so do

You.

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Please note: Except for noted historical personalities incorporated to supply the atmosphere of this decade in question, any connection with persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Sometimes fictitious names were chosen specifically for their sound and structure, and many ethnic surnames were invented so as not to cause affront upon folkloric families.

It would be impossible to write fiction without coincidences occurring somewhere within a book filled up with over 167,000 words.

My apologies to the Hungarian and Russian peoples for grammar and spelling mistakes. I have always been a bad speller and after a stroke and three major operations … everything became worse. And I had never ever looked at a Hungarian word before writing this story and thank heaven there are only around 9,909,000 Hungarians who could notice of my errors.

Anyway let me tell you something, Hungarians are now one of my favourite people.

Before you enter my story please read this message …

Through violence you may murder a murderer, but you can’t murder murder. Through violence you may murder a liar, but you can’t establish truth. Through violence you may murder a hater, but you can’t murder hate. Darkness cannot put out darkness. Only light can do that.... Difficult and painful as it is, we must walk on in the days ahead with an audacious faith in the future. When our days become dreary with low-hovering clouds of despair, and when our nights become darker than a thousand midnights, let us remember that there is a creative force in this universe, working to pull down the gigantic mountains of evil, a power that is able to make a way out of no way and transform dark yesterdays into bright tomorrows. Let us realize the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.

Martin Luther King Jr.

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Part (1) Chapter 1: A farewell to old Malcolm

A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.

William Shakespeare, Richard the 3rd at the battle of Bosworth Field.

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Perchance it was better not to try and say goodbye, besides they had a binding agreement. Anyway ‘old-Malcolm’ didn’t appear all that interested and as his nostrils searched the air for messages a nervous shiver travelled up his flank. Yes … he was ready to be let loose.

Brian Campbell had the steel shoes removed yesterday and now all that remained was the saddle and bridle. But cripes it really hurt a lot having to do this, bloody-oath it did.

Brian led ‘old-Malcolm’ up to the gate where on the other side of this fence all of flamin Northern Australia was waiting and those dammed flies smelt his tears and this horse was really restless.

So it would be no goodbyes, not between this pair of mates. He slipped the bridle and before the gate was half open … ‘old-Malcolm’ didn’t bat an eyelid, he was off like a gun.

Well, now it looks like youse flies are all I’ve got left,

Brian closed the gate and watched his horse gallop off towards those far green hills.

Oh Jeeze, you’d think that poor old bugger just got outa jail."

About ten or so minutes later that long trail of dust settled and their divorce was over.

Brian turned to the homestead, ‘so it’s a one-bottle of Bundaberg rum sure-thing for tonight and tomorrow I’ll be off to the train station for a long ride all the way down to smelly-old-Sydney.

Yep this’s going to be a bugger of a night coming up … perhaps it’s best to unload both me rifles and throw all the flaming ammo into the creek … and perhaps that second bottle of rum should be chucked in as well, don’t want to miss the bloody train that’s for sure.’

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Clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack,

Queensland Rail would be with him all the way to Brisbane, and then a change of trains would take Brian the rest of the way to Sydney. In his carriage were boarding school kids, a priest, an assortment of chatting housewives, and several silly soldiers on leave, so noise was a big problem.

‘Especially, while I’m wearing this stinking rotten rum hangover.’

Brian Campbell chewed up some newspaper, shaped it into two pellets, and blocked his ears. With his hat pulled down it was no time before he started dreaming about old army days in the north of Australia.

‘So lets look back at Katherine, say about 1943 and what a tiny dry old place that was but no bloody worse off than North Africa. There were no decent horses in Africa, only donkeys flies and fleas.’

Now waiting in this pipedream was the meanest piece of horseflesh in all the Northern Territory and well, let me say twice Brian nearly shot that bastard for biting him.

‘Yes that big ugly horse had bench knees and a Roman nose and he reminded me of my younger brother Malcolm. He was so flamin cantankerous but we finally came to a gentleman’s agreement we did . . . yes he certainly looked after me. Malcolm was a true blue mate he was.

Then we were off on the first of many long patrols with those ratbag radio operators up from the cities and what a useless bunch they all were. Meeting jet-black Abos for the first time, well what a shock and what mighty good luck ‘cause without ‘em, we would’ve been totally stuffed. Now two and a half years as a ‘Nackaroo’ and never fired a shot in anger, not anything like back in Rommel’s North Africa that’s for sure.

I never had to salute officers and no bloody white-women about the place to mess a man’s head.

We rode right across the rugged Kimberleys then all the way across to the Gulf of Carpentaria and back . . . and not one stinking little Jap in sight. Cripes it was a bloody paradise.’

