Csardas (23 page)

“Kiev?” he murmured, and the orderly turned round, surprised.

“Kiev? No, this is not Kiev. This is Lemberg.”

Back to Lemberg... where it had all begun. “And the cholera?” he asked weakly. “Has the epidemic spread?” The orderly looked at him as though he were still delirious.

“Cholera? There has been no cholera.”

Karoly felt his heart pounding. What had happened to him? Had he been dreaming the nightmare? “I have been ill?” he asked and the orderly nodded and moved on to the next bed.

“Everyone here is ill,” he said irritably. “This is a typhus ward. Bad outbreaks all along the front.”

Typhus, not cholera. The wrong disease; he had caught the wrong disease. He began to laugh at the joke that was no joke, laughed until he could not control himself, and the orderly used to mad and feverish patients, shrugged his shoulders and moved away.

They went to the farm that summer, just the same as always, only it wasn’t the same. Uncle Zoltan had been called up and was somewhere on the Russian front. His sons had gone too, and most of the men in the village. Roza and the other women, the old men, and the children tended the fields and animals and got the crops in, but already the land was beginning to show signs of neglect. When they went to call on Madame Kaldy, Adam’s beet fields—left untended for a whole year—were a riot of last season’s bolters, newly grown weeds, and spindly beet tops that had reseeded themselves.

Malie and Eva had decided that their contribution to the shadowed times would be to relieve Roza from all kitchen duties. With something of the spirit of small girls playing at cooks, they descended into the kitchen beneath the portico and proceeded to experiment with the stove. Malie’s approach was one of curious interest. She had watched Roza (and the cook in the town house) apparently effortlessly produce meals for six, seven, or eight, always on time and always well cooked. How was it done? Planning, organization, and strict timing, she finally decided, but it was difficult to put these into operation when one’s partner was Eva, who frequently grew bored just when the dough had finished rising and who never, under any circumstances, cleared up after her own messy and chaotic efforts. When in the mood, Eva could, from some depths of talent hitherto unsuspected, produce a well-cooked meal. This, she considered, excused her from any other contribution, and Roza, returning to her kitchen, would firm her mouth into a line of annoyance. She could not, of course, speak to the young ladies as she wished to, and she would proceed noisily to clear up the mess that Eva had left and scrub the floor that Eva had usually covered in grease and sauce.

Mama lay on her bed reading novels, until after three weeks she noticed that her food was not very well cooked and that her daughters were often quarrelling about who had used too much of this or that or who had spoiled the bread. She announced, with frail, rallying charm, that she too would do her very best to help the war effort, and for a few days following this announcement she could be seen wandering about the farmhouse with duster and broom. The novelty quickly faded, however, and the novels and the escape they brought were resumed.

Leo and Jozsef were not seen much that summer. Uncle Sandor, having brought the family to the farm, then went out to work on the land, and the boys tailed after him like sheepdogs. They took sausage and bread and peppers and ate them with Uncle Sandor and were not seen until the sun had gone down.

Papa came only for short spells. Papa’s concession to the war effort was a needed and necessary one. The bank was making money for the nation; there were war loans and bonds, and adjustments, and any number of things that none of them really understood. But they did understand—with joy and relief—that, whatever it was, it kept Papa in town for much of the time and took him to Budapest more often. He came up to see them at weekends, but for the rest of the summer they were left alone.

Apart from the conflict with Eva, Amalia didn’t mind working in Roza’s kitchen; for one thing, it kept her from thinking of last summer. It was impossible to dismiss those memories altogether and often the two girls would find themselves saying, “Do you remember last year when—?” She found that cooking brought a soothing balm to her gnawing anxiety about Karoly. Two letters had arrived addressed to her at the house; since then, silence. Of course she knew that with the wonderful news of the advance into Russia it would be difficult for the letters to be delivered and dispatched, but nonetheless, always, all the time, there was a sick gentle pain of worry in her stomach.

Eva fluctuated between wild elation and sullen, bad-tempered gloom. Every time a letter arrived from Budapest she would rush to her room, eyes bright, bustling with excitement. Later she would emerge miserable and irritable, and in response to queries about Felix Kaldy’s welfare would snap, “All right, I suppose,” and slam the earthenware jars and bowls so hard that some of them broke.

