Now he was sitting in the same windowless room that had confined Madame Ann-Marie Arvidsson. He was concentrating on a fly that was crawling around the desk between the pencils, the sharpener.
There was a knock. Judit Gold stuck her head round the door. ‘Can I come in?’
The rabbi smiled. ‘Just as I imagined you. You see, dear—’
‘I’m Judit Gold.’
‘You see, dear Judit Gold, on the basis of your handwriting I formed a mental picture of you. Now comes my pat on the back: I’ve scored a bullseye. Incidentally the world is built on this kind of presentiment. Before the Battle of Waterloo, Napoleon…Oh, you look so pale. Can I get you some water?’
There was a jug on the desk. Rabbi Kronheim filled a glass.
Judit Gold drank greedily, then sat down. She spoke in a whisper. ‘I’m ashamed of myself.’
‘So am I. We all are. And we’ve reason to be. What’s the reason for your shame, Judit?’
‘I’m ashamed of writing you that letter. And of being forced to tell tales.’
‘Don’t tell tales then! Forget the whole thing.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Of course you can. Shrug it off and throw what you wanted to tell me into the bin. Don’t give it another thought. Forget it. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about flies, for example. What’s your attitude to flies?’
Emil Kronheim pointed to the fly buzzing over the desk.
‘They disgust me.’
‘You want to be careful with disgust. It can easily turn into hatred. And right after that comes conflict. Later, it becomes ideology. And in the end you’ll be pursuing flies all your life.’
Judit couldn’t take her eyes off the fly that had now landed on the rim of her glass. ‘I’ve got a friend,’ she said.
Judit paused. She was in need of a question or a gesture, but Kronheim seemed interested only in the fly, the crazy, fidgety fly.
She had to start somewhere. ‘It’s about my friend Lili. She’s eighteen. Inexperienced and naïve.’
The rabbi shut his eyes. Was he listening at all?
‘She has been completely ensnared by a man from Gotland. Well, he has now been transferred to Avesta. I can’t stand by and do nothing. I can’t bear seeing Lili getting all worked up about him. There’s no way I can keep calm or stay out of this.’
The rabbi, who had been so chatty to start with, was now sitting still, his eyes closed. Had he fallen asleep?
Judit started crying. ‘She is my best friend. I’ve grown to love her. She was skin and bone when she arrived. She was so down. So alone. Then she started writing letters to this good-for-nothing. He’s a gangster. He promises her everything under the sun. Right now he wants to come and visit her in the hospital. Sorry, I’m not making any sense. All I know is that Lili’s too young.’
Judit felt that she had lost the thread. She should tell the story from the beginning. Tell him why she was anxious and why her fears were real. But, instead of helping her out, the rabbi was confusing her. He sat there with his eyes closed, his back straight. He wasn’t paying attention.
A minute passed. Then Rabbi Kronheim ran his fingers through his untidy hair. So he hadn’t been asleep.
Judit snivelled and sniffed. ‘I’ve lived through so much horror. I’ve given up so many times. But I’m alive. I’m still here. And Lili is so young.’
Emil Kronheim put his hand in his pocket. ‘I always have a clean handkerchief on me for such occasions. Here you are.’
Around this time Miklós began to figure out how he could trick fate. He had no illusions about his looks. Even though he now weighed fifty kilos, and the nasty warts were starting to disappear, he remained self-conscious.
Dr Lindholm was surprised by his request, but for once it wasn’t about going to Eksjö, and it was something that would make Miklós happy, so he agreed right away. He went over to the cupboard and took out a small camera. Then he got a roll of film out of his desk drawer. He handed them both to Miklós, who was standing in the middle of the room, beaming.
Miklós, Harry and Tibor Hirsch headed across to a spacious, breezy tract of land between the barracks where hundred-year-old pine trees rose up high. Miklós solemnly handed the camera to Tibor, who at over fifty was the oldest of the patients. His hair didn’t seem to want to grow; irregular-shaped purple patches could be seen on his scalp.
‘You were a photographer,’ Miklós said, looking at him. ‘I trust you. My life’s in your hands.’
