Reparation

by Gaby Koppel

  I grab my bag and dash behind, trying not to lose her in the crowd of tourists. She takes a sudden right, and I swerve after her, keeping a lookout for the flashes of red jacket up ahead of me. The crowd on the pavement here is bunched up, and I force myself through by dodging right and left, only to be brought to a sudden halt by a red pedestrian crossing light. I’m drumming my foot on the kerb as a wall of traffic passes in front of me. Mutti must be miles away by now.

  On green I charge forward, scanning the crowd. Then just a few yards ahead, there’s a familiar shape. But that’s not Mutti. It’s – it can’t be – the hunched posture and asymmetrical gait are so particular. Even from behind I recognise that mournful air, that of a woman condemned forever to chase the ghost of a lost child. And the hair, it doesn’t move. It doesn’t even look real. How on earth could Mrs Friedmann be here, in Budapest? I run past the figure and spin round, coming face to face with a cross looking elderly matron, who looks as though she’s about to report me for invading her privacy.

  I back off, apologising in English which must make no sense whatever, but hopefully she’s written me off as a daft tourist. Maybe it’s me who has drunk too much. Now I’ve no idea which way Mutti’s gone, but I rush forward with the crowd, trying to catch another flash of the red jacket. There it is, in the distance. My legs are tired now, and my handbag is rubbing a groove into my shoulder as I chase forward, hoping I haven’t made another crashing mistake. I’m getting closer but let’s hope she doesn’t dive into a shop to shake me off. Finally, I manage to catch up with her in the shadow of a covered arcade. She’s managing to walk pretty fast for someone who is half-pissed and can’t usually manage the supermarket aisles, barely acknowledging me as I draw level. Where on earth does she think she’s heading? I reach out for her arm, trying to get some sense out of her. I miss and pull on her handbag by mistake, and an empty half of vodka topples out and smashes on the pavement.

  She yanks her arm away from me and marches onward. By the time we pass the grand opera house, she’s beginning to flag. Slowing down, her head sinks, she looks defeated.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “Was…”

  “You don’t have to apologise,” I say. “Not at all.” She’s pink, flushed from the walking. Or maybe she’s blushing.

  “Silly old woman…”

  “You’re allowed to meet an ex-boyfriend, you know. That doesn’t make you a silly old woman.” She looks grateful. “Pity he turned out to be such a dickhead.” She gives a wry smile, and puts out a hand to lean on me for support. I stop, trying to work out how to get back to Pension Eszterházy. There’s a dark, sweaty patch on my grey tee shirt where her arm has gripped mine.

  The high summer air is thick and clammy as we set forth once more, in what I hope is the right direction. I think this is the way to the hotel, though Mutti has refused to bring a map on the grounds that she is at home here. Soon there are beads of perspiration forming on her forehead. One breaks free, and dribbles down her jawbone.

  We stop to buy a bottle of soda water, and it’s only when I take out my wallet that I realise we left Michael with the bill for the champagne. A feeling of mortification flashes through me, but it only lasts a second. Serves him right for trying to be holier than thou with us. He may think he still knows Mutti, but he really has no idea how angry she is.

  As we drink the soda, I scan the street around us and notice something odd – a line has formed along the kerb. People are looking along the road, into the distance. Faint music, coming this way. A boy shoves something into my hand. It’s a flag with a red and white symbol. Another boy gives me a leaflet. I can’t make out what it’s about, and Mutti’s not quite with it. If they are trying to sell something, the marketing looks a bit primitive – so much for the onward march of capitalism. I stuff it into my bag, and spotting a bench a few yards away on the pavement, I park Mutti there until the mêlée passes. The footsteps and music come nearer, mixed with the sound of traffic.

  The noise is getting louder and louder. I have to crane my neck to see over the people. I can make out what looks like a troupe of boy scouts. But as I’m watching they mutate into fully grown men, in khaki uniforms. The crowd is picking up the tune they are marching to, and starts singing along. Everybody seems to know the words, and even Mutti is tapping her foot in time to the music. It gets louder as the parade comes towards us, in their midst a marching band blasting out the pounding anthem. The man leading the crocodile of uniformed men is waving a large red and white striped flag, with an insignia in the centre. A cross with an arrow on each of its four points. From Mutti there’s a sharp intake of breath, I turn to see her face a shade of grey.

