The man shakes his head. “Edit, she give it to me.”
It seems impossible after everything Zsófi and Tibor have said about the AVO and this man that I could feel pity for him, but I do. What had Tibor said earlier? Used up. Defeated.
I stand, turn away.
“Attila Kocsis…” Tibor says. “This is your name, Igen, yes?”
I turn back. The man’s head is bowed, clutched between his hands. He is trembling.
“Yes?” Tibor asks again.
The room is completely silent. At last, the shaking lessens. His hands fall away and with the cuff of a sleeve, he blots his eyes, then nose.
“Igen. I am he.” He looks from Tibor to me.
“You must let her see her mother’s prayer book,” Tibor says.
I am surprised at the force behind Tibor’s words, but then I think of how the AVO had treated him and can understand.
With effort Attila reaches up—his hand limp, his arm wobbly—hands over the book.
The leather retains his body heat and feels clammy and warm against the palm of my hand. AVO toxins. I nearly toss the book aside.
“This, I did not see,” Tibor says next to me, his focus on the embossed lettering. “When I sneak the book from him, I hurry, am nervous. We are in the house of the Lord—” He crosses himself. “And once I find the picture, I am noticing nothing else.”
I flip pages, catching glimpses of Hungarian text, until I find a small photo, pressed deep into the crease at the book’s center.
I barely recognize the image. It is not the face of the Kati I know from the family portrait, taken in 1940, on the eve of my mother’s departure for China. In that photo, now residing on the shelf in my Willow Grove apartment, Kati looks striking. Her chin-length dark hair is clipped off her face, displaying high cheekbones and flawless, unlined skin. She wears a white dress with a muted flowery pattern that looks very feminine on her.
In the photo I hold in my hand, strands of limp hair, streaked with white, frame an almost skeletal face, cheekbones protruding as if they will pierce her emaciated skin. The hopelessness in her expression is unmistakable and the look in her eyes, dead. Her head is canted slightly to one side as if she cannot bear to look at the person holding the camera. There is no mistaking who it is. Kati. I am certain because of the dark mole in the corner of her left eye.
Near my feet, Attila stirs. “Kérlek. Please,” he pleads. He is still slumped against the wall. He reaches up, but his arm flails, collapsing to his blanket-covered lap.
I hold out the photo. “First, tell us what happened to Kati. Where you got this.”
“Mine…”
Tibor’s arched brows shoot high up his forehead “First, tell us about Kati,” he repeats, “about where you get Edit’s prayer book.”
Attila inches into a more upright position. In an almost trance-like state, he recounts a halting, effortful recitation of his side of the story.
A few months after the revolution, Attila Kocsis escaped to the States. He took a new name, Arpad Marko, and found a job in a downtown Chicago coin shop. One day, Edit came to the shop to sell coins from her collection—funds for the family back home. Attila and Edit had not seen one another since before she left for China. He recognized her and Edit too placed him, in part because he had been playing the mandolin when she first entered the shop.
“At first, she cannot believe it. Her eyes grow big like mine.” Attila attempts a smile, but it is like trying to lift his arm. He is too weak. “‘You were AVO, she say. You must know what happen to Kati. Tell me.’
“I was not true AVO, I try to tell her. Yes, I was border guard for short while but this I discover is not for me. I find a way out. At my mother’s restaurant, she hear the commandant at the Communist Party Headquarters for Budapest, he needs personal chef. Money changes. I am his chef.
“I tell Edit what I know. The AVO arrest Kati because an informer, a student in her class, say she is teaching Hungarian history to children in the night in the basement of her home.”
Tilos. Forbidden. My breath catches.
Attila looks up. “This should not be no crime.”
He continues. “I hear rumor that Kati, she is in the headquarters where I am, held in some cell, deep in bowels of the building. I trick my way into the commandant’s office. There, in a file, I find this—” A slight nod in the direction of the photo in my hand. “I want to find which cell she is in, but information it is not in the file. Kati is my friend. I want to help. But danger is everywhere. I not know who to ask, what to ask, where to look even. Still I try. I do not uncover her location but I do uncover this. That I have drawn attention. Unwelcome attention. A junior chef is training to replace me. I must go away while I can, escape.”
