They were disqualified at the first hurdle. The ticket collector looked at them in surprise and asked them twice for their tickets.
Miklós smiled kindly at him. ‘We don’t have any. We don’t have enough money. We’re Hungarian patients from the Avesta rehabilitation centre.’
The ticket collector wasn’t the slightest bit impressed. He put them off the train at the next station and reported them to the stationmaster.
They had travelled exactly seventeen kilometres. Someone arranged for a bus to transport the two fugitives back to Avesta. On this bus there would be no need for tickets.
In the meantime, a committee was convened to discuss the punishment for my father’s wayward behaviour.
My darling, one and only Lili,
Half an hour ago we were transported back here into the midst of a whopping hoo-ha. I can’t describe the fuss they made.
Dr Lindholm X-rayed Miklós once again. The next day he sent for him to give him his assessment. Miklós sat down and, shutting his eyes, leaned back, balancing on the back two legs of his chair. Now all he had to do was concentrate, keep his balance, and he would find his centre of gravity. If he could keep the front two legs in the air for five seconds then he would be cured. Totally.
Dr Lindholm wanted to talk about his escape attempt. He was gentle today, understanding. ‘You bungle that, Miklós. The director and governor of the centre are furious.’
Miklós got himself higher and further back on the chair. ‘What can they do?’
‘Transfer you.’
‘Where?’
‘To Högbo, probably. Is a village in the north. My medical opinion counts for nothing.’
‘Why? Because I tried to go and see my cousin?’
‘For breaking rules. Absence without leave. Don’t forget, Miklós, you went missing twice recently. But please know I have nothing against you. Frankly, I understand you. You are thinking what difference it makes anyway?’
Miklós was nearing the tipping point. Was he going to topple over or not? That was the real question. ‘What did you see on my lungs yesterday?’ he asked.
‘I wish I could give you good news but I can’t. This X-ray confirms that—’
Crash. In anger Miklós let the front legs of the chair hit the floor. He looked up at the doctor. ‘I’m going to get better!’
Lindholm winced at the thud. He avoided my father’s gaze.
Lindholm got up and held out his hand. ‘You are an odd chap, Miklós. Naïve and compulsive at the same time. Stubborn and a likeable fool. I am fond of you. Is pity we have to part.’
My father wasn’t the least put out by his expulsion from Avesta, but was rattled to discover, when he looked up Högbo on the map, that it was forty-five kilometres further away from Berga. He walked over to the nurses’ room. ‘Could I borrow your suitcase again, please?’
Márta went up to my father without a word, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
‘Don’t forget to take your pills every morning,’ she warned him. ‘And give up smoking. Promise me. Let’s shake on it.’
They shook hands.
In the afternoon, Miklós started packing. He decided to throw out everything that wasn’t necessary, so he could cram his entire life into the battered suitcase. His clothes wouldn’t take up much room, but he had a lot of books, notes and newspapers. And then there were all the letters, still in their envelopes, in the huge cardboard box.
Being kicked out of the barracks had created a symbolic opportunity. Now, at last, Miklós could jettison everything he had wanted to get rid of for ages. He took from the cardboard box a thick sheaf of letters tied up with silk ribbon. These were from Lili. He gathered up every other letter from the last five months—from Klára Köves, from a naïve sixteen-year-old girl from the north-east of Hungary, the floods of complaints from two divorced Transylvanian women—and set out with them to the shower room. The fact is, even after he came back from Eksjö in early December, after his three days with Lili, he was still writing to eight girls. He told them all that he was madly in love and soon to be married. Two wrote back to congratulate him.
Miklós took this distinguished bundle of letters out to the shower room and set fire to them. He watched all those words burn, and noted with satisfaction that he was also destroying the smooth-talking charmer who had written so many letters.
That was when he heard the sound of a violin. He waited until everything had turned to ashes and then walked back to the barracks. Harry was standing on a table in the centre of the dormitory playing the ‘Internationale’. The men appeared from everywhere, from under beds, from behind cupboards, from behind the door. Ten of them lined up as if they were on a stage.
