Triptych (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

Sunday morning, I am awakened by the long, drawn-out call of a passing tug.

I join the pedestrians crowding the riverside walkway. Now and then I catch an eye, nod and smile. On such a glorious day, ambling alongside the beautiful Danube, a magnificent palace cresting a hilltop on the opposite side, how could I not spark a smile or two in return? Yet I don't. By the time I reach the Chain Bridge what Mariska, Irina and Mrs. Bankuti had tried to explain has sunk in. This is not midwest America, land of the carefree.

I cross the bridge. On the Buda side a pair of large stone lions identical to the duo in Pest, greet me. Across the busy intersection, a funicular climbs the steep, tree lined slope. Armed with the city map provided by the hotel, I take a path through a narrow park to a wide staircase, leading up to the Royal Palace grounds.

I negotiate a courtyard boxed in by neo-Baroque buildings and proceed through an arched passageway. I walk, surveying the majestic main wing of the palace fronted with ornamental fountains and cheerful garden patches. Along the cobbled street beyond, a sobering scene. Gray buildings, their plaster facades staccatoed with bullet holes, in some places the plaster almost entirely shot away. In the final days of the '56 Revolution, some of the heaviest fighting took place in and around the Buda Hills, the pockmarked walls remaining as testament.

A hand-painted sign on a stone-faced building draws me to the café where I am to meet Gyöngyi. Through the open door, I see a charming place, crowded with small tables and shelves lined with antiques. I turn back to the street scene. Along the mortar-shelled wall, a small man in a blue suit with a bald head and a graying mustache listlessly twists a brown felt hat in his hands, now and then pausing to smooth the rim. A heavyset man accompanied by a pregnant woman pushes a stroller with a chubby-cheeked child gnawing on a biscuit. An organized tour led by a female guide holding aloft a closed umbrella leads her charges, touristy-types, carrying cameras, about fifteen of them. They are trailed by the “sweeper,” another woman guide identifiable by a billowing lightweight raincoat. The coat is elegant as is her loosely-tied abstract Pucci-print scarf and oversized sunglasses. She reminds me of someone. I chuckle. Ingrid Bergman, the hood of her cloak pulled up over her head, in the opening scene of
Gaslight
.

A young woman with a wild mane of bottle-blonde hair pauses near the restaurant entrance. She is wearing aviator sunglasses, but cups a hand over them as she peers in my direction. I am the only single. Her head tips to one side, as if she is assessing me. It must be Gyöngyi. I wave tentatively and rise as she strides over.

“Gyöngyi?”

She nods, smiles shyly. “Yes.”

Our embrace is awkward but heartfelt.

“It is very nice at last to meet you,” Gyöngyi says in halting English, her gaze locked on my face.

“I've been looking forward to this moment for so long, too.”

Gyöngyi is ten years my junior. She takes the seat opposite me and removes her sunglasses. I see a likeness to my aunt Rózsa, who would be Gyöngyi's grandmother, and whose picture my mother had kept on prominent display in the parsonage living rooms, straight noses and brown eyes.

“Mariska explained that you work, and it may be difficult for us to get together during the day,” I say. “I hope we can meet for dinner a couple of nights. I'd like to get to know you, know more about the family here. Will this be possible?”

“Of course. I would like this very much too.”

“What do you do?” Gyöngyi looks puzzled by the question. “What's your job?”

She shrugs. “Nothing so interesting. Ledgers. General office duties, at photocopy business.” She selects her words carefully. “But you, Ildikó, you have come long way. Why? What is so interesting here for you?”

Is she kidding?
I study her face, but it is a complete blank. She waits.

I realize it's very possible she does
not
know why I am here. Mariska would not have gone into detail on the telephone.

My time is limited. I decide to lay my cards on the table.

In a hushed voice, I recount the revelations that had surfaced in the weeks leading up to my visit. How for so many years my mother had been left to wonder what happened to Kati, then on her first return trip, in 1961, how she learned the truth: Kati had been taken by AVO. How, on the eve of leaving the States for her second visit in 1965, she had uncovered a clue vital to solving the disappearance of Kati. The clue connecting her to an old friend in Budapest.

“Gyöngyi,” I am whispering now. “My mother was pushed before a speeding train. We—her Chicago friends and I—believe this happened because of what she uncovered here. She died before she could share the information. I'm here to retrace her steps. It's been twenty years but, well, I know the lead that she was following, the name of this friend.” I read the horror in Gyöngyi's eyes. “What?”

