Triptych (17 page)

They were within blocks of Péterfy Sándor utca Hospital, picking their way through the broken glass and rubble along Rákóczi ut, when Évike experienced an unfamiliar but thankfully pleasant spectacle. A convoy of old farm carts, laden with milk, chickens, meat, and vegetables was moving slowly through the destruction. Évike's mother started a conversation with a peasant walking alongside his cart, holding his nag's bridle, while his sturdy wife, in kerchief and heavy overcoat, flicked the reins, encouraging the obviously overtaxed beast.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“My wife and I came to the city with provisions for the needy. We were directed to join this caravan going to a hospital.”

“Péterfy Sándor utca hospital,” the wife said from the seat of the cart.

Évike stared at the elderly woman, enchanted. There was nothing special about her plain round face, yet Évike recognized beauty. It deepened as she smiled broadly at Évike, displaying a gumline absent four top teeth. Could loveliness be born of goodness?

“Imagine,” Évike's mother said as they began walking again. “People giving away their goods, looking after one another. New beginnings after so much sorrow, so much blood.”

“Yes, Mother. Now if we can just find Dóra and Dórika. And Papa—” Évike's voice caught. “I miss them so much.”

“I know, darling,” the mother said. “And we're nearly at the hospital. Let's stay with the carts shall we? We'll pretend it's a national holiday, we're following a parade.”

At the intersection, the procession slowed as the carts maneuvered around a barricade to turn the corner. Évike and her mother had been strolling on the sidewalk. But now their path was obstructed by a breadline stretching for blocks ahead, as far as Évike could see. Stepping off the curb with her mother to skirt around the deep column, Évike passed old bent grandmothers carrying string bags, their heads shrouded in black kerchiefs, standing in the cold. Since so many shops had been wrecked by shellfire, supplies had been channeled into designated State shops and markets. This meant queuing for hours to buy food. Still, she noted the conversation was lively and most appeared remarkably patient and good-natured.

An open truck bed packed with rebels waving pistols and rifles careened into the intersection. “AVO…Republic Square!” one of them shouted.

Évike's heart sank watching the truck weave madly around the carts, bypassing the barricade before turning the corner, heading in the opposite direction away from the caravan.

“I am surprised that has not been settled by now,” a woman in line was saying. “I was there hours ago, at the State-run Kozert shop, where we get our meat, when there is meat to be had.” She craned her neck as if to gauge her position in the seemingly endless queue, then looked forlornly down at her bag. “Just one pork chop today. And I was in front.”

Évike and her mother turned, listening intently as the woman—short and frail, with a sharp nose and chin—explained what had happened.

Shortly after nine a.m. a truck had driven up to the Greater Budapest Communist Party Headquarters at the end of Köztársaság tér, Republic Square. A delivery of meat—beef, sides of bacon, sausages, was hurriedly unloaded. Seeing this, the women in line began grumbling about the disparity.

“So you see, nothing has changed,” the woman added. She paused and looked around, suddenly aware of the audience she had drawn. She lowered her voice. “There is one way of life for Communist officials, another for the people.”

“The truck with rebels that just passed—” Évike's mother reminded her.

“Oh, yes. A band of freedom fighters was in the area. We called their attention to what was going on with the delivery truck. Like us, they were outraged.”

Évike's mother nodded knowingly. “They would be doubly motivated. Some freedom fighters arrested by AVO in the final days of fighting are believed to be inside the building.”

“In the underground cells,” someone nearby interjected softly.

Évike's mother had told her about the secret network of passages and prison cells beneath the Party headquarters building where hundreds of civilians and freedom fighters were being held captive. Afterwards, terrifying scenes of being imprisoned in one of the dingy, damp, dark cells, crawling with rats and spiders, had kept Évike up most of the night.

The sharp-featured woman nodded. “Yes. And two freedom fighters decided to go inside, demand to be told why the delivery had been made. They weren't gone long when there was an explosion. One fighter escaped but his friend did not.”

The rebel who got out reported they were met by men they immediately recognized as AVO. They'd shed their blue uniforms and were wearing suits but apparently had not been able to pilfer civilian shoes. Their AVO boots gave them away. A furious verbal exchange was punctuated by the detonation of a hand-grenade lobbed down the nearby stairwell by an AVO man.