Tickets please.

‘Well wouldn’t you know it, just when I’m’ . . . clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack.

About ten minutes had passed and Brian was reminiscing again, this time it was a card game and General Blamey’s ex-Buick staff car was now up for grabs.

This was Brian’s favorite reverie and after far too many repeats the exact facts were slightly adulterated, but nevertheless he had somehow collected that car for himself all right. ‘Lucky for me there was enough petrol in the tank to get him all the way to Mackay and … then hide it in the back of a shed.

Yes it had been a close run thing with three other vehicles hot on my trail and if all goes spot-on, that beaut Buick will be waiting for me down in smelly Sydney waiting in a Newtown garage.’

Now how Brian Campbell actually got hold of it there would fill several pages, but having good contacts in the Australian Army worked wonders. Well wasn’t that why they wanted him? Wanted Brian Campbell to be part of a new Australian Intelligence Team. Yes he was going to be interviewed first by the Joint Intelligence Bureau ‘J I B’ and then the Commonwealth Investigation Service, ‘C. I. S.’ But Brian knew he already had one foot in the door. So it all really depended on what sort of blokes he had to work with?

Next station Rockhampton … Rockhampton in fifteen minutes, this train will stop for twenty minutes for coaling and water, … refreshments are available, … now all passengers, women with babes in arms will leave the train first. … Next station Rockhampton … Rockhampton in fifteen minutes, this train will …

The ticket collector moved on to the next carriage leaving Brian and his headache with a carriage full of noisy passengers.

Clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack. ‘Now where was I? Oh yes, so there is to be this new hush-hush thing called ASIO and I might be in it, well if it helps keeping the lid down on those bloody commos then I’m for one to av-ago and give it me best shot.’

The passing scenery hadn’t changed much for over an hour now, so it was about time for another smoke. Out came his round tin of Capstan Blue tobacco and in a wink Brian had a ‘gaspa’ rolled and lit.

"Kaugh … kaark … ka-aark!" Several heads turned towards that traveller making those terrible noises.

Bloody throat again, ‘a man can’t have a decent smoke in peace anymore.’ That nasty cough had started during the last rainy season and taken quite a hold, he just had to have a smoke and besides virtually all his old mates did much the same. Almost everyone he knew could throw a decent cough about . . . it’s how you recognized each other, like kept tabs on all the blokes around you.

Clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack.

The rhythm of the rail gaps lulled Brian into sleep again and the smoldering cigarette fell from his lip and found its way to the floor.

Clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack, ——— clack-clack,

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Chapter 2: The mad way home

"It is better not to live at all then live disgraced."

Sophocles (Peleas Frag. 445.)

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Click-clack, ————— click-clack, ————— click-clack, ————— click-clack, ————— click-clack, ————— click-clack, ————— click-clack,

On a railwayline in Hungary worn wheels creaked and couplings clunked while an asthmatic old engine dragged four decrepit carriages towards Kismarja station, the next stop.

Inside the third carriage a disruption was underway, the occupants decided one particular passenger was unfit to share space with, so between kicks and blows he was evicted out the end door and then left stranded in the vestibule.

István opened the adjacent door and looked inside, this next carriage was fully packed so there was nothing left to do other then sit it on this dirty lurching floor and wait for the train to stop.

Click-clack, ————— click-clack, ————— click-clack, ————— click-clack.

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The battered old train departed under a cloud of steam and six misplaced years later not one inhabitant, animal, or bird had arrived to greet him.

Perhaps they knew their place and were smart enough to keep far away form this stranger because this was not that young faced Gábor István they waved goodbye to all those years ago.

Now standing on the platform was a scarecrow let loose from a nightmare, something to turn one’s head away and cover one’s nose.

Or do what the occupants of the third carriage decided, expel this hideous mess from sight.

István looked about and saw only the stains of conflict. Burnt houses, scattered bullet holes, endless wreckage everywhere and … they renamed his railway station Кисмаржа with their outlandish Russian Cyrillic lettering. And those Russian words as if on cue, brought back the mocking Chapters and somewhat like rats sneaking from the shadows they infested his mind with remorse.

First came the faint whispers followed by the soft voices, … then ever so slowly their tormented faces reappeared and all István could do was wait as each in turn asked for a recognition.

Just let them all come out, he grumbled. Come out of my head you long dead people come and join with foolish István at his homecoming.

Next came the chattering then the wailing, each face with its final look of anguish before its bullet arrived. István had named this familiar Chapter ‘The Camp’ and came an image of a grey day hovering over row upon row of wooden huts filled his thoughts.

