Triptych (21 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Tibor's smile is hesitant, capped teeth vivid against his haggard expression. He is wearing the usual short-sleeve white shirt, but in all the time I've known Tibor, I've never seen him in anything but a pristine shirt. Today's is marred with straw-colored splotches.

He reaches the counter. “And how is Mariska?” he asks.

“She's fine,” I say brightly. “Just back from a doctor's appointment.” I give a thumbs up. “Clean bill of health. Another day or two of rest, and she'll be here, behind the counter, manning the ship again—on a reduced schedule for a while, of course.”

Tiny beads of perspiration have formed at Tibor's temple. He wipes them with a finger. “Good. This is good.” His eyes shift. He seems nervous. “And Zsófi? Is she with Mariska?”

“Zsófi took Mariska to the doctor. They're upstairs, having lunch.” I check the wall clock. “Should be down any minute. Would you like to wait?”

He nods politely.

I remember that he, too, has connections to Kati. In 1957, Tibor brought my mother the disturbing news about her twin's unknown fate. In succeeding years, on our shopping trips into the city, my mother and I would sometimes see him here at
Duna Utca
. He had developed a drinking problem. He was the kind of drunk who got merry, and I dreamed up a jolly nickname, Tipsy Tibor. His friendships did not seem to suffer although he never married and did lose his job. After this, we did not see him for a long while. And when he reappeared, he had quit drinking altogether, joined AA. These days, in addition to his janitorial responsibilities, he reaches out to alcoholics and others down on their luck.

At the moment, Tibor does not know what to do next. His gnarled fingers drum the counter's surface and his shoulders shift up and down. He is clearly agitated.

“Tibor, is something wrong?” Subtly, I bend forward, inhale, fearful I'll detect the smell of alcohol.

He sighs. Liverwurst.

“I have something I must tell her. Something you must also know.”

Zsófi emerges from the stairwell. Her dark eyes light up. “Tibor!”

She strides to the counter, ruby drop earrings swaying, and wraps her arms around him. The collection of thin bracelets at her wrist rattles.

“Tibor has news,” I say.

Tibor wastes no time. His open palm glides over the thinning swath of graying hair. “Zsófi, it is too incredible,” he says, speaking Hungarian. “Horrible, perhaps. A man, thin, unshaven, limping, completely worn out—like he has walked here from Siberia—arrived at the church this morning. ‘I want confess,' he tells me. He is speaking Magyar. Has come to our church because he heard we have a Hungarian priest. I explain this is not possible. The priest is away for two weeks on a family emergency, and we are doing a big restoration now also. ‘See,' I tell him. Workers all around us are painting and scraping, but the man does not seem to notice or care. It is like I said, he has traveled a terrible distance and is completely numb, cannot move his feet to take another step.

“I take him to the wash room, help him to clean up, give him my spare clothes. I ask if he would like to go to the hospital. I will take him, I say. He refuses. ‘Absolutely not,' he says. He asks to have sanctuary for just a day or so, until he is strong again. What can I do? I take him to basement room where I have a mattress. It is where I rest or sometimes sleep at night during festivals. I have brought lunch, liverwurst sandwiches. I share it with the poor man. It is like he has not eaten for days.

“I ask him his name. ‘Marko, Arpad.' ‘Where do you come from, Arpad?' I ask.

“‘Budapest,' he replies. This surprises me. ‘Today?' I ask. He looks at me like I am drunk. It is he who has been drinking. I smell it. Also I think maybe his mind has gone muddled with aging. I ask how old he is.
Sixty-six
. Another surprise. He looks much older.

“He is carrying a small prayer book. Did not put it down even while washing up. We go to my small room. I have an idea. ‘You have been through a rough time,' I say. ‘'56? Is that when you come here?'

“He ignores my questions. All at once, something about him seems familiar. I have another bad feeling. I say, ‘Since the priest is not here, maybe you would like me to hear your confession?' The man is far gone, but not so far as to fall for this. He is weak He looks at me, his eyes roll back, he passes out.

