I’ll let you in on a secret: I’m not.
Someone was knocking. Lili didn’t even look up. She was reading a dog-eared German edition of Dick Sand: A Captain at Fifteen by Jules Verne, which Dr Svensson had given her the day before.
Sára Stern was standing in the doorway. Lili stared in shock. Sára rushed over to the bed, kneeled down and gave her a hug. The novel slipped to the floor.
‘Dr Svensson gave me a referral. Right here, to this ward. Though there’s nothing wrong with me.’ Sára swirled round like a ballroom dancer. She undressed quickly, pulled on her nightdress and got into the bed next to Lili’s.
Lili laughed and laughed as if she’d gone mad.
Now I’ll try to describe myself, since I don’t have a photo. As far as my figure goes, I’d say I was plumpish (thanks to the Swedes), medium tall, with dark brown hair. My eyes are greyish-blue, my lips are thin, and my complexion is dark. You can imagine me as pretty or ugly, as you like. For my part, I make no comment. I have a picture of you in my mind. I wonder how close to reality it is.
On Sunday Dr Lindholm organised three buses to take his patients to the Gotland coast twenty kilometres away. Miklós and Harry wandered off from the others and found a deserted, sandy bay where they could be on their own. The radiant afternoon was a gift from heaven. The sky was like a stretched cobalt canvas. They took their shoes off and paddled in the shallows.
Later, Harry, who had taken to putting his virility to the test at every opportunity, disappeared behind a rock. Miklós pretended not to notice. The late afternoon cast long shadows. The silhouette of the invisible man, doggedly trying to satisfy himself, was projected onto the sand like a drawing by Egon Schiele. Miklós, meanwhile, tried to concentrate on the waves and the endless blue horizon.
I’d be interested to know what your views are about socialism. I gather from what you write about your family that you are middle class, just as I was until I became acquainted with Marxism—which the middle class tend to have very strange notions about.
Autumn came early in Eksjö. It came at night with unexpected swiftness, bringing with it sleet and a howling wind. The two girls watched in alarm as the lone birch tree swayed in the storm. The two beds were close enough for them to hold hands.
‘If only I had twelve kronor!’ whispered Lili.
‘What would you do with it?’
Lili closed her eyes. ‘There used to be a greengrocer on the corner of Nefelejts Street. My mother always sent me there to buy fruit.’
‘I know the one. He was called Mr Teddy!’
‘I don’t remember that.’
‘I do. His name was Mr Teddy. Though I called him Bear. What made you think of him?’
‘Nothing really. Last month, before I got sick, I saw a dish of green peppers in a shop window in Smålandsstenar.’
‘Really? I didn’t think they had green peppers here.’
‘Nor did I. They were twelve kronor—for a kilo, I suppose. Or was it half a kilo?’
‘You had a craving for one?’
‘I know it’s silly, but I dreamed about those peppers yesterday. I bit into one. It was crisp. Fancy dreaming such a crazy thing.’
The sleet kept beating against the window. The two girls looked on wistfully.
My friend Sára has been telling me a lot about socialism. I must admit I haven’t taken much notice of politics so far. I’m reading a book about the show trials in Moscow in the 1930s. You probably know all about them.
A week or two later, in the middle of October, Miklós again felt he was going to suffocate. He didn’t have time to shout out. He stood in the middle of the barracks, his body rigid, his mouth open, trying to suck in some oxygen. Then he collapsed.
This time they drained two litres of fluid from his lungs. He spent the rest of the night in a tiny room beside the surgery. Harry lay on the cold pinewood floor beside the bed so that he could let Dr Lindholm know right away if Miklós suffered another attack—though the doctor had tried to reassure him that another emergency was unlikely for a while now.
‘What happened?’ My father’s voice fluttered in the air like a bird with a hurt wing.
‘You fainted,’ replied Harry. ‘They siphoned off the fluid. You’re in the room next to the operating theatre.’
