Triptych (18 page)

Évike veered blindly away, only to nearly collide with another hanging corpse. This one had a gaping wound in his chest, as if someone had tried to cut his heart out. Blood was everywhere.

Bent forward, gagging, heaving, she tasted sour bile, spicy sausage, her sickness a gray-white chunky heap against brown.

Again Évike ran. Loud arguing. A familiar voice. She stopped.
Mother?

A captured woman, her face completely white, was being forced out of the Headquarters Building at gunpoint. The woman looked haggard, her lip was split open. She glanced left and right. Another woman—
the red hair? Dóra? Yes, Dóra!—
appeared from nowhere and pounded her with a broom. The captive recoiled, someone shoved her. She fell down and curled up into a ball. Dóra slammed the wooden end of thebroom over and over into the woman's back.

“Dóra!” Évike cried. “No-ooo….”

Someone behind Évike gripped her by the shoulders. Évike kicked, screamed.

“Stop!”

Mother?
Évike turned. Yes!

She threw her arms around her mother, burst into tears, wailed, “Mother…Dóra.…”

Her mother cradled Évike's head against her bosom. She whispered, stroking Évike's hair, “I know.” Évike quivered, tried to choke back her sobs. She drew in her mother's smell, pressed her skull into a bony chest. She longed to sink inside.

“The baby, D-Dórika, is dead.”

Évike's weeping stopped. Had she heard right?

Then, “Come, we should leave now.”

Évike's feet felt planted in the dirt. Her mother tugged her hand. “Come….”

A truck pulled out of an alleyway near them. It was the Army vehicle they'd seen earlier on Rákóczi ut. In back, three men and a woman in civilian clothes, a pile of pots and pans.

“No tricolor armbands,” the mother said, tentatively. “A-AVO?” She started to turn, Évike suspected to summon help.

The truck screeched to a halt. The passenger door flew open.

At first, Évike did not recognize the man who jumped out with a Tommy gun slung over his shoulder on a leather strap and four grenades dangling from his belt. He was coatless, and he was covered from head to foot in dust and grime.

Her mother cried, “Miklós!” at the same moment it registered with Évike. Her father! She thought she would burst from the joy and relief welling inside her.

Miklós hurriedly hugged his wife, then his daughter, before hustling them into the cab of the truck.

Évike sat squeezed in next to the heavyset driver. He shoved the gear stick and popped the clutch. They began moving even as her mother was still climbing in, saying, “But Miklós, in back. AVO?”

Miklós yanked the door shut. “One is AVO. The woman, who knows. But the other two men are rank-and-file conscripts.” He paused, then continued, a huskiness in his voice. “Franciska, if I had not been accepted to university I might have been one of them. And it would come to this. Forced outside to be shot, dragged, beaten by my countrymen.”

Franciska's hand reached for his knee, patted it gently.

Miklós' gaze shifted in the direction of the driver, shifted back. Then shifted again, alighting on Évike. “Franciska,” he said, his tone incredulous, as if he were only now aware of his daughter's presence. “What have you done? Why have you brought her
here
?”

“Where else?” she hissed. “She is our daughter.”

“Where else? You,
our
daughter…You must get out. Go to Vienna.”

Inside the cab it was suddenly very still. Nothing but the grinding of gears, the pulsing of the truck's engine.

Franciska stared at her husband. She spoke softly, almost comfortingly. “It will soon be over. The Soviet troops are leaving, the AVO—” her voice faltered, “—stubborn bastards, they are being weeded out. Nagy is negotiating….”

“
Negotiating?
” Miklós shook his head, emphasis to the bitterness in his tone. “A ruse, Franciska. To buy time to devise a return. This time with manpower and firepower to tear the heart out of Budapest. No, Franciska, it is already over. It is the end.”

The end? Could it be? They were freedom fighters. What was he saying? The end?

Évike looked at her mother, waiting for her to explode., to scream, “You are wrong. Not after what we have been through. All we have sacrificed. The people we have lost. Little Dórika.”

Instead, her mother spoke so softly Évike had to strain to hear her above the engine noise. “Miklós, how do you know this?”

Her father wiped a hand over his weary expression, then clutched his mouth. His hand fell away. “You must go.”

A wave of dread washed through Évike. She slipped her hand though her mother's and squeezed, meeting stiff, unyielding fingers.

“Never. I will not leave.”

Évike stared openly at her father, willing him to look at her. Because if he did so, he could not say what she feared was coming next.

His face. Such sadness, such anguish. But his eyes remained locked with her mother's. “Then we must make arrangements to have her taken out. Many of our comrades have already done this for their children.”

Taken out? Was she a puppy too difficult to manage? She had learned her lessons. Performed to their expectations…o
ut
performed. Yes, there was Gombóc, but she'd kept the incident to herself. They'd never know she'd had a moment of weakness. They shouldn't…couldn't…abandon her. Leave her on her own.