"Hello István, remember me István?" each brutal reminder smiled as they passed their killer.

‘Yes I know you well . . . so stand still while I beat you again and again, I am so tired of shooting you people, won’t you all just finally die properly and leave me alone?’

As the last page of ‘The Camp’ was turned, a next Chapter known as the ‘Forced Marches’ opened. In this selection, István herded his procession of pain towards their final checkpoint. One of these helpless creatures lifted her head and asked, … Are you going to kill us all again today István, line us up then squander our lives once more into this long open pit?

‘Of course you all know I must, so why won’t you just leave me alone?’ Anyway István knew from experience all this would finally work its way out from his thoughts then be replaced with a migraine.

Now the first splashes of light, like a stained-glass window arrived behind his eyes and it was just a period of painful pulsations before . . . this migraine came to an end.

Time passed, possibly ten or twenty minutes and it was all over. István flicked a strand of oily brown hair from his face and reached for his two battered suitcases. Now was the time to re-visit The Three Trees.

The Three Trees have waited for six years so how will they greet me, will they still be my friends or will I be forgotten? As István departed the length of Kismarja railway station foreign messages covered every available space,

КАЯНΕМСЯ МСТИТЪ ГМТАЕРОВСКММ ЗАХАТЧМКАМ! КЛЯНΕМСА ЗАЩНЩАТЪ ДО ПОСЛΕДНΕЙ КАПЛИ НРОВИ ВΕЛКИΕ ЗАВОΕВАНИЯ ОНТЯБРЯ — ЧРАЛ ФРОПТЧ— ЗАВОΕВАНИЙ ОКТЯРЯ НΕ ОТДАДИМ СМЕРТЬ ФАШИСТСКИМ ОККЧПАНТАМ Нéчеrо питъ КОΜΜУНИЗМСВЕТПЮ БЧЦУЩЕЕ ВСЕГО ЧЕЛОВЕЧЕСТВА Борйс туйст. A sign once directed an advancing army to Berlin,  На Берлин  БерлиВулапéшт Москвá Тóкио НОВ АЯЗКОНОМИЧЕСКАЯ ПОЛИТИКА Я еду в Берлин РΕВОЛЮЦИЯ СТАЛНСКИЙ ΠОЛИТУЕСКИЙ СТРОЙ бўлем налéятьса на лўчмее КОЛЛЕКТИВИЗАЦИЯИИ НДУСТРИАЛИЗАЦИЯ.

One light remained amongst all this alien blasphemy; and it was scratched across peeling enameled paint. István knew it ‘Mein Ehre heisst Treue’ the motto of the SS and there was another message in the same handwriting, ‘Kleiner Klecker.’

Just beyond Kismarja Station positioned on either side of the rail tracks were two bomb craters filled with green water. Low-level aerial attack, concluded István. Executed by a Russian Sturmovic ground attack aircraft.

He so wanted to see something written in Hungarian, anything, even just a timetable or an advertisement perhaps?

But the only recognizable message was scrawled on the station’s waiting room in German declaring ‘HITLER KAPUT—STALIN GUT’ and that well known ‘DER-IVAN-KOMMT!’.

Turning right at the rail crossing István looked up to see his smiling father standing beside the stone fence. That big strong man reassured him all was safe again and the trains that terrified István with their pregnant bellies of steam and screeching whistles would never run over his tiny toes.

Taking hold of father’s hand gave him confidence to cross treacherous-tracks again and that big hand was so firm and warm, yet so soft and dainty.

Yes it was his bride Krisztina with her new gold ring pressed firmly against his fingers and she blushed when he mentioned The Three Trees and blushed once more when he told her the Maiden Tree was waiting for them.

The air was full of fresh flowers and the church bell rang and the wedding party cheered for the married couple. Back then István was sixteen and his father delivered a final wave from another packed train as it left for the ‘front."

Soon he would be old enough to become a cadet and join him . . . school was finally over and noisy children ran past calling, Chase us, Krisztina and her younger sister Ágnes dragged a large grey sheep home while their brother Jánus carried a newborn lamb . . . Bakó László rang the bell on his new bike … "Come join us István, Juhász Jánus shouted the loudest, Look what we’ve found István? A rose coloured starling nest … its in the old stone wall."

The Three Trees are getting closer whispered the wide-dirt-road. It pointed forward across the flat forsaken farmland where the only rise in sight was a clump of woodland . . . all that remained of a once great prehistoric forest.

The closing clouds darkened the fields and István recalled the signs of recent rain around the station. He preferred to speak with thoughts, words were always dangerous … and some one could be listening.