The freedom fighters outside began calling for the return of their comrade. The mood turned ugly. He was not released and the insurgents began attacking the building. The AVO opened up with machine guns.

“More and more rebels arrived,” the woman continued. “Some on foot, some in trucks. I reached the counter inside the store at the same moment a Hungarian Army tank arrived. It was obviously manned by a freedom fighter. I could drive better than
that
commander.

“But he found his place. Directly in front of the building, his main gun aimed at the target.” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “The shelling began. I grabbed my pork chop. Here I am.”

Évike's mother was staring off in the distance as the woman finished. Évike already anticipated what she would say. Her stomach tightened hearing the words.

“Come, darling. We must go to Republic Square. Josef will want the report.”

“But mother, Dóra. Little Dórika…”

Hopeless. Her mother was already walking briskly in the direction of the square. It is not far; it won't take long. Évike ran to catch up.

Chapter Twelve

Chicago, 1986

“You told me he wouldn't be home,” I say accusingly upon my return from Gustav's.

Zsófi seems as surprised as I'd been. “I telephoned. He was going out. To the gallery.” Then, an expectant look, asking, “Did you make a date for the Art Institute?”

“No.” I take small pleasure in delaying my answer. “But he did invite me to stop by the cultural center tomorrow night. A private look at his show.”

It is enough for Zsófi. She whistled through the steady flow of customers and the unpacking and inventorying of a new shipment of books. Now, near closing time, I still hear her.

She wouldn't be so chirpy if she knew I'd passed up an offer to be his partner at the opening gala. When I'd hedged, he had suggested the informal advance viewing. A good compromise. No expectations or butterflies that went with a real date, plus another opportunity to exchange ideas on preserving ethnic heritages. Perhaps even question him further about the revolution photograph. Why had he been so guarded about it?

In the café nook, after double-checking to be sure the coffee pot is unplugged, I close the window shades and switch off the café's single light. The air feels toasty and close. Outside, it is in the nineties and sun had been beating through the café windows all the day. The shades should have been pulled earlier, but the store had been busy and I'd forgotten. Perspiration has pooled in my cleavage. Eva and I are having dinner together tonight. “Change clothes” gets added to my mental list of things to do before going out.

As I walk back into the main part of the store, frigid air blasts from the air conditioning unit high up on the wall.

“Zsófi, all this whistling. Are you really so anxious to be rid of me?”

She laughs. “Mariska and I, we are both happy you are here. It is a great help, but you are young. Single. You should not be cooped up with two old fowls like us.”

I frown. “You mean chickens? Two old chickens?” I laugh. “Two spring chicks is more like it. And this place—” I sweep my hand through the frosty air. “This is no coop. Not to me, never. Besides, it's only been four days.”

Zsófi is standing in front of the
Two Princesses
triptych. A portion of the first panel is visible over her shoulder. I zero in on the fair-haired damsel.

“He said my mother was beautiful.”

“Who? Gustav?”

I nod.

“Do you not agree?”

“I don't know. I was young. She was my mother.”

Zsófi does not reply right away. Above us, the steady hum of the air conditioner. “Your mother was a beautiful woman,” she says, her eyes trained on me. “A loyal friend with
arany szivu,
a heart of gold. Clever.”

I nod. So clever, I'm having trouble interpreting the deeper meaning—if there is one—in her work.

Zsófi gives my cheek an affectionate pat then walks to the thermostat near the end of the counter.

“Why are you so hyped on my going out with Gustav, anyway? Why not you?”

“We were in school together in Budapest,” she says, adjusting the dial. “I was ahead of him, in Kati's class, when he was just starting.” Her lips press into a line, fighting back a smile. “He was in short pants. I still remember.”

The air conditioner unit sputters, winds down, groans to a halt.

“Besides,” Zsófi says into the sudden quiet, “dating, it interests me no more. My life is here.” She throws out her arm in an expansive gesture, then nods to the ceiling. “With Mariska.”

Understandable. Zsófi's suffering at the hands of the bastards of the AVO has left her terribly wounded.

The shelves have all been straightened, but one volume on a freestanding bookcase near the counter has broken rank. She walks over and with a gentle shove, returns the rogue to the lineup.

“Gustav's a nice man,” she says. “Talented.”

“Can't argue with that.” I dig blindly for a negative. “Reminds me of my father.”

