The second transport of major war criminals had arrived at Keleti railway station.
The pontoon bridge at Boráros Square had been officially opened.
The training of the first unit of policewomen had been successfully completed.
A competition testing the skill of waiters had taken place on Nagy Körút.
In the second round of the boxing team championship Mihály Kovács, boxing for Vasas, had knocked out Rozsnyó from Csepel.
It was Sunday. The Björkmans’ dark grey car swung round in front of the hospital, and Lili, who had been waiting in the caretaker’s office, climbed into the back seat.
After mass the Björkmans took Lili home to Smålandsstenar. They sat at the table for lunch, and Sven Björkman said grace. Mrs Björkman ladled out the soup, and her husband was pleased to see Lili’s silver cross sparkling around her neck. Language difficulties kept the conversation brief.
‘No news from home, Lili?’ Björkman asked her in Swedish.
Lili didn’t look up. She understood every word. She shook her head.
Björkman took pity on her. ‘You know what? Tell us something about your father!’
Lili winced. How could she possibly?
Björkman misunderstood: he thought Lili was struggling with his Swedish. Using his spoon for emphasis he hammered out the words. ‘Your papa! YOUR PA-PA! Papa! Daddy! Father! Get it?’
Lili nodded. ‘I could try to tell you in German, but I don’t speak it well enough.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Björkman said. He wasn’t to be put off. ‘Tell us in Hungarian. We’ll listen. Believe me, we’ll understand. Just tell us about him. In Hungarian. Come on! Fire away!’
The spoon was shaking in Lili’s hand. The whole Björkman family was looking at her, even the two boys. Lili wiped her mouth on her napkin, put her spoon on the table and her hand in her lap. She glanced down at the cross hanging from her neck. ‘My father, my dear father, has blue eyes…blue eyes that shine,’ she said in her soft Hungarian. ‘He’s the kindest person in the world.’
The family listened, transfixed. Sven Björkman sat motionless, his head slightly to one side, enchanted by the music of the unfamiliar language. What did he understand in the melody, in the rhythm?
‘My father isn’t tall, but he isn’t short either. He loves us dearly. He’s a salesman by occupation. A suitcase salesman.’
Every Monday at dawn Lili’s father, Sándor Reich, trudged down Hernád Street in Budapest carrying two huge Vulkan cabin-trunks. In each one, like the layers of an onion, dozens of smaller and smaller cases and bags lay one inside the other.
This picture was so vivid that, even without shutting her eyes, Lili could see the shadow of her father creeping along the walls of the buildings in the spring sunshine.
‘My father travels in the country all week. But at the weekend, on Fridays, he always comes home to us. We rented a flat to be near Keleti train station. On Monday mornings, Father sets out on foot with his wares and he walks down Hernád Street to the station. On Fridays, when he comes home, we are waiting for him.’
These words swept Lili into the past. They were sitting at the specially laid table in Hernád Street: Mother, Father and eight-year-old Lili. At the head of the table sat somebody else: an unshaven man, his scruffy coat buttoned up to hide his grimy, ragged shirt and torn trousers. Father had tried to take his coat from him, but he gave up. The stranger fingered the saltcellar with his dirty nails in embarrassment.
‘On Friday evenings we always had a special supper to which Father invited a poor Jew. This was how he greeted the Sabbath. More often than not he invited a man from around the station.’
It was as if Sven Björkman understood Lili’s words. A tear danced in the corner of his eye, but he remained hunched on his chair. His wife had an ecstatic smile on her face, and even the two boys were listening with wide eyes, between spoonfuls of soup.
‘So every Friday evening we are a family of four.’
Lili didn’t dare look down at the silver cross hanging round her neck.
In the evening, during the long drive back to Eksjö, Mrs Björkman described to Lili the complicated process of Swedish adoption. It didn’t seem to bother her that Lili could not understand the subject of her excited monologue. She was simply relieved that at last she could speak out about what she and Sven had been planning for weeks.
The Björkman family was still waving goodbye to Lili long after she had disappeared behind the double wooden doors of the hospital.
