Gratitude (51 page)

“I saw a nightingale outside the window this afternoon,” Paul said. “
Heard
it, and then
saw
it in the elm when I stepped out on that grand balcony of yours.”

“I’m delighted for you,” his Uncle Robert said.

“Yes, the song was unmistakable. I was treated to a full concert before the little soprano flew off. It was a bird not made for our time and place, it seems—like something out of time. I remembered the poem by John Keats, his ‘Ode to a Nightingale,’ and I was thrilled to find it on your shelf, Uncle Robert. You didn’t have the Hungarian edition, but I found the original English. Do you remember it, all of you?—any of you? Do you remember the stanza late in the poem?” Lili stopped what she was doing but stayed on her feet. Paul recited the lines:

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

No one spoke at first. Paul said quietly, “The gramophone is gone. Poetry is the next best thing.”

Robert said, “Do you think it appropriate to recite English poetry in this company at this moment?”

Simon was mortified. He found himself pausing even in his chewing. Lili sat down beside him. Klari said, “I think the words sounded lovely, like music—just as you said. The poem has the lilt of our own Petofi.”

Robert began to say, “We’ve been through a bad time, but—”

“We’re not through the bad time quite yet,” Paul said. “The Soviets took Raoul Wallenberg and never returned him to us or to Sweden.
Raoul Wallenberg
.”

“I know they did,” Robert said. “He was the greatest of men. I’ve met no one greater, and it’s a terrible shame. But the rest of the world and you have not been able to ascertain what happened to him.”

“No, I haven’t, but his driver, Vilmos Langfelder, was found dead. What does that tell you about the Soviets?”

“It tells me we have lives to get back to. The Russians are not sending us off to gas chambers and camps.”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean
not yet
? No, not yet, correct. And we’re getting things back together again. We’re starting.”

“Uncle Robert, the Soviets liberated Hungary and never left. Hitler put in a puppet government here, and now that government is controlled by our liberators. Does that sit right with you?”

“They’re not killing us, most of us.”

“No, they’re less systematic. They kill randomly—some Jewish Hungarians, some Catholic Hungarians, some Swedes, anyone who gets in the way. Stalin beat Hitler in the east as only Stalin could. He knew his type best. And Stalin’s here now, in spirit. He’s hovering, he’s
looming
.” Paul raised his hands in the air and wiggled his long fingers, as if he were describing a great monster.

Robert sighed. Several minutes passed before anyone was ready to resume the conversation. The Becks ate. Simon finally said, “We had a little incident today.”

“Oh?” Klari asked.

“Yes, Lili felt unwell.”

“In what way?” said Robert right away.

Lili said, “Oh, it was nothing. I felt a little light-headed, that was all—and just for a minute.”

“You’re pregnant,” Robert said. “Every spell counts. You shouldn’t be working anymore.”

Then Robert set down his knife and fork, glanced at Rozsi, then aimed his gaze at Paul. He said, “I’d like you to go on work detail tomorrow. Our city lies in ruins, and my son and his bride go out every morning to help clean up the rubble, put everything back together, and Lili is pregnant.”

Now Paul set down his cutlery and wiped his mouth with his linen napkin.

Robert said again, “I’d like you, Paul, and your sister to go out on work detail tomorrow.”

Paul looked straight back into his uncle’s eyes. He said, “What if we refuse?”

Robert answered, “Well, then, you should leave this house.”

Klari stood straight up out of her chair. “Robert—”

“Stop,” he said. He held up a flat hand.

Klari sat again. It was Paul who got to his feet next. “Thank you for dinner, Aunt Klari, Uncle Robert,” he said, then withdrew to the study.

To everyone’s surprise, Rozsi got to her feet, too. “Look, I found nylon stockings,” she said, walking out to the centre of the room and spinning on a heel for all to see. “This nasty time without stockings has been a terrible deprivation.” They all watched her intently. Rozsi had used an eyebrow pencil to draw a line down the back of her bare legs. In the dim light, they really did look like stockings.

Later, Lili helped Rozsi into her nightgown and got on her own. She then set out a glass of water for Rozsi, shook out a single pill from the bottle, out of which Rozsi invariably took a second and even sometimes a third, lay a wintergreen mint beside it, because Rozsi had said the pills were bitter, and lit her candle in the window.