On a Sunday in September, with Mama resting in her room and Papa sitting on the veranda working with some papers, Malie heard the distant sound of a carriage. It could only be Aunt Gizi and Kati. The war had cast a pall of quiet over the countryside. There were no young men left to come visiting and the women who came—unless relatives—did so only by invitation.

She went and stood on the porch, looking out at the golden sunlit woods to catch the first glimpse of the Racs-Rassay coach.

“Only one horse,” she said to Papa. “The army must have taken the other one, just as they’ve taken ours.”

Papa did not answer. He frequently did not answer Amalia. Since her defiance over the letters they had lived in a strained atmosphere of compromise. He no longer locked her in her room or ostracized her completely from conversation and family activities. He remained cold, stern, and unsmiling whenever he had to address himself to her. On all matters other than the letters she was dutiful and obedient, but on the subject of Karoly she had remained quietly stubborn. When the first letter had arrived addressed directly to her, Papa had waited at breakfast for the usual reading aloud. Amalia had not opened the envelope.

“This letter is from Lieutenant Karoly Vilaghy, Papa. I should prefer to read it in my room.” She had stuffed the letter into the pocket of her dress and only Eva saw how her hand was trembling.

They waited for Papa to burn into one of his terrible furies. Amalia had stared at him, straight into his face across the table, and whatever he saw there prevented him from taking issue on the matter. He had risen from the table and left the room. He had not spoken to Amalia for three days. But superficially they were still a family. Amalia was still obedient and helpful, she never again referred to working in a factory, and Papa never referred to Karoly Vilaghy.

“Uncle Alfred has come too,” Malie said now, on the porch. “And there is somebody eke, another man in the coach.” And then her hand flew to her mouth—“Oh, no!”—and she was running down the steps and across the yard towards the coach. Papa put down his papers and rose slowly from his chair, looking out after his daughter.

In the coach sat his sister and brother-in-law. Kati on the other seat was not alone. By her side was a young-old man in the uniform of a captain of hussars. He was thin to the point of emaciation and the uniform hung badly over fleshless shoulders.

The coach stopped and Uncle Alfred alighted, then helped the ladies down. The young-old man was the last to climb down and he did so slowly, as though his body was cracked.

“You remember my kinsman?” Alfred asked gently. “Karoly Vilaghy, now promoted to captain.”

Amalia was just standing to one side. She didn’t run to him or touch him. They heard her whisper, “Oh, Karoly! What have they done to you!” and tears began to run down her face. The young-old man stared at her, obsessed, following her every movement in a dazed, dreamlike fashion, as though she were not real.

Zsigmond Ferenc looked at his sister, then at his niece. It was obvious that both of them had been crying. He was angry but nonplussed. He could not understand why Gizi had permitted Alfred to bring the young man here, and he could not understand why they had been crying. They were all staring at him, waiting for something.

“Yes, I remember Karoly Vilaghy,” he said coldly, looking at the young man.

There was a medal ribbon on his breast, and his face was gaunt and sunk around the mouth. The once tall, upright young man was still tall, but he was bent forward and, as Zsigmond stared, a harsh paroxysm of coughing shook his chest and he hunched forward even more.

“May we come in?” Alfred asked. “My cousin is not well. He has been in hospital for many weeks. He has had typhus and pneumonia and the doctors suspected he had developed a disease of the lung. Now he is better and is on leave to rest. But he cannot stand very long.”

Zsigmond felt betrayed. He had always been able to cow Alfred, to intimidate him and make him do whatever he wanted. But now Alfred was waiting, quietly and with the dignity of a Racs-Rassay.

“May we come in?” he asked again.

He looked at his sister for explanation. Her dark eyes stared back, devoid of anything except compassion, an unusual emotion for Gizi to reveal.

“The first of our young men, our own young men, to come back from the front,” she said heavily.

Karoly Vilaghy began to cough again and his face turned grey. “You had better come in,” Papa said at last, and quietly they began to move towards the porch. Only then did Amalia go to him. She glided to his side and placed her hand beneath his arm.

