“Here I am!” she shouted, splaying her arms out in an exaggerated way that conveyed she was complying under duress. “Well, let’s not keep our captive audience waiting!” Then she pushed past them both, grabbed her violin case from the corner of the living room next to her note stand, and continued toward the front door. “You coming, Mama?”
* * *
They had walked in ten minutes late, greeted at the recital hall entrance by Bianca’s violin teacher, who had whisked them backstage.
“I’m sorry,” Eva apologized again. “I couldn’t leave work early enough, we had an emergency at the hospital, and the tram was late, and…”
“No time for that.” The grim Mrs. Ivanov practically shoved Bianca toward the stage. “Go. Go now and take your place.” Then, after Bianca made her way to her chair with her violin at the front, the teacher turned to Eva with repressed fury. “If you are not capable of taking this seriously, Mrs. Kovaks, I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t insist on wasting my time. Need I remind you again that I used to play with the Moscow symphony? I have a line of students eager for my tutelage.” Before Eva could open her mouth to reply, Mrs. Ivanov turned on her heels and marched down the side steps, head high and smiling tightly to her front-row guests.
In the fifth row, where Eva took her own seat next to Eduard, she felt as though she could finally breathe again. “Don’t ask, darling,” she whispered, kissing his cheek. “Don’t even ask. She was in rare form today.”
“I was late myself, just got here about five minutes ago,” Eduard confessed. “The surgery ran late, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Surely Mrs. Ivanov noticed my tardiness, too. Surely we will be expelled without delay from her fervent clientele list.”
Eva couldn’t help chuckling under her breath, then looped her arm through his as the lights dimmed and the curtain rose.
The conductor, bowing deeply with a special little nod for Mrs. Ivanov, led the orchestra into the opening stanzas. First the flutes came in, then the cellos, with their mournful sound, all soon fading in unison for the entry of Bianca, who, seated to the right of the conductor, was not looking at the notes, nor at the strings, but rather at her magenta fingernails. But she didn’t miss her entry: she came in like a fighter plane diving for its target, making Eva’s breath come to a halt. A small whimper came from her lips, and she shot up straight in her chair, pierced with a memory of a different violin, a different player who attacked the strings the same way. She couldn’t breathe, was nearly on her feet now, blood in her face, but there was nowhere to go—not without attracting attention to herself—and so she reclined back in her seat, smiling proudly to the surrounding faces.
Then, when it all seemed to blend harmoniously into the second movement of Jean-Baptiste Accolay’s No. 1 in A Minor, Bianca stopped. Stopped playing, causing a confusion in the orchestra, which tapered into silence. There was only silence in the audience, too; not a sound came, not a single cough. Eva saw the smile rising up to her daughter’s face, the devilish grin that spelled trouble, as Bianca tilted her chin up defiantly and launched into a solo piece of her own.
* * *
Afterward, as Eva and Eduard scooted out of their seats, silent, averting eye contact, hoping they could find Bianca quickly and slip away unseen, a heavyset man wearing a thick leather coat and shapka hat ambled up the aisle toward them, nearly blocking their path.
“Doctor Kovaks?”
“Yes,” Eduard said, searching Eva’s face, seemingly for some information.
“Well, nice to meet you. I’m Ana Ivanov’s husband.”
Eduard paled a little, clearing his throat. “Yes, well, we are indebted to Ana for all her efforts. As you can see, she’s done quite a good job with our daughter. And her… vocation for the violin.”
He laughed. “Well, yes, I have to admit she’s rather good. Above average, I would say. But a girl like that, well, Doctor, surely you must know that you’ve got your hands full with her. You should keep an eye on her, Eduard. May I call you Eduard?”
“By all means. And yes, she can be rather spirited. She has ideas of her own.”
“Indeed. But it does make one wonder where those ideas come from. What precisely she hears in that apartment of yours on Andrássy.” He shrugged a shoulder, smiling broadly. “Just a curiosity, that’s all. Well, I won’t keep you further. Have a pleasant evening, Mrs. Kovaks, Eduard. It’s been lovely chatting.”
