The Invisible Bridge

by Julie Orringer

  Barna gave a crooked smile, as if this were all part of the joke.

  "Don't you smirk at me, Major," the general said. "Apologize to this serviceman at once."

  Barna hesitated a moment, then nodded at the guard who'd brought Andras in.

  "Remove that clod of dirt from my sight."

  "Did you mishear me?" the general said. "I ordered you to apologize."

  Barna's eyes darted from Andras to the general to the officers at their tables.

  "We're done with this, sir," he said, in an undertone that Andras was close enough to hear.

  "You're not done, Major," the general said. "Get down off this platform and apologize to that man."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You heard what I said."

  The men sat in silence, watching. Barna stood still for a long time, seeming to wage an inner battle; his color changed from red to purple to white. The general stood beside him with his arms crossed over his chest. There was no way for him to disobey.

  The elder man held unquestionable military superiority. Barna stepped down off the dais and marched toward Andras. He paused in front of him, and, with a medicine-swallowing grimace, extended a hand. Andras sent the general a look of gratitude and took Barna's hand. But no sooner had his own hand touched Barna's than Barna spat in his face and slapped him with the hand Andras had touched. Without another word, the major made his way through the rows of tables and went out into the night. Andras drew a sleeve across his face, numb with pain.

  The general remained at the center of the dais, looking down upon the officers on their benches. Everything had come to a standstill: The servicemen who waited on the officers had paused at the edges of the room with dirty plates in their hands; the cook had ceased to bang the pots in the kitchen; the officers were silent, their tin forks and spoons laid beside their plates.

  "The Royal Hungarian Army is dishonored by what has happened here," the general said. "When I entered the army, my first commanding officer was a Jew. He was a brave man who lost his life at Lemberg in the service of his country. Whatever Hungary is now, it's not the country he died to defend." He picked up the crumpled telegram form and handed it down to Andras. Then he threw his napkin onto the table and commanded the young guard to bring Andras to his quarters at once.

  General Marton was quartered in the largest and most comfortable set of rooms at Banhida, which meant that he had a bedroom and a sitting room, if the cold and uninviting cubicle in which Andras found himself could have been called a sitting room; it contained nothing but a table with an ashtray and a pair of rough wooden chairs so narrow and straight-backed as to discourage all but the briefest sitting. Electric lights blazed. The fireplace was dark. An assistant was packing the general's things in the adjacent room. As Andras stood near the door, waiting to hear what the general would say, the general gave orders for his car to be brought around.

  "I won't stay at this place another night," he told a frightened-looking secretary who hovered near his side. "My inspection of this camp is complete, as far as I'm concerned. Send word to Major Barna to tell him I've gone."

  "Yes, sir," the secretary said.

  "And go to the office and get this man's dossier," he said. "Be quick about it."

  "Yes, sir," the secretary said, and hurried out.

  The general turned to Andras. "Tell me, now," he said. "How much time is left in your army service?"

  "Two weeks, sir," Andras said.

  "Two weeks. And in relation to the time you've already spent in the service, do you consider two weeks to be a long time?"

  "Under the circumstances, sir, it's an eternity."

  "What would you say, then, to getting out of this hellhole altogether?"

  "I'm not sure I understand you, sir."

  "I'm going to arrange for your discharge from Banhida," the general said. "You've served here long enough. I can't guarantee you won't be called up again, particularly not with matters as uncertain as they are. But I can get you to Budapest tonight. You can ride in my car. I'm going there at once. I was sent to conduct a detailed inspection of Barna's establishment here, as he's being considered for promotion, but I've already seen as much as I care to see." He took a box of cigarettes from his breast pocket and tapped one out, then put it away again as if he didn't have the heart to smoke it. "The gall of that man," he said. "He's unfit to lead a donkey, let alone a labor battalion. It's not the Jews that are the problem, it's men like him. Who do you think got us into this mess? At war with Russia and Britain at once! What do you think will come of that?"

  Andras couldn't bring himself to consider the question. There was another issue that seemed, at that moment, to be of even greater magnitude. "Do I understand you, sir?"

  he asked. "Am I to leave for Budapest tonight?"

  The general gave a brisk nod. "You'd better pack your things. We'll leave in half an hour."

  At the barracks there was general incredulity, and then, when Andras had related the story, raucous cheering. Mendel kissed Andras on both cheeks, promising to come to the apartment on Nefelejcs utca as soon as he returned to Budapest. When the half hour had passed, everyone came out to see the black car pull up and the driver help Andras lift his duffel bag into the sloping trunk. When was the last time anyone had helped one of them, the workers, lift a heavy object? When was the last time any of them had ridden in a car? The men clustered near the barracks steps, the wind lifting the lapels of their shabby coats, and Andras felt a stab of guilt to think of leaving them. He stood before Mendel and placed a hand on his arm.

  "I wish you were coming," he said.

  "It's only two more weeks," Mendel said.