Dear Miklós,
Don’t forget your promise to find a partner for my best friend Sára. She is older than I am. She has just turned twenty-two.
Crazed by nicotine deprivation, my father ran the short distance to the caretaker’s office. He barged in without knocking. Frida and Harry shot apart.
‘I just came for cigarettes,’ Miklós said.
Frida leapt off Harry’s lap and, not even doing up her blouse, went to the cupboard and took out a box. Its compartments were filled with various brands of cigarettes. She grinned, her breasts swinging all over the place. ‘How many do you want?’
Miklós was ashamed, for her sake as well. He wanted four. Frida licked her fingers and picked out the cigarettes. Miklós fished out his coins. They swapped.
Harry embraced Frida from behind, kissing her neck. ‘Give them to him free, darling. He’s my best friend. It’s thanks to him that I’m up to it again.’
Frida gave Miklós a coquettish look, shrugged and gave him back the coins.
I’m really struggling with your request. There are sixteen of us Hungarians here, but there’s not one that I’d choose for Sára. I wanted to take Harry with me to see you, for instance, but I’ve given up on that idea.
In Eksjö, the musical evenings were becoming more frequent. Dr Svensson even allowed Lili and Sára to skip half their afternoon rest. At two o’clock the girls shut themselves in the main hall and practised. The doctor had found some sheet music for them, too.
One of these albums included a selection of works by Leoncavallo. That week they performed his best known aria, ‘Mattinata’. On the wings of this lofty song, Sára’s soprano floated to the heights. She waved her arms about, enraptured. Lili took on this exaggerated romantic manner too, swooping down on the keys like a falcon.
It was a huge pity for them that they didn’t have any suitable clothes to perform in. In fact they didn’t have suitable clothes for any occasion. They took the stage in their hospital gowns, which were just long enough to cover their nightdresses.
Judit Gold sat among a row of soldiers, the only woman. She pulled herself up proudly; it felt good to be Hungarian.
L’aurora, di bianco vestita,
Già l’uscio dischiude al gran sol.
Dawn, dressed in white,
Already opens the door to broad daylight.
There must have been something in the atmosphere, because on the same evening in Avesta, hundreds of kilometres to the north, everyone was in high spirits.
Unaware of this synchronicity, the men began to sing the identical Leoncavallo aria. It was as if a celestial conductor had given a sign to his herald angels and called on his choir to sing the same song. Their rendition of ‘Mattinata’ in the barracks, at the suggestion of Jenö Grieger who spiced their performance with his accomplished guitar accompaniment, might have been slightly out of tune, but they gave the Italian everything they had.
For the soldiers in the Eksjö hospital the song’s rousing power was irresistible. The hall was all smiles. Sára raised her arms high; Lili practically floated above the piano stool.
The men in the barracks were by now standing on beds and tables. Harry wormed himself in beside Grieger and conducted.
Ove non sei la luce manca,
Ove tu sei nasce l’amor!
There is no light where you are not,
Love is born where you are!
Miklós stood in the front row. He was flushed; the future seemed radian
t. After all, ‘Mattinata’ was a hymn to love; he was certain that the others were celebrating him with this song.
I’m sending the wool, with our measurements. You don’t mind, do you?
Miklós had hinted to Lili on the telephone that he wasn’t short of funds, courtesy of a Cuban uncle. The truth was that Uncle Henrik was my grandmother’s elder brother, and his claim to fame was that in 1932 he absconded with the family jewels and emigrated to Cuba. He mustn’t have felt too many pangs of conscience, because as soon as he got to Havana he sent a postcard to the family in Hungary raving about the wonders of his new homeland.
As a little boy my father often studied that black-and-white picture of the crowded Havana harbour on a rainy afternoon. He could only vaguely remember Uncle Henrik’s face. He seemed to think he had a jaunty moustache and sparkling eyes, and that now and then he wore a monocle, but he couldn’t swear to that.