“So you escaped with the picture. We find it here, with you, in my mother’s prayer book. How did you get it?”
Attila squirms against the wall. “At the coin shop, I show Edit the picture. It hurt her to see her sister this way. Edit, she tell me she is leaving for Budapest next day. ‘I will dig deeper into what you have told me,’ she says. ‘Go to the headquarters.’ ”
Attila pauses, draws two deep rattly breaths.
“This gives me good idea,” he continues, haltingly. “A friend of Edit’s from schooldays was scrub woman in headquarters building. In ’56, it was this friend who try to help me find where is Kati’s cell. I tell Edit. She is excited. Maybe her friend has come to know the fate of Kati.
“She pleads, ‘Go to Mariska, Zsófi Ittzés. Tell them about Kati, that you have given me a great clue.’ Mariska, Zsófi…in Chicago? This is news to me. I am so full with shame. I cannot make this promise as she would like.”
Attila doesn’t say so, but he also must have been afraid. Afraid of having his past life exposed; of how they would look at him; what they might do to him.
“Now, she gives me her prayer book. ‘Hold on to it, pray for me,’ she says. ‘When I have returned, I will visit again, tell you what I have found, and you can give it back.’”
Attila is wracked by a sudden severe coughing spell. The dry hacking sound comes from deep within his chest. The spell is so severe Tibor removes a metal flask from his back pocket.
The shock must have shown on my face. “Water,” he explains, placing the flask in Attila’s grip, folding his own hands together, prayer-like, over Attila’s. Their hands clasped thus, Tibor helps Attila raise the mouth of the flask to his lips. Attila sips. Again.
Attila begins anew, his voice a whisper. “Edit, I say, the AVO commandant he had other photographs of Kati, of Zsófi also. I explain, after the revolution, AVO officers they seize film from everywhere possible. They use pictures on the film to hunt down rebels. The dishwasher at my mother’s restaurant, Szigeti, they know his son has camera. They search his house.” A heavy lid closes over one bulgy eye. “Szigeti…”
“What? What are you trying to say?” I ask. “Gustav?” But he has stopped talking. Attila is out cold.
Chapter Eighteen
Leaving Tibor at the church, I take off for Duna Utca. Along the way, I rehearse what I must tell Zsófi and Mariska. Questions burn.
At the store, I tell Zsófi I have urgent news. “Attila Kocsis has revealed new information concerning my mother, possibly a break leading to Kati’s fate.”
Zsófi’s voice is solemn. “Mariska will want to hear.”
We tape a ‘Back in 15 Minutes’ sign on the door and dart up the stairs. Amidst the pleasant clutter of the flat, Mariska sits on the sofa knitting, her gaze fixed on the screen of the console television set where a handsome soap opera couple smooch in an endless kiss. Rhapsodic music blares in the background.
At the set, Zsófi rams the ‘Off’ button with her palm. “Mariska,” she says, breathing hard from our dash up the stairs. “Ildikó has just come from St. Elizabeth’s. There she saw someone from our past.
”
Zsófi slides onto the sofa next to her. She takes Mariska’s hands, holding them while looking her friend in the eye. “Edesem, before we can tell you who she has seen, I must know, how are you feeling? Are you well? Strong enough even if I tell you he is AVO?”
Some of the rosy color leaves Mariska’s cheeks, but she does not flinch. “I am better than ever, this you know. But Zsófi, are you strong enough?”
Zsófi does not hesitate. “Ildikó has seen Attila Kocsis.”
Mariska winces. “This cannot be.”
“Yes,” I say, sinking into the overstuffed chair across from them. I repeat his story about trying to find Kati, his account of the meeting with my mother, and, finally, begin describing the photo of Kati. A lump that will surely choke me forms in my throat. I pause, stare into my lap.