  "What will you do about The Biting Fly?"

  Mendel smiled. "Maybe it's time to shut down the operation. The flies are all dead anyway."

  "Two weeks, then," Andras said, and squeezed Mendel's shoulder.

  "Good

  luck,

  Parisi."

  "Let's go," the driver called. "The general's waiting."

  Andras climbed into the front seat and shut the door. The motor roared, and they drove off to the officers' quarters. When they arrived, it became clear that there had been some further argument between Barna and the general; Barna could be seen pacing furiously inside the general's quarters as the general emerged with his traveling bag. The driver threw the general's bag into the trunk and the general slid into the backseat without a word.

  Before Andras could grasp the idea that he was truly leaving, that he would never have to return to the sulfurous coal pits of Banhida again, the car had pulled through the gate and onto the road. All through that long dark drive, the only sounds were the purring of the engine and the susurrus of tires on snow. As the headlights cut through endless flocks of snowflakes, Andras thought again of that New Year's Day when he and Klara had gone to the Square Barye to watch the sun rise over the chilly Seine. That long-ago January morning, he would never have believed that he would someday be the father of Klara's child, that he would someday be flying through the night in a Hungarian Army limousine to see their newborn son. He remembered the Schubert piece Klara had played for him one winter evening, Der Erlkonig, about a father carrying his sick child on horseback through the night while the elf-king followed them, trying to get his hands on the child. He remembered the father's desperation, the son's inexorable slide toward death. He had always envisioned the chase taking place on a night like this. His hands grew cold in the heat of the car. He turned around to see what lay behind them. All he could see was the general snoring softly in the backseat, and, through the small oval of rear-window glass, a swarm of snowflakes lit up red in the taillights.

  It took them an hour and a half to get to Grof Apponyi Albert Hospital. When the car pulled to a stop, the general awoke and cleared his throat. He settled his hat onto his head and straightened his decorated jacket.

  "All right, now," he said. "Let's go."

  "You don't mean to come inside with me, sir," Andra
s said.

  "I mean to finish what I started. Give the driver your address and he'll leave your things with the caretaker there."

  Andras gave the driver the address on Nefelejcs utca. The driver jumped out to open the door for the general, and the general waited until Andras had joined him on the curb. He turned and marched into the hospital with Andras at his side.

  At the night attendant's desk, a narrow-shouldered man with an eye patch sat with his feet propped on a metal garbage can, reading a Hungarian translation of Mein Kampf.

  When he looked up to see the general approaching, he dropped the book and got to his feet. His good eye shifted between Andras and the general; he seemed baffled by the sight of this decorated leader of the Hungarian Army in the company of a gaunt, shabby work serviceman. He stammered an inquiry as to how he might serve the general.

  "This man needs to see his wife and son," the general said.

  The attendant glanced away down the hall, as if it might yield some form of help or enlightenment. The hall remained empty. The attendant twisted his hands. "Visiting hours are between four and six, sir," he said.

  "This man is visiting now," the general said. "His surname is Levi."

  The attendant paged through a logbook on his desk. "Mrs. Levi is on the third floor," he said. "Maternity ward. But sir, I'm not supposed to let anyone upstairs. I'll be fired."

  The general took a name card from a leather case. "If anyone gives you trouble, tell them to discuss the situation with me."

  "Yes, sir," the attendant said, and sank back down into his chair.

  The general turned to Andras with another name card. "If there's anything else I can do, send word to me."

  "I don't know how to thank you," Andras said.

  "Be a good father to your son," the general said, and put a hand on Andras's shoulder. "May he live to see a more enlightened age than our own." He held Andras's gaze a moment longer, then turned and made his way out into the snow. The door closed behind him with a breath of cold air.

  The attendant stared after the general in amazement. "How'd you make a friend like that?" he asked Andras.

  "Luck, I suppose," Andras said. "It runs in my family."

  "Well, go on," said the attendant, cocking a thumb toward the stairway. "If anyone asks who let you in, it wasn't me."

  Andras raced up the staircase to the third floor, then followed signs to Klara's ward. There, in the semidark of the hospital night, new mothers lay in a double row of beds with bassinets at their feet. Some of the bassinets held swaddled babies; other babies nursed, or drowsed in their mothers' arms. But where was Klara? Where was her bed, and which of these children was his son? He ran the row twice before he saw her: Klara Levi, his wife, pale and damp-haired, her mouth swollen, her eyes ringed in dark shadow, lying in a dead sleep in the glow of a green-shaded light. He crept closer, his heart hammering, to see what she held in her arms. But when he reached the bedside he saw that it was an empty blanket, nothing more. The bassinet at the foot of her bed was empty too.

  The ground seemed to fall away beneath him. So he had come too late despite everything. The world held no possibility for happiness; his life and Klara's were a ruin of grief. He covered his mouth, afraid he'd cry aloud. Someone laid a cool hand on his arm; he turned to see a nurse in a white apron.