* * *
Back home, there was no desire for celebration. Bianca stormed straight to her room, ignoring the cake that Dora had set on the dining table alongside their best china while Eduard took off his coat and tie and poured drinks for himself and Eva. Dora had also retired to her room, resting from her usual late-night palpitations for which Eduard had been prescribing her pills, and the two of them sat now in silence by the fire, sipping their much-needed drinks.
“Well, I can’t say that I’m exactly furious,” Eduard said, swirling his glass. “I mean, what she did was reckless, foolish, but I can’t say that I blame her entirely.” He held up his finger, catching Eva’s look. “I myself wish I wouldn’t be forced to attend to those Russian clowns who take what they want when they want, who eat caviar and drink our best wines when the rest of the country is struggling to make it from one day to the next.”
“Dear God, you sound just like her.”
“Like what?”
“You know.” She lowered her voice, running a hand over the side of her hair, which she had pulled earlier into a hasty chignon. “A revolutionary. You must stop. We must all stop even whispering about it in her presence. She’s just a child; she doesn’t understand the implications.”
“I agree. But you know, Eva, it did give me just a little satisfaction. Under different circumstances I would say that she made me a proud father tonight.”
“The girl could murder and you’d still find a way to be proud of her. Ever since she was a baby you’ve indulged her too much.”
It was in those early days of their marriage, when Bianca was still a toddler, that Eva had considered having another child. Even though she did not exactly burn with desire for another pregnancy, what did seem necessary to her was to complete the circle of their family by giving Eduard a daughter or a son of his own. Yet, as the years passed and they were unsuccessful, there seemed less and less reason for it. Eduard was utterly smitten with Bianca and the other way around. They laughed at each other’s private jokes, completed each other’s sentences, Bianca always eager to tag along with Eduard wherever he went. All of her affection seemed reserved either for him or for Dora, who—unlike Eduard, who couldn’t scold her, and Eva, who scolded her with no effect—could get the girl in line with no more than three sentences. It had saddened Eva for a while that often she felt like a weekend guest in her own home, then she came to accept it as another strange twist in her strange life. It was simply the way they were, and after a while she abandoned the idea of another child altogether. Their family, imperfect as it might have been, was complete.
“What do you think is going to happen?” Eva resumed now, frowning into her glass. “I didn’t like the look of that man one bit, much less the way he spoke to us. It worries me, Eduard. What should we do?”
“We do nothing. We go to work as usual and keep our heads low, try not to invite any further attention. Bianca goes to school, even though I think it might be wise to cut off her lessons with Ana for a while. It’s a pity. That girl could shred the strings right off a Stradivarius if she wanted to.”
“Hmm,” Eva mumbled, unable to return Eduard’s smile, her heart turning in a leap at those words just as it had earlier in the recital hall. Lightly, she patted Eduard’s chest and departed to their room, eager to change out of her best formal dress.
Later, she tried to sleep, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t sleep because seeing her daughter play like that had opened the door to buried ghosts—to those summer days with Aleandro and his brothers, which she’d tried so hard to erase from her consciousne
ss. And also because she wasn’t able to shake the feeling that, heads low or not, they’d just walked into the eye of an invisible storm.
26
New York
Autumn 1956
ALEANDRO HAD TOSSED AND TURNED last night in his bed, unable to get a wink of sleep. Having to wear a tux alone caused anguish enough, and he couldn’t even bring himself to think about how he’d handle the press without breaking out in a cold sweat. It was the first time Aleandro would have to attend an event on his own, to answer questions usually relegated to Rudolf. Questions about his painting technique (apparently, he’d started a trend using pastels in the same way that the Impressionists used small, visible brushstrokes to render shape and light), questions about Dachau, questions about his upcoming work, which, above all, left him tongue-tied and blathering like an idiot. Only Rudolf was able to rescue him from some insistent benefactor with expert timeliness just before his unease bubbled into a full anxiety bout. But tonight, Aleandro would have to muddle through the whole dreadful thing without his indispensable manager. Tonight, he was on his own.