Arise, you prisoners of starvation!
Arise, you wretched of the earth!
For justice thunders condemnation:
A better world’s in birth!
All my father’s friends were singing: Laci, Jóska, Adi, Farkas, Jakobovits and Litzman. Harry’s face was the picture of innocence as he played his violin.
I’m being transferred to Högbo because I’m an undisciplined, subversive, disobedient trouble-maker. Ten of my friends announced right away that they wouldn’t stay here for a moment without me. So Laci, Harry, Jakobovits and others are coming too.
The men marched out, taking Miklós with them. They paraded through the main building singing. Harry was in the lead with his violin, and the team followed him.
It is the final conflict
Let each stand in his place
The International Union
Shall be the human race.
Dozens of doctors, nurses and office workers poured out into the corridor. Only now were the men aware of the considerable army of people who were looking after them. There were a number of faces that Miklós didn’t know. Most of them had never before heard this rousing, powerful song, especially not in Hungarian. But as the ten spirited young men marched and sang, arm in arm, it was victory itself.
My dear Miklós,
I’m devastated that our wanting to see each other again could be the cause of so much fuss.
Darling Lili,
Every minute we’ve spent together was a life for me. I love you so very much! You know, if I think that we’ve still got months and months to wait before we can be together forever, it puts me in the worst mood.
My one and only Miklós,
I’ll try to get permission here in Berga to come and visit you.
The director of the Berga rehabilitation centre offered Lili a seat in her austerely furnished office. She was a thin, severe woman in glasses. Lili wondered if she’d ever smiled in her life. A cardboard box sat on her desk.
‘Good to see you, Lili. I’ve just been speaking to Mr Björkman,’ she said, indicating the telephone. ‘He asked me to call him as soon as the parcel arrived.’ She pushed the box across to Lili. ‘It’s yours. Go ahead and open it.’
Lili undid the string and tore the box open. She laid the contents out on the table. Two bars of chocolate, a few apples and pears, a pair of nylon stockings and a Bible.
The woman leaned back in her chair with satisfaction. ‘Mr Björkman asked me to find a family for you here in Berga.’
Lili leafed through the Bible and saw to her disappointment that it was in Swedish—she wouldn’t be able to read a word.
‘I see you’re wearing the present the Björkmans gave you.’
Lili put her hand on the silver cross. ‘Yes.’
‘Mr Björkman asked me to give you their love and tell you they remember you in their prayers. They are happy that you’ve been able to contact your mother. How would you feel if I were to let you spend the weekend with an excellent Catholic family?’
The right moment had come. Lili had planned not to beat around the bush or complicate things—she’d sweep the woman off her feet in a cavalry charge. ‘I’m in love!’ she declared.
The director was astonished. ‘What has that got to do with it?’
/> ‘I need help, please! I’ve fallen in love with a man who is about to be transferred from Avesta to Högbo. I’d like to visit him. I must!’ At last it was out. She put on her most imploring expression.
The woman removed her glasses and, squinting fiercely, wiped them with a handkerchief. She must have been very shortsighted. ‘One of the two men who went missing from Avesta last week?’
That sounded rather hostile.
‘Yes, but they had reason—’ Lili began.
‘I disapprove of such behaviour,’ the director said. She put her glasses back on and looked at Lili.
‘I love him. And he loves me,’ said Lili doggedly. ‘We want to get married.’
The woman was taken aback. This new information required thought. ‘How did you get acquainted?’
‘Through letters! We’ve been writing to each other since September.’
‘Have you ever met?’
‘He came to visit me a few weeks ago in Eksjö. We spent three days together. I’m going to be his wife.’
The woman drew the Bible towards her and started to leaf through it. She was playing for time. When she looked up, there was so much sorrow in her expression that Lili almost felt pity for her.