On the Havana postcard, which for years members of the family pointed at as proof of Uncle Henrik’s unforgivable disloyalty, a three-funnelled ocean steamer was visible, as well as a number of Ford cars clustered on the dock. A few skinny stevedores loafing about gazed into the camera, so it was easy to identify them with Uncle Henrik’s future. But my great-uncle had no intention of loading ships. Quite the contrary, as revealed by a more recent photograph, which he sent years later, with the obvious intention of tantalising his envious relations—a crystal-clear picture of Henrik embracing a mulatto woman with wide cheekbones and a dozen children underfoot.
In the photograph, Henrik and the woman are standing on a wooden veranda and Henrik has a cigar between his lips. On the back two lines were scribbled in his sloping hand: ‘I’m fine. I’ve invested in a sugarcane plantation.’
When Miklós was struck by his passion for letter-writing, he immediately thought of his uncle as a potential source of cash. There was nothing to lose. He wrote to Henrik that he had managed to survive the war and was now being nursed in Sweden. He had an imaginary picture in his mind’s eye. As a teenager he had often dreamed about Cuba after leafing through an album from the 1920s that he had found in his father’s bookshop. In the picture he now imagined, his uncle was rocking in a hammock on the famous veranda. He had put on weight—he must have been at least 120 kilos. In my father’s vision the veranda is set on a hillside overlooking the sea.
Whether or not Uncle Henrik lived like that or in even greater style history doesn’t say. He didn’t write a single word in reply to Miklós’s letter, but three weeks later a cheque arrived to the tune of eighty-five dollars.
This became my father’s capital. On the day it arrived, he gave some of it to an old man smelling of vinegar, who palmed off four skeins of mud-coloured wool in return.
Now the owner of the world’s ugliest wool, Miklós wrote a touching ad and placed it in Világosság to help Lili find her mother in Hungary. Another portion of Uncle Henrik’s now less-than-princely sum he spent on three little chocolate cupcakes from an Avesta café and had them wrapped in a smart parcel bound with gold twine. His most serious investment was three and a half metres of material for a winter coat, which, trembling with indecision, he took a great deal of time to choose. Now he was ready for his journey.
Nine
MY FATHER travelled for a whole day. He had to change trains several times. He sat in different compartments: sometimes by the window; sometimes, for lack of space, jammed up against the door. At times he removed his bulky overcoat, folding it up and laying it across his knees. At other times his glasses misted up from the heat so he fished Lili’s handkerchief out of his trouser pocket to wipe them. He took the greatest care of his parcel of cakes. He found a safe place for it in every compartment—in no way was it to be damaged.
Occasionally he fell asleep; when he was awake he looked out of the window. The stations flashed by: Hovsta, Örebro, Hallsberg, Motala, Mjölby.
Sometime after Mjölby he slipped as he entered his compartment and fell on his face. The left lens of his glasses was smashed to smithereens.
I travelled to Stockholm so that I could buy my train ticket in person at the office for foreigners. You know what? I send you my kisses.
Miklós
There are two alcoves in the corridor. One of them is particularly secluded. We can sit all day under a huge artificial palm tree without anyone disturbing us. All right, then—I send you a kiss.
Lili
I want to tell you something the evening I arrive, just before we say goodnight for the first time. As for me, I send special kisses, heaps of them—not in that ‘all right, then’ mode.
Miklós
In Sára’s repertoire there is another song that I’m sure you know—‘The March of the Volunteers’. I’m so looking forward to seeing you! Till we meet, I send you many kisses.
Lili
I’m glad about the alcove in the corridor because I don’t like talking in full view. I’m stroking your hair in my thoughts (will you let me?) and sending lots of kisses.
Miklós
This morning when I woke up my left eye was itching. I told Sára it was a good sign. See you soon. Kisses.
Lili
I’m arriving on the first of December at 6.17 p.m. I send my love many times over.
Miklós
On 1 December 1945 it was snowing hard in Eksjö. The platform and tracks at the tiny station were not covered, but the entrance was protected by a veranda.