“Murder,” she whispers.

I nod. “Shocking, isn't it? There was an investigation, nothing came of it, no one wanted to talk about it.”

Her spine straightens. I sense someone coming up behind me. Our waiter.

A young man with dark hair and wolfish features, clad in a white shirt and black tie, politely hands us menus.

He leaves and Gyöngyi lowers her gaze, at once preoccupied with the offerings.

“Gyöngyi, I need your help.”

She does not look up.

I lean forward on the table, keeping my voice hushed. “My mother had said she was shadowed when she was here. Mariska and Zsófi thought the same thing might happen to me. But it's 1986. Hungary is the most progressive of the Russian satellite countries. Things are changing, right? Surely we don't have to worry about eavesdroppers or being followed.”

She looks up. Her gaze flits over the diners around us before she slips her forearms on the table, whispers, “Things are better, yes. Still, to be with an American is sure to win attention. What you are speaking about. You…I must be cautious.”

I turn away, take a breath. I hold up the menu, smile. “Safe enough?”

We spend a few minutes going over our choices, Gyöngyi patiently correcting my Hungarian when I brave reading a couple of them aloud.

Our waiter returns and Gyöngyi does the honors:
hideg meggy leves
, cold sour cherry soup and green salad for her;
károlyi saláta
, potato, green pepper, egg, lettuce, and tomato salad, with tartar sauce, for me.

While we are waiting for our food, Gyöngyi asks about my work. I describe what I do, including my role in selecting new books. Her eyes light up. She cannot believe that a mere librarian has such power. That I teach English to immigrants intrigues her as well, but she is skittish dwelling on this. I begin to understand that no matter what we discuss involving America, the conversation will be short-lived.

Our waiter arrives with our food.

Absently tossing the ingredients of my salad together with my fork, I say softly, “Surely when my mother was here in '65 she talked with her sister, your grandmother, Rózsa, with other family members. Your mother would still have been alive. Did she tell them anything, do you know?” I lean over my plate, whisper, “Anything about her meeting with Anikó Hadjok?”

Gyöngyi's soup spoon is making a return trip to her mouth. It halts mid-air.

“What you are talking about, this is not the place. Tonight a few in the family we are having light supper at the apartment.” She adds, “Will you like to come?”

Before leaving the hotel, I had decided on the sights I want to see. In the distance, the delicate embellished spire of St. Mátyás Church stands out above the surrounding buildings with its roof of glazed multi-colored majolica tiles. I walk in its direction, at last arriving at Trinity Square.

A thin crowd shuffles about, the sightseers, like me, admiring the massive Baroque obelisk and the Old Town Hall with its impressive clock-tower.

“Keep alert for pickpockets,” Gyöngyi had warned, “They are everywhere the tourists gather.”

A small band of dark-haired ruffians loiters near a stairway beside a stand of leafy trees, but they seem more interested in girl-watching than purse nabbing. I recognize the pregnant woman and her heavyset companion I had seen passing the restaurant with the chubby-cheeked child. Behind them dawdles the small man in a blue suit with the graying mustache. He has donned the brown felt hat, hiding his bald head, and I wonder: could he be following the couple?

I walk alongside Mátyás Church gazing up at its extravagant Gothic façade, the gargoyle laden soaring spire. Near the church is a grand bronze statue of St. Stephen, the first king of Hungary, mounted on a magnificent steed. The horse and rider stand in a sunny square, partially enclosed by the medieval white-stoned Fishermen's Bastion. Straight out of Disneyland, I think, staring wonderingly at the fairytale-like structure of turrets, parapets, and climbing stairways.

I count out my forints, handing the small fee to an officious-looking guard (definitely not Disney-esque) and begin mounting a grand staircase. Another few days of this and surely the soles of my shoes will be worn through like those of the twelve princesses' dancing slippers.

According to the guidebook Mariska had insisted I bring along, the fantastical structure is actually a 1900s re-creation of the original towers, turrets and walls that were once part of the medieval city's defense. The bastion took its name from the guild of fishermen who defended it during the Middle Ages. And its purpose? An elaborate frame for spectacular Danube views.

I reach the sprawling wall at the top. Along its length are positioned seven conical towers. I pass through one, pausing along the low-slung parapet on the other side.

Looking out over the Danube to Pest, my eyes sweep the panorama.