The wooden floor was hurting Harry’s side, so he sat up cross-legged. Miklós lay in silence for a long time. Then he mumbled, ‘You know what, Harry? I’ll develop gills. They won’t get the better of me.’
‘Who won’t?’
‘No one will. No one knows just how stubborn I can be.’
‘I envy you. You’re so strong.’
‘You’ll be all right too. I know it. Your slug will turn into a pine tree rising to the sky. And then there’ll be no stopping you.’
Harry was rocking back and forth, thinking about what Miklós had said. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Test my sword, ladies!’ said my father, trying to smile, and remembering what he had written to Lili.
Now for a strange question. How are you placed in the love department? Is that irritatingly indiscreet of me?
One afternoon, having asked a nurse where to find the best greengrocer in Eksjö, Sára took the lift to the ground floor and escaped from the hospital. In the persistent drizzle she made a dash for the old town, which still had its charms. Fate rewarded her: the only thing in the grocer’s window was a wicker basket, and in the basket were several fleshy green peppers. Sára stared at them in amazement while she got her breath back. Then, fishing her small change from her pocket, she sauntered in.
The answer to your ‘strange’ question is simple: I’ve had a few boyfriends. Does that mean I’ve had a lot or just one special one? You’ll have to guess!
Harry was the dandy of the barracks. He loved swaggering around like some grand seducer, and his enigmatic smile suggested that he’d already broken the hearts of umpteen women. Naturally, Miklós was the only one who knew about his little ‘problem’.
Then someone discovered that Harry kept a precious, shapely bottle of cologne hidden under his mattress. No one knew where he’d got it from but sometimes, before he walked into town, the whole barracks was filled with the pungent scent of lavender. One evening, when Harry was about to set out on one of his jaunts, he discovered the bottle was missing.
Soon it was flying through the air and, desperate to get it back, Harry was rushing in every direction. The men would wait for him to come close, and then throw the bottle to each other over his head. Tiring of that game, they unscrewed the top and splashed each other with the scent. Harry, tears in his eyes, pleaded with them. ‘I bought it on borrowed money,’ he shouted.
My fellow patients are horrible. That’s why this letter is such a mess. Hungarians, the lot of them! And there’s such chaos in here that I can’t even write. They’ve drenched the place in the cologne belonging to our resident Don Juan. Some of it even landed on my writing paper. We’re in such high spirits it’s almost dangerous. Harry and I may have to break out and trek across the country to see you and your friends.
When Sára got back from her expedition to the old town Lili was asleep. This was a stroke of luck. She delicately laid the two peppers on the pillow next to Lili’s cheek.
How thrilling, dear Miklós, that you and your friend may come and visit us.
Miklós and Harry often exercised by striding around the hospital grounds. Now that a trip to Eksjö might be on the cards—Miklós was cooking up some story about a family reunion—Harry was full of curiosity. He was determined to get his own penfriend, or at least to make certain of going on the visit with Miklós. ‘How many kilometres is it exactly?’ he enquired.
‘Almost three hundred.’
‘Two days there, two days back. We won’t get permission.’
Miklós led the way, keeping his eyes on the path.
‘Yes, we will.’
Harry felt this was the time to banish all doubt about his virility. ‘I’m in much better shape. Ever
y morning I wake up with a stiff, like this!’ he said, showing the length with his hands. But Miklós didn’t react.
Whatever happens, don’t forget that I’m your cousin and Harry is Sára’s uncle. I have to warn you, though, that at the station, yes, right there at the station, you’ll be getting a kiss from your cousin. We must keep up appearances!
I send you a friendly handshake plus a kiss from your cousin, Miklós.
One rare sunny morning in Eksjö, the door swung open and there stood a grinning, chubby Judit Gold! She dropped her belongings and threw her arms out wide. ‘Dr Svensson gave me a referral too. Severe anaemia. We can all be together!’
Sára flew over to Judit and they hugged each other. Lili clambered out of bed, though it was strictly forbidden, and, linking arms, the three of them danced in front of the window. Then they sat on Lili’s bed.
