Triptych

by Margit Liesche

  “Such young boys and girls, they fight on for days, little sleep, less food. One day in Móricz Zsigmond Square I find a fighting unit commander only a few years older than me, his force eight hundred teenage boys and girls. And they are giving Russia’s finest all they can handle.” Gustav hesitates. “The Russians returned. Moricz Zsigmond Square fell. Four hundred of the unit died, the young Commander among them.”

  I still refuse to look at Gustav. Instead, I study the wire holding the oversized whimsical Christmas lights, poised over the table. He clears his throat.

  “Many times in the streets I would observe a pudgy, particularly bold photographer in the thick of the fighting, clicking off shots, once even leaning over a rebel’s shoulder to sight his camera along the rebel’s rifle barrel. A Czech living in Paris, on assignment for Life magazine.

  “Almost a week into the revolution, shouts of ‘The Russkies are leaving!’ could be heard everywhere. It was during this time of celebration that I crossed paths with this professional. We hit it off right away. Together, we waded through the destruction, he showing me the fine points of photo-composition. Me showing him the ins and outs of the alleyways.”

  Gustav pauses and I glance in his direction. He is at the workbench standing before the shadow box, his back to me.

  “I wanted to capture the emotion in the faces we saw. Faces alive with pure joy, confidence. I remember Márton, my friend from university, one of those that I left with, walking tall, assured, his carefree smile. His coat is unbuttoned, the muzzle of a rifle slung on his shoulder peering out from underneath. Two girls, one my dear Tunde—beautiful, smart, fun—are with him. Big smiles, carrying rifles too. As if this is what they have been doing all of their lives. Around them, everyone gay, shouting, singing, so full with pride.” He pauses. “This is when I take the photo of the couple that you have seen.”

  The atmosphere in the room is the opposite of festive. Quiet, intense. The hushed background sounds of ABBA have completely faded, and I have no idea when the music finished. From the turntable comes the barely audible scratch of a needle centered on an album still spinning around.

  Gustav walks to the stereo, lifts the needle, turns a knob. A soft click.

  “That day in the Republic Square I grow more and more sickened, watching our patriots, our countrymen, their pistols held at arm’s length, executing captured AVO men—or who knows who they were. No one was bothering to verify identities or offering proof that those who had been seized were guilty of crimes. They were shooting the captives at point-blank range. When they begin dragging bodies through the park to the trees, it is the end for me. I start to leave, but feel suddenly weak as if the burden of what I have witnessed wants to crush me. I sink down against a tree trunk, rest, then start to stand again. On the ground nearby is the body of a boy, maybe fifteen, a bullet to the head.” Gustav’s voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I had set out to create a testimony for the world to understand the truth, but this?”

  I peer at him out of the corner of my eye. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  A quiet envelopes us. I ask softly, “So you didn’t take pictures of the lynchings in the park? Didn’t see Zsófi?”

  “No. It is what I have been trying to tell you. I did not have the stomach for tragedy, for being a photojournalist. In that moment, I did not think I would take another picture again in my life, ever.”

  “How did the secret police find out you’d been taking pictures? What happened when they came to get your camera?”

  “There were many in the park with cameras. Likely I, my camera, made it into one of their pictures. This is how they know.”

  “And when they came for your camera?” I repeat.

  “I am gone from Budapest by then. It would have been crazy to try to take along a camera, film. If we were caught, that would be the end. I leave some film with the camera in our home where the AVO would find it. A couple of rolls that basically showed off the Soviet might. As for the horrific and heroic, I had to quickly choose. I hid one roll on me, the rest I destroyed.”

  “But what about retribution? Weren’t you afraid for your parents?”

  “Of course. We had discussed my leaving. It was difficult, but they urged me to go. Find a better life. Later, their letters said they were fine. Without doubt the AVO took the bait—the camera and the harmless rolls. Maybe because of this, they left my parents alone. Also, my uncle, the businessman, had always done everything just short of joining the Party. He was looked upon with favor. That, no doubt, had some influence.”