Hirsch spent a long time examining the camera. ‘I know this type. It’ll be perfect, I promise.’
Miklós interrupted. ‘No, it shouldn’t be perfect.’
‘What?’
‘It should be fuzzy. That’s what I want.’
Hirsch looked puzzled.
‘That’s why I asked you. Because you know what you’re doing.’
‘Only to a point. I’m an electronic radio technician and photographer’s assistant. Or used to be. What do you want?’
Miklós now pointed at Harry. ‘We both should be in the picture. Harry and me. Harry should be in focus. I should be blurred, somewhere in the background. Could you do that?’
‘That’s nuts!’ Hirsch protested. ‘Why on earth do you want to be out of focus?’
‘Never you mind. Can you do it?’
Tibor Hirsch, electronic radio technician and photographer’s assistant, hesitated. But Miklós was his friend, and was giving him begging looks, so he put aside his professional pride.
Within five minutes he had worked out how to take a photograph in which my father would be more or less unrecognisable. He posed Harry in the foreground. In half-profile, at the most flattering angle. A watery sun came out for the briefest moment. Hirsch positioned them with backlight for an artistic feel. He instructed Miklós to run up and down a few metres behind Harry. Hirsch took several shots while Miklós ran.
Dear Lili,
What a sorceress you are! You enchanted me on the telephone. Now I’m even more keen to see whether you are as I imagine you from your letters. There’ll be trouble if you aren’t, but even more trouble if you are. I’ve found a photo of myself and Harry, who’s standing in the front. Granted I look like I’ve been crushed by some sort of Cyclops and I’m in a hurry to get to the smallest room in the house—but I’m sending it anyway.
An artificial palm with lush tropical foliage stood in front of an alcove window on the third-floor corridor of the Eksjö hospital. The three girls sat there, hidden from sight.
Lili was examining the photograph with a magnifying glass. She handed it to Sára and Judit. There was nothing wrong with their eyesight. But was that indistinct shape running away behind Harry’s back, that almost unidentifiable figure, Miklós?
A shadow loomed over them. ‘Ah ha, so that’s why you needed my magnifier.’
The three girls jumped as one. Dr Svensson pointed to the photo. ‘Men? Hungarians?’
Lili held out the photo in embarrassment. ‘It’s my cousin.’
Svensson took a good look. ‘Handsome. An open face.’
Lili hesitated, but then she pointed at the hazy figure in the background. ‘That’s him, the one who seems to be running away.’
Dr Svensson lifted the photograph close to his eyes, trying to identify the young man loping out of the frame, but it was hopeless. ‘I thought he was in the picture by mistake. How mysterious.’
Miklós’s idea was a success. The mysterious figure had kept the promise of the future alive. The girls were laughing as Svensson handed back the photo in disappointment, and they returned his magnifying glass to him.
Now I’m going to be very cheeky, partly to you and partly to your friend Sára, to whom I send friendly greetings. You see, the thing is my friend Harry and I have acquired some rather ghastly muddy grey wool that nimble-fingered girls could conjure into passable sweaters. I’d like to ask you to do this for me—as soon as possible, of course.
At dawn the next day Lili sat up in
bed and took a handkerchief from under her pillow. She folded it carefully and slipped it into the envelope on the bedside table.
Accept this trifle from me with love. I’m afraid it isn’t quite as fine as I’d have liked, and since I haven’t got an iron I had to press it under my pillow. How did you find the wool? By the way, it’s getting colder and colder here, and since they haven’t given us winter coats I always put on two cardigans if I go out for a walk.
At that moment Judit Gold stuck her head out from beneath her eiderdown and couldn’t help but see Lili’s look of peaceful happiness. She wasn’t a bit pleased.
The mail was distributed every afternoon after the men had rested. It was usually Harry who went to get the letters from the caretaker’s office and he would read out the names. ‘Misi, Adolf, Litzman, Jenö Grieger, Jakobovits, Józsi, Spitz, Miklós…’
My father got lots of letters, perhaps too many, but only one person’s letters excited him. If he saw that Lili had written, he didn’t have the patience to wait until he was back in bed, but greedily tore open the envelope on the way. Now a handkerchief slipped out onto the floor. He picked it up and smelled it over and over again.
