For the next week, Dora spent most of her time alone, but busy. At work, she kept to her cubicle, where she read a record number of letters. After work, she invented a new chore to do. On Monday, she bought a new cooking pot. On Tuesday, she replaced all the expired spices in their cabinets. At night, Dora sank into her chair in the study and read beside Ivan. Usually a burden, the tradition now provided her with another way to keep her mind focused on anything but her own thoughts. Sometimes, right before she fell asleep, the eyes would drift into her view and she’d jolt awake, tears already building. When that happened, she would crawl right back into her chair in Ivan’s study and pick up where she left off in her book. Ivan would bring Dora a cup of warm tea and kiss her on the forehead before returning to his work. Just as Dora settled in to her reading that Sunday night and congratulated herself for making it through the week unscathed, the phone rang.
“Dora, you have to come over here now.”
“Marta?” Dora had been avoiding Marta all week for fear that she would try to find out what happened at the ministry.
“Yes, obviously it’s me. I’m at Szimpla.”
“Marta, I’m not going to a bar right now. I’m not up for it.”
“Oh, come on, you never are.”
“I have to go now,” Dora said.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“I have something to tell you. It’s about Mike.”
“Marta, if you’re using that to get me out ….”
“I’m not! Just come here immediately. I know your dad is there. I’m not going to say it over the phone.”
Marta knew exactly how to get Dora to do something. She doubted she had anything substantial to say, but in the off chance she did, Dora wanted to find out.
“All right, but I can’t be there for too long.”
When Dora kissed Ivan goodbye, she noticed him squinting a little too much as if he had to exert himself just to smile. The familiar surge of guilt swelled inside Dora at the sign of Ivan’s vulnerability, his hatred of being alone. Dora felt responsible for his happiness and frustrated that, at such a young age, she was already taking care of her dad.
She knew she could never give him the affection he needed, and vice versa. Their love pooled into a dam built by their refusal to talk about Eszter. Their connection stopped short, stagnated and, as the years went by, gradually evaporated. Dora worried that one day the dam would break and their relationship would be exposed for how it really was—broken and beholden to the forces of the past.
Dora gently closed the door of the apartment, wondering if her dad would ever accept that, at times, she would try to make a life for herself. She had no clue what Marta had in store for her, but she hoped she could escape within a couple of hours.
“Remember you said Mike wouldn’t have plans?” Marta asked—or more, announced—the second she saw Dora. “Here are some plans.” Marta slid a letter over to Dora.
“A letter from Mike? How did you get this?” Dora whispered, even though they were at a table in the back, hidden in plumes of stale, lingering cigarette smoke.
“I noticed it on top of some letters being prepared for Joszef’s review.”
“And you just took it?”
“First of all, I don’t think Joszef has seen it yet. And also, this is a copy. Mike’s letter is back in its place.”
“Thank God.”
“Just read.” Marta put a glass of vodka in front of Dora. “Then drink.”
As Dora scanned the copy of Mike’s letter, a rush of despair coursed through her. She learned not only that Mike wanted to leave Hungary, but he also confessed to hearing something in the basement of the Ministry of Interior. She knew, with this government, coincidences didn’t just happen. When a person had a feeling two horrible things were connected, they usually were. From the second she saw it, she knew the moaning was related to those eyes. She had almost been successful at escaping them. But they followed her, tracking her movements like a cat in the night.
Dora also thought about the regime’s new hunt for Radio Free Europe devotees. Mike would surely encounter problems if he tried to leave now that he discussed plans to head to Munich—the headquarters of Radio Free Europe. And yet, it was his sister’s need for a mom driving his desire to leave Hungary in the first place. Dora struggled to reconcile her sense of duty with her guilt over turning someone in who seemed so compassionate.
“Dora …,” Marta hesitated.
“Look,” Dora pointed to the letter matter-of-factly. “He has plans to leave Hungary. We cannot let these come to fruition.”