“I watch him sleeping for awhile. What is it that is familiar, I ask myself? Then, I cannot resist. The prayer book is in his hand, but his grip is loose. I slip it gently free. Inside is a name. Kocsis, Attila.”

Zsófi's breath catches. My gaze whips to her. She is ashen.

“Who is Attila Kocsis?”

Tibor waves my question away. “Inside the prayer book, there is also a photo—faded. It is of a woman, sickly, wasted, but there can be no mistake. I know this woman. It is Kati.”

Zsófi grabs the counter, takes a deep breath.

“Who is Attila Kocsis?” I repeat. “I heard a rumor. Kati was a collaborator. Is it true?”

Zsófi looks at me. “
Nem
. Never.”

Tibor's bushy brows knit. He switches to broken English. “You remember when your mother goes home to Hungary in 1961?” I nod. “The truth of what happen to Kati it was revealed to her then.

“She learned that on the eve of the uprising your grandparents, your Aunt Rózsa and her husband, Oszkár, they are home, in the flat. They hear terrible groan of the elevator coming. This, it is what they fear most, this sound at night. The clanking noise gets louder, until finally it stop at their floor. There is knock on the door. You can imagine no one want to answer it. The knocking does not stop. It is the AVO. They come inside, take Kati while Rózsa, your grandparents, guns on them, stand by helpless. As they leave, the soldiers warn, ‘Do not talk about this or you will never see her again.' Well, they not talk for a long, long time. Still, Kati they never see again.”

I watch Tibor, thinking this was one of the scenarios he and my mother had considered back in '57. Yet when she returned from that first trip to Hungary, in ‘61, it was like a cloud of despair enveloped her. Why her lingering anguish? Had the family revealed something else? Something to do with the rumors? Perhaps they knew them to be true? Yes, the AVO took her, but that did not necessarily prove she wasn't collaborating. What if Kati was AVO? What if they decided they needed to plant her somewhere more useful than in a classroom? “Taking her” was part of maintaining her cover.

“Why did the AVO take Kati?” I ask.

Tibor and Zsófi do not respond, but I read the dull look in their eyes. The AVO did not need a reason.

“What happen to Kati,” Tibor says softly, “is not known.”

My frustration grows. Like them, I want to believe in my aunt's innocence. Wasn't it possible that the AVO took Kati, actually threw her in prison, but then she escaped? Was set free by rebels, like Tibor? What if, then, she decided not to go home again? Maybe went to, say, Argentina.

Either way, the rumors about Kati—or the reality, if her family knew them to be true—would have been devastating for the entire Katona family. Kati as a traitor reflected on everyone, and my mother had come back upset because she'd seen how they'd been living under a black cloud of shame. Was that it?

I feel a hot surge of anger. “But you know this Attila Kocsis. What is he doing with a photograph of Kati?” Kati? Really? After thirty years? Could Tibor we mistaken?

“Tibor…” Zsófi says. “Please.”

Muscles near the corners of Tibor's jaw flex. Flex again.

“When she is stronger, you must ask her direct, but what we know about Attila Kocsis, we hear from Mariska,” he says. “Mariska, long ago, before revolution, work for Attila's mother who managed small, Budapest restaurant. Attila work there, too, for a time, in the kitchen, before he take
new job
.” Tibor spits the last two words.

He starts again and tells me that from 1961 until my mother returned to Hungary again in 1965, Mariska, Zsófi, and Tibor had had many conversations with her about Kati, and Attila's connection to Kati.

Kati and Attila were both sixteen when they first met in 1936. Attila was underweight, gawky, with thin brown hair, and a bad complexion. Times were very rough for everyone. Compounding things for Attila's family, his father had lost a leg in the Great War. Physically and mentally, he never fully recovered. Mrs. Kocsis washed dishes in a restaurant, and the family barely scraped by. In school, Attila was bullied by the other boys. They beat him, called him Froggie, mocking his bulging eyes.

Tibor's voice softens as the focus turns to Kati. Her gift was in relating to animals. Children too, of course, but she once told Edit she felt more comfortable with cats, dogs, even birds, than she did with most people.

