A Moment in Time in our Village

Sitting in the kitchen with my family, I see their mouths moving, but I can't hear a thing.

Did I survive, or am I dead?

I realize my pants are wet. Good, I'm alive. Embarrassed, I cover myself with my hands.

Did I blackout? I can’t explain how I returned home. My grandmother pours me a cup of coffee and offers it to me. I warm my hands on the cup before taking a sip. I realize how cold I am, and I wonder how long I was gone? I can see that my mother is furious, but my grandmother shoos her away from me. My grandfather gives me a knowing look, one of the few acts of kindness he could offer.

I sleep restlessly after my grandmother did her best to comfort me and clean me up.

I toss and turn, listening for the plane to return. I recall the day and wonder if that was a warning to our village? Would I have been safer standing in the open, or was it better that we hid? I'll never have those answers, but I'm sure the next plane would not miss the Gold Train.

I recall the events of the day.

January 1945, the freight train thunders into the village, waking me from a deep sleep. Why was the engine slowing down and not passing through? The train eases into the station and comes to a complete stop. Fear engulfs me.

With the Allies closing in on the West, the German soldiers who occupy my village are nervous. And with the Red Army advancing from the east, how long until they find their way here?

Ten cars down, a side door slides open, and I wait for gunfire; it was too late. No one moves, no sound. I see a white flag and breathe for the first time, cheated death again.

The bank president, buttoning a dark grey tailored suit, emerges from the train. He runs his fingers through his salt and pepper hair; dark circles under his eyes make him appear years older than he was. Lieutenant Karl approaches the man, clicks his heels together then extends his right arm out in a salute. The two men shake hands and whisper between them.

They disappear into the back of the Unger's house. Lieutenant Karl appropriated the house when he first arrived a year ago; Mr. Unger was away at war like my father and my village's men. Mrs. Unger fled with her three children to her parents' home. Many of us house one or two soldiers, some not much older than myself.

Rumors spread quickly that the Gold Train could not proceed into Austria. I study the train, forty-four freight cars heavily guarded with 340 bank employees and their families. They peer out at me, men, women, and children protecting the gold from the Hungarian National bank with their lives. Our village now a tempting target. It's difficult to hide a train.

The Germans occupy Hungary to keep us from surrendering to the Red Army like Romania. Everybody whispers that the Germans are losing the war. What was really on this train, and how did the Hungarians plan to keep the treasury?

Budapest was in the middle of a bloody battle with heavy losses of Germans, Russians, and civilians caught in the middle. Did the bank president plan to turn the train over to the Germans, or did he have other motives? Perhaps trying to safeguard the property to return it to a sovereign post-war Hungary?

Later that day, I'm standing in the Gloriette with a group of boys. I pass around a cigarette that one of the soldiers gave me, as I blow smoke and watch it swirl around. I imagine a balloon fly out the open archway before it reaches the dome ceiling.

We hear it coming long before we see it. No one dare speak, and I catch myself holding my breath. Is the ground shaking, or is that my legs trembling? We watch the plane silently as it continues its mission toward the village.

I step out of the Gloriette to get a better view, never taking my eyes off the plane. I'm too scared to stay and too frightened to return to the village. Am I a coward? I can't look my friends in the eyes, but neither can they as they follow me out of the tall structure. High up on the hill just south of the village, we are as big a target as the train. I see the ominous plane veer around and head back where it came from. It descended slightly, and I run back to the shelter of the Gloriette. Helmut and Johann practically knock me over, trying to get back inside.

Something holds me back, and I stand transfixed, watching the approaching plane.

I can feel the power of the engine's rumble deep in my chest as it flew directly overhead. Is the pilot sizing me up, dismissing me as a mere boy? The plane is gone as quickly as it arrived. I hear Johann strike a match and re-light the cigarette, his hand shaking as he passes it over to me.

As we walk toward the village, we hear the roar of the plane again. Although we would be safer returning to the Gloriette, Helmut leaps into a hay mound, and Johann and I follow, diving in as deep as I can. The safety the hay offers is deceiving, but there's no time to argue. The sound is deafening as the plane approaches. I'm not sure what is happening, then the ground shakes, and it explodes on impact—debris flies everywhere, a miracle that we are spared.

I re-read tear-stained pages in my small black notebook. Did this really happen? The flyers normally come at night, not during the day?

75 Years Later

I open the small worn black notebook, neatly tucked away in my grandfather’s keepsake box. It’s amazing it’s survived all this time. The feel of the notebook and the quality of the pages help me to connect with him somehow. I run my hand over the cover, and I can almost feel his energy.

Amidst all of his writings, this notebook stands out from the others. Is it because this one is unmarked, whereas all his others are clearly labeled?

As I open the notebook and study his handwriting, I wish my German was better. Although he was born in Hungary, his native tongue was German. I understand a few words but will have to translate the rest.

Turning the pages of the small black notebook, I notice something tucked inside. As I open the note, I have no idea what it means, but it looks like money. Inside the note is written 2,560,000 pengő.. Ok, this I’ll have to research.

“Wikipedia explains this is the Hungarian currency post WWI to 1946.”

When I google this, I learn it was the equivalent of $20,000 in Hungary circa 1945.

My grandfather was thirteen at the end of the war, where would he get this kind of money? Is it possible the Gold Train wasn’t just a story he was fond of telling? I thought he just made this up to entertain, could he have been telling the truth about this all along?

If he’s hidden it all this time, is it his? What do I do now if it was stolen? Grandpa said the train had the Hungarian treasury on it.

My grandpa robbed a bank?

In my hand, is the equivalent of $20,000 dollars, but it’s worthless? If a pengő. doesn’t exist any longer…no, it’s priceless to me. Whatever the story behind this is, I’ll never know the truth.

So I replace this in the small black notebook and return it to the keepsake box. Some secrets are better kept.