“He wants to leave. You are right, but it’s not forever. He obviously wants to bring his mom back here, so it’s not that bad. We can still help him, can’t we?”
Dora knew every person her age despised the regime, but they rarely documented these feelings on paper. It was stupid of Mike to write about them so openly.
Mike’s letter confirmed one of Dora’s biggest fears: Mike was both confident and optimistic. The lethal combination invariably led to the greatest crimes. Rather than fearing the government, he would joyfully flout its rules, carrying on in a separate world, leading a separate life, and loving a separate government—the government of his own. Dora knew what she had to do.
“We have to tell Joszef,” Dora said. “Mike is just going to get more determined. He’s not going to stop until he finds himself thrown in jail. We can help him now by squashing his dreams of leaving.”
“No!” Marta plucked the letter out of Dora’s hand. “Mike has been your constant companion; you can’t just abandon him.”
“It’s not just about me anymore,” Dora reasoned with Marta, who gripped the letter in her hands. “It’s about Mike, and you, and my dad. This is the best way of stopping something before it gets out of hand and affects us all.”
“I know you’re worried. I am too, but there is something we could do about this letter.”
“We can’t destroy it,” Dora said.
“No. I think we need a delay tactic. Let’s take it from Joszef’s office, for now,” Marta said.
“What if he notices it’s missing?”
“He might notice, but he won’t know who took it.”
Normally, Dora would have stifled a plan requiring any sort of deviousness. But, she reasoned, a delay could buy them some time to come up with an alternative.
An hour later, Dora found herself positioned in front of Joszef’s office watching Marta fumble a hair pin as she tried to unlock his door. They had waltzed up to his floor without coming into contact with the remaining employees nestled in their cubicles. It wouldn’t have been completely strange for them to be at work on that night.
They tiptoed into Joszef’s office and closed the door. Hardly able to discern anything in the dark, Dora closed her eyes and counted down from five. When she opened her eyes, Joszef’s impeccable office spread before her. So painstakingly clean, it sent shivers down Dora’s arms. She wondered if he kept it this clean so he could catch trespassers.
Dora searched under Joszef’s desk for a pair of cabinet keys. She could detect the faint traces of his most personal attributes, like the somewhat moldy scent that clung to him every morning, or the small pieces of hair he shed when he rubbed his face in concentration. She found his cabinet keys taped to the bottom corner of his desk.
Dora was impressed by the immaculate organization of Joszef’s cabinet files—every single paper had a proper place, its destination defined with a printed label. She found not one loose paper, which meant Joszef might very well notice the absence of Mike’s letter.
Careful to maintain absolute silence, Dora painstakingly lifted each paper, inspected it, and placed it back where it belonged. With each movement, Dora felt like a piece of machinery executing its next, precisely-timed maneuver. She endured this sensation many times in this building, except now she waited for the glitch—the letter—that would allow her to influence the machine’s operations.
Dor
a propped open a folder entitled To Read, which held all the latest letters and reports passed on to Joszef. Dora plucked the first letter from the file and realized it was, indeed, Mike’s.
“He probably hasn’t seen any of these …,” Marta said.
“You’re right, although it was on top of the pile, so perhaps he’ll remember it was there.”
“That’s possible, but we don’t have any other choice, Dora.” Eyeing the letter, Marta mustered her most calm voice, “Okay, let’s take it. It’s time to take it. It will just be gone for a little while ….”
Dora nodded.
She understood—they had gone this far, and to turn back would be to admit that they committed a crime. As she moved to close the drawer, she noticed Marta clutching something against her. Glued tightly to her stomach was a folder bending awkwardly on Marta’s torso.
“Marta, what is that?”
“It’s our employee evaluations.” Marta had that look on her face she got when she was excited about plans. It was a far-away giddiness in her eyes, as if she had leapt ahead to where they had succeeded instead of addressing the present reality.
Dora gently slid the folder out of Marta’s grasp. “We’ve broken enough rules for one night.” Dora straightened the file the best she could and returned it to Joszef’s filing system. “Plus, I think we can wait for our evaluations.”
