Feeding action - in memory
of Consul Fledderus
The barge was lifted from the coast. A thick, wet
hawser crashed loudly onto the bow plate, startling the people in the cargo
area.
The Franz Joseph bridge loomed above them. They've
never seen its structure from below. The consul had often taken a walk there
while he was on his way to his office in Üllői street from his residence in
Orom street, a place which he rented with his family. This was his favourite
bridge. He imagined it as a medieval, evil knight's castle, and he was the
prince who embarked on a quest to save the princess.
There was no movement on the bridge on this cold March
morning. If someone had leaned over the railing curiously, he would have been surprised
how delicate and elegant ladies and gentlemen were travelling on the barge.
They were all fugitives. Representatives of those countries which were occupied
by the Germans since the beginning of the war, or with which Hungary had no
quarrel. So far they have lived undisturbed in Budapest, just like the hundreds
of thousands Polish refugees. The stateless diplomats were all notified within
days by the Germans after the invasion, and they were assigned to go with their
personal belongings to the Technical
University quay at dawn that day. Their destination was Istanbul, a city in a
neutral country, Turkey.
The people huddled together in small groups in the barge's
enormous hold. Each families were staying together, like birds in their nests
on the barge's wooden chip-covered floor. The consul remarked how fortunate
that the barge did not ship coal previously. He quickly forgot the ironic
remark however, because he remembered his youngest son, Joppy, who remained in
Hungary and was in hiding. Joppy tried to reassure him before the departure that
he would seek out Wallenberg and ask for his help if he needed papers. The
Swedish had great practice in this business anyway.
The self-propelled barge turned very sluggishly
downstream, but just in time to allow the flow of the Danube to transfer its
body under the truss beams of Miklós Horthy's bridge.
Cling Fledderus, the consul was cold. Although he was
wearing a thick coat, the humid morning breeze flew through the open barge. The
Dutch were no strangers to boats, but he never thought that one day he would
have to travel on a special watercraft like this.
Near to the Fledderus family a group of Belgian
diplomats were squatting on the floor. One of them took a folded map out of his
pocket and turned to the consul:
- We are at Csepel Island - he said, pointing at the
sheet of paper.
- I will never see this city again probably -
responded to the consul, tightening his coat even further. - I can feel it. I have
worked here for thirty-three years. It was a long time. And this will be a long
journey, too long ...
- Strange turn of fate though, that once upon a time
you were saving children from hunger, and now you became a refugee as well -
said another diplomat.
The Consul closed his eyes and imagined how many lines
the twenty thousand children would have made, if they had stood up somewhere at
the same time. That was the number of the Hungarian children they hosted in the
Netherlands after World War I under the "feeding" action.
Yet not long before most of the Netherlands was
flooded by a huge tide. Although the country could keep out of World War, it
could not foresee that nasty trick of nature. Nevertheless, the Dutch citizens
were deeply moved after reading some articles about the suffering in Hungary,
this almost invisible, neither German or Latin, nor Slavic country, and hearing
about its utter post-World War exploit.
Despite the excitement of the packing and the harsh
conditions, the consul dozed off. How did it start?
His wife appeared in his dreams, as she triumphantly
showed the packages of baby suits, sent by the Dutch Red Cross. He saw the
newspapers sent from home, featuring his articles. These were asking financial
support for the Hungarians. The amount which was collected was so vast that he
had to call for aid. He was looking for Dutch families, who were willing to
accommodate starving Hungarian children for a few months. The money previously
collected was enough to cover the cost of the first train's departure. At home
an enthusiastic lady was organizing the host families through the De Standaard's
columns, mostly between the Calvinist elderly people. The first train with 600
children departed soon. The next trains had all been given by the Hungarian
Ministry of Defence. This was one of the military's hospital trains.
He woke up, and he continued the conversation with the
Belgian just where they had left off.
- Soon the problems appeared as well, of course. The
Dutch organizers were expecting Protestant children mostly, but many Catholics
lived in Hungary, so I had to modify the accommodation rate. The current
political situation did not help the next stage of the plan either. The
Hungarians sought to break out of the ring of the Little Entente, and by doing
so they stared to move towards Italy, necessarily falling further away from our
English-speaking line. And now we are sitting here, in this barge.
Then the consul withdrew into himself again. Many
pictures were swirling inside his head. He saw the frightened eyes of a little
girl, who waited alone near the train when they arrived home after such a long
time, because his parents did not recognize her, so plump she became during the
few months she had spent outside. He remembered that huge pile of letters which
were sent from the Netherlands to the consulate to inform the Hungarian parents
that their children would happily stay a little longer with the foster family.
The smallest ones were so immersed in the Dutch language that soon they
understood their host country's words better than their own mother tongue.
Heartbreaking scenes at the railway stations mixed with the pictures about
negotiations with the Dutch and Hungarian churches. The consultations with the
railways to have fresh water on the trains to last during the long trip.
Writing newspaper articles to recruit more host families, and eventually the
narrowed eyebrows of his own bosses, who eventually turned a blind eye to his
individual initiative. Most of the time he could only postpone his work during
the evenings. Because it was impossible to stop. But he had taken the job
willingly.. and found great joy in doing so.
Half asleep he had seen Bart, his younger son as he
opened the lunch box they received from the Hungarian housekeeper, as a parting
gift. The boy took out a poppy seed strudel. The unforgettable scent of freshly
baked cakes had filled the air.
The engine of the barge huffed evenly.
A memorial plaque in Budapest
e mail: nulla.dies50@freemail.hu
