Triptych

by Margit Liesche

  Vaclav retrieved two bottles of beer from a cooler. “Come,” he said.

  We retreated the way we’d entered, but not before I gave in to a backwards glance.

  “Is okay,” he repeated once we were in the corridor again.

  “What are you saying? Manka is your wife,” I said, treading cautiously. “Maybe I read it all wrong, but she and that woman appear to be more than just friends. You’re saying it’s okay…” I faltered. “It’s okay that your wife is with that woman?” My voice sounded squeaky, uncertain.

  Vaclav rested his arms on my shoulders, a bottle suspended in each hand, waiting until our eyes met.

  “You cannot easy understand, this I am sure. You live in America. Always free. We come from oppression. For so long, live in fear. Hardly can breathe without worry of what bad thing will happen next. Now everything different. Manka, she can teach—really teach—not just parrot doctrine. Here, she…we free to express self. Experiment. Know free will. That is what means being American, yes?”

  Free will had limits, even in America. He was wrong about my being unable to understand life under an overbearing force. Maybe there hadn’t been a government looming over me, but I was always with the memory of that last morning with my mother. Could I ever make it up to her? Free myself?

  We would continue the discussion of what it meant to be American, and I would unburden my secret shame in time, but just then the sudden energetic strains of polka music cut in. Vaclav, setting down the bottle and grabbing my hand, tugged me in the direction of the living room.

  The furniture had been shoved against the walls, and the area rug rolled up to reveal a hardwood floor. At the room’s center couples skipped-stepped in a circle, now and then the men twirling the women under their arms. Vaclav dragged me out to join the throng. Soon, I felt my inhibitions slip away. I danced as if no one was watching. They weren’t. By the time everyone joined hands to form a circle, the music was part of me; I felt more at ease—free—than I could remember. We step-kicked sideways faster and faster until it was as if my feet no longer touched the floor.

  ***

  When I returned home after Vaclav’s party, I’d paused before the bookcase that my friends referred to as my Parents’ Shrine. Arranged on a shelf, the formal black-and-white wedding photograph, my mother’s photo taken with her family in 1940, just before she left for China, and splayed across the daisy piece, the locket. The shrine had stood unchanged for eighteen years. Standing before it, remembering my mother’s suppressed suffering, called up Palach’s tribute, NO MORE SECRETS. Immediately, the unknowns surrounding my mother’s twin Kati’s disappearance surfaced again. Was she dead? Alive…a traitor hiding somewhere? And my mother’s death. It was also shrouded in mystery. Was that why I had impulsively expressed to Vaclav a longing to visit Budapest? Once I’d said it, I would have to go there. Get answers.

  ***

  The next day, it only took a few calls to friends to find a position for Vaclav. He began teaching evening classes, first at the community center, then at the high school. These days, he still gardens by day in summer, but his passions remain art and teaching.

  In the library hallway, I watch Vaclav position the Lolita piece, thankfully in a discreet section near the bottom of the cabinet.

  “I just gave the ‘bring an article of clothing from your home country’ assignment to my new conversation group,” I say. “The women’s response was so positive I’m wondering if maybe other English conversation group leaders might benefit from the model. There’s a state library convention coming up. I don’t know…maybe I could write something? Present it?”

  Vaclav adjusts the Lolita piece a final time, testing to be sure it is secured, and turns to look at me. For a moment, the blue of his eyes no longer reminds me of the alluring deep Mediterranean but of the pale, ice-glazed shores of Lake Michigan in winter. “So you think helping more refugee women to be success in America will somehow fill hole left from not helping your mother?”

  It’s the closest Vaclav has come to being mean to me. But when I look at his face, I see that he didn’t intend to hurt me. Vaclav believes in speaking his mind. “Is good in long run,” he always likes to say.

  Complete honesty. I agree, in concept. It’s why when we’re alone I can relax, be open with my thoughts, my deepest regret. No worries about a hidden message; something one or the other of us should have picked up on, but didn’t. Yes, with Vaclav, I always know where I stand, and at the moment I feel wobbly.