The fact that you pressed your handkerchief under your head just enhances its value for me…Tell me, why is it that your letters bring me more and more joy?
Sorry about the pencil, but I wanted to write back straight away and someone has taken the ink.
I send you a long warm handshake.
Miklós
In Eksjö there was a hall on the ground floor of the hospital, with a yellow-sided platform where a red velvet curtain could be let down to make a stage. When Sára had the idea that they should give an evening concert, she and the girls hoped that the women living on the third floor would come and listen to them. In actual fact almost all of the two hundred chairs were taken up by the soldiers. The occasional Swedish nurse, with her braided hair, crisply starched cloak and bonnet, was squeezed in between them like a raisin in a bun.
The girls performed four numbers. Sára sang, while Lili accompanied her on the harmonium. After three Hungarian songs, Sára began to sing the Swedish national anthem. She was halfway through it when the soldiers, unshaven and in pyjamas, kicked back their two hundred chairs, jumped to their feet and joined in, none of them in tune.
These Swedes are starting to get on my nerves. They expect us to sing their praises all the time. I am indescribably homesick!
Six
KLÁRA KÖVES arrived unexpectedly on the midday train. She had just enough money to buy a rail ticket from her camp near Uppsala to Avesta. That didn’t worry her in the slightest—she was convinced that Miklós would take care of everything.
At the station she arranged a lift in the mail van, which meant that she travelled the last few kilometres in style. It was early afternoon when she arrived at the hospital.
Klára was a large girl—her friends called her ‘bear woman’. Her walk was more like a trudge. Her handshake was like a man’s. A good part of her body was covered with a silky down that, in a certain light, looked a lot like fur. She had full, sensuous lips, a hooknose and a mop of unruly, dark brown hair.
She blew into the barracks like a whirlwind. ‘I’m here, dear Miklós!’ she shouted. ‘I’ve come to you!’
The men froze. Miklós couldn’t connect this hefty woman with the amusing, quick-witted girl he’d been exchanging letters with for the past two months. There must be some misunderstanding.
Klára Köves, it turned out, was one of nine women apart from Lili with whom my father had been corresponding after he sent out his initial batch of 117 letters. He couldn’t help himself. He took great joy in the process of writing; it helped him understand things, and he was genuinely curious about the lives of these girls. Of course the letters he wrote to the nine women were nothing like his outpourings to Lili. He and Klára, for instance, merely shared their views on world issues. Klára had distributed socialist pamphlets during the war—that’s how she got caught.
She made a beeline for my father, threw her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.’
The other men hadn’t moved an inch. What an entrance! A real flesh-and-blood woman, all ninety kilos of her, had materialised before them, despite all the regulations, restrictions and prohibitions. Their dreams had become three-dimensional.
Miklós shuddered, trapped in Klára’s embrace. ‘Wanting to do what?’
‘To tie our lives together! What else?’
At last Klára let go of him. She took some letters out of her handbag and threw them in the air. She turned to the other men, who by this time were scrambling off their beds and gathering around her. ‘Do you know who you’ve got in your midst? A new Karl Marx! A new Friedrich Engels!’
The letters fell like confetti. The men were enchanted.
Miklós wanted to die on the spot.
Klára took his arm and led him out of the barracks. My father signalled urgently for Harry to follow. The three of them set off down the path that led to the forest. It was as if Klára had taken possession of Miklós, as if she were hugging a doll. Harry walked behind them, hoping for his turn. It began to drizzle.
‘Look here, Klára,’ said Miklós in what he hoped was a quiet but authoritative voice. ‘You should know that I write to other girls. Lots of them, in fact.’
Klára laughed. ‘Are you trying to make me jealous, sweetie?’
‘Heavens, no. I just want to be clear with you. Letter-writing is our only entertainment. Not only for me, but for the whole barracks. But it may have caused you to misunderstand certain things.’