When they finally made it outside, Dora breathed deeply for the first time in hours, releasing the focus that allowed her to operate so methodically. At least for a few weeks, Dora hoped, Mike would be spared the repercussions in store for the select, unlucky fans of Radio Free Europe.
As soon as they made it a few blocks from their office, Marta declared, “Dora! You are coming out with me. We’re going to a bar or a club or whatever you want, but you’re going out.”
Dora rolled her eyes and then did something she hadn’t done in weeks—she laughed.
“All right, Marta, but I’m tired. I’m not staying out that late.”
“Of course not. We can have our fun and get home early.” Marta hurried them toward a local bar that was known for playing The Beatles, softly, and only once in awhile. Other bars hosted actual Beatles cover bands. Fans used secret passwords for admission. Sometimes the police arrived in the middle of a set, yelling at everyone to get out. Sometimes they were cited for participating in the “black market” by buying tickets for and attending a concert that was not officially sanctioned. In reality, they were being punished for listening to rock ‘n’ roll and subjecting themselves to the music and culture of the West.
“So, Dora, any men you see here tonight that you might want to talk to?” Marta scanned the men surrounding them at the bar. “That bartender is looking rather groovy with his wild hair. It’s mysterious. I wonder what I will find … in there.”
Dora glanced at the bartender, whose hair looked like one of the dust balls accumulating under her bed.
“Yes, it looks very—”
“Amazing!” Marta finished her sentence. “Oh, look at him. He’s like the Hungarian version of John Lennon.”
“If he was just struck by lightning.”
“You’re right, he’s electric!” Marta grabbed Dora’s hand and ushered them toward the bar. “I Want to Hold Your Hand” blared from the speakers as Marta danced within view of the bartender, her scraggly curls bouncing into Dora’s eyes.
“Dora, you dance like a drunken elephant!”
“There’s more where that came from.” Dora exaggerated her jerky dance moves even more, sending Marta into spasms of laughter.
Of course, Dora knew Marta had planned all of this. Knowing her goofiness attracted conversation, Marta projected a carefree attitude, and men fell for it every time. At first, they would look at Marta sideways, as if second-guessing their initial feelings of attraction, but then, once Marta quit her show, they would come over and say something like, “Oh, that was very funny,” or, “Where did you learn those moves?”
But when the bartender neglected to even look at Marta, she sped toward him, temporarily abandoning Dora. Dora began meandering back toward their table when she realized a group of men now surrounded her, thanks to Marta.
“I wanna hold your haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand,” someone shouted in Dora’s ear. They butchered The Beatles’ lyrics with their heavy Hungarian accent and drunken drawl.
Turning toward the commotion, Dora faced a man, about her age, clad in maroon corduroy pants and a thick woolen sweater, his sweat tumbling from his forehead to the ground. Listing, yet obviously determined to make himself appear sober, he fixated his gaze upon Dora and displayed a grin that seemed to lay siege to his entire face. Momentarily disgusted by his obvious show, Dora shunned him. She brushed her hair slightly over her face to conceal her eyes. Countless similarly sweaty men had confronted Dora before, daring to conquer her imperturbable façade.
Studying his face momentarily through the wisps of her hair, Dora noticed an alluring softness in his eyes. And before she could stop it, the slightest of smiles slipped from her lips.
“And what could possibly be your name?” the man shouted.
“It’s Anika,” Dora replied as she lifted her drink off the table next to her.
Taking precautions to conceal herself, in every way possible, Dora stared at her straw as she picked at it and moved it through her fingers. She stopped when she realized the man, now leaning into Dora, was hungrily staring at her fingers.
As if suddenly remembering his manners, he stepped away from Dora and exclaimed, “I’m Ferenc,” which elicited no response in Dora.
“Would you like to hold my haaaaaaaaand?” he sang and smiled sheepishly.