‘But the clouds are still white and with only three kilometers now to go, yes just three kilometers left from millions of footsteps . . . too many filled with pointless pain, suffering and murder.

Just three more kilometres and that’s around four thousand footsteps left to perhaps rest and heal.

To lie down beneath the heavy oaken branches and then sink into the soft rich earth. To die decompose and then rise again anew.

Now which tree will I choose to lie beneath? Today will it be the Eagle Tree the tallest of the three. The Maiden Tree was for procreation and the Naming Tree for baptisms.’

While he walked another Chapter materialized, it was sometimes men and sometimes women or children and invalids, another sunken lifeless face looked straight through him.

Another faggot placed on top of an ever-growing stack of marble white bodies each with its own leering white teeth and triangular plot of pubic hair.

All patiently waiting for their fresh blanket of earth,

Please cover us István, please cover our nakedness.

This long road remained empty; perhaps he was the only living person? Thick bushes and trees gave no sound of bird, and the dusty path was devoid of ants.

Had all life abandoned this place or was it nothing ever wished to greet him?

Gábor István found this loneliness unbearable, he removed his shirt then shook the tiny crawling lice into the brown grass.

Now a ceremony was needed.

István sat on the edge of the road and with his best finger, drew a heart in the dust. Into the heart spit and a broken fingernail were placed together.

Hair yanked from his head completed the observance; such ceremonies were required to keep chaos at bay.

The further this road took him the more mischievous it became, always hiding oncoming sights with its ever-teasing bends and there was so much for the experienced eye to uncover.

Spent German 7.92mm brass cartridges trampled into the dried mud gave their notice and just off the road ahead a spray of shattered shell fragments surrounded another small crater.

Then at last life or perhaps death appeared when swarms of green bottle flies arrived and then covered his head and body. István knew what he needed to find next and soon it appeared, two long disturbed furrows in a neglected pasture waited for his eyes.

Both furrows lay adjacent to a small hillock where machine guns would have waited, a past practice he had frequently attended.

In an adjoining paddock an Achtung Minen sign lay fallen to the ground; beside it the same warning in Russian, Предупреждєне-мины.

Two neighboring fields of death; one already sewn for the next season and the other now left waiting to germinate.

Perhaps now was the time for the naming ceremony, out of his top left pocket came István’s identification papers and these words were shouted at the sky: Waffen Schutz Staffel Oberscharfuehrer István Gábor, … István Gábor … István Gábor. ... 973, 825K, Schutz Staffel Scharfuehrer István Gábor, ist … 973. 825 Gábor, … Orverzeto Gábor István 2ND Hungarian Army Group 14th Division. Yes that serial number cloaked his name … that serial number could not be hurt, that serial number was a safe house, and that serial number was-only-obeying-orders.

However all that protection was gone, eradicated because he had burnt away that number and blood group tattooed on his arm with a hot frying pan.

Soon I will be at the old stone bridge that so many armies and travellers have crossed. A place for travellers to stop and rest a while before reaching the Three Trees, then enjoy the magnificent view of the Great Plains named Hajdú-Bihar spiritual home of the early Magyars the first Hungarians.

Their final end to a long wandering that started somewhere lost in folklaw, … somewhere out of the eastern plains of Russia.

That same vast space I marched through for well over two years; a place where I murdered its inhabitants and torched the farms and houses.

At last that almost forgotten stream appeared and István was shocked to find the ancient stone bridge had been destroyed, blown up by German Army Group South sappers retreating from the Russians. Before this dry mouth tastes the waters of my native soil I must perform a special baptism.

István hung every piece of clothing from low branches and every small creature; every louse holding a taste of his blood was carefully collected then placed inside a tobacco tin.

At a protected place beneath the broken bridge a new home of leaves, sticks and bark was made for these tiny crawling creatures.

Now it was time for his prayer of cleansing, ‘I am lying between wet rocks while cold water runs across this parchment of filthy skin covered in red bites and scabs. I must avoid all scarred surfaces and in no circumstances may this itch be relieved, any short comfort will end in an orgy of infectious scratching followed by bleeding then blood poisoning.

I am lying between wet rocks while cold water runs across this parchment of filthy….’

As mottled light flickered across his face … sleep finally overcame him.

The sun was shining in his eyes and he was shivering, as he rose from that stony bed an event for István’s eyes only commenced, . . . further up the road the spectre of a much younger Gábor István approached this stream. He watched his younger self … stride off down this dirt road set on joining the Hungarian Army.

Watching from a distance stood Krisztina his first and only love.