Attila and Kati attended the same school, but they had never actually spoken until one day when Kati arrived at the park to feed squirrels. Attila was on a bench, playing an old mandolin. She sat and listened. She knew Attila was not accepted at school. She felt sorry for him and the normally shy Kati opened up and they talked. A friendship developed and continued into their university years, although the pair saw little of one another after Attila joined the Hungarian army in WWII.

According to Mariska, by the time the war had ended, Kati was not seeing Attila at all. Now in his mid-twenties, he had become friendly with a Russian soldier, a fellow musician, and had joined the Communist Party.

Food appeared regularly on the Kocsis' table. Recently widowed Mrs. Kocsis was promoted from dishwasher to restaurant manager. Attila assisted the restaurant's chef, occasionally entertaining the mainly Communist clientele with his music. In early '56, when Mariska was still a waitress there, Mrs. Kocsis often bent her ear.

Tibor says, “One evening after patrons they have left and Mrs. Kocsis she has consumed an unfinished bottle of wine, she tell Mariska—her voice full with glee—that Attila speaks often with the local party leader. Two months before, in one of the official talks, he had mentioned an acquaintance, one of the boys who used to bully him. Then, after this, nobody sees the acquaintance for long time. But Attila, he had met the former schoolmate again just that day on the street. With a sly smile Mrs. Kocsis she adds, ‘The boy, he is much subdued.'

“
Es ott van
, and there it is,” Tibor finishes. “The meek Frog is now transformed into Communist Prince of Darkness. He provide the party police with several more such ‘tips.' Some prove accurate. His standing in the party it go up.”

Tibor's posture is rigid, his arms tight at his sides.

“Attila is such good Communist,” Zsófi interjects softly, “that it was not long before he is approached to be special policeman with National Defense. A border guard, under the AVO.”

Tibor nods. “Guards like Attila go to posts on the frontier. Their assignment? Prevent enemies from entering Hungary—set mines, string barbed wire fencing, build watchtowers with searchlights, machine guns. Then, what do they discover?” Tibor laughs but the laughter is hollow. “No one is trying to come in. The problem it is with those trying to leave. The guard's job? Shoot. Kill. Apply barbaric methods to those captured—wrench fingernails, smash rifle butts into wounds or insteps—whatever it takes to get them to betray others.”

My gaze flicks to his hand. I think of what he'd suffered, and also of Gustav and what happened to his friends during their botched escape, and feel an icy chill.

“Animals,” Zsófi says forcefully. “A woman's cries they excite the beasts more.” Her voice quavers but she continues. “Attila, he comes back to Budapest. Tries contacting Kati. She is now a respected teacher. No longer a teen. Mature, in her thirties. She will not see him. She is good-hearted, kind. No true Hungarian would meet with soldier assigned now to the AVO.” A ragged sigh. “Attila. Can it be?
He
betrayed our Kati?”

Tibor puts an arm around Zsófi's shoulder, pulls her close, strokes her hair. It is only for a moment, but it is a gesture of such tenderness I can only stare in wonder. Certainly Vaclav could show emotion like this, but Tibor? He and Zsófi have never been lovers, I am sure of this.

Releasing Zsófi, Tibor plants his hands on her shoulders, gazing directly into her eyes. “Attila, he is not long for this world. You must come with me to the church today. Now. I have had many dealings with men like him. Used up. Defeated. We must shock him, confront him with a face from his past. He will make a clean breast of what he knows about Kati.”

Zsófi shakes her head. The loose strands of hair around her face dance wildly. “No. I cannot do this. Besides, he does not know me. It is Mariska he knows.”

Vaclav's long ago proclamation: “In my country, in my family, we never would allow murderer of loved one to go unpunished.”

“I'll go,” I say. “I want to see this man. Find out if he knows what happened to Kati. She was my aunt. It's time to…to clear the Katona name.”

“Of course,” Tibor say. “The justice your mother was after, it will be yours.”

Chapter Seventeen

Outside, the heat and humidity are oppressive, but Tibor and I hit the pavement at a determined pace. My short skirt and bare-shouldered blouse are perfect for a fast-paced walk in the heat, but not for church.

