Triptych (33 page)

Behind glazed eyes, something clicks. “That's what you think?” Eva's voice is suddenly loud again. The question reverberates through the small space. “That is wrong. It was Attila.
He
followed her. Didn't he tell you? Your mother went to see him that morning after she left me. She wanted her prayer book back. Also, Kati's picture.”

“The jail photo?” The haunting picture in my purse that I can't wait to destroy? I shake my head disbelievingly. “He never mentioned she'd returned to his store.”

A lift and fall of shoulders. “Amazing what a little absinthe will do to loosen the tongue. She took the photo, put it in the prayer book, slipped it into her coat pocket and left. He followed her. At the El track, he came up behind her, started to pick her pocket. She turned, lost her balance. Fell.”

“Th-then Attila…” My hushed words trail off.

A crooked smile. The sly shift in her eyes.

My heart stops. It
was
her. I stare. At her clutched hair, her twisted expression, the fresh pearl of blood melding into the crimson stream along her neck.

“My mother! You did it!
You killed my mother!
”

Fists flailing, I throw myself at her. Blind with rage, it is a miracle that I see dull light flicking from the slim steel rod, whisking free of Eva's neck. Forcefully, I twist aside, crashing to my knees. I glance up. Metal slashes the empty space between us. A thread of warm blood fleeing the pick slaps my forehead. Another slash, so close wind whisks my cheek. My gaze locks on the frenzied pick. I reach blindly for Eva's necklace, somewhere on the floor between us. As if tooled for this moment, it finds my grasp. I lurch to my feet.

“Sna-a-ake,” I howl, flinging the metal pendant and chain straight at Eva's face. The strategy is better than my aim. The flying coil brushes her temple and drops onto her shoulder. It is enough. The deadly instrument stabilizes mid-air.

Adrenaline rockets me forward. I chop her hand then slap her face with primordial force. “That's for my mother, snake-bitch!” I grab her wrists. Chisel hits stone. “You killed my mother! She was trying to help!” I scream, shriek, as if my words will bowl her over.

Eva's voice is eerily calm. “She lost her balance. I was…am…sorry. More than…”

“Sorry?”
I ignore the throbbing pain at my wrist, the blood running down the back of my hand, like Eva's lies coming undone. “Not enough, Eva.” My voice is strong, sure. I jerk her wrists hard enough to shake her body, to drive home each word. “You lie. You killed my mother. Your childhood was hideous. But other people have gone through hell, too. And they didn't kill because of it. Confess!”

Eva's eyes flick to the side. Instinctively, my gaze follows. My turn to be duped. She kicks my shin. I loosen my grip. Eva heaves her arms free. With syncopated precision, she ducks to the floor, whisks up the chisel, positions it at her throat, and turns to the statue in the side altar.

“Saint Rókus, protector of the sick, here I am. I'm guilty,” she whispers. “Pl-please…forgive me.”

I cry out. “No, Eva—”

A determined thrust.

Eva folds to the cold tile. Her chest heaves and swells as, propping her head in my arm, I dig my mother's princess flower embroidery from my pocket. The locket tumbles out.

I plug the punctured flesh beneath her larynx with linen, my blood smearing into hers. Her eyes are shut, her skin deathly pale. “Eva, stay,” I urge. “The locket. You want the locket? Here. Take it.”

A single tear rolls down her white cheek.

Chapter Thirty-three

Oscar Wilde famously wrote: “Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.”

Outside the airplane window, the sky is pitch-black. My overhead lamp throws a weak puddle of light over the pad of paper on the tray table serving as my easel while I sketch. My pencil pauses. The lamp casts me in shadowy light as well and I smile, catching my reflection in the window. For the journey home, I chose to wear the embroidered peasant blouse I had purchased on the quay along the Danube. The brightly colored detail pops vividly against the inky backdrop. Inspiration strikes.

I turn to a fresh page, ignoring the pinch of the stitches beneath the gauze dressing covering the top of my wrist. Hurriedly, I fill in a rudimentary outline of the gardener boy holding a bouquet that I have just decided is not a bouquet at all. Lead etches the page in an interlocked pattern while I consider all that has been unstitched and then restitched in the seven days I spent in my mother's homeland.

Moments after Eva's attempted suicide, Gustav charged into
the chapel. The blood-smeared wound looked serious but she was alert, though dazed. With some effort, she'd raised herself to a sitting position and insisted on holding the daisy piece, now one with the Pucci scarf, against her wound. Her weapon had missed an artery and the blood flow had all but stopped.

Eva needed immediate psychiatric help. Step one was to quietly reach my family. I hoped Oszkár would apply his medical skills but it was also important to avoid attention from the local authorities. My childhood fears of Communism had not been extinguished.

Cousin Oszkár's medical practice, it turned out, was located next door at Rókus hospital, a fortunate happenstance Gustav discovered when he called Gyöngyi from a phone booth outside Rókus chapel. We took Eva to Oszkár's private office. After treating the wound on her neck, he also sutured the gash on the back of my hand. Afterward, following an extended, probing conversation with Eva, he'd pronounced her fit enough to keep to her scheduled flight back to the States.