‘This must be a joke. After four months of letter-writing you want to tie your life to a stranger? I would expect more sense from you.’
Lili realised with dismay that she wouldn’t be able to convince this woman. She made one last attempt. ‘Are you married?’
‘That’s totally irrelevant.’ The director shut the Bible, took off her glasses and looked down at her spindly fingers. ‘I had a fiancé once. He was a great disappointment. An enlightening experience, but a great disappointment.’
Fifteen
RABBI EMIL Kronheim’s home in Stockholm could hardly have been described as comfortable. But its dark, heavy furniture had served the rabbi’s great-grandfather, grandfather and his father, too. The fraying and faded brocade curtains that hung from the massive windows might have been more than a hundred years old. The rabbi felt safe here. It never occurred to him to get the place painted or to move elsewhere.
There always seemed to be unwashed dishes piled up in the kitchen. Mrs Kronheim was no longer bothered by the smell of herring that hit visitors like an attack of mustard gas. But the rabbi always took a new, clean plate for his herring, and that was the source of frequent quarrels.
Mrs Kronheim was sitting in the kitchen staring at the dozens of oily plates scattered around the place.
‘Listen to this,’ the rabbi shouted to her from the dining-room table. ‘“Lili even wants to renounce her Jewishness. She and the man who has ensnared her with his letters are planning to convert. The man has a serious case of TB. On top of that he claims to know a bishop in Stockholm—which I’m sure is a lie. I beg you, Reb, please do something!’
The rabbi was reading out bits of the letter, while picking up and devouring pieces of herring without so much as a glance at his plate.
‘Who wrote that?’ Mrs Kronheim called from the kitchen.
The rabbi noticed, to his surprise, that stains from the salty liquid in which the herring was pickled were forming strange shapes on the tablecloth.
‘A moon-faced girl with a moustache, by the name of’—he looked at the envelope on which oily traces of herring were already visible—‘by the name of Judit Gold.’
Mrs Kronheim knew that sooner or later she would have to wash up and the thought gave her no pleasure. ‘Do you know her?’
‘Yes. I visited her in Eksjö months ago. We talked about flies.’
‘One of your cautionary tales, no doubt.’
The rabbi demolished another herring. He smacked his lips. ‘She is well meaning and emotional. Not afraid to cry.’
‘Who is?’ sighed Mrs Kronheim.
‘This girl, Judit Gold. But deep inside, at the bottom of her heart, do you know what she’s like?’
His wife got to her feet and began to gather up the plates, putting them disconsolately into a bowl.
‘No, you tell me. You’re such a clever man.’
‘She’s sad and disturbed,’ he said, holding up the letter. ‘That’s what’s she’s like inside. This is her third letter. She keeps telling tales on her friend—and maybe not just to me.’
Miklós and his loyal friends were moved to a two-storey boarding house in Högbo, a couple of hundred kilometres north of Stockholm. They were greeted by Erik, a hefty man in a suit, who introduced himself as the superintendent and read out the house rules. Apart from being strict about meal times, he didn’t really require anything of them. Once a week they would have to go to Sandviken for a check-up. My father had the distinct feeling that the whole thing was a waste of time.
He was even more dejected when they went upstairs to their rooms. Twenty men were housed in three dormitories, which meant that seven beds were crammed into rooms more suitable for a family weekend than a long-term stay. The cupboards had been moved out into the hallway. Erik watched from the doorway as they glumly selected their beds and sat with their suitcases on their laps. None of them was in a hurry to unpack. Erik warned them that smoking in the rooms was forbidden and then disappeared.
Seven of us live in a cubbyhole: Laci, Harry, Jóska, Litzman, Jakobovits, Farkas and me. So far we don’t have a cupboard or a table. Luckily there’s central heating. As for the beds! Straw mattresses and the kind of pillow I had in prison.
Miklós picked the bed under the window for himself. He tried not to let the pervasive gloom get a grip. He whistled as he unpacked the photo of Lili and himself from Eksjö. He put it on the sill, propping it up against the windowpane. When he woke up the next morning the first thing he’d see would be Lili’s smile.