I'm not going there to worship. I'm going to get answers.

Unlike Zsófi I have no qualms. My mother had wanted justice. I would not fail her a second time.

We enter the vestibule at the back of the church. The doors to the nave are propped open, the smells and sounds of the renovation permeate. I peer inside, looking for Eva. The diPietro crew is well represented, but no sight of her.

I follow Tibor down a flight of stairs. At the bottom, we arrive in a hallway, a door at the end. We enter a small musty room. Muted light filters in from a glazed window near the ceiling.

Tibor flips a switch beside the door. On the floor, a mattress has been shoved into the corner. The outline of a human figure, curled in fetal position, is covered by a rumpled olive-green woolen blanket.

Tibor shakes the sleeping man by the shoulder. “Attila,” he whispers forcefully. “Wake up. Someone is here to see you.” Tibor is speaking Hungarian, but he has told me Attila also speaks English.

The lump beneath the blanket stirs.

My palms feel clammy. I wipe them on my skirt. “Attila Kocsis, I've come to talk with you about Kati Katona.”

A large eye peers out from the edge of the blanket. “
Ki vagy? Mit akarsz?
” The words are Hungarian, the voice is raspy. Who is it? What do you want?

I spot a small black book on the blanket. Gold embossed lettering on the cover, across the bottom.
Edit Katona
—

“My mother's!” I cry, reaching down to grab it.

A hand shoots out from under the covers, beats me to it.

I squat as the man struggles upright. He has moved the covering with him, clasping it under his chin with both hands, the book in the blanket's folds.

His face is pale and gaunt. Watery eyes, wide with fear, protrude from dark sunken sockets. He is unshaven, his stubbly salt-and-pepper beard nearly the same length as his crew cut hair.

“Mine.” He's remembered his English.

“No. It belonged to Edit Katona. I'm her daughter.” I swallow. “Please, give it to me.” I hold out my hand, waiting.

The man shakes his head. “Edit, she give it to me.”

It seems impossible after everything Zsófi and Tibor have said about the AVO and this man that I could feel pity for him, but I do. What had Tibor said earlier? Used up. Defeated.

I stand, turn away.

“Attila Kocsis…” Tibor says. “This is your name,
Igen
, yes?”

I turn back. The man's head is bowed, clutched between his hands. He is trembling.

“Yes?” Tibor asks again.

The room is completely silent. At last, the shaking lessens. His hands fall away and with the cuff of a sleeve, he blots his eyes, then nose.

“
Igen
. I am he.” He looks from Tibor to me.

“You must let her see her mother's prayer book,” Tibor says.

I am surprised at the force behind Tibor's words, but then I think of how the AVO had treated him and can understand.

With effort Attila reaches up—his hand limp, his arm wobbly—hands over the book.

The leather retains his body heat and feels clammy and warm against the palm of my hand.
AVO toxins
. I nearly toss the book aside.

“This, I did not see,” Tibor says next to me, his focus on the embossed lettering. “When I sneak the book from him, I hurry, am nervous. We are in the house of the Lord—” He crosses himself. “And once I find the picture, I am noticing nothing else.”

I flip pages, catching glimpses of Hungarian text, until I find a small photo, pressed deep into the crease at the book's center.

I barely recognize the image. It is not the face of the Kati I know from the family portrait, taken in 1940, on the eve of my mother's departure for China. In that photo, now residing on the shelf in my Willow Grove apartment, Kati looks striking. Her chin-length dark hair is clipped off her face, displaying high cheekbones and flawless, unlined skin. She wears a white dress with a muted flowery pattern that looks very feminine on her.

In the photo I hold in my hand, strands of limp hair, streaked with white, frame an almost skeletal face, cheekbones protruding as if they will pierce her emaciated skin. The hopelessness in her expression is unmistakable and the look in her eyes, dead. Her head is canted slightly to one side as if she cannot bear to look at the person holding the camera. There is no mistaking who it is. Kati. I am certain because of the dark mole in the corner of her left eye.

Near my feet, Attila stirs. “Kérlek. Please,” he pleads. He is still slumped against the wall. He reaches up, but his arm flails, collapsing to his blanket-covered lap.

