Temptation

by Janos Szekely

  Only a rabble can’t see the wood for the trees. The class-conscious proletarian is organized to fight the systematic Fascist oppression and doesn’t lose itself in pointless individual acts.

  You’re only assisting the enemy if you bring the police down on your necks with rash acts!

  We are not here to destroy, but to build.

  We want to build a unitary society and we’re going to eradicate the roots of this sickness legally. The bloodsuckers must die—the small fry of these proletarian traitor-fleas along with the great leeches of the peasants and workers. They will all, to a man, be tried in proletarian courts and there will be no mercy for the merciless.

  Think of that in the dark days of helplessness and desperation. Come together and light the way for your comrades stumbling in the dark; study and teach so you can be good soldiers of the proletarian struggle for freedom and worthy of the great task that history has assigned you.

  Down with Fascism!

  Workers of the world, unite!

  •

  My mother was already fetching the matches to burn the dangerous document, but my father read it over again carefully.

  “It’s quite something,” he said pensively.

  “What?” asked my mother.

  “That they’re darin’ to take a stand. Do you know how much jail time you can get for this?”

  “How much?”

  “I knew a fellow got fifteen years.”

  “And they still keep doin’ it.”

  “Why? Who pays them?”

  My father smiled at the naivety of the question.

  “They’re working on credit, dear,” he replied, but my mother still did not understand.

  “Who for?” she asked seriously.

  “For this one here,” my father said, pointing to me, his smile gone. “Him and all the other poor children.”

  “They must be a fine lot,” my mother said pensively. Then she took the flyer out of my father’s hand and lit it.

  The paper caught, illuminating, for a moment, the darkened little kitchen.

  The flyers burned just like that all throughout the house. If a “copper” or a fairy godmother had peeked through the keyhole, they would have seen a little light in every flat.

  •

  The shutters were closed all day on Árpád and Márika’s flat, and Márika did not venture out.

  “I ought at least to go see how she is,” said my mother, but couldn’t quite bring herself to do so.

  The house made Márika a pariah, and my mother knew that the same fate awaited her if she went over there. She was very fond of Árpád, she hated Herr Hausmeister profoundly, and Márika’s infidelity made her very angry. In other words, she was in complete agreement with the rest of the house, but she still pitied Márika. She couldn’t sit still all evening and kept bursting into tears.

  Though it’s not like they were even close any more. Márika—as I learnt that evening—had been “shacking up” with Herr Hausmeister for months, and my mother had cooled towards her. There wasn’t any animosity, but Márika only came over if my mother invited her, and my mother only invited her if she had some food to spare or if she was washing at home. Then Márika would bring her laundry over, Herr Hausmeister being such a generous type that his sweetheart couldn’t even afford soap.

  “I don’t know what to do!” complained my mother, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Do what you think is best, my dear,” replied my father, but my mother didn’t know what she thought best.

  “The worst is when everybody’s right,” she said, then cried a bit and ended up not going over to Márika’s.

  The next day I had a day off. My mother was washing at home that morning, my father and me helping her. It was brutally hot. You could barely see for the steam in the narrow, windowless little kitchen, because we weren’t allowed to open the door even on boiling days like these—don’t ask me why. Herr Hausmeister had so decreed, and Herr Hausmeister worked in mysterious ways, as deities generally do.

  My mother went over to the door every five minutes, wiped the condensation off the glass and peeked over at Márika’s. Their shutters were still closed. Árpád had not come home and Márika still hadn’t shown her face.

  “It’s been three days!” she said hoarsely, staring intensely at her shoes. Then she said quietly: “I’m goin’ over there, come what may.”

  My father did not object, nor did he approve, but when my mother left, he went and stood outside the door so everyone could see that anyone who said anything about my mother would have him to reckon with.

  My mother’s going immediately caught the house’s attention.

  “Well, would you look at that!” a woman said nice and loud when my mother knocked on Márika’s door. Then there was silence, a dangerous silence.

  Márika did not answer my mother’s knocking for a long time. I was beginning to think there really was something wrong with her when she finally opened the door. She looked terrible, you could hardly recognize her. She stood there in the crossfire of hostile looks like a sick, exhausted little animal that no longer has the strength to defend itself.

  My mother ignored the house completely.

  “We’re doin’ some washing,” she said calmly and simply. “Come on over, Márika, bring your laundry.”

  “Th-thank you,” Márika stuttered, swallowing heavily to suppress her tears.

  My mother waited in front of the door while Márika went in to fetch the laundry, keeping her eyes peeled. By the time Márika set foot in the walkway, all the doors and windows had filled with curious faces. Their looks were dark and savage, ready to strike; but my father, as I say, was standing there in front of the door, and everyone in Újpest knew it wasn’t a good idea to tangle with Dappermishka.