  I detect a wry tone in his last comments. Another surrepitous glance catches Gustav, eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “And the film you brought out?”

  He sighs. “We must hide, crawl with sheets on our back to blend in with the snow. I wore a heavy coat and had sewn the roll into its lining. I thought it would be well-protected. Sadly, it was not. The film was damaged. Just one shot could be developed. The one you have seen, and I am grateful to have it. Each time I look at it I think of my friends, my loved ones. I remember what I saw in their faces, their carriage. Sadly, I am also reminded of what they gave to experience those few days of freedom.” His shoulders heave and slump. “Sadder yet, viewing the picture, I am reminded that the Communists continue to rule today, but because of ’56, they do not reign with so strong a hand.

  “I tell myself, the sacrifices of my friends, my fellow Magyar, one day will at last play out. Democracy will prevail. Meanwhile, I have to ask myself, Gustav, you survived, now what will you do? You can feel guilty and suffer inside or, again, you can find a way to make your good fortune matter.

  “The faces of the executed haunt me. I know they will be with me forever. But what if I can find faces here that could live on in a positive way, perhaps symbolize what my friends died for? I think of the photo I took of Márton, Tunde. How I captured their moment of elation in experiencing freedom for the first time. Maybe I can do that here, with others starting life anew.”

  Gustav is standing close by. I reach over, brush my fingers lightly across his hand, look at him. “You’ve done it, Gustav, with your show. I only saw a sampling but your images are powerful. You’ve made a passionate case for opening hearts to all those around us, regardless of their origins.”

  I am suddenly conscious of the time passing. Zsófi and Mariska are waiting to hear what I learn. If I don’t get back soon, they’ll worry.

  I back toward the doorway. “I have to go now. Carry out my assignment from Duna Utca headquarters.”

  “Not without me.”

  “You’re not involved. The gala. You don’t have time. I’m not afraid.”

  Gustav smiles and grabs his keys from the table. “I would never suggest you were. If Attila’s as weak and ill as you say, he may have trouble with his English. You’ll need a Hungarian at your side to ask questions.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Gustav and I pause in the doorway of St. Elizabeth’s imposing nave. Late afternoon, and the crew is bare bones, scattered here and there, up on the scaffolding and down on their knees, painting, scraping and polishing.

  We descend the stairs.

  I rap lightly on the door of Tibor’s small room. No response. I inch the door open and am assaulted by a wave of sour odor. The glazed window I had noticed on my earlier visit is shut, trapping the stench inside. Sunlight pounding through the window illuminates Attila on his back, the blanket in disarray at his ankles.

  I cup my hand over my mouth and nose but my stomach is already queasy from the smell. It lurches when I glimpse Attila’s face. Eyes closed, skin sickly white, green-tinged vomit spilling from the corner of his open mouth.

  “Ó Krisztus,” Gustav whispers next to me.

  We step deeper into the room. Gustav kneels down beside Attila.

  He lifts a limp wrist, then rests an ear on Attila’s chest. “Gone.”


  His head comes up slightly, a quizzical look on his face. He leans close again.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “The scent. It is something I recognize. Have not encountered for a long time.”

  “Vomit?” I ask incredulously before noticing he is sniffing the extensive damp area staining the front of Attila’s shirt.

  Not vomit. A liquid stain.

  Gustav sits back on his haunches. “It is alcohol. Absinthe. I know this from the smell. Anise. No mistake.”

  “But absinthe is illegal. How’d he get it? Why? The alcohol content is so high—” I meet Gustav’s gaze. Attila was an alcoholic at the end of his rope. Ingesting any liquor whatsoever could have been deadly. “He wanted to kill himself?”

  My eyes flick to the mattress, across the floor. Where was the bottle?

  My heart stops. Tibor’s flask. I grab it. The lid is off, it feels empty. I smell the mouth. Odorless. Maybe a hint of sweat.

  “Look at his mouth,” Gustav says.