  He must see the pain in my eyes because, placing a hand gently on my shoulder, he leans close, whispers, “Maybe you are right. The women of your groups have blessing because of you. You understand them. You are their America. My America.”

  The words, maybe his breath in my ear, send a shiver through me. A pleasant shiver. How can I resist then when he asks, “I see you tonight?”

  I did resist at first. I told him as his quasi-mentor, it was inappropriate—not to mention he was married. No. It was impossible! Between his job, his art, and his home life, Vaclav never has much time for me, and oftentimes when we are together we are “exploring.” At an antique shop or used bookstore, we hunt pieces. Afterwards, we go to my place and make love. Sometimes, like tonight—nine months after my resistance had given way—there will be no outing—simply greedy lovemaking.

  There is a slight groan from the library door opening. Vaclav’s hand is still on my shoulder. My body tenses.

  “What you do with this shawl, marvelous,” Vaclav exclaims, his hand slipping to an edge of cloth near my elbow, lifting it as if admiring my handiwork.

  “I’ll be happy to show you more of my needlework later, Mr. Nemecek,” I say brightly, pulling the shawl close.

  I fall into step behind the patron who had come through the door, but inside my heart is singing again.

  ***

  Budapest, 25 October 1956

  Évike sat at the kitchen table mid-morning, warmed by the oven, savoring the yeasty smell in the air and observing her mother who would normally, after her bakery shift, still be sleeping, but these were not normal times. Évike and her mother had not left the apartment for the past thirty-six hours, since their return home from the demonstration in Kossuth tér.

  On the narrow counter across from Évike, two fresh loaves rested beside the radio that had been streaming Hungarian Workers Party HWP bulletins nearly nonstop for the last thirty-six hours, when her mother had first turned it on. Following the occupation of the radio building by rebels, the “official” broadcasts had begun originating from the Parliament building—

  “In the interest of restoring order, all public assemblies and gatherings are forbidden until further notice. A curfew is in effect between 18.00 and 06.00 hours. Schools and universities closed.”

  No school again! Évike’s relief had been enormous. She’d feared her next encounter with her classmates, her teacher. Three days had passed since her face off with Gombóc. The possibility existed, didn’t it, that by the time school resumed, Gombóc would be banished back to Russia, everything would be back to normal, all…even her betrayal…would be forgotten?

  Her mother’s reaction to the curfew was the opposite. “What?” she had ranted. “Are we animals? They snap their whip, and we retreat, lock ourselves in our cages?”

  Now, as Évike watched her mother hunched over the open oven door, lifting a fresh loaf from the rack, a new bulletin rang out.

  “People of Budapest, Comrades! The counter-revolutionary gangs have mostly been liquidated. Transport is running again…”

  Her mother froze, holding the bread pan mid-air.

  Évike’s stomach tightened. She could predict what would happen next. Her mother’s foot flying to kick the door closed. It was the sort of thing she had witnessed over and over in recent days. Drawer slamming, door banging, foot-stomping, cursing, but now the unexpected. Her mother pivoted delib
erately, set the loaf on the counter.

  Évike’s stomach relaxed, then growled with hunger. What a good thing, she thought, a crashing oven door might have made the bread fall. There was never enough food.

  The slow shuffling sound of her mother’s slippers against linoleum raised a different concern. Sometime yesterday, after Nagy’s speech, her mother’s usual fiery will had left her. They had been listening to radio communiqués.

  “Attention! Attention! Last night, counter-revolutionary, reactionary elements launched attacks against public buildings, and attacked security forces.

  “The Soviet Military has been invited into Budapest to take part in the re-establishment of order and will remain until the complete defeat of the counter-revolutionary reactionary elements who stubbornly continue their murderous, and at the same time completely hopeless, fight against the order of our working people.”

  Her mother had yelled at the radio, yanking her hair with both hands. “Liar! What shit propaganda will you come up with next?”