She was nearly speechless with terror. “B-but Papa. M-Mother…”

Évike's fingers had remained threaded within her mother's lifeless grip. Now the rigid fingers squeezed back. A chill raced up Évike's arm.

Her mother turned to her. “Be brave, my
kis
shadow. Your Papa is right. You must go. Do not worry. It will be all right. We will be coming to join you soon. Very soon. You will see.”

Évike knew what her mother knew. It would not be all right. It would
never
be all right.

Chapter Thirteen

Chicago, 1986

Eva has made reservations at a Czech restaurant I'm not familiar with, the Blue Rooster. When she mentions the name, I laugh, explaining how Zsófi had not wanted me to be cooped up with two old hens.

It is within walking distance. A whimsical rooster with a cockscomb of wild hair adorns the center of the ornately carved arched entry. Painted a striated dusty blue, he holds a bouquet of flowers in his beak in a welcoming gesture. Above the entrance, tall wood-framed windows are accented with flower boxes.

“It looks transported from Europe,” I say, delighted.

Eva tugs open the door. We cross a marble lobby and descend a short flight of stairs. Inside a small alcove, a maitre d' clad in an embroidered black vest and white peasant shirt mans the reservations desk.

In honor of the occasion, I had traded my short black number for a tiered black ruffle dress with spaghetti straps. Mariska's shawl is draped over my shoulders.

The maitre d' comes around the desk, none too subtly eyeballing Eva's evening wear: a floral print mini skirt and a strapless black bustier—less risqué than what Madonna might wear, but not by much.

Our host shows us down a short dimly lit corridor. We pass through velvet drapes into an intimate dining room, the suggestion of wild game, cabbage, and apple infusing the air. The
maitre d'
seats me first, giving me a chance to survey our surroundings while he guides Eva to her chair.

The candlelit room has a vaulted ceiling and walls playfully frescoed with giant flowers in muted tones, lush grapes on a tangle of vines, a satyr flashing a wicked grin. Very Bohemian. Eva was right, I think, leaning back in my chair, adjusting Mariska's shawl. The arty accessory suits the setting.

The pendant on her long necklace clinks against her plate as Eva takes her seat.

“Lovely,” I say, eyeing the scrolly ornament on the chain. It reminds me of the neckpiece worn by the Italian woman in Gustav's photograph. “Did you make it?”

“Yes, thanks. Tell me about your hand work.” She nods to the brightly-colored rings-within-rings design on the section of black silk resting on my shoulders. “Kandinsky?” she asks.

I laugh. “You and Iloana! That was her reaction, too.” I explain that Iloana is a member of my conversation group in Willow Grove. “They were flower clusters once, like these only bigger—” I lift an end of the shawl. “But the
Magyars
—” I scan the room, smile. “I guess Czechs too, tend to overdo the floral. So I decided to mix things up. Modernize. I picked the threads from the shoulder clusters then reworked them into rings. Not planned. It's just what happened…organically.”

“I like it,” Eva says. “Imaginative. Fresh. Good for you.”

I fling my hands in the air. “Hallelujah. Another vote for the ‘gets what I'm trying to do' side.” I look at her. “You're not shocked at being in the slight minority, are you?”

Eva's eyebrows arch as if to say,
so what's new
?

“Seriously,” she says. “Filter out the cynics. Keep going.”

“I have ideas for redoing a couple of my mother's embroidered pieces, but haven't gotten up the nerve yet. The notion is really over-the-top offensive to certain folks I know. Reinterpreting her vision, her story.
Tilos
. Forbidden.”

“Reinterpret your mother's story,” she repeats, thoughtfully. “Her suicide. Yes, I can understand wanting to rip out that memory.”

I blink. Eva does not mean to be insensitive. Her style is blunt like Vaclav's. “It wasn't suicide,” I say. “Didn't you hear? A witness came forward, said she saw someone push her.”

The dark shadow and bold slashes of liner lent drama to Eva's eyes even before the news. Now they resemble the wide-eyed expression of a hoot owl.

“Sorry, I-I didn't hear.” Eva is clearly shaken. “Art Institute. My time abroad.” She gathers herself, takes a breath. “Murdered? But why would anyone want to kill your mother, a minister's wife?”

I start to reply but our waiter announces his arrival with a cough. We order drinks—Eva, Pilsner; me, white wine. Before leaving, he recites the specials. Suddenly hungry, and happy to change subjects, we study our menus.

“It's tempting,” I say, trying to keep a straight face, “but I'm going to pass on the roast seasoned pig knee with horseradish and mustard. Opt for the more exotic hot salad of lemon sole with mustard-seed vinegar dressing. You?”

“Something light,” she retorts wryly. “Maybe the old Czech platter. Smoked meat, pork roast, sausage, dumplings, sour cabbage.”

Our drinks arrive. I order first, then Eva. “Roast sirloin stroganoff Prague-style,” she's decided.

We raise our glasses. “
Egészségére
, to your health!” Eva adds, “To free spirits.” I repeat the toast.