‘Does he still write to you?’ asked Judit, taking Lili’s hand in hers.
Lili waited a moment. She had recently learned the subtle advantage of pausing for effect. She stood up and in a dramatic gesture pulled open the drawer of her bedside table. She took out a sheaf of letters and held it high.
‘Eight!’
Judit applauded. ‘How industrious of him.’
Sára patted Judit on the knee. ‘You should see how clever he is! And a socialist, too.’
That was a little too much for Judit, who pulled a face. ‘Ugh, I hate socialists.’
‘Lili doesn’t.’
Judit took the letters out of Lili’s hands and smelled them. ‘Are you sure he’s not married?’
Lili was taken aback. Why did she have to smell them? ‘Dead sure.’
‘We ought to check him out somehow. You know, I’ve been burnt so many times.’
Judit was at least ten years older than the other two, and she knew more about men. Lili took the letters from her, slipped off the rubber band and picked up the top one.
‘Listen to what he says: “I’ve got good news for you. We can send cables to Hungary now. But you have to use special forms. You can get them either from the consulate or from the Red Cross in Stockholm. Each form can fit twenty-five words.” How about that?’
This was wonderful to hear. They thought about it for a while. Lili lay back in her bed, put the letters on her stomach and stared at the ceiling. ‘I haven’t heard anything from Mama. Or Papa. I can’t bear it. Aren’t you worried too?’
The girls avoided each other’s eyes.
Autumn had by now slunk across the island of Gotland too. It was a bleak overcast day when Dr Lindholm summoned the inhabitants of the barracks together at noon. He briskly gave them the good news that none of them remained infectious. And that early the following morning the Hungarian patients were being transferred to a temporary hospital in Avesta, north of Stockholm. Dr Lindholm would be travelling with them.
Avesta was a few hundred kilometres away. After a day and a half of chugging along on steam trains they arrived. At first sight, their new rehabilitation camp was a shock. Situated in the middle of thick forest, seven kilometres from the town, it was surrounded by a wire fence and, worst of all, a tall chimney rose from its centre.
They were housed in brick barracks. They might have settled in better if the weather had not been so terrible. The wind always blew in Avesta. Everything was covered in frost, and the sun, the colour of an overripe orange, never peeped out for more than a few minutes.
Outside their window was a small concrete courtyard full of weeds. Its long wooden table and benches gave it a certain spartan charm. The convalescents sat here in the evenings wrapped up in blankets.
Dr Lindholm had arranged for a Hungarian newspaper to be delivered every few days, even if it was three weeks old. The men instantly tore the shoddily printed paper into four parts. Huddled in groups, they devoured every word. A single light bulb swung overhead. Then they swapped pages in the pale light, their mouths moving soundlessly. In spirit they were far away.
Just imagine! We got hold of an August edition of
Kossuth’s People. We even read all the ads. The
theatres back home are full. A four-page newspaper
costs two pengö, a kilo of flour fourteen. The people’s
court is sentencing members of the Arrow Cross
Party one after the other. There are lots of new street
names. Mussolini Square is now Marx Square. The
whole country is full of hope. People want to work.
Teachers have to attend re-education courses. The
first lecture was given by party boss Mátyás Rákosi.
But I’m sure you’re sick of politics.
The tiny X-ray room in Avesta was no different from the one in Lärbro. Except perhaps for the hairline crack that ran the length of the ceiling. It was a symbol of something and it gave Miklós a feeling of hope. In this room he once again pressed his sunken chest and narrow shoulders up against the machine. And once again it gave out a high thin beep when the X-ray was done. Miklós always covered his eyes when the door opened and light streamed into the darkness. And it was always Dr Lindholm who stood in the doorway in his radiation-proof leather apron.
The X-rays were read the following day. Miklós entered Dr Lindholm’s office and sat down in front of the desk. He leaned back until the front legs of his chair rose into the air. It was to become an annoying habit in Avesta. He had made a bet with himself. If something of vital importance was being discussed, he would pivot on his chair like a naughty child—all the while concentrating like mad.