  Nothing happened for the moment. My father closed the kitchen door and Márika started in on the washing without a word. My mother took three boiled potatoes and a decent portion of bread from the cupboard and handed them to Márika. That was our lunch, all three of us, but as we didn’t belong to the upper classes, we held strange and I might even say seditious views on private property: we held that lunch belonged to whoever hadn’t eaten for the longest time, and in this case, that honour unquestionably went to Márika. The poor thing can’t have eaten anything for ages, because she didn’t even bother to make the customary excuses, but simply started gobbling the food right away. She didn’t even sit down, just turned away from us into the corner, her shoulders heaving silently with sobs as she ate. We pretended not to see her and just carried on washing. But all at once, she gave a small, inarticulate sound, and if my mother hadn’t caught her at the last moment, she’d have fallen clean across the floor.

  We had all starved enough in our time to know what that meant. We didn’t need to consult each other for advice; we acted quickly, without words. My mother supported the semi-conscious Márika into the room, laid her down on Manci’s bed, and pulled open her shirt. My father brought in the bucket and poured water into the washbasin and jug as I wet a cloth and took a clean towel from the wardrobe. Then we left the women to themselves, because we knew what was coming next.

  Half an hour later, we were all four back by the tub, washing on. I was just about to pop down to the shop because we’d run out of starch, when I saw that Mózes was heading straight to our apartment.

  “The police are coming!” he whispered breathlessly, running on to the next apartment.

  My mother glanced quickly at Márika.

  “Did you burn it?” she asked.

  She didn’t specify what, but Márika understood. She nodded yes, and we kept on washing. We were used to this kind of thing, and besides, we were convinced the police weren’t coming to ours, anyway.

  But a few minutes later there was a knock and the outlines of a police helmet appeared on the steamed-up glass of the kitchen door.

  My father blanched when he saw it, but he was still the old Dappermishka. He winked mischievously, wiping his
hands calmly; his steps were chillingly calm when he went outside. We didn’t hear what he said to the policeman, for he’d closed the door behind him, but when he came back, we knew at once that there was trouble.

  “Márika,” he said, with barely disguised anxiety, “the officer would like a word with you.”

  The officer wore glasses, which immediately clouded up with steam, so he stopped in the door as if he’d gone suddenly blind. He was no spring chicken—a hefty, slightly paunchy man with a white moustache. He took off his spectacles and glanced myopically about. He had a good, simple peasant face, and it was easier to imagine him with a scythe than with the waxed document holder he now so officiously opened. He leafed through the documents, reading Márika’s name off one.

  “Which one of you is it?” he asked.

  “Me,” Márika said timidly.

  The officer came closer. He was worryingly gentle—I’d never seen a policeman so gentle in my life. He said:

  “Could you please come with me, miss?”

  “Yes, sir,” Márika nodded, drying her hands. But this gentleness on the part of the authorities made her, too, anxious, it seems, because all of a sudden, she stopped drying her hands and asked the policeman:

  “Where you taking me, officer?”

  “To identify a body,” he replied neutrally, avoiding Márika’s gaze.

  “Who . . . whose . . . body?”

  “That’s what you have to tell us, miss.”

  “Why me, officer?”

  “They say it’s your husband.”

  There was a terrific silence. Márika, who otherwise cried so easily, now stared at the policeman completely dry-eyed and didn’t say a word. You cry out with pain if someone steps on your corns, but if they shoot you through the heart, all you feel is a dull blow. Then you die.

  Márika’s face was like a death mask. It was so stiff it looked almost impassive—eerily, almost inhumanly impassive. A fly landed on her sweaty forehead, but her skin was so inured she didn’t even twitch. Even now, when I think of those moments, I see that fly walking leisurely across her face, from her forehead to her nose, her nose down to her upper lip, and from there to the side of her mouth, into those happy dimples that back when Márika still laughed, would grow deep like a crater, but now looked as terrifying as an empty eye socket.

  My mother cried softly.

  “What happened to him, poor thing?” she asked the policeman, sniffling.

  The old myopic policeman lifted the piece of paper to his eyes, and then said:

  “Internal bleeding on the lungs.”

  “Was he in the hospital?”

  “No. He died in the ambulance.”

  Márika listened to this exchange as if it had been in a foreign language and she hadn’t understood a word.

  By this time, a large crowd had gathered outside our door. You could hear excited chattering and a woman weeping loudly.

  “Shall we go?” said the policeman, and made to leave.

  Márika did not move. She stared in front of her as if she was going to fall asleep at any moment and could only keep her eyes open with a great effort. My mother went over to her and hugged her, crying.

  “You’d better go,” she said, and gave her a lingering kiss.

  Márika went like a sleepwalker. Outside, people made way for her, their looks no longer hostile. They stood on both sides of the corridor as if there were someone with their finger pressed to their lips hushing them, someone of whose coming Mózes had not warned the house because he wore a cloak of darkness and no sword or gun, but who might be back tomorrow to knock on another door and to take another of their number, like the policeman.

  When Márika reached their flat, she said:

  “Oh.”

  That’s how she said it, with no exclamation mark; it was short, dry, almost a statement of fact. You would have thought she’d just remembered a handkerchief she’d left in the apartment, or she had to go back and fetch her handbag and was about to ask the policeman for permission. But instead, she let out a blood-curdling scream. Her whole body began to shake and tremble, she kicked and screamed like a lunatic, and before the policeman could stop her, she’d thrown herself into the crowd.

