Love and Treasure (43 page)

Oh, my sweet girl, defusing the tension so elegantly!

“I think it’s time for a toast,” I said, raising my glass.

The S. brothers looked astonished, but politeness demanded they respond by lifting theirs.

“To the milliners of Budapest!” I said. “Long may they prosper!”

“To the milliners!” the guests around the table replied. And then the cook arrived with the soup.

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38
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I ASSUMED THAT IN
the wake of the unpleasantness at the dinner party Nina and I would have much about which to speak. Certainly I was eager to discover what her reaction was to her father’s rage, whether, for example, it had elicited any physical symptoms or sensations.

Nina’s outburst had inspired discord in my own home, and not of the sort that could be resolved by the indulgent purchase of a new hat, no matter how ostentatious. Late that evening, Erzsébet had knocked on our bedroom door. In her white cotton nightdress and plaits she looked much as she had as a little girl, and I grew misty recalling how she would nestle her soft head against my shoulder, her hair fragrant of lavender soap, and listen to me as I read her a good-night story. Now, however, my daughter’s cheerful round face was unusually grave, and she begged our permission to speak. We granted it, of course, and she confessed that the source of her objection to András Nordau was not the dampness of his lips, nor his large feet (something about which she’d recently begun to complain), but something far more serious.

“What is it?” my wife asked, her frustration with our normally compliant daughter obvious in her tone.

With tears in her eyes Erzsébet explained that András was a fine young man, very nice. Even attractive. The problem was that she was in love with someone else.

“In love? Don’t be ridiculous,” my wife said.

“With whom?” I asked, seeking to maintain equilibrium despite my astonishment.

The young man in question was someone we knew well, the son of a distant cousin of mine who lived by coincidence in our very building. My relative owned a publishing house, and though not wealthy was a respectable man. Despite being something of a freethinker, he was moderate in disposition and in politics, and by every indication his son had followed in his footsteps both professionally and temperamentally. The young man was, in short, a perfectly acceptable match for Erzsébet, but for the fact that we had already decided on another. And, more important,
but for the fact that his mother was a Protestant. No. I am not being fair to the woman in question. My relative’s wife had converted to Judaism in order to marry her husband, and was by all accounts a dutiful Jewish wife. However, though by inclination and background I am firmly of the Neologue tradition of faith, my dear wife comes from an Orthodox family, and though she herself has rejected those constraints and, on the rare occasions when she attends synagogue, is far more comfortable in our congregation than in the one in which she was raised, the thought of her daughter marrying someone her parents would not have even considered Jewish was impossible to contemplate.

Suffice it to say that the result of Erzsébet’s confession was more tears, and my wife’s demand that our daughter never lay eyes on the young man in question ever again. I wisely kept to myself the observation that given that we lived in the same building, that was a feat not even my accomplished spouse could engineer.

Though I would not have confided my own family troubles in Nina, I was not even permitted to inquire into the ramifications of her outburst in her own home. She arrived for her appointment on time, but she did not sit down. She stood in the middle of my consulting room, forcing me to keep to my feet as well. She held her fine kid gloves in her hands, twisting them with a ferocity that caused me to wince.

“I cannot stay, Dr. Zobel,” she said.

“Have you another commitment?” I picked up my leather appointment book and leafed through it. “Shall we reschedule for later in the day, or simply resume tomorrow at our usual time?”

“No, sir.”

“Dear girl. There can be no formality between us. Clearly you have something to say. Speak up.”

“I can’t see you anymore.”

“Has your father forbidden it?”

“No. Though I imagine that if I’d seen him he might have done. My father is a man who likes to apportion blame, and I’m sure he’ll levy some on you.”

“You haven’t seen him since our dinner? That was two days ago.”

“I haven’t been home.”

I was astonished and horrified at the thought of a young girl, the age of my own daughters, absent from her home for so long. “Nina! Where are you staying? With whom? This is very grave news. Very grave indeed.”

“Don’t be concerned, Doctor. I am safe and well. I’m staying with Miss Weisz. She rents a room from a relative in Király Street.”