Eva sips her beer. “Did they know who might have done it?”

I taste my wine. “No. All these years, nothing.”

“Sorry…”

An uneasy silence follows. The wine is fruity and cold. On the wall opposite me is a playful fresco of a pair of lover-lions. The male lion wears a crown and holds his reclining female partner in an embrace between his paws. Her nipples are prominently displayed and she sports a white bow around her waist. They are lapping tongues, French kissing?

Eva notices where I am staring. “Painted by the restaurant's owners. Aren't they fun?”

I smile. “Yes, lover-ly. And how was your date with the baptismal font last night? Have you begun putting John the Baptist back together?”

“Not yet. But this—” She holds up the adornment. This time I can see it's actually an abstract heart made of oxidized wire. “It's the material I'll use in restoring the hand.”

I shift in my seat. “I know about Zsófi now. About what the AVO men did to her. So many horrific stories. Yours, too, Eva.” I hesitate. “Your parents died in '56. Were they freedom fighters?”

The rim of Eva's glass is at her lips. She swallows and beer goes down the wrong pipe. A coughing jag follows. Recovering, she holds a hand to her throat, blinks, sets down her glass. “My parents? No. The building collapsed.”

“I know. Sorry. So many people got caught up in the cause. I just thought maybe…”

“No,” she repeats. “My father was a singer. He performed at a small theater and on the radio. He was very popular. Then, for no reason, he was exiled to the country. He was there three years. He'd only been allowed to return to Budapest days before the uprising. Never would he risk getting involved in anything to call attention to himself. Discretion was the way for my mother as well.” Eva tastes her beer. A sad smile. “She was always home. Her pleasure, she always said, was looking after me.”

I finger the stem of my wineglass. “Were you, um, home when it happened?”

“No, at a friend's.” I look up. Eva smiles tentatively. “It was horrible, yes, and my heart broke to lose them. Someone above was looking out for me. The friend, a classmate…her sister was also in our school…her parents insisted I stay with them.” Eva smoothed the tablecloth with her hand. “Well, not
stay
exactly. They paid a guide and we escaped in the second wave, it would later be called. In our group, there was one girl, about my age. She was alone. Now
that
was horrible.”

“Alone?”

Eva nods, stares at the amber liquid in her glass. “She had a note pinned to her jacket: ‘Look after our Dórika—we stay to fight to the last'.”

“Oh how awful.”

Eva shrugs. “It was an awful time. But a couple made her part of their family.”

“And you eventually got to Toronto. Then landed with the Bankutis.”

“A beautiful miracle. They had lived in our apartment building in Budapest. And like me, they'd left with the second wave of refugees. When I heard through the Hungarian grapevine they were in Chicago, I wrote. They invited me to visit. The visits snowballed and, well, you know the rest.”

While she has been talking, Eva has been running her pendant back and forth along its chain. The shape belatedly reminds me of the locket my mother had been holding when she died. I'd left it in Willow Grove. Perhaps it is time to show it around again, see if something comes to light this time.

The lover lions intrude upon my vision again. “I met someone,” I say. Eva pulls a face and I laugh. “No complications like with Vaclav. He's nice. Well, at first impression anyway. And Zsófi's a big fan. She's been trying to set us up. Matchmaker stuff. He went to the Art Institute too. A photographer. Gustav Szigeti.
Know him?”

“No…”

“Not surprising. He's older.” I sip my wine mentally calculating the years the two had been at the institute. “You would have crossed over one year, in sixty-five. Ah, but he attended night classes, was part-time. Worked as a door-to-door salesman during the day, to practice his English. Grit
—
” I smile. “Anyway, he's very talented. You should see his work. He has a show opening night after next. At the German Cultural Center.”

“Wish I could go. Too busy.”

I laugh. “Tell that to Zsófi. Believe me, I tried. I'm surprised she didn't try setting you up with him. Well, too late,” I tease. “I'm meeting him tomorrow to preview his work. I'll let you know. Oh, and did I mention his bod? Poster boy for an older Hungarian.” I wag my eyebrows.

“Hungarian?”

“What else? Zsófi knew him when they were kids. He's a couple of years younger, but they went to the same school. Kati was her teacher back then.” I hesitate. “I'll bet she taught Gustav too.”

“Kati Katona?”

“My mother's twin sister. My aunt.”

Eva's voice is very soft. “Traitor.”

“
What?
”

“I was a student at her school in '56. She was a party member. Everyone knew. Maybe that's what your mother discovered in Hungary. Maybe that's why she didn't want to live.”

“Eva, please. She was pushed. I told you—”

“Yes, of course. Sorry.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see our waiter arriving with our food. I lower my voice. “Kati, a traitor? She betrayed someone?”

Eva matches my tone. “Ildikó, it is quite possible that what was being said about her was wrong. The times, the system we lived under. It was impossible to know who or what to believe. Everyone had something to hide. Everyone lied. It was expected. Yes, let's leave it at that. What I heard was a lie.”