As Rozsi brushed her hair, Lili told her things would be all right. “I
like
the work. I
like
rebuilding things,” she said. Lili then said, “I’ll be right back,” and she slipped off to Simon’s room to say good night to him.

She stayed in her husband’s room longer than she expected and then fell asleep at his side. It was not the first time. She slept until she was woken by a thump, not a particularly loud one, but it gave her an uneasy feeling. She thought it might have been the front door.

She crept out to the corridor, into the sitting room, and then saw that the door to the study was ajar. She peered in, then entered the room.

A moment later, she was at Simon’s side again. “Paul is gone,” she said. “He’s taken his things. He’s
gone
.”

Simon ran to the study while Lili went to check on Rozsi. When she entered her room, she was relieved to see Rozsi sleeping peacefully on the bed. The candle sputtered in the window. She turned to the little round night table. The water glass had been drained, the wintergreen mint was gone, and the pill bottle sat on a note.

“Rozsi,” Lili said, but Rozsi didn’t move. “Rozsi,” she said more insistently, but then she turned to the night table again.

She lifted the small brown medicine bottle to the dim light and saw that it contained a single pill. She shook it to confirm her finding. She switched on the light, snatched up the note and read it.

Dearest Lili,

Sorry about the mess. I couldn’t go with Paul. I’ve left you a little something to help you sleep.

I love

Thirty-Seven

Budapest – March 27, 1946

THE FACT
that Paul didn’t turn up at his sister’s funeral could only have meant that he hadn’t known her intentions the night before. Klari wouldn’t let anyone tell Istvan and Marta. They had a small son. They’d suffered enough. They all had. She would find the appropriate time to tell them in person.

Within an hour of the service, she and Robert, Lili and Simon became a pack of hunters. They searched for Paul like the very oppressors they’d learned to evade. They telegraphed Hermina in Paris and Anna in Debrecen, only to alarm them. They did succeed, though, in enlisting their services in the search. Simon and Lili visited Paul’s old law office, now defunct, to search for evidence of a visit from Paul, but they found none. The rabbi who’d married Simon and Lili and had just buried Rozsi helped spread the word, but no one had seen Paul. Robert contacted Andras Gaal, an official in the mayor’s office, another man he’d treated in his clinic, to find out if Paul had been issued an exit visa, but the man found no record of one. Was he travelling as a Swedish diplomat? Was that it?

The first glimmer came from Istvan. His telegram read, “
Stop looking for Paul
.” Just four words, no more. Not even “
love
.” Even Rozsi had found a place for that in her note.

The very next morning, Robert and Klari travelled by train to Szeged, almost without exchanging a word, but without shutting their eyes either. A single weary tear rolled down Klari’s cheek, and Robert watched its progress intently, waiting for it to let go.

Stop looking for Paul
.

Was it a command? A request? The bloodless piece of paper contained no clue. Had Paul helped compose the message?

The spring windows beamed with promise. Though they’d passed through a cold snap, the first fruit bulged with life. Horses pranced in the fields as if they’d never known a rider. For a giddy moment, Klari imagined that a nest of love awaited them in Szeged, that a young woman, possibly Zsuzsi, would be there with Paul, Marta and Istvan, that Zoli would be awaiting his Rozsi, and that Rozsi herself would rise again. She pictured her cousin Alexander, just arrived from his London Films, the only one who could turn such a dream into reality, or his kind of reality, at least, sometimes the only kind that counted.

She’d in fact contacted her cousin Sanyi—her Alexander—in England to ask if any of their people had turned up magically in England, and could he look up a family of Bandels from the Carpathian region, and a Zoltan Mak, a fine photographer. Did the agencies know of any of them, and could they locate them? Sanyi answered right away that he was relieved to learn Hermina had survived but was dismayed to hear of Etel, Bela, Janos and the many others Klari had asked about.

A taxi dropped Klari and Robert in front of Marta and Istvan’s quaint little home in Tower Town. Though it sat in the shadow of taller buildings, it was a bright and stalwart place.

Istvan met his uncle and aunt and tenderly hugged Klari, closing his eyes, clutching her. Istvan still seemed gaunt and aged to her. She could feel the bars of his ribs against her own. Istvan would merely have shaken his uncle’s hand normally, but circumstance compelled the men to embrace.