Later that evening, I went to the family apartment. Oszkár had insisted Eva stay with him and his wife, Ica. They, together with Sándor, would keep vigil with her overnight. After I arrived, Eva unburdened her terrible secret to Oszkár, Sándor and Gyöngyi—members of our family with the most intimate connections to Kati. She stood before us, wounded and broken, the obsessive bitterness that just hours earlier had driven her to the brink of no return, gone. Following her confession, I folded the locket into Eva's hand, a ceremonial gesture to acknowledge that she had fulfilled my mother's wish.

Then Oszkár, the most senior of the Katona-Szabo descendants,
responded on behalf of the group. I had always reached for photos and small mementos to stir memories of my mother, but sitting at Eva's side, listening to Oszkár's benevolent words, I could actually feel her spirit.

“As a small child, under duress, you betrayed our loved family member,” he said. “But you, too, are the beloved member of a good Hungarian family. Your parents fought bravely, giving their lives for our country.
We
are a close-knit family. The weight of the suffering and sorrow of the previous generation is on our shoulders. You have lifted some of our burden. We are thankful you came forward and we offer our forgiveness.

“And for you, Ildikó, finding and disclosing the long-buried secrets concerning Kati's imprisonment and death, we are deeply grateful.”

By evening's end, we all agreed that this particular chapter of tragic family history should now be considered closed.

But Eva's admission of responsibility here was just a first step toward healing. Now she must begin the next leg of her journey, seeking treatment, confessing to family at home, and facing the police.

Yes, she had suffered deep psychological trauma during the revolution. She'd spent her life covering up that childhood interrogation and its horrific effects. It was the AVO, the Secret Police, the bureaucrats who were guilty. They were the ones responsible for dragging Kati off and torturing her. But Eva as an adult chose to stalk, to burglarize, to lie, to harm—and worse. All the family forgiveness cannot erase that. She had struggled with my mother at the train, and whether the fall was accidental or intended, her actions contributed to my mother's death. Attila's death could be attributed to her as well. Mental health professionals—and the U.S. justice system in Chicago—were now the ones to sort it all out.

The next day, Oszkár and Sándor accompanied Eva to the airport where she boarded a plane to Chicago. In a carefully circumscribed telephone conversation, I'd told Mariska what I believed she and the others involved there had already pieced together. The Bankutis and “the proper person” would be there for Eva once she landed, Mariska assured me.

This morning it had not been easy saying goodbye to my family and the place of my ancestors. But according to Mariska—who heard it from Irina, who'd gotten word from Ioana, the Russian student in my English conversation group—my return, scheduled two days after Eva's, is also anxiously awaited.

Before I'd left Chicago, I was caught up in demanding answers to why I am who I am. Was I doing what I was supposed to be doing? Was it worthwhile? My world was small. Was there somewhere else I should be? Knowing where I come from, I feel more comfortable now with my life. Irina was right.

And Vaclav had been right as well: “…never allow a murderer of loved ones to go unpunished.” Solving the mysteries of my mother and her sister's deaths helped mend the ache in my heart. I am grateful to honor their memory in this way. Now when I glimpse myself in the mirror, I no longer look away in disgust. I am content with who I see.

One more difficult goodbye. That eventful day at Rókus Hospital, while I stayed with Eva, Gustav returned to Péterfy Sándor Utca Hospital to be with his uncle, arriving just before Ferenc passed away. He was at peace, Gustav told me. Yesterday, at Gustav's suggestion, and with the blessing of my Budapest family, with my hand in Gustav's for comfort, I had placed the photo of Kati inside Ferenc's casket. The picture had been the driving force behind my mother's journey to find the truth, then mine. I was relieved to put it to rest with Ferenc, a brave guide in the darkest of days, a loving and generous soul.

Standing arm-in-arm at Ferenc's gravesite, Gustav and I concluded that the past, unless it's cleared, rises up, willed or not, to control the present. And the demons and blame we carried for so long? We turned and left them there.

No more secrets
.

In the plane I'm sketching a primitive scene in keeping with the style my mother used to create her own art. I begin filling in another area of the page, pondering the deeper meaning of her triptych's panels.

Panel One. The two ethnic princesses about to descend the divided staircase, to me a scene of youth, possibility, escape. It represented my mother, the refugee, and me, the teenager, uncertain of which world we belonged in, where we would end up.

Panel Two. The boat carrying the lone princess across the Danube to face the unknown, the place that cast the evil spell and took away free choice, that perpetuated deep sorrow. A scene of adulthood, maturity. A time when important decisions must be made, when one must learn to trust oneself to take the correct course. Relevant to my mother—torn from her roots and, though no longer on Hungarian soil, desperate to find a way to help her family there; leaving Chicago, facing the dark unknown to unravel the truth of Kati. Relevant to me—by doggedly following her steps, coming to Budapest and helping to put things right, the cloak of shame and doubt I have long carried is now gone.

Panel Three, unfinished. My mother's special gift to me. I like to think that even when I was sixteen, she anticipated the adult I would be. She knew I would not want to spend my life retelling her stories. She would want me to tell my own. And so she trusted me to follow her pattern, solve the riddle, fill in the final details.