I grimaced at the thought of this lovely and gracious young lady living on a street populated by laborers and tradesmen of the lowest kind. “Do your parents know where you are?”

“No, and I hope you won’t tell them. I have had no choice but to cut ties with my parents.”

“Nina! Sit. Please. You are in need of counsel, surely you realize that. A girl of your age cannot simply ‘cut ties’ with her parents. I am confident that nothing you have done is irrevocable. There is still time for you to go home.” I fervently hoped that this was true.

“I will not go home, Dr. Zobel.”

“Are you afraid, dear girl? You mustn’t be. Your father was deeply angry, true, but by now his rage will have calmed. I will go with you to ensure your safety.”

“You miss my meaning, sir. I am not afraid to go home. I simply won’t. Things have progressed beyond that now.”

Chill dread crept up my spine. What had she done? “Is there someone else staying with you? A man? Dear God, Nina, have you moved in with that young radical, what was his name? Endre?”

“What must you think of me, Dr. Zobel, to ask such a question? I told you, I am staying with my friend.”

“Then what are the ‘things’ you speak about? What has ‘progressed’?”

Nina extended her hand to me. “Thank you, Dr. Zobel, for your company and counsel over these past few months. I can’t say that you’ve cured me of my menstrual cramps, but I have found our sessions interesting nonetheless. I shall remember them and you with fondness.”

“What in heaven’s name are you about, girl, with these valedictory speeches? What are you planning?”

But she left without another word.

I did not know what to do. As a father, I felt strongly that the appropriate action was to go to Nina’s parents and inform them of her whereabouts. At the time I had no idea of the extent of her peril; I worried only that she and Miss Weisz were planning to run away, to Vienna perhaps, or even to Paris. Were I merely a family friend I would have considered it my duty to rush to her father. But I was also Nina’s physician, and as her physician I owed her a certain duty of confidentiality. I wasted precious minutes wondering about the extent of this duty. Were I to have discovered during an examination, for example, that Nina suffered from a fatal
disease, I would immediately have told her parents, even if I deemed it unwise to tell the patient herself. Did this rise to that level? Was her peril sufficient to justify becoming an informant? Surely her parents knew her well enough to look for her first at the home of Miss Weisz. A moment’s thought would be sufficient to reach the conclusion that that was where she was likely to be. I tried to reassure myself that they knew of her whereabouts and had chosen, for the moment, at least, to allow her to remain there unmolested.

But what if they had been turned away by Miss Weisz? What if the dwarf had convinced them that Nina was not with her? I could only imagine my own wife’s reaction under such circumstances. She would be beside herself with anxiety and fear.

So why was I hesitating? I determined to look unflinchingly at my motivations. Was it the patient herself who inspired my inclination to confidence? Did I seek to protect her from her father’s wrath for her sake, or for my own? Did I fear her anger if she found out that it was I who informed them? Had I stopped being an observer and wise counselor and become something else in my own heart, if not in hers? Had I lost control of my countertransference, succumbed to my emotions? Did I desire that beautiful young girl?

No! No! Nina was my patient, a hysteric who was incapable of making wise decisions. The voice within me that argued in favor of her stability, her sanity, her right to do and go where she wished, was nothing more than an expression of my failure as a psychoanalyst, my refusal to recognize and wrestle with my countertransference. I had no choice but to go to her father.

And so I rushed to the S. apartment on Andrássy Avenue, where I left a note for Mr. S. with the maid, informing him of Nina’s whereabouts. My responsibility carried out, and my conscience assuaged, I went back to work, though I fear I did not bring my best attention to the rest of my patients. It was difficult to ignore the foolish sensation that I had committed an unforgivable betrayal.