Mariska’s voice is tender. “How sad we could not comfort your mother after she discovers this information about her sister, sees this cruel image. Look how it is affecting you, drága gyermekem. But you say you have left the prayer book and the photo with—” She hesitates then stumbles over the name as if loath to speak it. “At-ttila?”
I look up, nod, say softly, “He was AVO, yes, but he is very ill. And he did try to help my mother. After, she asked him to keep the book for her. It seems to comfort him. I-Ill get it later.” I hesitate. “There’s something else. He recognized another picture in the commandant’s office. Of you, Zsófi.”
I expected their reaction to be shock. Instead, Zsófi looks at Mariska and Mariska nods encouragingly.
“It is why we left.”
“You knew about the photo?” They nod again. My gaze strays to Zsófi’s clenched hand. Zsófi had been hauled in for interrogation, tortured.
“Ildikó, edesem, I was with the rebels, in the streets fighting.”
“You?”
A wry smile. “Incredible, yes?” Zsófi holds her hand aloft. “I was not able to hold a rifle, but I could do other things to help.” An impish smile. It fades. “Also things I am ashamed of.”
“Our patriots did not have super firepower like the Russians,” Mariska says, “but they have super willpower, and creative minds.” She smiles. “Zsófi was in a girl brigade. Their mission, destroy tanks.”
“Destroy tanks?” My voice is high, incredulous.
“Yes, while I am scrubbing floors, Zsófi and her comrades are spreading liquid soap onto streets, making the tanks to slip sideways, crash. Most effective when the tank it goes uphill. The tracks, trying to catch pavement, spin, slide. Then, with luck, the tank crashes into a building. Can no longer move. A perfect target for our petrol bombers.”
It is weird observing seventy-six-year-old Mariska, her cheeks pink again, talking animatedly about warfare. It’s as if someone—or perhaps the pain from her past—has wound her up and she can’t stop.
“Zsófi once also was a jam girl. Climbed a tank, smeared its slit window with Hungarian plum jam to blind the enemy. Wipers will not work. Eventually a crew member he must risk coming out to clear the mess. He is picked off by snipers positioned high up in the next building. Before the hatch can close, a petrol bomb is tossed inside.”
“Our enemy was monstrous,” Zsófi says softly, “And I was a savage, no better than them.”
“Please, this is not so,” Mariska says. “They kill our children, mow down women in breadlines—”
Zsófi swallows. “Let me tell, Mariska.”
“Does this have to do with the picture of you that Attila saw?” I ask.
“Yes. Photo journalists were everywhere, always. I think he refers to one taken in Republic Square. I was there when our rebel forces capture the Communist headquarters building. Inside, are AVO men. Of course, they do not come out of their own free will. Our men chase them to the basement, then begin to flood it. Rats drowning, now the AVO scum they must emerge.
“I watch, as the first AVO officer comes out. A rifle shot. He is flat on the ground. Then more AVO appear. All of the hatred built up, it explodes. Then, I never forget. AVO are falling like cut corn stalks, the bodies piling up. With my maimed hand I could not shoot or join in the clubbing, but I could kick. Over and over. Then, when I see the bleeding corpses of top officers being dragged to trees, strung up by their feet, I spit on their bloody mangled bodies. For the ache inside. The losses. Mother, father, home, friends, freedom, my hand…my soul.”
Zsófi’s shoulders heave and fall. “After, comes the shame, the regret. It haunts me thirty years now. ”
Shame. Guilt. I know her companions only too well. My heart is so heavy I feel anchored in place.
“Zsófi, you can’t change what happened—it’s finished, behind you. These men were your abusers. You are so much better than them. In all the years I’ve known you I’ve seen nothing but kindness and goodness. But the picture. You think someone took a picture of you in the square?”
Zsófi nods. “I am sure of it.”
“Gustav had a camera during this time, did you know?” I ask. “It was his hobby then. Attila told us the AVO went to his mother’s restaurant—where you worked, Mariska, and Gustav’s father was a dishwasher. The AVO forced the father to take them to his house so they could confiscate Gustav’s camera. Was he at Republic Square? Was he the photographer who took your photo, Zsófi?”