That afternoon Harry and Miklós took a bus into town to visit the jeweller. Harry had brought his violin with him in its case. Erik had warned them that the jeweller was a quibbling old man. Above the door of the shop hung a bronze bell that rang whenever someone entered.
The jeweller, contrary to expectations, was a kindly grey-haired gentleman who wore a purple bowtie.
My father had prepared his strategy. ‘I would like to buy two gold wedding rings.’
The jeweller smiled. ‘Do you know the sizes?’
Miklós fished a metal ring out of his pocket. He had taken it from a curtain rail in Eksjö. It fitted Lili’s finger perfectly.
‘This is my fiancée’s size. The other one’s for me.’
The old man took the ring, estimated its size, and pulled out a drawer in the cupboard behind him. He rummaged around a little.
‘Here you are!’ he said, holding up a gold ring. He took a gauge from under the counter, compared the two rings to his satisfaction, and slipped the gold ring into his pocket.
‘Can I have your finger?’ he asked.
He grasped my father’s ring finger, pondered a moment, opened a different drawer and chose another ring. ‘Try this one on,’ he said holding it out to him.
Miklós slipped it on. It was an exact fit.
I don’t like gold; it always makes me think of all the alien, vulgar and wicked emotions associated with it. But I like these two rings; after all they connect your blood with mine.
Miklós and Harry exchanged glances. They’d arrived at the critical moment.
‘How much do I owe you?’ My father asked.
The old man deliberated. As if he too were brooding over the wicked emotions associated with such a trifle. ‘Two hundred and forty kronor, the pair,’ he announced.
Miklós didn’t flinch. ‘I’m living in a boarding house in Högbo—it’s a rehabilitation centre.’
The old man straightened his bowtie. ‘I’ve heard something about it.’
‘I’d like to take you into my confidence. You see, I’ve been given an important job there.’
‘Oh, a job. Excellent!’ The jeweller gave him a friendly smile.
‘Yes, and I’ll get paid for it. Monthly. I reckon I can save 240 kronor in
four months.’
Miklós wasn’t making this up. That morning, after the small Hungarian colony, their suitcases on their laps, assessed their wretched situation, the men appointed my father their representative. He promised to stand up for them. And all of them, including the Poles and the Greeks, agreed to set aside a small part of their pocket money each month to pay Miklós for his efforts.
The old man seemed impressed. But he didn’t want to be cheated. ‘First of all, I congratulate you, young man. This could be the start of a fine career. But, for my part, I made a solemn vow to my mother. I was young at the time and perhaps it was a little rash of me. You know, our family has been in this business for two hundred years. I promised my mother that I would never on any account give credit to anyone. It might seem hard-hearted, but you must agree that a vow made to a mother is binding.’
Miklós, who had planned a two-pronged attack from the outset, nodded earnestly. ‘I’m a Hungarian. I’d like you to look me in the eye. You don’t think I’m a swindler, do you?’
The jeweller took a step back. ‘Certainly not. I can smell swindlers a mile off. I can safely say that you are not the swindling type.’
The moment had come. Miklós gave Harry a kick. Harry sighed, laid his violin case on the counter and opened it. He picked up the violin tenderly and held it out to the old man.
‘Well, I was pretty sure you wouldn’t give credit to a stranger,’ Miklós said, speaking with slow eloquence for heightened effect. ‘What I had in mind was to leave this violin here as a pledge until I had saved enough money. It is worth at least four hundred kronor. I hope you’ll accept it as security.’
The old man took out a magnifying glass and inspected the violin. It had been given to Harry by the Swedish Philharmonic Orchestra last summer, after a newspaper reported that a young violinist, a concentration camp survivor, was convalescing on the island of Gotland. It was worth a lot more than four hundred kronor. Even the old man’s mother would have approved of this.
Fever at Dawn Page 13