•
39
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WHEN I NEXT SAW
Nina S., she came to me in a storm of tears, her life in tatters and her future likely destroyed. Though my own agitation and anxiety during that period cloud my memory of the events, I will do my best to re-create them as she recounted them to me, and also as I read about them in the newspapers. Since that terrible week, I have had opportunities to discuss what transpired with a few of the players, including Gizella Weisz, whom I had the pleasure (and relief) of encountering a number of years later, at Bad Gastein in Austria, where I had repaired to take the waters and where she and the other members of her talented family of singers had been engaged to perform. More immediately to the events I describe, I spoke at length with Ignác E., who sought me out to beg my discretion in the matter. Though it is routine practice to change the names and identifying features of patients in published case studies, in this case because of the infamy of the incident and the particular characteristics of the actors (an anarchist dwarf!) mere anonymity might not have sufficiently protected the identity of Nina and her family. It was out of respect for his wishes that I refrained from publication until now, more than a decade after the events transpired, when the changes in our government are such that no harm can come to any of the participants, even if someone should trouble to discover who they were.

The reader will forgive me, yet again, for describing the incidents as though I were myself present. My temerity is understandable, I think, because of the intimate knowledge I possess, both of the events and of the psyche and character of the major player herself.

My supposition that my message to Mr. S. would result in Nina’s immediate return to the bosom of her family was incorrect. On the contrary, I fear my betrayal of her confidence resulted only in forcing her into the arms of the people who would be her undoing. Though I believe the events of July 1913 must have been in the planning stages for some time before Nina made her escape, I have often over the years wondered if I unwittingly set in motion Nina’s catastrophe. Had I remained silent,
might she have chosen in the end not to involve herself in such radical and foolhardy action?

I cannot know. All I do know for certain is that when Mr. S. went to Miss Weisz’s lodgings to demand his daughter’s immediate return, he was not permitted to enter. He might have forced his way in, but for the menacing brawn of the concierge’s son. Mr. S. went immediately to the police and returned not an hour later, this time accompanied by two armed constables, but by then the two girls had fled the premises, leaving behind no clue to the location of their next refuge. It is possible that even they did not know where they would be going after quitting the establishment.

Mr. S. sought the arrest of both the concierge and her son, on grounds of interference with a father’s legitimate authority over his daughter, but the constables found convincing the woman’s pleas. How was she to know that Mr. S. was in fact the girl’s father, and not an angry suitor posing as such? Or worse! After all, the man was unfamiliar to her, and as the girl had given her name as Maria Horváth, they did not share a surname. Moreover, the landlady told the constables, they looked nothing alike. Mr. S. was a swarthy man, obviously of the Hebrew persuasion. It had seemed impossible to her that the pretty blond Maria was a Jew.

“ ‘White slaver,’ that’s what I thought,” the woman said. “And why wouldn’t I? After all, that’s what so many of their kind get up to, isn’t it? I’ll not be blamed for trying to protect a good Hungarian girl from the likes of him.” She stuck a derogatory thumb in Mr. S.’s direction.

To Mr. S.’s fury, the constables nodded sagely, blowing air through their brush mustaches. “She’s got a point, sir,” one said.

The other chimed in, “She was only trying to protect your daughter. You like as owe her thanks, if you think about it.”

“Thanks?” Mr. S. fumed. “Thanks? To the woman who kept my daughter from me, who has sent her on to who knows where?”

“Now I won’t take that for a minute,” the lady said. “I didn’t send her no place. She went on her own, her and sweet little Gizella.” To the constables she said, “The darling little one I’ll miss for sure. Wee thing, no bigger than a baby, with the most astonishing head of hair. Nearly down to her knees! She used to let me comb walnut oil into it, just like I do to my own. She’d sit on a little stool and I’d smooth the oil through her hair and she’d tell me stories of her family, all of them itty-bitty dwarfs like herself. Oh I will miss her. I surely will.” She glared at Mr. S. She would
neither forget nor forgive that it was because of him that she’d lost her sweet little Gizella.

Mr. S. reported the egregious behavior of the constables to an acquaintance in the office of the mayor, but no action was taken against them, either because the man’s position was not as glorious as he had led his friend to believe, or because the constables’ superiors felt as their underlings had, that the actions of the concierge and her son, while unfortunate and ultimately mistaken, were understandable. After all, she’d spoken no more than the truth. The conspicuous role of Jewish brothel keepers and procurers in prostitution in central and eastern Europe in the late nineteenth century has long been a source for much anti-Semitic rhetoric.