Mariska recovers first from the surprise. She sits tall, her back straight. “I am no longer at the restaurant during this time.”
“But Gustav, Zsófi? Was he one of the photographers you saw that day?”
Zsófi adjusts her glasses up the bridge of her nose, frowns, shakes her head. “No, I did not see Gustav.”
“Maybe it is a blessing from above that Attila find his way to our church,” Mariska says. “Did you not say a friend of your mother’s she was working in the headquarters building with Attila?”
I nod warily. “Yes.”
“Once when your mother and I, we are having coffee, talking about old times, somehow my days as scrub woman they come up. She mention a friend. Anikó.” Mariska’s brow furrows. “The last name I cannot remember now, but she was cleaning lady too. Made to work in Communist headquarters building—” Her blue eyes brighten. “Maybe it is she, Anikó, who try to help Attila. I will make some calls. Learn if this friend is living still. First we must confirm with Attila the name. The woman’s full name.”
“We?” I look from one hopeful face to the other. “You mean me.” I shake my head. “No, no, no you don’t. One confrontation with that sad broken creature was enough.”
Two sets of eyes are trained on me. No blinks.
“He gave my mother the name of the friend,” I say rotely. “The friend might know what happened to Kati. The trail to the truth about Kati might lead to the truth of what happened to my mother. Who pushed her.”
“Yes.” Mariska and Zsófi chorus softly.
Chapter Nineteen
Before I face off with Attila again, I need to see Gustav. His flat is in the opposite direction from the church, but I hop a bus anyway. Attila had said Gustav’s camera had been confiscated. Why? Last night at the gallery, when I had questioned him about the photograph of the revolutionaries, he said he’d gotten it from a photojournalist. Which photojournalist? The one who snapped Zsófi’s picture in Republic Square? Some vile functionary at AVO headquarters?
On the bus, it dawns on me that Gustav might not even be home. Tonight is his opening gala.
I vault the steps of the divided staircase. The French doors are open. I spill inside. Gustav, walking from the work bench toward the dining table, halts, startled.
ABBA blares from the stereo. “Chiquitita, tell me the truth.”
Gustav’s expression turns into a bright smile. “Ildikó. A nice surprise…”
“I’m not here to be nice. That photo of the uprising. Who took it?”
Gustav looks away. Without a word, he g
oes to the stereo cabinet. The music dims. Gustav remains silent, his back to me.
“Gustav, please. I want to trust you. Something’s not right. The picture, the photographer. My gut is telling me they’re somehow connected to my mother.”
I briefly recap the encounter with Attila.
Gustav shakes his head. “Here? An AVO man is here, in Chicago?”
“Why did a photojournalist give you a picture? That picture? Which photojournalist? Someone from the Party?” It pains me to suggest he would accept something from a Russian Communist. Anything was possible. Hadn’t he said you did what you had to do to survive? What had he done?
Gustav turns. “I took the picture.”
“Then you lied to me.”
Gustav comes toward me, reaching out. I step backwards.
“You’re a liar.”
“Ildikó, please. I said photojournalists were there. At the time, I wanted to be one of them. Turned out—” He waits, but now I refuse to meet his gaze. “Ildikó look at me. Kérem, please.”
“No. I can’t. If I look at you I’ll say something else I might regret. Tell the truth. Then I’ll look at you.”
A resigned sigh. “I was a student at university. I am no warrior, I knew nothing of guns. My father had been taken by the Soviets after the war. He survived, only to remain locked inside another kind of gulag. You cannot imagine a father in this way.”
I could imagine. I had witnessed my own father’s mental demise.
“My father,” Gustav continued, “would never talk about the horrors he knew. He bore his hatred in silence. I did not want that. I wanted to join the fight, help to make a difference. I knew by then that the right photograph can awaken a sense of humanity. Perhaps my pictures would bring some aid, relief.
“So my private war begins. Rebels in doorways, on rooftops, behind battered vehicles taking on Soviet tanks and guns. I capture it all.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch Gustav scrub his face with his hand. He takes a deep breath, starts again.
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