Zsófi sputters, unable to suppress a giggle. “With
that
build?”

I want to smile but it is impossible. The too-familiar specter of my father kneeling at my dead mother's side of the bed intercedes. My father's pain over my mother's death was unrelenting. Two years after her passing, shortly after my high school graduation, he too was gone.

“Do you really think it's possible to die of a broken heart, Zsófi? To love someone so much that you grieve yourself into ill health? Death?”

Zsófi's eyes soften. “I think so, yes. Last night, well, I could not speak of it. There is something else to tell. About my parents—”

Her father was at his wife's bedside when she passed. It was only then that Mrs. Ittzés revealed a hint of what had happened while she'd been held captive by the AVO, the words escaping between her dying breaths. “I made to stand, one foot, hours each day.”

“Have you tried this?” Zsófi asks. “I try. Just ten minutes and the pain it is unbearable.” She pauses. Her voice drops to a mere whisper. “My father, he say the look of terror on mother's face when she tell this, he never can forget. After, his will to live is gone. A man who never before has taken a drink, now he cannot stop. Then, January 1956, he die also. Maybe alcohol it played a part but, yes, his heart it was broke.”

Zsófi looks at me. “This I have learned about grief,” she says, measuring her words. “It never really goes away. It is like stone tossed into a pond. First, the waters they are very disturbed. Then, in time, they quiet again. But stone, it has dropped to the bottom. Always to be there. Part of the pond. Part of your life.” She sighs. “Sometimes, with some people, the stone it is so heavy, in the end it pulls them under.”

I enfold her in my arms. “Oh Zsófi, I'm sorry about your mother, your parents.”

“And I am sorry, too,” she says softly, “for the pieces gone from your heart.” A pause, then, “Ildikó, I am thinking Gustav he has not yet shared this. He lost loved ones also. A girlfriend. He blames himself.” Her voice is a bare whisper. “No monk, but he has guarded his heart ever since.”

Bells toll from the steeple of the Lutheran church down the street. The pealing bells strike for the fifth and final time.

The church bells have drowned out the door bells. Irina Marinova is in the store, walking toward us, the flared skirt of her dress swishing gracefully above her ankles. She is carrying a bulging mesh tote like a miniature fisherman's net.

We hug, exchanging greetings like it's been months and not just days.

“Here, let me take this,” I say relieving her of the brimming bag.

“Careful. I bring borscht. Sure to bring back strength. How is she?”

Irina's face is flushed from the heat. Her lower lip pushes out and she blows air upwards, trying to cool down. Her dark hair is smoothed into her usual bun. The exception: wisps of fine hairs along her forehead that dance in the rushing stream of air.

Zsófi and Irina kiss one another, first on one cheek then the other.

“Our Mariska is excellent. Already the picture of health even without your borscht,” Zsófi teases. “Would you like to go up?”

We have been expecting Irina. The threesome is having dinner together this evening, an occasion I would have enjoyed myself. But Zsófi had only announced the plan after I had committed to Eva.

Irina is pawing around in the side pocket of her shoulder bag. “Of course I am anxious to see Mariska, judge her well-being for myself—” She glances at Zsófi and grins, exposing her chipped front tooth. “But first…” She begins rummaging again. “Ildikó I bring something for you as well. From your library class. Ahhh…” A note emerges. “Here.”

I switch Irina's satchel to my other hand, take the lined school paper, ripped from a spiral notebook, its torn edges rough and curled.

I smile.
We miss you, teecher. Hurry home
. The simple message was written by Ioana, another of Irina's distant relatives, which is how it got into Irina's hand, but nearly the entire group has also added their signatures.

I am touched that they have thought to write to me. I ask Irina to let the ladies know I'll be back soon and that I miss them too.

“Would you like me to carry this upstairs for you?” I ask next.

She refuses and is already on the first step, Zsófi in the lead, when the doorbells jingle again.

This time it's Eva. She's wearing another white t-shirt with diPietro Studios across the front and beat up, frayed jeans. Yesterday Tibor and I had teased her about the wide metallic “Margit girdle” she'd worn. Today another belt with colored metal strips hammered into tan leather gives the oversized shirt some shape.

She takes a few steps inside. “Just popping by to let you know I'm running a little late. Need to shower and change.” Sensing a presence on the stairs, thinking it is probably Zsófi, Eva glances over with an expectant smile. Her smile fades.

