“See that glass”, Attila said as he pointed at the ruined roof of Istvantelek Train Yard’s main workshop, “that could slice your head right off.” We were standing outside the workshop looking at the ruined roof. As many of the glass panels were missing as those that remained. The panels had been battered and broken after years of neglect, falling and shattering without anyone there to notice. The roof was a rather ominous warning of the dangers that lay inside the main workshop. I now realized why visitors were hardly ever allowed inside Istvantelek. Even when the rare guided tour was given, the workshop was off limits.
Of course, passion, mystery and intrigue were working in our minds to defeat the inherent dangers of entering an industrial site strewn with a minefield’s worth of hazards. Both Attila and I peered in through an open window to see what ruined treasures stood inside. That was when I noticed a scene that had first caught my eye on the internet. Inside were graffiti covered carriages, too many to count. This was a train enthusiast’s heaven, an urban explorer’s dream. It made my heart skip a beat. I felt the kind of longing usually reserved for a long lost, unrequited love. I wanted to get inside, but how. That was when Attila said, “let’s go in and have a look.”
Positively Apocalyptic – A Veil of Grime & Dust
Getting into the main workshop was much easier than getting into the site. There was no guard or anything else to bar entry, only an opening where a door used to be. This opening was slightly obscured by an encroachment of ivy. Such greenery was a strange counterpoint to the rust, ruin and broken glass closing in around it. Upon entering through the open doorway, we were immediately confronted with another world. The scene before us was positively apocalyptic. Everything was in a state of semi-ruin. Locomotives and passenger cars were lined up in a procession that had gone nowhere for decades, a motley assemblage of industrial detritus was scattered about. It was as though we had walked on the set of a zombie film. Any minute I expected to have some otherworldly creature lunging for me. I have never been stalked before, but I cannot imagine a worse place for that to happen.
The entire place looked as though it had been shot to pieces. Shafts of light penetrated through the many openings in the roof. The railway cars colors looked incredibly vivid, especially those covered with graffiti. There was beauty to be found amid the ugly reality of these cast-offs. The rust and graffiti were powerful artistic counterpoints to one another. One the work of time and neglect, the other created by the mind and hand of man. Everything was cloaked in a veil of grime and dust. And throughout the workshop all that could be heard was an empty silence. The main workshop was the end of the line, the end of an age, the end of history for over one hundred locomotives and railway cars. We were at a station inhabited by ghosts with a one-way ticket to oblivion.
Magnificently Creepy – An Irresistible Invitation
Inside the main workshop we walked down one row after another, between passenger cars that managed to all look different and somehow the same. From time to time, the most eye-catching relics would cause us to pause and ponder how they had arrived at this place. Doors were flung open, offering an ominously irresistible invitation to step inside. And that is just what we did. One carriage was of especial interest after Attila informed me that it was used to deliver the mail. Upon entering we found the mail slots empty except for an inch or two of dust. It had been a post office riding the rails that delivered to small, remote villages. This mail car did not deliver to other postal facilities. Instead, it delivered straight from the car.
The excitement that once accorded the mail car upon its arrival must have been dramatic. This was the traveling messenger of the early 20th century delivering happiness and sorrow in unequal quantities across the Great Hungarian Plain and the hills, mountains and valleys of northern Hungary. To get a letter from this car must have been an event in of itself, rivaled only by the postal car’s appearance. It was an essential connection between Hungarian villages and the larger world. The stories this postal car could tell would have been unbelievable, but just as it was always on the move from one village to the next, so was time and progress, creating a distance from the past that could never quite be recovered.
There was also a multitude of empty passenger cars, many of which I recognized from my own travels across Hungary’s railways. Several of these had been festooned with eye popping graffiti. One had the phrase 420 Hurts painted on it just below four windows without a single pane of glass. Hurts was painted in blood red that had slowly crawled down from the letters. The graffiti was redolent of a murder scene and looked more like the work of an urban gang than random vandals. Speaking of vandals, I did not doubt that some of the cars had been vandalized, but this only added to their post- apocalyptic aesthetic. Here was a world that looked as though it had been subjected to a nuclear attack. I could imagine giant cockroaches and lethal alien beings lying in wait for the unsuspecting urban explorer. The fact that much of the railway stock looked familiar made the workshop seem magnificently creepy. For some reason, I had the feeling we were always being watched. Perhaps this fear arose from being surrounded by abandonment.
A Dark Secret – Lost In Translation
A constant source of curiosity and perplexity for me were the letters and numbers that had been painted, etched or stenciled on so many of the locomotives and cars. These were written in an unintelligible language that I had no idea how to decipher. Attila remarked that a train enthusiast would have a field day with such terminology. They could disseminate the make and model, where and when for each of these relics by translating such coded messages. Attila was able to translate one of these. Written on the side of a badly beaten up wooden railway car was OLAJCSERE. Db.2001.12.11. This meant that an oil change had been done back on December 12th, 2001. We found this particularly amusing since preventive maintenance was not exactly the strong suit of Istvantelek.
Another wooden train car, one that was still sporting much of its red paint, had more ominous terminology stamped on it, among which I immediately noticed the words “Deutsche Reichsban.” This was a reminder of a horrific artifact that was said to still be located at Istvantelek. One that made these abandoned cars suddenly seem menacing. There was a very dark secret said to lurk among these cars, one which is known by a single word, Auschwitz.