Two days prior, Marlena had departed for New Jersey to attend to her mother’s health, and Rudolf was immersed in caring for their young son. Not that Rudolf loved anything more than doting on that child—constantly singing and cooing in his ear as he fed or dressed him—whether Marlena was at home or not. Aleandro himself had to admit that Hans, as they named him, was the most beautiful baby boy that he’d ever seen. The shock of red hair that he’d inherited from his mother and the eyes, which were a replica of Rudolf’s, left Aleandro choked with a nameless emotion. It wasn’t exactly love, not like what he’d felt for his brothers, but each time Aleandro touched Hans’s soft curls, each time Marlena and Rudolf left him in his arms to prepare a bottle or speak alone in the kitchen for a few minutes, Aleandro found himself tearing up.
“It is not too late for you, Aleandro. Despite what you say, it is not too late,” said Rudolf at the door the last time, pulling Aleandro into a bear hug and not letting go. “Remember? I told you that once. It’s been more than ten years, Aleandro. Maybe it’s time. Because life won’t stop and life requires one to be present. You can’t keep living in the past, Aleandro, not when you have so much to live for.”
Aleandro had laughed, patting his back in an offhanded way: “Tough teaching an old dog new tricks, my friend. Well, enjoy your little cocoon of bliss. I’ll be back Wednesday.”
But for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to go over on Wednesday, and the week went by in a flash, and now it was Saturday and the uptown gallery was teeming with people even prior to his arrival, a half hour before the show.
There was the usual handshaking, the autographing of glossy reproductions, the photographs taken with eager patrons, followed by the three-line opening speech, during which his hand quivered holding the scrap of paper. No more than twenty minutes into the reception, he found himself scanning the mass of suits and evening gowns for an escape route, dying to free himself from his constricting bow tie. A clear path to the restrooms finally opened up, and he was making his way there, when he was intercepted by an amply bosomed, silver-haired woman wearing a black sequin dress.
“Ah, Mr. Szabó. I’ve been dying to meet you, but I couldn’t get anyone around here to introduce us properly. I’m a big fan of your work. Marta Adami.”
She had a distantly familiar accent, and she shook his hand so forcefully that it jolted him out of his anxious haze.
“Ms. Adami. Thank you so much. But I was just stepping out. Could we talk a bit later?”
“Not leaving already, surely?”
“No, just taking a break.”
“Well, I’ll just walk with you for a moment. I assure you I make a good escort, and I’m dying for a word with you.”
Aleandro eyed her suspiciously. Was she flirting with him? Dear God, he was used to getting quite a bit of it, but he’d never had a woman of this age approach him this brazenly. She had to be at least seventy, even though the pixie cut and twinkling, lively eyes suggested a spirit that defied the years.
“My dear Mr. Szabó,” she resumed in her husky voice, as if reading his thoughts, switching to his utter surprise to Hungarian. “Charming as you may be, I assure you that I’m too old to have anything but honest intentions.”
He laughed delightedly, intrigued. “Well, in that case, please, right this way. I could never refuse a fellow countryman… uh, I mean, woman.”
They sat in the entry hall on a banquette near the window, where traffic lights passed in an endless stream, sipping champagne that had come around on a serving tray. Marta explained she was not just an admirer of his paintings but also the wife of the Hungarian ambassador to the United States.
“Truly?” Aleandro was astounded. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, Madam Adami, I had no idea. I hope you didn’t find me rude just now. Sometimes I find all this overwhelming.”
“I’m sure it is overwhelming. A success like yours—a rapid success, as it was—must not be easy to handle. When was it that you first exhibited at that gallery on Fifty-Seventh? Two, three years ago?”
“Four,” Aleandro said. “But you know it? You’ve seen it?”
She gave him a complicit sort of smile, which again seemed to belong to a younger woman, signaling for two more flutes and handing one to Aleandro. “My husband and I have seen your work several times. In fact, he regrets a great deal that he couldn’t be here tonight, but I suppose you could say that he sent me as his emissary.”