  “Kill me!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “I’m a whore! Kill me!”

  People tried to calm her, but in vain. Márika threw herself down on her knees before them, hands clasped together, and begged:

  “Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!”

  My mother knelt down beside her to comfort and quiet her, but nothing worked. Márika went on screaming and her hysteria gave her such strength that my mother, who could usually have carried her easily, was now unable to lift her.

  At this point, it occurred to the gentle policeman that he was representing Authority. He leant down, jerked Márika up and, as befitting a person in Authority, yelled at her roughly.

  “Get a move on, the devil take you!”

  That had its effect. This was the voice of the Royal Hungarian Police: the master’s voice that at once reminded Hungarian dogs of a thousand years of the whip, and had them snapping to attention even on their deathbeds.

  “Y-yes, o-off-officer,” Márika sobbed, slinking after the master, the way a good dog should.

  •

  That must have been around nine in the morning. At twelve—I remember they had just rung noon—Rózsi came in a state of excitement to pass on the news:

  “Herr Hausmeister’s coming with some Krauts!”

  We looked at each other. That meant someone was getting evicted. No one in the building was willing to come and throw another tenant’s things out into the street, and besides Herr Hausmeister didn’t really trust Hungarians. He used to bring Swabians from Budakeszi for the occasion, two straw-haired, moon-faced giants with blue eyes who came and went in the house like executioners and couldn’t look their fellow Hungarians in the eyes, not—I believe—out of racial hatred, but simply because they, too, were poor, and it’s easier to hate than to feel ashamed.

  “Who’s gettin’ evicted?” my mother asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Rózsi, “they’re jabberin’ in German.”

  And on she ran, her hair flapping in the wind, to carry the fateful news on to the next flat.

  We went into the room and positioned ourselves at the window, because Herr Hausmeister really was on his way with the two Swabians. They’d just passed the second floor.

  “They’re comin’ to our floor!” my mother said, and she blanched to her roots.

  The house, too, seemed to blanch. The tenants stared out of their apartments like prisoners from their cells when one of them is being taken off to be hanged.

  Moments later, we all knew who Herr Hausmeister was putting out on the street. He stopped in front of Márika’s apartment, opened the door with his key and gestured to his bodyguards. They went in. Herr Hausmeister opened the shutters that Márika hadn’t dared open for three days because of him, and the Swabian boys threw the flat’s “furnishings” out of the window. These, to be precise, consisted of two battered suitcases, a brown horsehair blanket and the rough-hewn empty wooden crate that served as their table. That was it. That was all the industrious little printer had left behind, a man who didn’t drink, didn’t gamble and didn’t smoke, just worked from morning till night while they let him, dreaming of a child of his own and a more humane world.

  “Oh damn it all!” my father burst out. “I never heard of such a thing!”

  There was something in his eyes that really frightened me. I had never seen him like this. My mother looked at him, terrified.

  “Mishka, dear,” she whispered with a pleading look, “don’t make trouble. You know he can put us out, too, if he wants.”

  “I know,” my father growled darkly, grinding his teeth in impotent fury. “I know,” he repeated slowly, hoarsely, and flashed a fiery gaze at my mother. “So I’m supposed to let him put that poor widow out on the street before she’s even had a chance to bury her h
usband?”

  “What can you do, Mishka? Ain’t nothing you can do.”

  “We’ll see about that!” he snapped. Adjusting his belt, he went out the door.

  He walked slowly, with slow peasant steps, like someone with all the time in the world, but when the tenants saw him they all flooded out onto the corridors and the house fell so quiet, it was as if the whole building were holding its breath.

  “What you up to?” he asked Herr Hausmeister so calmly that anyone who didn’t know better would have thought he’d just come out into the corridor in boredom, to have a bit of a chat.

  Herr Hausmeister, however, could not muster such self-control. He went red—his face looked like it had been pebble-dashed with whitewash, since his pockmarks remained white.

  “Evictin’ someone,” he said with feigned indifference, imitating my father’s manner. Meanwhile, however, he sneaked a sly glance at his Swabians, who immediately started circling, zurucking, as they said in Budakeszi, so they could get my father from behind if need be. At that, I too, pulled my belt up and went outside. The house had clearly expected nothing less, because they immediately made way and let me through, the way people make space for the speaker at a public meeting.

  Then my father said, still calm:

  “But you ain’t even given her notice!”

  “Ain’t I?” laughed Herr Hausmeister. “They got their papers six months ago. I only kept ’em on out of kindness.”

  Márika hadn’t told us that. I could see that it had come as a surprise to my father, too. He didn’t say anything for a while.

  “Did you know her husband died?”

  “I know, I know,” shrugged Herr Hausmeister. “But life goes on.”

  Then there was movement. Everybody turned around, and I followed their gaze. That was when I saw Márika standing there in front of her belongings that they’d thrown out of the window.

  “Leave it, Mishka,” she said with difficulty. “It don’t matter now, anyway.”

  She gave a tired wave of her hand, then turned and headed for the staircase. My father turned his head after her.