Miklós was the only person to alight from the three-carriage train. He didn’t quite resemble Don Juan as he hobbled across the platform. He leaned a little to the right because his shoulder was dragged down by the weight of his suitcase, a dilapidated number lent to him by Márta. It was tied up with string. In his left hand he carried the cupcakes.
Lili and Sára were waiting outside the station. Lili clung nervously to her friend’s hand. Behind the girls stood a nurse in a full-length black cloak and trademark peaked cap. She had been instructed by Svensson to keep an eye on his patients.
Miklós spotted the reception committee in the distance and smiled. His metal teeth glimmered in the weak light of the platform lamps.
The girls glanced at each other in alarm, then looked guiltily back towards the platform where Miklós was advancing through the thick veil of snow. He had to rest for a moment while he coughed. The left lens frame of his glasses was stuffed with scrunched-up newspaper—that day’s Aftonbladet—an operation he had performed in desperation half an hour earlier, leaving a crack free so that he could at least see a little. He drew nearer on the snow-covered platform; his borrowed winter coat, two sizes too big for him, floated around his ankles. He seemed to have tears in his visible eye, either from the cold or from excitement. Even from this distance and despite the thick lens, the girls could make that out. And he was smiling broadly, his iron teeth in full view.
Lili was scared stiff. In a matter of seconds he would be in earshot. ‘He’s yours! Let’s swap!’ she whispered to Sára out of the side of her mouth, with her teeth clenched, like someone who’s had a stroke.
By now Miklós was a few steps away.
‘You be Lili! I beg you!’ she pleaded.
The nurse at the back of the little group was touched to see the skinny man in his funny coat reach her patients and set his battered case down in the snow.
My father had rehearsed thoroughly for this, the most important meeting of his life. He had put together a short but striking speech—three sentences in all—that he felt would have a magical effect. In the course of his seemingly endless journey, in the stuffy compartments, he had whispered it to himself a thousand times. But now he was struck dumb with happiness. He even seemed to have forgotten his name, but that was only because he was unable to suck air into his lungs. So all he did was extend his hand.
Sára took a quick look. At least his hand was all right. Long fingers, smooth palm. She grasped it. ‘I’m Lili Reich,’ she said.
Miklós gave her a firm handshake. He turned to Lili. She shook his
hand vigorously.
‘I’m Sára Stern, Lili’s friend,’ she said in a bright voice.
Miklós grinned with his metal teeth. He couldn’t say a word.
They stood there. Eventually, Miklós handed the parcel of cakes bound with gold twine to Lili.
The nurse stepped forward and snatched the packet out of her hands. ‘We must go!’ she ordered, giving Miklós a compassionate look.
So they set out. Huge flakes of snow were falling. After a slight hesitation Sára took Miklós’s arm. Lili walked beside them, her eyes on the ground. For a moment it occurred to her to take my father’s other arm, but she felt it was too intimate. The nurse followed, carrying the elegant parcel of cupcakes.
To get to the hospital they had to cross an enormous park. As they trudged through the virgin snow, Miklós had one arm in Sára’s. In his other hand he carried the suitcase tied up with string. Lili and the nurse were a few paces behind.
In the middle of the park, precisely eight minutes after his terrifying dumbness, as if a gift from God, Miklós got his voice back. He cleared his throat, then stopped. He put down the suitcase, withdrew his arm from Sára’s and turned to Lili.
It had stopped snowing. The four of them resembled figures out of a Hans Christian Andersen fairytale: dark crumbs on an oval white china plate.
Miklós abandoned the speech he had practised. ‘I always imagined you like this,’ he said in his pleasant baritone, ‘in my dreams. Hello, Lili.’
Lili stood there awkwardly. She nodded. The weight lifted from her; everything seemed natural. She took a step forward and so did Miklós. They hugged each other.
Sára and the nurse instinctively drew back.
Half an hour later Miklós and Lili were in the alcove behind the palm. Two worn upholstered armchairs stood opposite each other. My father draped his overcoat over the back of one of them and put his suitcase down.
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