  More broadcasts had followed, the constant feed of misinformation pummeling her mother’s spirit until it had completely deflated.

  Then, last night, Évike had been awakened by weeping.

  The previous morning, after she’d overheard her father in the next room reporting on the rebel fighting going on throughout Budapest, they’d had breakfast together. Afterward, her father had left at the usual time to go to his job at the medical laboratory equipment manufacturer. He’d quickly returned home again, staying just long enough to change clothes and inform his wife and daughter of the situation in the streets.

  “I took the bus along Route 5. We got to Roosevelt tér. I could hear gunfire everywhere. The bus driver refused to drive further so I continued on foot. Near Üllõi ut, I saw overturned, shot-up trams. Rebels are using them as barricades. Armed young men asked where I was heading. ‘You’ll never get there, they told me.’”

  Her mother asked what he was going to do. He replied, “They need help. I have to go.”

  Évike felt sick with dread.

  She and her mother had waited up until midnight. This morning, her father still had not returned. Her mother’s eyes were glazed, her hair uncombed.

  “Mother, the bread smells divine,” Évike said brightly.

  No reply. Instead, her mother closed the oven door, returned the hot pad to the hook on the gray-white wall, and studied the painted plate mounted next to it. The dish and its flowery design in the traditional Hungarian motif had been a fixture for ages but she continued to stare.

  “Mother, please snap out of it,” Évike said under her breath.

  With the next radio bulletin she got her wish.

  “The curfew has been lifted temporarily to allow the public to buy food,” the announcer said, adding, “…but we continue to advise the population in their own interest not to go out into the streets unless absolutely necessary.”

  Évike had barely taken in the news when a plate appeared on the table before her. On it, an apple cut into wedges and a fat slice of fragrant dark bread.

  She looked up. Her mother’s dark eyes blazed with passion. She rapped her knuckles against the tabletop, stared at her daughter sternly.

  “Eat,” she said, untying her apron. “Then get dressed. We are going out. Learn firsthand what is going on. Find your father.”

  Chapter Six

  Chicago, 1986

  The cooking genes in our family were passed on to my sisters. I do takeout. Today I will test the kitchen of May Lee’s, a restaurant on my way home from work.

  The late afternoon warmth is glorious. Vaclav is coming to dinner at my place. I’m unabashedly whistling the tune of There She Is, Miss America, when a library patron, whose name I don’t recall, sees me. She smiles and I unpucker, smiling back.

  My roots in Willow Grove are deep. I am wedded to the small town ambiance. Even now, at five o’clock, there is no congestion or rush hour to deal with. Yet if I yearn for a bit of culture, say a visit to a museum, one of the finest, the Art Institute, is only a short train ride away. To the west, once outside the “pop. 15,273” sign, there is only wide open space, corn and soybean fields, barns, silos, the occasional Old-World farm house. I love the sense of endless potential and imagination I feel driving, instinctively feeling my way down dirt roads hemmed in by a labyrinth of tall crops.

  Willow Grove is not Vaclav’s place, so he’s told me many times. It is because his wife had family nearby, in Chicago, that they ended up here and not in one of the European countries offering sanctuary. “Over there, I would be near to home, to my parents, to people who understand what is importance of knowing politics. People who speak not just one language. Who value culture. Educated people.”

  Always honest Vaclav. His opinion of Americans is not a benevolent one, and I am his America.

  The high school where Vaclav teaches his avant-garde art techniques is in the next block. My motivation in helping Vaclav secure a teaching position had a selfish side. Passing the school, I stare at the building’s red brick façade and smile, recalling the way his eyebrows shot up at seeing me among the dozen or so students in the art room ten months ago.

  Self-Expression Through Collage Art. I’d seen the listing in the community education fall catalogue and decided the time had come. Beneath the title, the summary indicated enrollees should bring a variety of materials relating to our interests or to the specific project we had in mind. The teacher would also have a stockpile of supplies—fabrics, papers, glue, threads, paints—on hand.