“Emissary? Emissary to what?”
“Mr. Szabó, when was the last time you saw Budapest?”
At the mention of Budapest, his fingers tightened around the glass. “I actually never have. I’m from Sopron. I never got the chance to visit the capital, to my greatest regret. As much as I would have wanted to… once. But, impossible now, right? The Soviet Bloc countries are inaccessible to Americans, to everyone in the West. They have been, am I right, since the end of the war?”
He didn’t want to tell her that he knew better than anyone the impossibility of returning there. For years he’d looked for a loophole, an opening of any kind that would allow him passage through the Iron Curtain, to no avail. At some point he’d relegated himself to the idea that Eva as much as Hungary were no more within his reach than they’d been during the days of the war.
“Well, there are exceptions,” Madam Adami said.
“I don’t understand. What kind of exceptions?”
Marta drained her champagne slowly, seeming to relish the suspense. Then she gingerly patted the corner of her mouth with a napkin, careful not to disturb the bright peach lipstick. “Have you heard, Mr. Szabó, of the Hungarian National Gallery?”
Aleandro shook his head, still not grasping where she was going with this.
“Well, it’s not actually scheduled to open until late this year, but the timing might just be perfect. Its purpose, Aleandro—if I may call you Aleandro—is to showcase exclusively the works of Hungarian artists, including ones living in the West, and I think your works of Dachau would be ideal for the opening.”
“Well, thank you, really, thank you very much. I’m truly flattered. But even if I wanted to take part in it, it would be impossible for me to get into Hungary.” He cleared his throat. “Not just because of obvious restraints, but because in Hungary, I’m afraid I’m considered a deserter. Because I came here to New York, instead of returning after the war.”
Marta shrugged, undeterred, smiling widely at some passing patrons. “All infractions can be forgiven for the right reasons, Aleandro. The Soviets, I’m sure, would be quite pleased to display the brutal atrocities of their infamous former foe. And, if you are truly interested, Aleandro, I think you’ll find that my husband and I can facilitate greatly in that regard. Here.” She snapped open her clutch and took from it a pearly white card. “Take my number. Think about it. Come visit us sometime. Even if it is just to take in the view of the big park.” She leaned in, giving his arm a s
queeze with her bejeweled hand. “It’s worth it, I promise.”
Then she set her glass down and departed graciously like a black swan over the marble terrain, leaving Aleandro there in a cloud of bewildered agitation, pondering her offer.
It seemed a dream, another fantasy he’d concocted for himself, and he rubbed his moist palms on his trousers as if to awaken himself from it. But this was no fantasy. This was real. He could go to Budapest! Budapest, where Eva watched the sun rise every day, where she lived and breathed—Eva, whom he hadn’t thought he’d ever see again in this divided world. An exhibition of this prestige would surely be announced in the papers; it would draw an audience, and maybe it would reach her ears. And maybe, just maybe, she would come.
It was perhaps just a foolish notion, but already he was caught in a frisson of euphoria, his heart galloping ahead of any reason. Rudolf was wrong, he thought then. You see, Rudolf, you can re-create the past if you hold on to it dearly enough. You can, because the universe is timeless; it always pulls you back where you belong.
With a broad smile on his face, he waltzed back into the exhibit a changed man, no longer anxious but glowing with the renewal of a long-dormant dream. In short, a man on the cusp of something he’d long forgotten how to feel. A happy man.
27
Budapest
Late Autumn 1956
IN THE SOFT LIGHT OF the October afternoon, Eva sat across from her daughter and watched her pick at her food. It was supposed to be a special afternoon together, one for which Eva had switched her daytime shift at the hospital, yet Bianca didn’t seem even slightly enthusiastic.
“Don’t you like it?” Eva encouraged. “It’s clafoutis. It’s what I thought you liked. That’s why I brought you here.”
“It’s fine,” Bianca said, letting the fork clink down on her plate. “It’s three o’clock. I should be getting home. I have to practice my violin.”
When the Summer Was Ours Page 17