Now while I map out my vision for completing the panel, it is as if she is here with me and we are engaged in a creative process together. Panel Three: our piece.

Turbulence jolts the plane and my pencil careens off the page.

I regard the illustration I'd been working on. Not a kneeling gardener but a photographer. Not a bouquet but a camera, its lens focused at an arch made of connected female forms, like a string of paper dolls, wearing tent dresses. The dress of the first form is filled with words. Behind, the tent shapes are blank, awaiting threads from items of clothing brought in by my students, representing their native lands. Our ongoing project.

The red peasant boots? They hold flowers—Calla lilies.

Another violent jolt. I slap my bandaged hand on the sketchbook, securing it on the tray table.

Next to me, Gustav stirs, awakens, rubs his face and adjusts his seat into its upright position. I clutch his forearm and feel the reassuring weight of his hand covering mine as we ride out a prolonged sequence of bumps. Earlier, Gustav had slept right through a less aggressive thermal assault. Now the pilot, speaking on the intercom in an amped-up voice no one could possibly doze through, tells us he is ascending to a higher elevation to escape the rough weather.

The plane levels off. I lean my head on Gustav's shoulder. The skies are calm again.

Author's Note

Triptych
was conceived at the Squaw Valley Community of Writers summer workshop in 2003, with the writing exercise prompt: “My mother never…” I quickly added “…lived in the same world as me.” A one-page piece followed.

My mother was Hungarian and, once in the States, a displaced person. Her sense of rootlessness and yearning for something left behind was palpable to a sensitive child. But it took that one page assignment to flip a switch that allowed me to begin to appreciate the depth of her loss, and also the unique nature and richness of my family heritage.

I began writing down the exotic stories I'd heard growing up of my mother's years of missionary service in war-torn China and the arduous journey to the States. A chapter of
Triptych
was born.

Childhood memories of t
he turbulent days of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution
rushed back
. Hushed conversations between my parents concerning loved ones in Hungary;
Life
magazine photos of carnage in Budapest streets; a visit from an escaped freedom fighter, broken front teeth, scars from pried off fingernails.

I
had to
write about these things. Through the process, I learned of two uncles banished to Siberia for their resistance to an oppressive invading regime. I uncovered the unknowns about my mother's adopted sister, Manci. She'd been a teacher in Budapest, suffered at the hands of Russian soldiers and died shortly thereafter, at age 21.

My mother lived in a world other than mine, and I am grateful for what she shared of it. I am also mightily thankful for what she didn't reveal. The absent pieces of my heritage, and what I discovered and intuited about them, stirred my imagination and spurred me to arrive at this story.

My mother was so brave in so many quiet, understated ways. My relentless belief in the possibility of making a difference, in a small way, would not exist without her.

My thanks and love also goes out to family members in Europe—particularly Edit, Gyöngyi, Ivett—for sharing their stories and family photos, and for chauffeuring me to historical sites.

In addition to family tales, this book incorporates details from many Hungarians I've met. In particular, I wish to thank György Faludi in Budapest. György generously shared stories from his experiences during the Revolution and was actively involved in guiding my research during visits, even graciously reviewing segments of the story as it developed. In the Bay Area, Gabriella Kurczinak provided a personal glimpse into residing in, then leaving, Budapest during those turbulent times.

I am deeply grateful for the insights and guidance of Mariska Katona and my dear longtime pal, Kathy Peterson, my guides in Chicago. Kathy, your instinct in leading us down that private driveway…pure story-setting brilliance!

Thanks also to John Rigali and Lisa Rigali-Galvin at Daprato Rigali Studios in Chicago for your patient counsel in the art of church restoration.

Thank you to the accomplished writers in the Bono Bunch, Chuck Kenslar, Elizabeth Kern, Ed Rau, Mark Sloan, Pat Tyler, the writing group with whom I've been trading pages and criticism and support for nearly a decade now, who continue to teach me and unfailingly make me laugh. And an especially deep bow to Susan Bono, gracious group leader, tactful editor, and talented writer.

I am also indebted to early readers Amy Beauchamp, Claudia Bluhm, Terri Tate, Katherine Forrest and Kay Noguchi. I wouldn't have had the confidence or capacity to complete this book without your constructive comments and generous support.

I owe thanks to my amazing editor at Poisoned Pen Press, Annette Rogers, who made this book immeasurably better through her careful reads and wise suggestions. To all the folks at Poisoned Pen, especially publisher Jessica Tribble; I am truly grateful you saw potential in
Triptych
, took it on, and then have worked so hard to bring it to the reading public.

Sisters Rose and Tunde have given me constant encouragement and love, from earliest childhood to this late-bloomer writer stage, and through all the see-saw years in between. Tunde, who read to me when we shared a bed as children, now enthusiastically reviews my manuscripts. How sweet is that?

My children and their spouses, Jason, Tanya, Evan, Theresa, Kate, Sean, Chris, Jeff, who unfailingly support me and accept my often recluse behavior…love and thanks to you.

As always, my hugest thanks to Peter, my first and most patient reader.