  This is the last thing I want to do, but I had come here to learn what Attila might reveal. Blood taints the green puke coating the skin near a nick in his upper lip. Red, green, white. I shake off the bizarre thought of national colors, look closer. The lip is swollen, especially on the side where the drop of blood has congealed.

  “You think someone forced it on him?”

  A lift of a shoulder. “I have seen death in many forms. This, I think is murder.”

  Another disturbing thought.

  “My mother’s prayer book….” I crouch, gingerly patting the mattress around Attila. “Where is it?”

  Within the coarse folds of the stiff wool blanket, I feel something hard, about the right size. I lift the covering. The prayer book.

  “Got it.” I begin flipping pages. “Kati’s picture. It’s still here.” The photo is face down. I pick it up. Someone has scrawled across the yellowed surface. A name, almost illegible. A. Hadjok.

  “Can I see?”

  “Y-yes, of course. Only…”

  “Only what?”

  “This writing. It wasn’t here before.”

  “Jézus József és Mary,” Tibor says from behind us. “The stink. What has happened?” Gustav and I are blocking his view of Attila. He moves in beside us, clicks his tongue, tsk. “Death in a pool of sick. Fitting,” he says. “But how this happen? I have been to our priest’s house. Called by the housekeeper for a necessary repair. He is fine when I leave. Sleeping.”

  “Alcohol,” Gustav says.

  “Nooo. Where he get alcohol? There is no alcohol here. And Attila he have nothing when he arrive. I am sure. I search him.”

  “Someone else brought it, made him drink,” I say. “At least that’s the way it looks.” I point out the swollen lip, the small cut.

  “This is bolond, crazy. Who? Just you, Ildikó, Zsófi, and Mariska. We are the only people who know Attila is here.”

  “Someone must have followed him here,” I say. “Maybe someone who knew about his past.”

  “The stain…” Tibor says uncertainly, eyeing the liquid blotch on the front of his loaned out shirt. “I have witnessed drunks choked to death on their own throw up. They drink too much, pass out, the gag reflex it does not kick in to wake them up. But the green. I have not seen this.”

  Gustav explains about absinthe. While he is talking, my thoughts fly back to the investigator who came to the house to tell my father that nothing had come of my mother’s case. The man had barely said hello to me, but his mere presence stirred up things I would rather not have remembered. The violent way my mother died. The reality that she was gone, never coming back. That Chicago’s finest were stymied by what and how it had happened. The system’s failure. I cannot bear another round.

  I check my watch. “Tibor, someone needs to call the police. Gustav has to be somewhere else. Do you think you could handle this?”

  Tibor’s encounters with authoritarian figures have been worse than mine. How could I have asked such a favor? Before I can take it back, he answers.

  “Yes, go, please. I am in charge down here. I give Attila this room, let him stay. It is my responsibility. I will take care of this.”

  “But leaving a crime scene—” I counter.

  “This is not crime scene. We cannot say for certain what has happened to Attila.” He hesitates. “Who can say you two were ever here?” He sees my troubled expression. “Do not worry, if it develops I must tell them, I will tell. For now, go.”

  ***

  Outside, Gustav offers to drive me to Duna Utca. With my emotions roiling over witnessing a dead body then leaving a possible crime scene, I agree, but insist he takes me no further than his house. He has an opening to go to; I can catch a bus from there.

  Arriving at his place, I decide to call Zsófi, explain the delay.

  We navigate the flagstone walkway to the back of the main house and halt. The door on the ground level of the converted garage is ajar.

  “My dark room,” Gustav says, jogging toward it.

  I rush after him. He is already inside.

  Apart from the wedge of sunlight streaming in from the doorway, the space is completely black. Gustav turns on a ceiling lamp. His head whips left and right. Cabinet doors above and below the counter are open; photography paper and upended developing pans litter the floor. Someone has broken in.

  “What were they after?” Gustav asks. His eyes grow wide. “Upstairs.”