To the north, the Margit Bridge spans the Danube to Margit Island. Farther down along the Pest bank the impressive parliament building with its dome and spires reminds me of Westminster Palace in England. Just as startling as their resemblance is the small but significant difference. The current Communist regime has added the red star to the steeple of the building's central cupola. Squinting, I can just make it out.

My gaze glides over the now familiar Chain Bridge, continuing down the river front to the Hotel Duna-Intercontinental. Next, the Elizabeth Bridge is visible and beyond it, the fourth landmark bridge at the city's center, the Liberty Bridge.

All of this—the setting for the events of 1956. This lovely city, this handsome land, I can see how loved it must be and so worth fighting for.

Chapter Twenty-five

I step into my black flared skirt, then slip on the traditional peasant blouse I'd purchased for a song from a vendor on the homeward stroll along the quay. The blouse is simple white cotton with short sleeves and an embroidered neckline. Fresh, feminine and festive.

I clasp the chain of the heart necklace, run my fingers lightly over the silken grapes and colorful flowers on the blouse's neckline. Normally the touch would stir something within my brain, like reading Braille, and I would compulsively begin reinventing the design, imagining how to unstitch it, create something modern instead. But the impulse is not there. The garment, the design, feels right.

I lean into the dresser mirror. A couple more inches and a heavier dousing of peroxide and my unruly bleach-streaked locks would be indistinguishable from Gyöngyi's wild mane. I stare, my finger instinctively traveling to the corner of my left eye, to the flesh-tone mole there. Has the power to solve the mysteries around Kati, my mother—and now, Attila—been within me all along?

I pick up the calendars I had brought as gifts, feeling a sudden bubbly excitement at the prospect of meeting close relatives from my mother's side for the first time, at the ripe age of thirty-seven.

***

The family apartment is just a few blocks from the hotel. Gyöngyi is expecting me at six o'clock, and I've given myself plenty of time to get there. I join the flow of strollers along the promenade streaming in the direction of the Elizabeth Bridge.

At a small green park, I cut away, heading for the terra cotta statue of Sándor Petőfi. Petőfi was the young poet and revolutionary who read out his poem—
Talpra Magyar, hiv a haza!
, Rise Hungarian, the country calls!—the event marking the beginning of the 1848 rebellion. Looking around, I recall the throngs of students who gathered on this very spot, on October 23, 1956, to demonstrate against the Soviet occupiers when Petőfi's patriotic poem became a cry to action once again. I rub away the goose bumps along my arms and offer a silent prayer for the hundreds of young people who stood here, filled with hope for a better future, and soon afterward gave their lives.

Passing a recessed grassy area, I recognize the excavation site of a Roman military camp. Nothing more than rough-hewn stubby columns of mortared rocks, the site was once a guard post, protecting this strategic point where the Danube reaches its most narrow and crossable point.

The family apartment is located at a busy intersection in the first block of Duna Utca at the mouth of the Elizabeth Bridge.
Duna Utca
, Danube Street, the name Mariska and Zsófi also chose for their store. I pause recognizing an imposing four-story building matching Gyöngyi's description on the opposite corner. Air pollution has stained the structure's elegant beauty, its once white exterior so soot-blackened, the sculpted baroque detailing is nearly lost to the grime. High up, a statue lodged in a nook wears a sooty coat like a disguise. The family apartment is located on the top floor and I search, unsuccessfully, for signs of life in the tall windows on either side.

I descend the stairs to the underground passageway, recalling that the apartment originally belonged to my mother's sister, my Aunt Rózsa and her husband, Oszkár Szabo. After their deaths, the legacy passed to their children, my first cousins: “young” Oszkár, now a physician, Sándor, a businessman in foreign trade, and Gyöngyi's mother, Julianna, who passed away a number of years ago.

Below ground, the sparsely lit underpass is at once cavernous and claustrophobic. I'd made light of Mariska's warning that I would be under surveillance while here. But now, deep inside a cement-lined tube with all the ambiance of a prison cell, the echoing beat of footfalls makes me aware of a man behind me—and another just ahead. Both are wearing blue suits and brimmed hats almost identical to those of the man I observed earlier today in Buda, near the café.

At street level again, I walk with a determined step, regularly checking over my shoulder to see if I have any company.

