Ascension (5 page)

He reached into his pocket and removed an iron ring, four inches in diameter, and hooked this ring over an iron peg that protruded from the top of the spire. The peg was intended to bolt onto the bottom of the cross. Then he untied the rope from
around his neck and shoulder, glad to be free of its oppressive weight. Through the iron ring, he strung one end of the rope, lowering its length to the ground. When the one end was on the ground, he dropped the other.

On the ground, one end of the rope was attached to the cross, and three men pulled at the other end. Slowly the cross rose to the top of the steeple. Miksa saw the new priest smiling to himself down below as he watched its ascent. The old priest would never have seen a symbol of resurrection here. All he would have seen was a cross going up on a rope.

When the cross reached him Miksa moved down slightly, resting his feet on two nails that were about eighteen inches below the apex of the structure. He flexed his knees together and removed his hands from the steeple. He supported the weight of the cross with one hand and unhooked the iron ring with the other. Then, with all of his strength, he lifted the cross to rest its base on the edge of the steeple. The peg that held the cross in place protruded six inches upwards, and the base of the cross had a hole to receive it, but a great deal of effort was required to lift the hundred-pound cross that extra six inches and then guide the peg into its sheath.

Miksa braced his knees more tightly than ever and took a deep breath. With a hand on each arm of the cross he lifted it up and over, shifting the base back and forth until he felt it meet the peg. He rested the cross on top of the peg for a moment and attempted to force it down. He managed to get two inches through, but the peg was rusted from its recent exposure and wouldn’t go in any more. Slowly, tentatively, Miksa removed one hand and then the other from the cross, prepared to quickly grab it should it move, but it didn’t. He tested its stability with a shake, first light and gradually harder, and still it held. Satisfied that it wouldn’t fall on him, Miksa turned his attention to the rusted portion of the peg,
which was about twice as thick as his thumb. With one hand he rubbed at the rust, feeling it crumble roughly under his ministrations. He jerked his hand back as the cross settled an inch further on the peg. Then he took the cross by the base and twisted it from side to side, feeling it move downward a little at a time.

When there were only two inches left Miksa felt the cross drop suddenly, colliding with the iron skirting around the base of the peg with a metallic clang. A shower of reddish grit skidded down the spire, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a piece of the peg, perhaps half an inch wide, break loose and fall to the ground. The sight concerned him, but there was little he could do about it, as he didn’t have the strength left to raise the cross and inspect the damage. Miksa untied the rope from the cross, returned the iron ring to his pocket and prepared for his descent. The last time, when there had been only him and the old priest, he had looped the rope around the cross and, after the priest tied one end to a tree, had rappelled down the steeple. This time, however, there were too many spectators that he simply didn’t trust. There was no way he was going to risk having some
gadjo
cut the rope as he came down.

Miksa dropped the rope and began to climb down. The triangular section was easy enough, like walking down a ladder, but the square part of the steeple was far more difficult. Each step had to be aimed correctly or else he would be stepping into thin air with little means of correcting himself. At this point, Miksa could almost feel the ground beneath his feet, and even though it took less time to climb down the steeple than it had to climb up, it felt like forever to him. Instead of traversing the roof of the church and swinging back through the second-storey window as he had done before, Miksa sat and slid down the steeply pitched roof. When he neared the edge he used his feet as brakes, slowing enough to allow him to sit up and halt his momentum.

Beside the church stood a tree, and Miksa leapt into its branches. He was on the ground in a matter of seconds, immediately beginning to look for the priest, not wanting to hang around any longer than necessary.

Miksa could see the disdain in the eyes of the onlookers. He imagined that they must be upset because none of them had been able to restore the cross. They’d come today to see him fail at it too, and now they were disappointed because he had not failed. Their situation was no doubt confused by the fact that some part of them knew they should be happy that the cross was back where it should be, and they were not, which also made them angry, more with themselves than him. But Miksa knew that people seldom take out anger on themselves. He began to wonder if he had been wise to do this job.

The priest, seeing Miksa approaching, stepped forward with his hands outstretched. Unlike the rest of the onlookers, he felt no animosity. In his eyes all he saw was the man who had restored the cross to the top of his church. If he knew what others were seeing in Miksa, he gave no indication.

Miksa forced a smile and grasped the priest’s hands. They were smooth and soft, while Miksa’s were rough with calluses and scarred by this and other days’ work. Even Salvo, only nine years old, had more world-weary hands than the new priest, who had come from a seminary in Budapest just before the Romanians had marched into Transylvania and claimed the territory as their own.

The new priest had worried that the Romanians would take away his church, but they hadn’t so much as spoken to him, and since it was well attended, he assumed that he was safe enough in his position. His only regret had been the lack of a cross on the church, and he had for a long while been distressed as to whether he would ever be able to place a cross on top of the mammoth
steeple. He had even considered having the steeple torn down and another, shorter structure erected in its place, one with a cross, but he had been discouraged from this course of action by the people of the town. He had been in a state of utter despair until Miksa Ursari had volunteered.

Now, as the new priest looked at the cross—which he did not believe was a waylaid gift for Saint Stephen for the simple reason that this town was nowhere near the road from Rome to Budapest—his heart swelled. He would not allow himself the luxury of joyous tears in public. He thrust a leather pouch containing coins into Miksa’s hand, wishing he had more with which to reward this Rom.

As soon as the coins were in his possession, Miksa turned and moved towards the tree where Salvo waited, only to find his son momentarily distracted by a butterfly that had landed only inches from his hand. Salvo watched its wings twitch as it settled in and appeared to assess its surroundings. The butterfly seemed intent on spending some time in the tree, unconcerned with Salvo’s presence. A sudden boyish instinct seized Salvo, and slowly he pinched his thumb and index finger around one of the butterfly’s wings. The butterfly, to Salvo’s surprise, did not protest or struggle. It remained calm as Salvo gently plucked it off its branch. He felt moved by the butterfly’s courage and released it just as his father reached him.