I hold out the photo. “First, tell us what happened to Kati. Where you got this.”

“Mine…”

Tibor's arched brows shoot high up his forehead “First, tell us about Kati,” he repeats, “about where you get Edit's prayer book.”

Attila inches into a more upright position. In an almost trance-like state, he recounts a halting, effortful recitation of his side of the story.

A few months after the revolution, Attila Kocsis escaped to the States. He took a new name, Arpad Marko, and found a job in a downtown Chicago coin shop. One day, Edit came to the shop to sell coins from her collection—funds for the family back home. Attila and Edit had not seen one another since before she left for China. He recognized her and Edit too placed him, in part because he had been playing the mandolin when she first entered the shop.

“At first, she cannot believe it. Her eyes grow big like mine.” Attila attempts a smile, but it is like trying to lift his arm. He is too weak. “‘You were AVO, she say. You must know what happen to Kati. Tell me.'

“I was not
true
AVO, I try to tell her. Yes, I was border guard for short while but this I discover is not for me. I find a way out. At my mother's restaurant, she hear the commandant at the Communist Party Headquarters for Budapest, he needs personal chef. Money changes. I am his chef.

“I tell Edit what I know. The AVO arrest Kati because an informer, a student in her class, say she is teaching Hungarian history to children in the night in the basement of her home.”

Tilos.
Forbidden
.
My breath catches.

Attila looks up. “This should not be no crime.”

He continues. “I hear rumor that Kati, she is in the headquarters where I am, held in some cell, deep in bowels of the building. I trick my way into the commandant's office. There, in a file, I find this—” A slight nod in the direction of the photo in my hand. “I want to find which cell she is in, but information it is not in the file. Kati is my friend. I want to help. But danger is everywhere. I not know who to ask, what to ask, where to look even. Still I try. I do not uncover her location but I do uncover this. That I have drawn attention. Unwelcome attention. A junior chef is training to replace me. I must go away while I can, escape.”

“So you escaped with the picture. We find it here, with you, in my mother's prayer book. How did you get it?”

Attila squirms against the wall. “At the coin shop, I show Edit the picture. It hurt her to see her sister this way. Edit, she tell me she is leaving for Budapest next day. ‘I will dig deeper into what you have told me,' she says. ‘Go to the headquarters.' ”

Attila pauses, draws two deep rattly breaths.

“This gives me good idea,” he continues, haltingly. “A friend of Edit's from schooldays was scrub woman in headquarters building. In '56, it was this friend who try to help me find where is Kati's cell. I tell Edit. She is excited. Maybe her friend has come to know the fate of Kati.

“She pleads, ‘Go to Mariska, Zsófi Ittzés. Tell them about Kati, that you have given me a great clue.' Mariska, Zsófi…in Chicago? This is news to me. I am so full with shame. I cannot make this promise as she would like.”

Attila doesn't say so, but he also must have been afraid. Afraid of having his past life exposed; of how they would look at him; what they might do to him.

“
Now
, she gives me her prayer book. ‘Hold on to it, pray for me,' she says. ‘When I have returned, I will visit again, tell you what I have found, and you can give it back.'”

Attila is wracked by a sudden severe coughing spell. The dry hacking sound comes from deep within his chest. The spell is so severe Tibor removes a metal flask from his back pocket.

The shock must have shown on my face. “Water,” he explains, placing the flask in Attila's grip, folding his own hands together, prayer-like, over Attila's. Their hands clasped thus, Tibor helps Attila raise the mouth of the flask to his lips. Attila sips. Again.

Attila begins anew, his voice a whisper. “Edit, I say, the AVO commandant he had other photographs of Kati, of Zsófi also. I explain, after the revolution, AVO officers they seize film from everywhere possible. They use pictures on the film to hunt down rebels. The dishwasher at my mother's restaurant, Szigeti, they know his son has camera. They search his house.” A heavy lid closes over one bulgy eye. “Szigeti…”

“What? What are you trying to say?” I ask. “Gustav?” But he has stopped talking. Attila is out cold.