‘The X-rays came out well. Sharp, easy to read,’ Dr Lindholm said, looking into my father’s eyes.
‘Any change?’
‘I can give no encouraging.’
Miklós let the chair drop back on all four legs.
‘And forget about going to Eksjö. Is too far away from Avesta. God knows how long to get there.’
‘I only want three days.’
‘You have always fever at dawn. There are no miracles.’
Miklós had his own thermometer. Each morning, at half past four on the dot, an inner alarm clock woke him up. The mercury always reached the same point. Thirty-eight point two. No more, no less.
‘This is not about me. My cousin is lonely and depressed. It would mean the world to her.’
Dr Lindholm gave him a thoughtful glance. He and Márta, who was now head nurse in their section in Avesta, had settled into their new home. He decided to invite Miklós, who got on well with his wife, for supper. Perhaps over a family meal he could dissuade this charming and stubborn young man from his crazy scheme.
The Lindholms’ house was next to the railway line. Trains regularly shrieked past the window. Miklós dressed for the occasion, having borrowed a jacket and tie, but he felt ill at ease. At the beginning, conversation was awkward. Márta dished out the stuffed cabbage. Dr Lindholm tucked his napkin into his shirt.
‘Márta cook this dish especially for you. Hungarian, she tell me.’
There was the banshee noise of a passing train.
‘It’s one of my favourites,’ replied Miklós when it was quiet again. He broke a crust of bread and carefully gathered up the crumbs.
Márta smacked his hand. ‘If you don’t stop cleaning up, I’ll send you out to wash the dishes.’
He blushed. For a while they blew on the hot cabbage in silence.
Miklós started to cough. After he caught his breath, he said, ‘Dr Lindholm speaks beautiful Hungarian.’
‘I won on that score. In everything else Erik is the boss,’ said Márta, smiling at her husband.
They continued to eat in silence. Fatty cabbage juice started to trickle down Miklós’s chin. Márta handed him a napkin. He wiped his mouth in embarrassment.
‘Can I ask you how you two met?’
Márta, who could barely reach the table from her chair, stretched her hand out between the glasses and laid it on Lindholm’s arm. ‘Can I tell him?’
Dr Lindholm nodded.
&n
bsp; ‘It was ten years ago. A delegation of Swedish doctors came to visit the Rókus Hospital in Budapest. None of them was tall. I was the head nurse there,’ Márta said, then stopped.
Dr Lindholm sipped his wine. He was not going to help her out.
‘Since I was a teenager people have always teased me. Look at me, Miklós, you can see why, can’t you? If I was asked to open a window, I had to get someone in the class to do it for me. When I was sixteen I told my mother that, as soon as I could, I would move to Sweden and find a husband. So I started learning Swedish.’
A passenger train clattered past. It felt as if it had passed between them and the plates.
‘Why Sweden?’
‘Is common knowledge that very short men live here,’ Dr Lindholm retorted.
It was five seconds before Miklós dared to laugh. It was as if a plug had been pulled out: now the conversation flowed.
‘By 1935 I could speak Swedish fluently. By coincidence Dr Lindholm had had enough of his previous wife. She was a giant—six foot. That’s right, isn’t it, Erik?’
Dr Lindholm nodded gravely.
‘What was I to do? One evening I seduced him. In the hospital. Next to the operating theatre. I haven’t left anything out, have I, Erik? Now it’s your turn, Miklós. Did you tell the girl in Eksjö about your condition?’
My father, who until now had been preoccupied with his napkin, picked up his knife and fork and started to wolf down the cabbage. ‘More or less.’
‘Erik and I differ on this. I think you should go. To cheer up your…cousin. And yourself.’
Dr Lindholm sighed and poured more wine into everybody’s glasses. ‘Last week I receive letter from my colleague who work in Ädelfors,’ he said. He jumped up and hurried into the other room. A moment later he returned clutching a sheet of paper.
Fever at Dawn Page 3