Miksa lifted Salvo down from the fork of the dead tree. Without speaking, they started quickly down the road back home. The crowd had not grown any more hostile, but Miksa saw no reason to test their resolve.

Behind them, the new priest was blessing the cross. He stood in front of the church, arms raised to God, as the more-or-less faithful kneeled before him. It was apparent to all how happy the priest was, and his elation was beginning to rub off on some of them.

When Miksa and Salvo were about a quarter-mile from the church they heard a scream. They stopped and turned back in the direction they had come.

There was no way to tell who had looked up. The people kneeling in prayer were supposed to have had their eyes closed, or at least cast downwards, and the new priest had been facing away from the church, towards Salvo and his father. But everybody had heard the scream, so it was obvious that someone had looked up. And at that moment, when the scream pierced the priest’s prayer, nearly everyone opened their eyes to see what had caused it.

The priest was somewhat irked; he was just getting to the end of the blessing, and now he would have to start over. It was a hot day, the heat all the worse for him in his black robes, and he did not want to spend any more time standing in the sweltering afternoon sun than necessary. He scanned the devotees for the source of the disturbance, and in a split second he came to the realization that the crowd’s attention seemed to be shifting skyward, and the air was filled with more cries. He turned to see what the people were looking at, expecting to see some sort of holy miracle on the summit of his ancient wooden church. Of course these people would receive a miracle fearfully; they were a rural, superstitious bunch, and miracles had historically inspired fear in even the most worldly of souls, but he was not afraid. He would accept this miracle with open arms, and he would help these people see it for what it was. Today was indeed a joyous day.

The new priest had not yet completed his turn when the falling cross landed squarely upon him, striking him on the head. It was doubtful that he ever knew what had delivered the blow, so intent was he upon receiving a miracle. The people on their knees certainly saw it, though, as did Salvo and Miksa. From where they were up the road they saw the priest crumple to the ground like
an empty sack; they saw the crowd of people leap to their feet and rush to him. They were too far away to hear either the dull thud of the cross’s impact or the sharp crack that followed as the priest’s skull split in two. Likewise they could not see his blood and brains spill out over the ground, where they softly imbued the parched earth.

Miksa seized his son by the arm and pulled him along. He knew that when the initial shock wore off, the
gadje
of the church would seek retribution. He knew this as sure as he knew the sun would set that evening, as sure as he knew it would rise the next morning. They would have to leave this town, and fast.

Salvo wrenched his arm free and ran beside his father. He was ashamed to be treated like an errant urchin.

“Why do we always run away when there is trouble?” his brother András had once asked.

“We do not run away,” his father had said. “We leave when it is time, and we go to a better place.” It seemed to Salvo that once again they were on their way to a better place, at a much accelerated rate. Still, he knew better than to argue with his father. He ran as fast as he could, his throat closing from thirst and his chest burning.

“The priest,” Salvo panted, “he is dead?”

His father didn’t look at him. “Yes.”

The road began to slope upwards before it passed a cluster of tinder-dry brush and turned sharply to the right.

The town where the Ursari family lived was a modest place, home to seven hundred people, mostly Hungarians mixed in with some Romanians and some Slovaks. There were very few Roma. Nearly all were either Christian or Muslim, and there were some Jews as well. The only things that almost everyone had in common were a lack of food and a hatred of gypsies.

A main road ran through the town, which comprised a marketplace, some shops and a tavern. There was a stable on the south side of the street, next to a blacksmith’s. From the main road ran several smaller side streets that were closely crowded with houses, some better kept than others. At the very end of the worst of these side streets stood the two-room house where the Ursari family lived.

It was not much of a house. There was one low, narrow wooden door in the front of the building and one tiny window on the side. The walls were made of rough stones covered with a crude plaster that was chipped and cracked and stained. The roof, constructed of sticks thatched together in a haphazard fashion, gave the house the appearance of sporting a shaggy head of hair.

The inside of the house was nearly always dark. They owned a small kerosene lamp, but there had been no fuel now for nearly five years. Salvo slept in the front room with his brother, András, and his father’s tools, and his parents and the baby slept in the back room. They had lived in this house since just before the war had started; this was by far the longest they had ever stayed in one place.

Directly to the right of the house, a ring of blackened stones enclosed a circle of lightly smoking ash, marking the fire that the family meals were cooked over. The residence had no fireplace, and before the drought, when it had rained, Salvo and his brother had held a sheet rubbed with grease over the fire to keep off the rain while their mother cooked.

Azira Ursari was at this fire, preparing a painfully sparse meal, when she saw her husband and youngest son come running up the street. She instantly knew something was wrong from the way they ran; Miksa would never run like that for any reason other than danger.

At twenty-six, Azira had been married to Miksa nearly half her life. She had bore six children, buried three, and if there was
one thing she could recognize with absolute clarity, it was imminent disaster. Remaining calm, so calm that a casual observer might not have noticed this shift in her perception, she straightened the scarf that corralled her inky hair and wiped her hands on a threadbare skirt. She picked up the baby that sat naked at her feet and went into the house to gather up the family’s belongings.

As they reached the house, Salvo caught a glimpse of his mother, disappearing into the darkened doorway. He took in large gasps of air, bent at the waist with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His father didn’t even seem winded; save for the sweat on his brow there was little that would indicate how far he had just run. Seeing him, Salvo stood up and ignored his screaming lungs.

Miksa scanned the area, shading his eyes with a hand. “Where’s András?” he asked.

Salvo shrugged. He didn’t know any more than his father.

“Go and find your brother. We have to leave this place.” He headed towards the house.