“Karoly.”

He stared down at her hand, then touched it with his fingers, caressed it gently, stroking the back of her palm. “Malie,” he said, not to her but to himself, “Malie.” Like a blind man learning the names of objects he can never see, he spoke her name and stroked her hand with his fingers.

At the porch he had to stop for a moment, then drag himself up by the rail. He was out of breath at the top and began to cough again, and finally Zsigmond Ferenc began to feel ashamed of his tardy hospitality.

“Sit here,” he said, pointing to the chair he had just vacated. “We will all sit here, and Amalia shall fetch lemonade for us. Alfred, perhaps you will assist me in bringing out some chairs.”

Mama and Eva suddenly appeared from the doorway. They were dragging the cane chairs from the summer parlour and it was obvious they had both studied the arrival of the visitors from the shuttered windows of the house because they had bright, exaggerated smiles on their faces. They avoided looking at Karoly in the way that people do not look at hunchbacks or cripples.

“How wonderful!” said Mama, giving him her hand and still managing not to look at him. “Just like last summer, a wonderful little family party in the September sunshine. So few of our young men have leave—we haven’t seen the Kaldys at all since the war began—and so we must make a great fuss over you, dear Karoly! Amalia shall fetch some tea. We still have a little tea left that we have been saving for a special occasion.”

“I’ll do it, Malie,” Eva said quickly. “You stay here and talk to... everyone.” She hurried inside, as though relieved to be away.

“Karoly is going to stay with us until he is better,” Gizi said. “He was discharged from the military hospital at Kassa yesterday—they are short of beds—and Alfred brought him here this morning. His mother and father have closed their home and gone to Budapest, and we think it will be better if he stays in the country with us for a little while.”

For the first time in his life Gizi seemed a stranger to him. Always, no matter what their domestic circumstances, they had been, before anything else, brother and sister, Zsigmond and Gizelli Ferenc. This afternoon she was no longer Gizi Ferenc. She was a Racs-Rassay, wife of Alfred and kinswoman to the emaciated young captain of hussars. He was angry with Gizi. She should have understood more than anyone else. She should never have allowed Alfred to bring him here.

Amalia was sitting close to Karoly. Their hands were unashamedly linked and no one, except Zsigmond, seemed to notice. His anger grew more intense. How dare they flout his authority in this manner! How dare Gizi bring the young man here, and how dare he sit blatantly holding Amalia’s hand! A pounding began behind his eyes, a cold white fury that he only just managed to control.

“We have letters from Felix and Adam Kaldy,” Mama was saying brightly to Karoly. “Felix is in Budapest, but Adam—ah! I remember, he said that you and he had met.”

“We have met,” he answered; then he looked straight across the veranda into Papa’s eyes. “When I am better I shall come and talk with you,” he said.

Zsigmond Ferenc felt his anger drain away. He was shocked at the contempt in the young man’s voice. No, it was not even contempt, it was... indifference. Karoly Vilaghy was not afraid of him, not even bothered by what he might do to Amalia.

“I must get things finally settled before I go back to the front,” Karoly continued tiredly. There was a pause in the forced chatter around them; for so long they had talked and thought about the war and the front. They had bought war bonds and the women had knitted socks and comforters and had raised money in all kinds of ways to help the soldiers. But they had, none of them, understood what it was like, realized what was happening to the brave young men they had cheered through the streets a year ago. And now Karoly had returned to them, a cruel and tangible product of a year of war, a horrifying figure with gaunt features and greying hair, unable to walk or speak for any time without exhausting his lungs. His very presence was an uncomfortable reminder of their easy lives—oh, yes, they complained about the ersatz coffee and the meat queues in the town; they grumbled about losing their peasants and servants and horses to the army—but when they looked at each other, and then at Karoly, it was as though death were sitting in their midst.

There was the medal ribbon on the young man’s coat; why did it bother Zsigmond so much? And the blue eyes that looked at him and dismissed him as just another unimportant, harmless child who liked to play at dramatizing life—a child who grew angry and shouted and locked people in their rooms, but who still was only a child and not an adult. Karoly had fought with adults. When they grew angry they killed one another.