Just behind Istvan, stepping out of the shadow of the little place and into the spring light, was Marta, holding a baby boy just as striking as herself, with black curls and brown eyes as warm as his mother’s.

“How old is he?” Klari asked, running her fingers through the boy’s hair. The boy watched the fingers as they withdrew.

“He’s seven and a half months,” Marta said, bless her heart, “almost eight.”

“Heavens,” Klari said. “And another one on the way?”

Marta smiled. Istvan stood with his hands on his hips, still commanding the door, commanding the little house. Then he said, “Come in, please.”

As they entered, they continued to gaze at the infant. “Does he look like you?” Klari asked her nephew.

“If he does, then he’s mine,” Istvan said.

The visitors smiled. Could he be serious?

The boy’s hair was not baby hair. It was prematurely thick and blue-black. How did such a young boy grow such locks? Even ravens started out covered in down.

“Did you name the boy Heinrich?” Klari asked, good-naturedly.

“No,” Istvan said, but didn’t explain. “We named the boy Janos, after someone we knew.”

“Oh,” Robert said, taking a seat. Istvan sat too.

They all sat, Marta on the floor with her son between her legs. The child bobbed drunkenly, then hunched over to try to take his mother’s shoelace into his mouth.

“May I get you some tea and cake?” Marta asked. “I’ve made a cherry cake.”

“Well,” Robert said.

“Thank you,” Klari said, “but we’re not hungry yet.”

Robert looked crossly at his wife. Her look urged him on:
You must tell them before we eat
.

“Your sister,” Robert said, but then hesitated.

“Rozsi?”

“Rozsi couldn’t bear to go on,” Klari said.

Marta gasped. She looked at her husband to see whether she’d understood correctly.

“Foolish girl,” Istvan said.

“She was in despair,” Klari said. “In the end, we couldn’t reach her.”

Marta studied Klari’s face, then rose to join her husband. She handed Istvan the baby, then kissed her husband on the head. He sorted out little Janos and bounced the boy on his knee.

Then Istvan burst into tears. Marta kissed him again on the head, took the child back, kissed Istvan’s wet cheek, and moved aside so Istvan could have a moment with his aunt and uncle. When they separated, even Robert had a tear in his eye.

Marta said, “Let’s have the tea and cake. It’ll make us feel a little better at a time like this.”

“Yes, the cake,” Istvan said, distractedly. “My Marta makes the very best cherry cake.” He was still crying.

The moment Marta left for the kitchen, the boy joined his father by crying, too, though she was still in plain view. They moved to the kitchen table, to follow Marta and to calm the boy, and soon they were drinking tea and eating cake, showing their approval and gratitude. Marta stood beside them, bouncing little Janos in her arms. When he grew still more restless, she turned away to give the child her breast. He took to it hungrily, and he hummed.

Robert set down his fork and asked, “What’s become of Paul? Please tell me.”

“I don’t know,” Istvan said.

“But he was here,” Klari said.

“Yes, he was here.”

Marta glanced over her shoulder to see what her husband would say.

Robert asked, “What did he say? Where did he go?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Please, Istvankam,” Klari said. “Please don’t torture us; we’re getting old. We came all this way to find him.” He looked sharply at her. “And to see you again, of course. I didn’t mean—I mean, we’re so glad to see you and your little family. What a dear your wife is, and the lovely boy—”

“Paul didn’t tell me,” Istvan said. “He went to America—the Americas.”

“The
Americas
?” Robert repeated.

Istvan nodded.

“North or South?” Robert asked.

“One or the other.”

Robert jumped to his feet. “The Russians are looking for him. They came by my office.”

“I know. They came by here, too. And Paul showed up an hour later. I told him they’d been here and hid him in the cellar, under those floorboards, but he didn’t stay there long.”

“What did you tell the Russians?”

“I told them Paul lived with you. I also said we were not the enemy. I told them my father was the first resister in this country, and he died for it. The records speak for themselves. He was on Russia’s side, in fact, before Russia knew it and long before the Russians arrived.”

“And then?”

“Then they left, and Paul left too, not long after.”

“Please tell us something more,” Klari said.

“He’s out of the country already. He mentioned Philadelphia and Argentina.”

“Did he mention Siberia?”

“Not to me.”

“How can you treat us this way?” Robert said. “We’re your family. And you and I have always been close.”