He wanted to touch her tear stained face and … knew she was dead. Yes little Krisztina was no more; something told him she was gone.

Images of his family followed, they had all journeyed down this same road to say farewell to a fool.

István’s Romanian mother mouthed prayers, sister Ágnes looked hungry and younger brother Sándor was cold and sick.

He turned his head away, then they closed their eyes and they all just slipped away.

Soon it will be journeys end that trio-of-trees, symbol of the Gábor family was waiting beyond in that thicket of saplings. Here was another warning sign in his path ‘Не ьзорванные Мины,’ well who cares about mines?

István dropped his suitcases and started to run, run as fast as . . . and when he raised his head at the sight all he could see was . . . a scattering of shell craters and three shattered tree stumps …

From a chosen position away that shattered site Gábor István sat and gazed across this vast plain. In the foreground he noted evidence of a creeping artillery barrage with brutal validation in 100-meter increments. My precious trees were a natural observation post and the target of an admirable artilleryman.

Giant strides had once stamped … and trampled the earth until this monster reached the sacred trees, then — took — to — them — with — a — fury. So where will the great eagles now rest?

His eyes could see for miles across the Great Plains of Hajdú-Bihar, but one corner of his left eye preferred to follow the road.

He turned his head to see like burnt rosary beads the debris of war linking its way into the distance.

István walked past several spent Panzerfaust tubes followed by discarded ammunition cases.

When this road reached the first bend a convoy of burnt-out transport vehicles riddled with cannon fire were scattered everywhere.

‘Targeted by Sturmovic ground attack bombers, now . . . how many times did I leap ditches to try and avoid those cursed things?’

Istvan’s eyes surveyed the wreckage.

First vehicle was a burnt out Kuebelwagen-VW type/82 army passenger car and some officers would have been wasted in that thing.

Next in line two destroyed Opel Blitz trucks . . . a whole troop wasted there and right behind them was a guttered and burnt-out Hanomeg-transporter. It had been cannibalized for its tracks meaning . . . the following convoy must have made it past and they were all heading away from his family’s farm.

István’s arms trembled then his whole body shook … the Gábor home, his home!

On the front gate was another sign, ‘Βоход запрещён. Зта ферма возможно хранит ловушки,’ what it all meant, István had no idea.

He walked around the black charred outline; the ruins of a once warm abode that gave good protection from heat, cold, storm, and blizzard.

Now all that remained to greet him was a large stone fireplace.

An hour sifting through blackened remains confirmed his expectations; István discovered charred human bones amongst the charcoal not unlike his Ukrainian practices.

Then another unwanted Chapter opened up his mind, ‘peasant’s houses always burn them down so no one can ever use them and best shoot the peasants, otherwise they will have to steal or starve to death so take whatever’s useful and then burn their houses and barns.

Why shoot them? Save your bullets, … burn them in their barns, … lock them in, … don’t waste bullets, yes and … bayonet whoever tries to crawl out… Quick! Quick!’

Other black squares confirmed the location of sheds and the barn. Adjacent fields were filled with weeds. István found the orchard full of rotten fruit and their household well where the sweetest water was drawn released its dark secret. ‘Ограва-Осторожно. Венгерский суп’.

Gábor István at last found his family and they were all either cremated or dropped down the well.

Further on down the road his grandfather’s home suffered the same fate.

Anyway what did all this mean to him now? A wasted imprint, a shattered symbol, the edge of an abyss that forever separated him from . . . what was . . . never was . . . ‘yes . . . it was all probably something I must have made up, fabricated perhaps, another invention, perchance an imaginary past perhaps stolen from a dying soldier?’

So what was left from all this wreckage of war and waste? István sat and waited for an answer and finally the words appeared as if spoken. The Three Trees are now just the remains of three great oaks my grandfather once planted, and they must have acorns. That same site had oaks when eagles ruled the wooded plains and . . . long before man ever appeared.

It was at that spot where Kara Mustapha the third of the Grand Viziers camped and decided to target Vienna . . . Yes and where the patriot leader Kossuth stood and held his ground . . .

Now it was time to return and make things right again.

One tree known as the Naming-Tree had fallen after a direct hit near its base and István found the tree’s acorns amongst the smashed branches.

He sat between the broken stumps of the Maiden-tree and the Eagles-tree with an acorn in each hand and waited and very soon, faces with voices were creeping into his mind,

‘Yes I recognize you grandfather, . . . you are sitting near the fireplace and my sister Ánges is nursing our baby brother Sandór. No one speaks Hungarian but Hungarians István, . . . so learn many languages because they can help you become somebody else; . . . it saved my skin in the Great War.