I squint at the line of faded names, locate “Szabo,” press the corresponding button. Static, then a tinny, distant-sounding voice erupts from the speaker. “Hullo,”

“It's Ildikó.”

An irritating buzz. I turn the knob, enter a rectangular lobby.

A naked low-watt bulb mounted on a wall just inside reveals the decay of the foyer. Peeling plaster; an unlit chandelier, tarnished and laden with dust. On the floor, checkered marble tiles are worn to a dull black and grayish-white, and bowed from decades of foot traffic.

An awful creaking heralds the arrival of an ancient elevator. I shudder and think:
Csengöfrász
, the expression in Hungarian for fear of the midnight doorbell.

The black grille parts, and a stooped elderly woman, her head covered by a kerchief, shuffles out, ignoring me as she passes.

A glimpse into the elevator's coffin-size interior, and I opt for the stairs. I count 165 steps, probably equivalent to my heart rate. At the top, a landing with only one door. I knock. A rhythmic clattering on the other side follows. The door swings open. Gyöngyi, her brassy gold mane voluminous with frizz, smiles and invites me in. The door closes. Her fingers rapidly reengage a quartet of locks.

She turns. I am openly staring at the imposing display of hardware.

“The way it is,” she explains with a shrug.

We are in a small entry hall. “
Üdvözöljük
, welcome,” a deep male voice says.

I get a quick impression of dark furnishings and crewel-covered tables as two men approach from the living room. Both have receding gray hairlines, broad smiles. I smile back. My cousins' resemblance to their father, my Uncle Oszkár, is so great it is as if they are emerging from my one of my mother's family photographs.

My cousins do not speak English. Gyöngyi does the introductions, and we greet one another with cheek kisses and awkward hugs.

Oszkár, age forty-five, has the rounder torso of the two, the wide end of his burgundy tie rests upon the fullest section of his middle. I find his droopy hound dog eyes irresistible. His wife, Ica, joins us, also a little plump, yet sturdy-looking, with short white hair. Sándor, age forty-three, is the fit brother, his straight posture and crisp white shirt reminiscent of Tibor. Despite the heat in the apartment, he wears a close-fitting black leather jacket.

Another woman comes up beside Sándor. His mother-in-law, Lilla Danhauser, I learn. Lilla is the widow of the former minister of the Lutheran church our family members attended for years.

Lilla's face is spattered with brown age spots, a spray of them covering a corner of her forehead, above which her dyed black hair is neatly coiffed. She is thin and her pale yellow suit hangs limply on her. She reaches up, gently smoothing my cheek with her palm. “
Olyan
s
zép mint a drága anyja, lovely, like your dear mother,” she says.

“Lilla knew your parents,” Gyöngyi says.

Lilla's eyes are set in dark pouches of skin. Her hand leaves my face but I feel something tender pass between us.

Gyöngyi explains that she has told the group I generally understand Hungarian but do not speak it. She will translate my half of the conversation. I present my token calendar gifts and watch as the two men study the shrink-wrapped flat squares their expressions a mix of delight and…
What
?
Concern?
Is it possible that possessing images from America is risky even in this day and age?

Oszkár thanks me and makes a sweeping gesture, inviting me to enter the living room.

Bookcases crammed with vases, sculptures and photos, as well as books, line two of the walls. I take a seat on an unforgiving armchair directly across from the room's centerpiece, a glossy, ebony baby grand piano.

At a side table near the piano, Oszkár turns the knob of an old-fashioned radio. Solemn notes of a dirge fill the room. Sándor is standing in the doorframe of open French doors, looking out. His shoulders heave and drop as he takes a breath then turns to re-join us. Ica fires off something in Hungarian that I don't quite catch. Gyöngyi interprets.

“She asks that we excuse her so that she may finish preparations in the kitchen. A light meal we shall enjoy shortly.”

Ica nods in my direction, then turns to leave. The funereal music continues as the others find chairs near me. Gyöngyi begins.

“Ildikó, I hope that you will not mind, but I have told my uncles and Lilla what you explain to me today about the horrible way in which your
anya
has died. I also tell them how you believe your
anya
was killed because of what she discover here in 1965.”

Lilla's elbows rest on the arms of her chair, her steepled hands covering her nose and mouth. I try reading her expression, but above tented fingertips, her eyes are tightly shut.

Oszkár's full cheeks puff out then collapse, air whistling softly from his pursed lips. “
Nagyon sajnáljuk,
” he says. “We are very sorry to hear this.”