  After everyone had found a work space, Vaclav gave an overview, concluding with, “You come with idea inside your head. I am here to help you make it to come alive. We will be having two hours together. Please to start by creating sketch or rough assembling of materials. I will move among you so we may discuss your ideas.”

  My station was first stop on the circuit.

  He held the taupe linen daisy piece, turning it over several times. My mother’s work was so fine and intricate, it was difficult to distinguish front from back.

  “Who make this?”

  “My mother.”

  “And what is it you would like to do?” His eyes were already disapproving.

  Of all the places I would have expected to be safe, to have my brainchild understood, it was in Vaclav’s class. Vaclav had not been afraid to express his unconventional views, even under threat of Siberia. Why humiliate me? Wasn’t this class about self-expression?

  “Unstitch the past.” My voice was very small. The notion had first come to me the evening Vaclav showed me the memorial in his apartment.

  “Your tribute to Jan Palach,” I continued. “You called it No More Secrets. The shoes, the page from your dossier, they were part of a dark past, but you gave them new meaning. A work of art to honor your friend, but also to represent what’s ahead, how you intend to live your life going forward. That’s my aim.”

  Vaclav shrugged. “Document not actually in shoe when I leave Prague.”

  “What? Where is it then? Buried in some file room in a government office waiting for some bureaucrat to rediscover it? Order a death threat on you and Manka if you ever come back?”

  The corners of Vaclav’s mouth curved upwards. “You understand the Communist system well. Because of you, I understand how do you say, make lemonade from the lemons? An official page it make dramatic statement, yes? And secret compartment make good special effect too. Better for getting notice for Palach’s sacrifice. So I create.”

  “You’re wrong. I don’t understand.” I snatched the linen swatch away from him, wave the limp piece in the air. The hot Hungarian blood in me was boiling. “You took liberties. You created new from the past. Why can’t I?” Turn back time, to before I became Miss Ugly American, to before I’d lost her.

  Ever since the party at Vaclav and Manka’s apartment, I had been conte
mplating ways to free myself from the past. My mother had been dead twenty years. That morning, I’d dismantled my parent’s “shrine,” relegating all memorabilia, with the exception of the daisy piece, to the recesses of a cabinet. Afterward, I’d walked to the high school.

  Standing beside me at the table, Vaclav’s voice had turned soft. “Please look at me,” he said. “I am artist and believe expression must be free, but with this—” He placed a hand gently on the linen, patting it almost reverently. “It would be mistake to go through with what you plan. There is relationship here: with your mother.”

  “It’s my design, not hers.” My voice was stronger but still somewhat shaky. “No, not even mine any longer. It’s a child’s expression. The old pastel flowery me. Now the child is grown up. She wants to express herself in a new way. Her way.”

  “I think what you would like to do runs deeper than merely a woman determined to say ‘so long’ to the child in her.”

  “I am not my mother. She always worked within a pattern. With this piece—” I gestured to the cloth, “—she broke from the traditional. But she still stayed within boundaries. Flowers. I want to be free.”

  Still Vaclav would not condone my undoing it. “You have original idea. Unstitch embroidered pieces. Very good. But not good when there is connection. No, instead you must find way to honor your mother. Sorry, but I must tell you this truth.”

  Three months later, after we became lovers, the subject had come up again. “You must bring honor to your mother. It is up to you, her loving daughter.”

  “I am not a good person,” I tell him. “My mother died, and I could have saved her.”

  To Vaclav, my failings were the precise reason it was my duty to make amends. “Shame, doubt, and guilt they make complex knot,” he’d said brushing my forehead with lips still moist and warm from our lovemaking. “Is up to you to untangle it.” And, of course, for Vaclav, the “how” was obvious.

  “In my country, in my family,” he had whispered in my ear, the hot rush of air making me shiver, “we never would allow murderer of loved one to go unpunished.”