Knowing Russian and Ukrainian always made me useful, and the officers needed me and while my brother soldiers huddled together in the snow, I was warm with the officers interrogating prisoners.’

The fresh-faced Krisztina was lying on the grass beside him with her mouth open and her eyes tight shut, I will always love you István, … I saved myself for this moment so I am now yours.

He watched a red flush travel down from her face, go around her neck then finally coat her milk white chest, . . . but my clumsy trembling fingers could not get those small buttons undone …

Overzeto Gábor you backward Hungarian peasant, … now, keep that noisy Russian bitch still for me or you won’t have her when I’m finished, … and next time Gábor, … find me one a lot younger.’

Now where would Krisztina’s remains lie, probably in the burnt out remains of our home or, or perhaps down that well.

Did it really matter anymore?

Best start searching for acorns because they can grow . . . then the eagles will have their roost back again.

Two more acorns were discovered beside a bunch of golden alyssum, he placed one in his left and one in the right pocket, and a scattering found in the grass was placed in the smallest suitcase.

A special ceremony was required to make things right again and something more magnificent than those earlier efforts with fingernails and lice.

István chose the highest point on the rise and far enough away from the Three Tree’s remains to consecrate a new site for the finest eagles.

His first step required a ring scratched into the surface with a radius of approximately twelve meters. To mark out the parameter, twelve large strides were taken from a central point in eight different directions.

Then an octagon was scratched into a circle with a broken branch.

The next phase involved digging twenty small holes into the soft earth with the pointed end of a branch.

István searched for a pair of scissors in the largest suitcase then removed that annoying strand of brown hair from his forehead. Into each fresh hole went one acorn and a small tuft of brown hair.

Now all these acorns would be safe locked away into the rich earth and perhaps one day, a majestic oaken cathedral would rise up from this circle.

A basilica where twenty tall timber columns and a thick green roof would ascent and imperial eagles could worship their god.

But first there were other things requiring attention.

István positioned himself at the center point of this circle, now something hard probed the back of his skull. This site was saturated with the wastes of war; an empty ten round clip from a 7.62 mm Smirnov semi-automatic carbine and a sharp shrapnel splinter were unearthed then discarded.

All necessary measures were now complete and his earthen bed was correct and ready.

Yes all was right and good but the Chapters were lurking about; he could hear the whispers and his right arm started to tremble. István leapt to his feet and sCREamed, and he sCREamed his lungs out until the trembling stopped — and — his ears were ringing.

It was time to position his body again and then it was all just a matter of waiting. He could hear the small insects doing their allocated tasks and right around were acorns sleeping in their beds, all twenty of them . . . snug and warm.

The evening stars had come out and the ground had grown cold, but that didn’t matter.

Each hand slid into a pocket and grabbed hold of an acorn and all he had to do was close his eyes … and wait … and see … what would take place.

No images snuck in through his ears, no visions or bright spotted lights flashed behind his eyes, no convulsive jerks shook his body.

István just, . . . held onto these two acorns held with all his strength held on until …

At first he felt his body diminishing, that distinct impression of falling somewhere into that waiting soft and secure place only found in the deepest of dreams where this womb would always be safe, where nothing frightful could venture.

He was now floating and aeint currents pulled him gently in different directions, the sensations were always pleasant and soothing.

Sometimes bubbles or sparkles of light washed overhead leaving behind a refreshing tingling sensation.

Now he was adrift in a turbulent but agreeable location that in turn was cleansing.

Then a bright light somewhere in the direction of his feet emerged and the essence of Gábor István started to fall towards it.

The speed of descent increased, but the silver cord attached to his form held firm

Slowly the light faded away into a black ancient emptiness.

A primeval moment of transformation, … a bird . . . an eagle, yes he felt its attraction and its purpose . . . with my great golden wings spread wide . . . I shall glide silently through the darkness.

Just below where his meaning hovered . . . a deep tranquil black pond manifested itself.

The density of its nature supplied shelter and its presence commenced to heal all those deep festering cuts that scared his mind.

This pond was a virtual forgotten sanctum, pre-natal in form and eternal in design.

Now he was almost an eagle, a beautiful golden creature that had no time for the follies of human mammals, those dangerous ground-bound creatures that once emerged from trees to stand upright and then throw sticks about.

That vivacious breed of oversized rodents set on inhabiting all the surface of our living earth and intent on despoiling everything.

**********(2)**********

It was morning; Gábor István opened both eyes to see rain clouds off in the distance.

His clothes were wet from dew and it was time to get up, get up, and rise from this cold ground that made his kidneys ache. Each hand still held an acorn; István kissed both small treasures then placed each in a separate pocket.