  The thump of boots marching one two, one two, is competing with the blare of drum and trumpets, and a French horn I now notice for the first time. From the pavement, there are cheers and clapping, as the column approaches. Behind me, a fist beats time into its opposing hand. A small shaven-headed boy waves his flag at the marchers.

  But the singing and cheers are mixed with discordant voices shouting to a different rhythm. We’ve stumbled into a demonstration of some kind, and it has all the hallmarks of an ancient tradition. There are supporters, of course, and dissenters – there is a counter demonstration. The crowd is jeering. They know the routine, it will have been going on for thousands of years. Soon two men will square up to each other, a fight will break out, which will merge into a free-for-all. One side against another. Invaders against natives. Turks against Magyars. Communists against fascists. Austrians against Hungarians. Insiders against outsiders. Everyone against the Jews. Jews against the Gypsies. The music gives way to excited yelling. The crowd are warming up for a bit of fun.

  It’s time to go, before things turn nasty. I look round to the bench, but Mutti’s gone. Well, it’s hardly surprising that she’s been scared off by jack boots and martial music. Now I’m stuck behind the growing crowd, and I can’t see anything through the dense wall of humanity.

  A ripple of movement and a familiar looking flash of red. On the road. It’s her voice I can hear, rising above the jeers. I push my way to the front, getting jostled from both sides. A handbag swings in and scratches my face. A woman I’m pushing past shoves me back screeching something. I ignore her, and am rewarded with a sharp kick in my calves as I pass.

  When I get to the front, I can see Mutti. She’s head to head with the man at the front of the column. He’s a heavily built twenty-something, with black hair cut so short that it’s little more than a shadow on his scalp. She grabs the flag-pole he’s carrying, throws it on the ground and stamps on it, ripping the fabric and spitting on it. The crowd jeers. He shouts back, enraged, but though he’d make short work of a man who was his equal in size and strength, the challenge of getting past an elderly woman throws him. In the end, he gives her a half-hearted push. But he hasn’t calculated for Mutti’s arm-wrestling shoulders and when she resists him, he’s wrong footed, and stumbles off-balance. As he re-finds his centre of gravity they come nose to nose.

  The column has stopped in its tracks, marchers falling out of line, swirling around the strange old woman in their path. The music falters. Amid the blur, I can make out the head thug and one of his mates grabbing Mutti by the arms. One either side, they pinion her, arms behind her back. If she was a young man instead of an elderly woman they’d have hit her by now. They hold onto her for a frozen moment. She lunges away, taking them by surprise, and managing to free her right arm. But instead of escape, she turns, lashing out at the leader’s neck and screaming at him, red faced. This time he’s prepared. He coolly grabs Mutti’s arm again and twists it behind her back. She squirms in pain. He gives her arm a malicious extra twist. And her whole body judders in reflex. He grins, turning towards the pavement spectators.

  The sadistic bastard, enjoying that clenched agony on her face. That’s what does it for me. I launch myself from the pavement and tear across the road, dodging a couple of stray leaflet boys. I throw myself onto the boss man, and r
am two fingers into his left eye. I’m kind of watching myself do it and thinking where did I get that from? He lets go of Mutti with a roar, but recovers himself quickly and starts towards me. Those self-defence classes I did at uni have must have left a trace element in my brain, because I wait until he’s grabbed both my arms. And then I bring my knee up into his groin as hard as I can. I feel him double up, letting me go.

  I brace myself for the retribution that’s sure to come from one of his mates. I’m surrounded by them. There’s a rush of footsteps coming towards us amid a screech of whistling so high-pitched that it stings my ears. A lot of people dressed in black are whirling around, no idea where they came from and whether they are police or some kind of militia. It all happens so quickly I’ve lost sense of direction and what’s going on, but I know one thing. If the marchers grab me I’m in deep trouble for kneeing their boss man. I prepare for the impact. The pain doesn’t come yet, but for a moment I’m suspended in time, caught in the eye of the storm where I hang there motionless and untouched while chaos explodes around me.