‘Misunderstanding, my foot! I’ve fallen for you, honey! You’re as clever as they get. I look up to you. You’ll be my teacher and my lover! You’re full of hang-ups, but I’ll be your saviour.’
‘I write tons of letters. I want you to know that.’
‘All geniuses are complex. I had two before the war, so I know. You don’t mind my coming clean, do you? I’m not a virgin. Hell, no! I’m many things, but no virgin. But I will be faithful to you, I can feel it. The thoughts and ideas you come up with! I know them by heart. Would you like to test me?’
She grabbed Miklós by the waist and covered his face with kisses. His glasses misted up. But even through the fog he could see the desperation in her eyes, her fear of rejection.
This unexpected discovery had a soothing effect on Miklós. ‘Could I get a word in, please, Klára,’ he said calmly.
‘I just wanted to say,’ Klára raced on, ‘that I’ll nurse you if you need it. I’ve completely recovered. I’m going to work! I’ll move to be near you. Now, what did you want to tell me?’
Miklós extricated himself from Klára’s grasp and turned to her. ‘All right. Now for the facts. I write many letters, but only because I’ve got beautiful handwriting. People have noticed it. The men in the barracks take advantage of it, so to speak. Your letters, I’m afraid, were composed by Harry, not me. He dictated them to me because my writing is so much better than his. That’s the sad truth. You fell for Harry’s brain through me.’
Klára’s eyes widened. She spun around to Harry. The drizzle was getting heavier. ‘So it turns out you’re my genius. Is that right, sweetheart?’
Harry cottoned on. He hoped his lonely preparation for the manly tasks that lay ahead would prove sufficient. ‘He…just did the writing,’ he improvised, pointing to Miklós. ‘The thoughts…’ Harry gave his forehead a modest tap.
Klára looked from one man to the other. Miklós was short, wore glasses and had metal teeth. Harry was tall, with a neat moustache, and she must have detected the look of genuine desire in his eyes. She decided she was better off believing my father. She took Harry’s arm.
‘I’m going to get to know you, sweetheart. I don’t give a damn about appearances. I don’t care about the shape of a mouth, the colour of a man’s eyes, whether he is handsome or not. It’s the mind I go for, if you see what I mea
n. I get high on progressive, soaring ideas—I can’t get enough of them.’
Harry turned the girl towards him, putting one hand on her ample bottom, and holding her chin in the other. ‘I won’t disappoint you,’ he said boldly, and kissed her on the lips.
Miklós felt it was time to make his exit. At the end of the path he looked back and saw them locked in an embrace as they wandered towards the thick of the forest behind an increasingly heavy curtain of rain.
To atone for this episode with Klára, Miklós inflicted three days’ penitence on himself. During this time he didn’t write a word to Lili. On the fourth day, after getting the key from the caretaker, he ran a full bath of hot water in the only private bathroom on the grounds. It was in a separate building far from the barracks, so Miklós didn’t bother to lock the door. He got into the bath, lit a cigarette and started bellowing out a workers’ marching song. He wasn’t exactly famous for his musical ear.
The door swung open. There was the tiny Márta, the head nurse, trying to wave the thick smoke away. In shock, Miklós tried to cover his penis with his left hand.
Márta was in a rage. ‘What do you think you’re doing here, Miklós? Hiding away to smoke in secret? You ought to be ashamed! How old are you? You’re behaving like a naughty schoolboy!’
My father dropped his cigarette in the water. He tried to wave the smoke away with his right arm but only managed to stir it up. He was shy about being naked and in his embarrassment covered himself with both hands.
Márta, in her huge nurse’s cap, came right over to the bath. ‘For you, Miklós, every cigarette means death,’ she shouted. ‘Each one costs you a day of life. Is it worth it? Answer me, you foolish man! Is it worth it?’
Lili, my dear little friend,
It’s time for a confession. Not the one that I’m afraid to write down—but another one. I have to tell you that my ear for music is atrocious and my singing voice is deplorable. But, like all pacifists, I belt out marching songs at the top of my voice in the bath.
Fever at Dawn Page 5