  "How did you get in?" she asked, more perplexed than angry. "Is this your wife?"

  "The child," he said, in a whisper. "Where is he?"

  The nurse drew her eyebrows together. "Are you the father?"

  Andras nodded mutely.

  The nurse beckoned him into the hall, toward a bright-lit room filled with padded tables, infant scales, cloth diapers, feeding bottles and nipples. Two nurses stood at the tables, changing babies' diapers.

  "Krisztina," said the nurse. "Show Mr. Levi his son."

  The nurse at the changing table held up a tiny pink froglet, naked except for a blue cotton hat and white socks, a bandage covering its umbilicus. As Andras watched, the baby raised a fist to its open mouth and extended its petal of a tongue.

  "Great God," Andras said. "My son."

  "Two kilos," the nurse said. "Not bad for a baby born so early. He has a bit of a lung infection, poor thing, but he's doing better than he was at first."

  "Oh, my God. Let me look at him."

  "You can hold him if you like," the one called Krisztina said. She pinned the baby's diaper, wrapped him in a blanket, and set him in Andras's arms. Andras didn't dare breathe. The baby seemed to weigh almost nothing. Its eyes were closed, its skin translucent, its hair a dark whorl on its head. Here was his son, his son. He was this person's father. He put his cheek to the curve of the baby's head.

  "You can take him back to your wife," Krisztina said. "As long as you're here in the middle of the night, you might as well be of use."

  Andras nodded, unable to move or speak. In his arms he held what seemed the sum of his existence. The baby wrestled its blankets, opened its mouth, and pronounced a strong one-note cry.

  "He's hungry," the nurse said. "You'd better take him to her."

  And so, for the first time, he answered his son's need: He brought him down the ward to Klara's bed. At the sound of the baby's next cry, Klara opened her eyes and pushed herself up onto her elbows. Andras bent over her and put their son into her arms.

  "Andraska," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "Am I dreaming?"

  He bent to kiss her. He was shaking so hard he had to sit down on the bed. He embraced them both at once, Klara and the baby, holding them as close as he dared.

  "How can it be?" she said. "How did you get here?"

  He pulled back just far enough to look at her. "A general gave me a ride in his car."

  "Don't tease me, darling! I've just had a cesarean."

  "I'm perfectly serious. I'll tell you the story sometime."

  "I had a terrible fear that something had happened to you," she said.

  "There's nothing to fear now," he said, and stroked her damp hair.

  "Look at this boy," she said. "Our little son." She pulled the blanket lower so he could see the baby's face, his curled hands, his delicate wrists.

  "Our son." He shook his head, still unable to believe it. "I've seen him. He was au naturel when I came in."

  The baby turned his face toward Klara's breast and opened his mouth against her nightgown. She unbuttoned the gown and settled him in to nurse, stroking his featherlike hair. "He looks just like you," she said, and her eyes filled again.

  "Eletem." My life. "Five weeks early! You must have been terrified."

  "My mother was with me. She brought me to the hospital herself. And now to have you here, too, even if just for a short time!"

  "I'm finished with Banhida," he said. "My service is over." He could hardly believe it himself, but it had happened. Nothing could make him go back. "I'm home with you now," he told her. And slowly that truth came to seem real to him as he and Klara sat on her bed at Grof Apponyi Albert Hospital, laughing and crying over the sleek downy head of their little son.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Tamas Levi

  THEY NAMED THE BABY after Klara's father. The first weeks of his life were a blue haze to Andras: There were ten days in the hospital, during which the baby lost weight, fought his lung infection, nearly died, and recovered again; there was the homecoming to their apartment on Nefelejcs utca, which seemed not really to be their home at all, stuffed as it was with flowers and gifts and guests who had come to see the baby; there was Klara's mother, unfailingly solicitous but incapable of doing anything practical to help, as her own babies had been tended entirely by nurses; there was Andras's mother, who knew how to tend to the baby's needs, but who also felt it important to show Klara the correct way to pin a diaper or elicit a baby's eructation; there was Ilana, now seven months pregnant, cooking endless Italian meals for Andras and Klara and their well-wishers; there was Mendel Horovitz, liberated from the Munkaszolgalat, sitting in the kitchen until the middl
e of the night, sipping vodka and inviting Andras to describe in detail the vicissitudes of new parenthood; and then there was the plain relentless work of caring for a newborn child: the feedings every two hours, the diaper changes, the brief and broken sleep, the moments of incredulous joy and bottomless fear. Every time the baby cried it seemed to Andras he might never stop, that his crying would exhaust him and make him sick again. But Klara, who had already raised a child, understood that the baby was crying because he had a simple need, and she knew she could determine the need and meet it. Soon the baby would stop crying; the house would fall into a state of delicate peace. Andras and Klara would sit together and look at the baby, their Tamas, admiring the eyebrows that were like hers, the mouth that was like his, the chin with its dimple like Elisabet's.