He refused to wait for a reply. He grabbed Dora’s hand and ignored her subsequent flinching. Resisting Dora’s subtle attempts to push herself in the opposite direction, Ferenc spun Dora around in circles.
“Anika, Anika, Anika. What a lovely name!” he sang, “I wanna hold your haaaand, Anika!”
On her third cycle around Ferenc, Dora caught a glimpse of Marta angling her chest over the bar so her cleavage spilled—no, overflowed—onto the mahogany. How Marta managed to produce cleavage while wearing a sweater would always mystify Dora.
"Anika,” Ferenc continued to sing, “Oh, please, say to me, you’ll let me be your man. Anika, please, say to me, that you’ll talk to me!”
Beginning to relent to Ferenc’s charm, Dora laughed, but only at a barely audible level. By allowing someone to fawn over her, if only for a second, Dora experienced a sense of importance she hadn’t felt in years. Ivan’s pains to make Dora feel loved only did the opposite. As he failed multiple and successive times, Dora felt more like a waste of his energy, an exhausting task that challenged him every day.
Dora moved a step closer to Ferenc and placed just a few of the obtrusive strands of hair behind her ear.
“Your eyes pierced me from across the room,” Ferenc said. Reaching toward her cheek and petting it gently with his thumb, he continued, “They compelled me to ask you to hold my haaaaaaaaaaaaaand. Did you know that your eyes have a power over men?”
Dora laughed, her face growing hot.
“It’s true. They are beautiful!”
“Thank you.”
“But they are sad.”
“What?”
“They are sad,” Ferenc yelled back. “I can tell.”
“Oh,” Dora said, dumbfounded. If she was drunk, perhaps this conversation would have been easier. Dora began moving in the direction of Marta, prepared to take leave of the potentially-emotional conversation, when Ferenc touched her shoulder.
“I want to know!” he shouted.
“What?” Dora tried to raise her voice above the music, but she was not used to yelling, or loud bars, for that matter.
“I want to know what makes you sad.” Despite the watery, drunken glaze now coating Ferenc’s eyes, he looked at Dora with a sincerity she recognized. It was the same kind Boldiszar had shown her. It made her feel like i
t didn’t matter what she said—she, and all her thoughts, would be accepted.
“My family split in half when I was seventeen,” Dora informed Ferenc.
Dora now felt a slight wetness underneath her arms. Her heart began beating at irregular intervals.
“Must have been so hard.” Ferenc started to step away from Dora.
She wondered what she said wrong. Resolved that this was a bad idea in the first place, she said. “Anyway, there you have it. I have to go now.”
“Wait!” He scrambled after her. “My family also split in half. But this isn’t about me, tell me what happened to yours.”
“I lost my mom,” Dora admitted.
“What happened to her?”
Dora waited nine years to be asked this question, or rather to be asked this question and reply with the truth, for once. Now that the opportunity loomed before her, she cowered, unable to speak.
“And how is it with her gone?” Ferenc nearly fell into Dora, who realized that he hadn’t been backing away earlier, he was just struggling to find his footing. So obviously drunk, Ferenc handed Dora the silent microphone she had been waiting for. He wouldn’t remember a thing she told him.
“I am frustrated,” she began affectedly. Noticing Ferenc’s eyes trying, but failing, to focus on her, she grew confident.
“No, I’m mad that she could not be the mom that I needed. I wanted someone to tell me good job, without me even asking for it. I just wanted her to say it.”
A momentary desire to feel her anger overtook Dora. This conversation proved to her she still had a chance at being whole, that she could experience the full range of emotions she worked to conceal her entire adulthood. She wouldn’t let them go so easily.
“When she left, she said nothing. But I fantasized that she said, ‘Dora, please don’t forget me. Remember that I will always love you.’” A tear fell down Dora’s face, and for the first time, she didn’t care.
“Dora?” Ferenc frowned.
Did she just say her real name? She must have let it slip. If Ferenc noticed it, he probably wasn’t that drunk. She needed to walk away.
“Dora who?” She tried to cover her tracks before she said goodbye.
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