  A myriad scuffles and punch-ups break out. The black clad figures with their screechy whistles launch themselves at the uniforms one-on-one, punching, kicking and pushing. Police sirens. The tap-tap-tap of running feet. I finally get to Mutti, but someone else has got there first, and I’m pushed away by a meaty hand.

  “Mutti!” I call. She looks towards me without recognition. “Aranca!” I shout at the top of my voice.

  Someone grabs my arm so hard it hurts, and pulls me. I try to resist, but I’m not strong enough. Now he’s dragging me by both arms. I try to dig my feet in to the paving stones, I can feel the soles of my sneakers coming away. My toenails are rubbing through thin socks and scraping along the ground. There’s nothing to grab onto, and the paving feels slippery beneath me. I’m being yanked along, dragged so fast that I can’t get to my feet. Police sirens and more footsteps fast and staccato like a machine gun. Shouting and in the distance now, a plaintive wail from the trumpet.

  Around me is a blur of pavements, sky, and towering buildings. I’m turning, or is it the pavement that’s moving? I no longer know which way is up. Torn advertising hoardings and graffiti zip past, a girl’s bleached smile and a display of medicines. A street sign flashes across my line of vision, too quick to read. Footsteps approach, and there’s a dizzy sensation of being surrounded by a crowd of urgent voices like a swarm of flies that gathers and then disperses. Footsteps scatter in different directions.

  I’m sitting on the curb, feeling as though I’ve just got off a merry-go-round. The world looks choppy, my head is trying to make it stop spinning. In the background, I can still make out the noise of whistles, shouting and police sirens. The hands let go of my arms, which feel bruised. There is something sticky on my hands. I hold them away from me and try to focus. Dried blood. I’m covered in small scratches.

  “It’s OK, don’t worry, you are OK,” says someone in American accented English.

  The speaker is a bearded young man. He’s wearing jeans and a tee shirt, with casual black jacket and a baseball cap.

  “Mutti. I was with my mother. I need to find her.” I pull myself to my feet, feeling wobbly. My voice comes out hoarse and screechy.

  “The old lady in the red jacket?”

  I nod. “Have they taken her? Those people?”

  He nods his head in the direction of the corner of the road. Mutti’s limping towards us, leaning on another bearded young man. She’s taller than him. Despite the limp, her posture is erect, like a defeated fighter who has acquitted himself well in combat.

  “Quite a lady, your mother,” says the American. I run forward and she puts one trembling arm around me. Her handbag is still clamped over the other. I’m sobbing and hugging her. She grips onto me, and tries to say something, but her mouth opens and shuts, wordless. She shakes her head. I reach into her bag, and find a packet of cigarettes. I put one into a holder, and light it for her. She takes a deep drag, then looks around.

  “I need to sit,” she rasps.

  “Not here,” says the first young man. “Come with us.”

  “But who are you?” I say. “And who were they?”

  “I think your mother has a pretty good idea who they were. Come on, let’s go.”

  We make slow progress, limping our way down a succession of narrow streets. As we walk, the first man passes me a handkerchief.

  “You might want to wipe your face.”

  “Thanks. But I don’t normally accept hankies from strange men.”

  A weak smile.

  “Schmulli,” he says, pointing at himself. “And that’s Aaron.” He takes his baseball cap off and adjusts the skullcap underneath.

  “I’m Elizabeth Mueller,” I say. “That’s my mother Aranca. And let me guess – you probably won’t want to shake me warmly by the hand.” He shrugs.

  “Well then, it’s jolly noble of your friend to let Aranca lean on him like that, breaking a dearly-held prohibition.”

  “That’s first aid, it doesn’t count.”

  “Thanks anyway. So what are you, some kind of Maccabean paramilitaries?”

  “Hardly.”

  “So?”