Sándor nods solemnly.

“Did you explain about Attila Kocsis?” Lilla's eyes spring open at my mention of the name, but the men's expressions remain neutral. “That I met him? That he had Kati's picture?

“Oszkár and Sándor were very young during this time of the revolution,” Gyöngyi says. “Just fifteen and thirteen.”

Old enough to be freedom fighters, I think to myself. I make some hasty mental calculations. “In 1965, Oszkár would have been twenty-four, Sándor twenty-two. They must have spent time with my mother when she was here. What about Anikó Hadjok? Do they know her? Know anything about my mother's meeting with her?”

“Please, they do not know anything about this. They had a pleasant visit with Aunt Edit but she did not disclose her personal affairs to them.”

I have come too far to back down. “And Lilla?” I ask, my voice gentle now. “What about you, Lilla? You knew my mother. Did she confide in you?”

Lilla does not look up. I glance over at the men. They avoid my gaze as well.

I pull out Kati's picture. “Look,” I say rising from my chair, displaying the sepia image. If I had been expecting a reaction to her gaunt appearance, I would have been disappointed. But I understood. They'd likely seen worse.

“See the name?” I turn the photo so that the hastily scribbled
A.Hadjok
is visible then work my way back down the line again. “We—Mariska, Zsófi and I—believe that Attila Kocsis wrote this before he died. We also suspect, like my mother, he may have been murdered because of what he knew. And this is what he knew. Somehow
A. Hadjok
—Anikó Hadjok—holds a key. My mother knew this. She would have met with Anikó when she was here. She must have told your mother, her sister, Rózsa—” My gaze flicks to Gyöngyi who skips a beat before continuing her translation, “—told
someone
, about this.”

The only voice in the room is that of the harsh male radio announcer. A Russian, I gather, his unintelligible words biting the air until another dirge begins. I return to my seat.

“Perhaps my grandmother she knew something,” Gyöngyi says at last. “But if she did, she has taken the secret to her grave.”

Oszkár looks over with melancholy eyes. Turning to Gyöngyi, he talks rapidly, losing me after the first sentence. Gyöngyi nods then turns to me.

“Oszkár says, what they know, you already know, but he can tell you this. When your
anya
, Edit, she first visits, their mother, Rózsa, she explains about Kati, how the AVO come.
Elvittek
. Take her away. After this, no one can learn what has happened to her.

“Edit she was shocked, angry, and naturally very sad to hear this. While they do not know anything about Anikó, Oszkár says it is quite possible Edit find her. He say Edit she went off on her own many times. Kept very private. And even if she did discover something, she would not—did not—share it. Edit might be willing to risk her own safety, but she would never willingly put her family at risk.”

I have been rubbing the locket at my neck, fighting to stem my emotions. I push out of my chair again. “What about the rumors that Kati was a collaborator, AVO?”

Gyöngyi's eyes flick to Oszkár. But there is no need for her to translate. His lips are locked in a tight line. She turns back to me. “They do not like to talk about this. It has been the family's great shame. The pain is not so deep now, but in the immediate years after the revolution, for a long while, the family was—I think you say it, stigmatized. It was believed by many, sadly some close to our family, she went willingly.”

I nod. “My mother loved her sister. The news about her disappearance, about what people were saying about her, upset her deeply. Then Kocsis revealed to her—and now to me and another, Tibor—Kati had indeed been imprisoned by the AVO, held in a cell in their headquarters building. Anikó worked there. She might know something. This is important.”

Their faces remain blank. My frustration crescendos. “Look,” I say snapping open the heart, showing it to each person in turn. “Kocsis said a little girl in Kati's class told the AVO Kati was secretly teaching Hungarian history to her students. Maybe this child. Do you know her? Does she look at all familiar?”

Oszkár, Sándor, and Gyöngyi shake their heads. “Sorry, no,” Gyöngyi says firmly, as if to close the door to this piece of my investigation as well.

Stooping in front of Lilla so she can see the tiny image, I stare at her forehead, observing the pool of liver spots, and wait.

When Lilla finally speaks, her voice is very soft. So soft, Gyöngyi asks her to repeat what she has said. I think I understand. In 1965, she met my mother for coffee. They talked about a lot of things, including Kati.

Gyöngyi confirms my interpretation. “But she has nothing new to tell.” She hesitates. “Mainly, they talked about Lilla's loss.”