He had slept all night; perhaps the best sleep in years. Yes the very best sleep for six horrifying years.

Now was the right time to return to his village, come home at last to Kismarja.

While he walked birds appeared, red-backed-shrikes, tree sparrows, and larks arrived to welcome István, … in a field full of bright red poppies, young rabbits leapt about.

Yesterday everything was lifeless, so perhaps this was now another world?

Perhaps I am finally dead, death has found me at last and all those people I have killed, are now … released as birds and rabbits. So what if Gábor István is no longer the Angel of Death but the bringer of peace and goodwill?’

A soft breeze shimmered the surface while the stream sparkled with sunlight, then a shadow arrived and the water turned clear. It might rain in a few hours; István sat beneath the broken bridge’s arch and replenished his canteen.

He was starving and perhaps completely hollow so this breeze could travel wherever it wished.

Blow through my eye sockets then travel down these arms and out through my feet, that should clean away the dust and blow out the old smells?

‘Now I’m just an empty collection of clothing left beside this stream with nothing but the water violets and a fringed water lily to touch.’

Some marauding yellow meadow ants had other ideas so it was time to move again.

When István reached the fields-of-death where green bottle flies tickled and tormented he stopped and attached that ‘Achtung Minen’ sign to its post.

He hated clearing land mines, poking a bayonet into the earth at an angle then carefully feeling about.

But not anymore, well least not today this day appeared to be something special.

Yes things were happening all around and István could hear a train leaving the station and . . . now the birds were calling and the bees humming, so where was all that dread that always followed and tormented his dreams?

Just the chance a Chapter may re-awake could make him tremble; but not this day!

No this day was something special.

The spire of their church was missing just another observation post destroyed. Then came images of distant people moving slowly about.

‘Who could they be? Are new people here now, would there be Russians? Perhaps the Russians have claimed his Kismarja and … could I be imprisoned?’

A faded sign pointed towards the northwest,  На Берлин meaning ‘To Berlin,’ he had seen many of those over the past two years.

When the noise from that train softened the smell of burnt coal touched his nostrils and soon he would be entering Кисмаржа. Better still Kismarja or whatever was left of it?

The approaching houses gave out their smells of village life; cabbage soup, wet washing and animal waste. But as yet no people anywhere and what type of people, Hungarian or Russian?

‘Perhaps everyone is working?

Perhaps they have to?

Perhaps there are no good men left . . . just like after the last Great War?’

The village square except for an old dog that objected was deserted.

István crept carefully towards the damaged post office where scrawled across the bullet ridden wall were many statements, Воэвращено в рабочем состоянии — Побейть Еврóпа В Кисмарже ничеґо неосталось и все женщины стары и не красиы. — ‘Alles Deutsch Kaputt.’ — До Берлина Ивáну нé — что жáловаться. — Булем налėяться лýчмее

Above the door a sign proclaimed in Russian … Поутовая контора Кисмаржа.

Thankfully someone had scrawled in Hungarian, Mi ez mire használható?

The interior of Kismarja post office was dark, passing conflict had shattered all the windows, and the closed shutters let little light inside.

István waited for his eyes to adjust, . . . nothing had changed except Hitler and Admiral Horthy were missing along with the latest notices on Jewish discrimination.

István stood against the counter and recalled his past, I once crawled about on this timber floor then slowly rose up and at the age of nine I could just see over the top of this timber counter.

The counter-bell was rung ♪ ‘dring’ once and then twice ♪♪ ‘dring-dring’ just like his father always favoured.

Right I’m coming just be patient, footsteps grew ever closer until the door opened and old Juhász Miklós the village Postmaster appeared.

His once olive skin had wrinkled and that fine looking mustache had grey edges.

"Well. … What is it?"

István twitched, then opened the smallest suitcase, and produced his papers.

István? … Its … Gábor István!

The old man hurried back to the doorway then shouted down the hallway. "Come quickly widow Asboth, its my son-in-law Gábor István … back at last from the war!"

Miklós the Postmaster lifted a hinged counter segment, unlocked a small half door and then threw his arms around that long lost husband of his only daughter Krisztina.

István remained as rigid as a store dummy.

"István, where have you been … the war was over four years ago?"

**********(2)**********

Chapter 3: Perhaps István’s dark days are over?

"There is nothing permanent except change."

Heraclitus (Rodgers Students’ history of Philosophy.)

**********o(3)o*********

What remained of Kismarja’s inhabitants slowly filled up the village post office, an assortment of middle-aged women with some incapacitated veterans plus a scattering of despondent children.