She turns back to me. “Why don't you come to our place in a half hour? That okay? If I'm not ready, Mrs. B will happily keep you entertained.” She winks.

“Perfect,” I say. “I need to finish locking up anyway. I'm going to have to find something else to wear, too.”

“Keep the shawl.” She smiles and exits the store.

The door shuts. I turn toward the back, surprised to see that Irina hasn't moved; on her face a quizzical expression.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Oh nothing.” She turns to take the stairs. “Thought I recognized that woman.” She shakes her head. “Must be mistaken.”

***

Budapest, 30 October 1956

They emerged from a side street. Republic Square, the largest in Budapest, was directly ahead. A late fall scene of bushes, benches, skinny naked trees and grass, brown and indistinguishable from the dirt beneath.

The Party Headquarters Building was to their left. There was no sound of gunfire. Just shouting and yelling, intermittent agonized screams.

Two men began dragging something resembling a large sack of potatoes from the building toward the center of the square.

Her mother turned. Évike recoiled under her stern look. “You stay here. No, go over there, in that doorway.” She pointed to the stoop of one of the buildings directly behind them. “You'll be safe. I must find out what is going on. Josef will want to know…”

Évike clutched her mother's hand. “Please, I must to go with you. I'm afraid.”

Évike's mother held both her daughter's hands, looked her in the eye. “You are my
brave shadow
. I am very proud of you. Something important is going on. I need to go. But I need you to stay here. Wait for me.”

Her mother
proud
of her? Évike felt flattered. She also felt a wave of panic. She swallowed, nodded. “Okay. But you'll be quick?”

Évike clamped her arms across her middle watching her mother take off in a trot. She glanced over her shoulder at the abandoned building, the uninviting barren doorway.
Stay there by herself? Was it really safe? What about stray bullets?
She might be shot. Or, her mother might be shot. Draped over with a flag. Dusted with lime.

She turned back to the vast square. Her mother had disappeared.

Groups of men and women with rifles, some carrying the tricolor, were scattered throughout the park. Near the square's center, four tanks flying the Hungarian flags formed a line, their main guns directed at the four-storied headquarters building. It was quiet now. The occasional shout, but no screams.

Stand alone? Her mother asked too much of her. She started for the headquarters building where she thought her mother had been heading. Windows had been blown out. Large irregular holes peppered its facade. Évike ventured closer. Bodies on either side of the entrance lay sprawled among torn pages and documents that had been hurled down from the windows. Like snow angels in a field of white. Except they were no angels. They must be AVO.

The face of a woman on the ground near the building, her arms and legs contorted, head twisted at an odd angle, looked familiar. Curious, Évike stepped closer. Glazed brown eyes stared blankly at the sky.

Startled by a nasty laugh, Évike turned. She faced a grizzled old man with an angry pink scar that started above his temple, slashed down his cheek before curving, like the letter ‘J,' to hook the corner of his mouth.

“Tried to escape,” he said with a grin that puffed out the raw wound, threatening to burst the seam open. “Jumped.”

“Tormentors!” “Child killers!” “Beasts!”

The cries came from somewhere in the square. Évike ran toward the voices.
Mother, where are you?
She circled thirty or forty bodies lying almost in a line. Rebel fighters who'd tried to get inside, she guessed, avoiding looking at faces.

“Suffer like you made my poor Andras suffer!” “Butcher!” The voices again.

A clutch of people had gathered around a tree near the edge of the square. She approached and felt suddenly weak. An AVO man stood propped on a box. He had been strung by his neck and arms to a tree. His form was slumped and lifeless, his face bleeding so badly—the white matter,
cartilage
?—his features were unrecognizable.

On the ground, another man. His shirt was ripped into shreds. A document rested on his bloodied bare chest. A man in a long leather coat and newsboy's cap pointed at the dead AVO man and laughed sadistically. He began kicking the blood-splattered body. A woman behind him waited her turn. Steeping aside, the leather coated man stomped upon an AVO cap nearby. Another man urged the woman on. She kicked relentlessly.

Évike fled, running in what she thought was the direction of the abandoned building where she'd been told to wait. From the corner of her eye, she saw another angry mob near another tree. A woman leaned in to spit on a mangled corpse hung head down, his face and torso beaten and bloody.