  We sprint up the outdoor staircase. The French doors are shut, the way we’d left them. Inside, a different story. Scattered papers, overturned cushions, gaping drawers, yawning cabinet doors, scattered album jackets. Everywhere, signs of a thorough search.

  Gustav heads directly for the workbench. The commercial photographs of brides and babies that had stood along the table’s edge lie scattered on the floor, tattered, their surfaces marred with scuff marks as if the person who discarded them ground them with the heel of a shoe.

  My stomach drops. Gustav’s shadow box. It has been removed from the wall and rests face down, propped on the glass framed front. Almost unbelievably, it is still in one piece.

  A paper-thin wooden panel has been removed from the back fitting and tossed aside. The narrow exposed space is empty.

  “Gone,” Gustav says. He begins shaking his head side to side.

  I place my hands on his face, steadying him. I lock my gaze with his. “What’s gone?”

  His lips press together so hard they turn white. A second later, “The photo from the Revolution.”

  For the second time in less than an hour I make the unpleasant suggestion, “Gustav, you need to call the police.”

  He is walking to the open the French doors. Nearby, the black textile piece lies in a heap on the floor. Gustav squats down beside his battered art work. He lifts a jumbled nest of threads. “It will not be necessary.”

  “But don’t you want to know who did this? Have them arrested? Don’t you want the photo back?”

  Gustav shakes his head. “No.” His shoulders slumped, he rises slowly. “That was the past. Maybe the person who took it did me a favor. It is time to move on.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  On the bus back to Duna Utca, my thoughts keep returning to Gustav’s casual attitude toward the theft of his keepsake photo. If the intruder had indeed done him a favor, and freed him from the past, then why hadn’t he looked relieved? Instead, his face had been clouded with apprehension.

  Gustav, man of secrets, and I had thought we were getting to know one another.

  ***

  When I arrive at the store, a customer is just leaving. Mariska has come downstairs to wait for me with Zsófi, but otherwise the place is deserted.

  “Please, you must quick, tell us what Attila say,” Mariska says, fanning herself with a magazine. “My blood pressure
it goes up by the minute.”

  My eyes grow wide. “Auntie…”

  “She teases,” Zsófi says. “But come, tell us.”

  The news of Attila’s death and Gustav’s suspicion that he was murdered stuns Zsófi into silence. Mariska’s reaction is more offhand. Long ago, she’d had some contact with Attila, but little about those times—or him—had been pleasant. Her concern is for Tibor. She would like to help, but we agree there is nothing to do except to wait for his call. As for my guilt over leaving the scene, she is equally clear: We must leave this to Tibor. It is what he wants. Besides, what could you add to what he will tell the police?

  She was right. Tibor knew everything Gustav and I knew about finding Attila’s body. Why, then, didn’t I feel less uneasy?

  It is on the tip of my tongue to tell them about Gustav’s damaged flat but decide against it. They had Tibor on their minds. Why give them something else to worry about? Especially when Gustav had so obstinately wanted to play down the incident.

  “I have news,” Mariska says out of the blue. “Remember our trip we have booked to Budapest?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  She explains that an extended trip overseas has been ruled out for the foreseeable future because of her heart incident. But Mrs. Karinthy, owner of Karinthy Travel, the Hungarian travel agency next door, dropped by while I was gone. A client scheduled to leave on a flight to Budapest the day after next had to cancel.

  “Know anyone who would like the ticket, she asked me?” Mariska eyes me evenly. Then, “It is a sign. I cannot travel and you must not wait. Go. Visit the place where your mother left her heart. Maybe you will learn something to give you peace.”

  The timing is more serendipitous than she could know. I thought of the name A. Hadjok, scrawled on the photograph of Kati. “A.” for Anikó? The “Anikó” Mariska had vaguely recalled my mother talking about? The friend who had been a cleaning woman at Budapest Communist Party Headquarters while Attila had been working there? The friend we believed my mother would have tried locating on her last trip home? A shiver climbed my spine. A lead, perhaps, to Attila’s murder? If indeed he was murdered.