  “The guys you saw demonstrating belong to a group called New Arrow. They are fascists, as I’m sure you have already guessed.”

  “Why New Arrow? What happened to the old one?”

  “You know what the Arrow Cross was?

  “Yes sure, I…” The Arrow Cross, of course. I’ve read the name so many times without ever trying to imagine what that might look like. The symbol on the banners was a cross with an arrow at each point. Stupid of me not to make the connection earlier.

  “So they are some kind of neo-fascists. And that makes you?”

  “We aren’t anything particular. No group.”

  “And today?”

  “They’ve been demonstrating every week. They manage to keep one step ahead of the police. Or perhaps the police don’t care.”

  “So how come you knew?”

  “We get – information. We have people.”

  “So, then what?”

  “The plan was a peaceful counter-demonstration. Your mother seemed to have other ideas.”

  We’ve stopped outside a house. There’s a dirty sign over the door. Painted in uneven looped writing are the words “Eva Klein” and next to it there’s a large window with a small glass display case containing a meagre selection of lumpy looking pastries. The paintwork on the door is peeling, on the frame a rusty mezuza – signifying that this is a Jewish premises, andin the window a smutty kashrut certificate.

  We’ve left Mutti and Aaron half a block behind. I want to wait for them, but Schmulli ushers me inside, as though he thinks it’s dangerous to linger. Behind a polished wooden counter that looks as though it’s been there for decades, there’s a woman in an apron. She’s caught in the blue glow of a hygiene light. When she sees Schmulli, her eyebrows arch into two mirrored question marks. They exchange a few hasty words. Schmulli steers me out the other side into a backroom, brushing aside loose fringes of coloured plastic that hang down from the top of the doorway.

  We sit at a scrubbed wooden table. Mutti and Aaron arrive. One of her eyes looks puffy, her lipstick is smeared. I get up, fling my arms around her and hold her tight, feeling her solid, sweaty body against mine. It’s years since I have held her like this, now I’ve done it twice in half an hour. For too long I’ve feared being engulfed by her boozy breath and blubbery shape. Often I’ve felt her hover near me, and even taken pleasure in blanking her. I did it deliberately, to show her I could. But now I want to hold her and hold her, to never let her go, as if that will be enough to save her from all the fascist thugs in Budapest.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “No,” she says. “Doesn’t matter.”

  The woman in the café – Eva? – brings us milky coffee in large wide cups. On the tray is also a small bottle of brown liquid and some cotton wool. She pours s
ome of the liquid onto a piece of cotton wool and dabs at my cheek. It stings. Then she hands me the cotton wool to clean up the scratches on my arms and hands.

  In the ladies’ toilet, I splash myself with cold water. Mascara has streaked down my face and mingled with the remaining traces of blood. I wipe it away. The result is an untidy smear of foundation and eyeshadow. I look like a child who’s been playing with her mother’s cosmetics case. I clean off as much of it as I can with an old tissue. My eyes are stinging. As I’m rummaging through my handbag to find some fresh make-up. I find the leaflet.

  “What’s this?” I ask Schmulli, as I sit back down at the table. He smoothes the crumpled sheet onto the table.

  “Some of our friends’ filthy propaganda.”

  “And it says?”

  “It’s about the Jewish hyenas, and their conspiracy to rob the Magyar nation of its hard-earned forints.”

  From the other side of the table, Aaron makes yelping noises, to illustrate the point. Even Mutti smiles, but I’m still seething.

  “What can they know about Jews?” I shout. “Even I know that most of the Hungarian Jews were sent to Auschwitz and the few that were left managed to get away after the war or in 1956. Can’t they find someone else to pick on for a change?”

  He shrugs, but it’s probably not the right moment to go into why we are here, I tell them that we’ve come to Budapest on a sentimental visit. We talk in a desultory way about sightseeing and the Jewish Quarter. By now, Mutti seems more interested in reading the leaflet. When she’s finished, she screws it up into a ball, and puts it into the ashtray. Then she pokes it with the tip of her cigarette and it flares up in flames. She turns to the two men, “I want them to pay for what they did to my father. Can you help us?”