All stood and waited patiently for their postmaster to make his announcement.

Much too confronting for István, these were real normal people and not slaves or prisoners and certainly not like those phantoms that frequently tormented him.

Yes it was way too much and way too soon.

István tried to speak before his left hand slapped his mouth shut, now he just could not face them, not after murdering so many of their like.

A room full of eyes watched István’s hands tremble and arms do likewise and Miss Kertész the village Schoolteacher shouted, "Watch out everyone, stand back, I think he’s going to throw a fit."

Widow-Bakó the midwife waddled forward then pushed István’s trembling head between her voluptuous breasts and stroked his oily hair.

He only needs food and sleep, but first a good wash and a change of clothes. The widow held her nose and pushed István away.

And he needs shoes, Miklós you must burn those German army jackboots before a Russian spots them, besides they stink like the rest of his clothing this man smells like a pigsty.

Juhász Miklós folded his arms and lent against his counter.

He looked somewhat embarrassed and the only things left to do was stroke his moustache, pull on an earlobe or fill his pipe and pray everyone would hurry up and leave.

In due course they all went back home leaving behind another shattered young man and this village didn’t want any extra liabilities.

Miklós placed a bowl of cabbage soup with a piece of pork rind in front of his destitute visitor; a slice of black bread on a chipped plate completed the spread.

While István made a mess of his meal the old man tried out short sentences and questions. István appeared to understand as he sometimes grunted then stuttered, so something was going on inside that dirty head.

The meal was now finished and István was restless, well perhaps he could be put to work?

With the freshly cut woodpile neatly stacked and both garden beds weeded the day’s work was all done. István had worked well and getting him to stop was the most difficult moment of the long day.

After counting his stock of caged rabbits Miklós decided a chicken would be right for tonight’s dinner.

This evening meal was a vast improvement over the mid-day cabbage soup; in fact it helped to get a few words from the visitor, Thanks . . . thank you . . . please … and . . . may I?

His guest looked tired and the Postmaster beckoned István to follow him into a small room where a clean bed and two folded blankets were waiting for him.

Miklós helped remove István’s worn and smelly boots and noted all the bites from lice and assorted wounds. No these blankets were far too good for this occasion and away they went.

Their replacement being a covering kept for horses throughout the winters.

Postmaster Juhász Miklós sat beside his son-in-law and waited for asleep to arrive, this did not take long and neither did his visitor’s nightmares.

Such noisy disturbances Juhász Miklós had never heard anything like it before; this poor man had visited hell for the night.

(Thankfully the Postmaster’s bed was upstairs and four doorways away from István’s troubles.)

The two battered suitcases were carried to the kitchen, light from the fireplace was not adequate, and as this was a special event an oil lamp was lit.

Miklós placed the cases on the kitchen table then took out his pipe; a good smoke was the right accompaniment to such an investigation.

The first suitcase revealed a dirty old blanket and an army canteen half full of what was probably river water? Underneath the blanket came old clothing and a cigar-box containing military memorabilia.

The box was emptied onto the table so each piece could be examined. Placed in order were the following, a Lance Corporal’s collar badge, a Hungarian 2nd Army hat badge, a SS Deaths’ Head hat badge and finally some fragmented letters in his daughter’s handwriting.

The Postmaster stroked his moustache and pulled on an ear lobe.

‘So Krisztina did managed to reach him, he never replied back so they were never quite sure if her mail arrived.’

When Miklós attempted to read one of these faded treasures it broke up into quarters.

Now how would he ever be able to tell him about her death? Oh yes Miss Kertész would help.

The remaining items were acorns; all over the bottom of this suitcase were acorns. ‘Now was he going to grind them up and eat them? You have to leach the bitterness out in water first.’

The last of the suitcases’ contents were wrapped in old German newspapers.

Miklós found a well-worn sketchbook fully filled with buildings and grand houses, scissors, a pocketknife, two boxes of matches, and some birds’ feathers large enough to come from an eagle.

In one corner were three Pervitin tubes and all empty of their tablets.

‘So the boy’s been taking that ‘Panzerschokolade’ (tankchocolate) … Well, that would mess his mind … yes its the Devil’s medicine … makes soldiers do crazy things.’

Another unexpected surprise was this battered book on architecture held together with cheesecloth and falling to pieces from overuse.

Beside the book there were two small brown paper parcels and when Juhász Miklós opened one his eyebrows rose. He lifted the Hungarian National Defense Cross-1940 up to the light, then did the same with the War Merit Cross 2nd class.

Other items included a Hungarian Proficiency Insignature and two green collar patches with the one button from the rank of