It was true. Istvan had often felt more at ease with his uncle than with his father. He said gently, “I’m not treating you in any way. I told you, Paul didn’t say. Maybe he himself didn’t
know
what lay ahead. He said it was time for him to make a move. But he didn’t say where. Maybe he foresaw this meeting.”

They sat a long time in silence as if waiting for the baby to finish his meal. He had drifted away to sleep, so Marta carried him to the bedroom.

“May I look through the famous floorboards?” Klari asked. Istvan rose to lift them. “Goodness,” she said, as she joined him to look into the hole. She was a little frightened.

Robert stayed sitting. Istvan and Klari soon rejoined Robert, and Klari patted her husband’s hand.

“What a place to have to hole up,” she said. “How dingy.” She was wiping her hands together, though she hadn’t touched anything. “How could you stand it—and for all those months?”

Istvan couldn’t answer. He no longer knew how it had been possible, what had sustained him. He finally said, “It’s difficult to keep out of the way of someone trying to prevail so completely.”

“Especially if he’s trying to prevail over you,” Klari said.

KLARI AND ROBERT STAYED
in the Felix Mendelssohn Hotel, overlooking the square of that name, even though Marta had been willing to give them her own bed. “It’s not that big a sacrifice,” she’d said. “It would be a pleasure.”

“You come to Budapest,” Klari said. “Come stay with us. Come for a long visit.”

Before they entered the hotel, Klari and Robert turned to look at the small square. They saw the pedestal on which the statue of the composer once stood, and Robert looked at the trees around it and up at the lampposts.

“Oh,” was all Klari could say, and she put her hand over her mouth.

“Let’s go inside,” Robert said.

In the lobby of the Mendelssohn, across the expanse of green marble, Robert was sure he saw Paul. He rushed at the tall thin man with curly red hair, almost skidding to a stop when he reached him. Then the man turned around. He was holding a violin and was getting set to play in the hotel’s Felix Café.

The musical motif was apparent in the lobby, which featured white marble busts of the great composers, in the hallways, which contained ancient musical instruments housed in glass cases, and even in the rooms. Above Robert and Klari’s bed hung a picture of restless music, its notes crossed out and reconceived.

The picture caused Robert to have a fitful night. In their big comfortable bed, Klari felt her husband shifting, pulling on the blankets, sighing and shaking his feet as if trying to jiggle himself to sleep.

They ate breakfast in the Midsummer Night’s Dream Café, opposite the Felix, and Robert wanted to leave even before Klari had finished the last spoonful of her compote.

Outside, he would not wait for a proper cab but asked the concierge to fetch the horse-drawn carriage stopped across the cobblestone square. “Ask the driver, please, if he can take us to the train.”

“Robikam,” Klari said, “we have lots of time.”

“I don’t want to wait here, my dear. I need to go. I need to move.”

And so the horse clopped along the boulevard in the direction of the station, but two blocks before the building the horse halted, and no one could understand why. There was nothing in his way. His master spoke gently to him, but he snorted and stood still. Cars whooshed by them, cabs by the dozens. The horse held his ground. The driver climbed down to talk to his horse. He spoke as though they were old mates in a campaign together, and the horse nodded as if he agreed, but then he turned his head away from the man to observe a vacant lot adjoining some townhouses.

“Mule,” the driver said. “
Mule
.”

Robert himself snorted and rolled his eyes. “Let’s go,” he said to his wife. “We can walk the rest of the way. I’ll carry our bag.”

“Darling, please calm down. Our train doesn’t leave for hours yet.”

He didn’t answer, just reached into the back to pull out their bag. The driver rushed to help, would not accept money, even when Robert insisted.

On the train back to Budapest, they sat alone in a compartment, but on the same side this time, rather than opposite each other. Again they were quiet. Klari held her husband’s hand.

Finally, he said, “I do what I can.”

“Of course you do.”

“I did what I could.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I did something for Paul, too.”

“Of course you did. You did things for each other.” He looked out the window, then his eyes met hers. “It was an evil thing I did.”

“It was not evil,” his wife said, “just a mistake.”

“An evil mistake.”

She patted his warm, dry hand, rubbed and patted it. Before long, they were in the spring country north of Szeged. Blond heaven looked in on them through the window. They saw a young couple lying under an oak in the field to the east.

“Maybe it
was
a mule,” Robert said and smiled at his wife. She smiled back, just as he drifted off to sleep.