Miklós was at the point where a fraction of a millimetre mattered. If he miscalculated, he would crash down like a bowling pin.
Irene Hammarström didn’t waste time. She walked over to the table and picked out an older X-ray from the file. She went back to the window and compared the two. ‘Look, this is June. The patch is the size of a thumbnail,’ she said to Miklós, who had eased himself back a smidgeon.
My father’s act had reached its climax. The chair was balancing and his feet were dangling in the air.
‘This is today. It’s hardly visible. Miraculous! What did Dr Lindholm tell you?’
Miklós had reached his zenith. After all his practice he could balance on the chair between heaven and earth like a motionless falcon about to swoop.
‘He said I had six months to live.’
‘Somewhat brutal, but the truth. I wouldn’t have been able to say anything different.’
My father’s one-man show was still running. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Now I’m not quite sure, looking at this latest X-ray.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Now, I’d probably encourage you. Tell you to keep up the good work. What about your high temperature? Your dawn fever?’
The show was over, but those five seconds would live on, in the land of miracles. Miklós crashed backwards onto the floor.
‘Good Lord!’ Irene dropped the X-rays and rushed over to him.
My father had hit the back of his head pretty hard, but he was smiling. ‘It’s nothing, nothing. I made a bet with myself, that’s all.’
Seeing Miklós’s ghastly metal dentures, the doctor decided to refer her grinning patient to the district centre in the hope that they could sort out this amicable young Hungarian’s teeth for a reduced price, or even for no fee.
It was a memorable day. When Miklós returned to the boarding house he found the men waiting for him upstairs, standing to attention. He couldn’t imagine how they knew he was on the road to recovery. But as their faces were shining with pride and joy, he reckoned it must be the reason for this performance. He sat down on his bed and waited.
Then the men began to hum Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’.
When the mystery of the ceremony became unbearable, when the humming chorus of the Ninth Symphony had reached its hymnal climax, when my father leaned back on his bed and with eyes shut started to soar, Harry brought out the newspaper. Without a word he held it up in front of Miklós.
There was the poem, in black and white. On page three of Via Svecia. In Swedish. In italics. ‘Till en liten svensk gosse’ (‘To a Little Swedish Boy’). Above it was the name of the poet: my father.
Miklós composed all his poems in his head. Days and weeks later, when he felt the poem was ready, all he had to do was write it out.
He had finished this poem, however, in about ten minutes. He was sitting in a deck chair on the ship, munching biscuits, savouring the taste of raspberry and vanilla. The ship’s horn bellowed, and they drew away from the shore. The women on their bicycles were watching; not one of them stirred. There, an arm’s length away, was the country that would take him in, for who knew how long. Miklós felt this sweet gift should be reciprocated. He would write a poem for Swedish children. Advice about life, a warning that would draw its power from his infernal experiences.
He turned the crumbly biscuit in his mouth and set out the first two lines in his head. ‘You have yet to learn, little brother, of the deep furrows ploughed across the forehead of a continent.’ And now he could see the blond six-year-old child to whom his poem was addressed, who stood staring at him, hugging his teddy. The little Swedish boy.
The lines poured out; it was almost more difficult to remember them than to create them. By the time the ship had turned round and reached the open sea, the poem was finished.
You have yet to learn, little brother,
of the deep furrows ploughed across the forehead of a continent.
Here, in the north, you saw an aeroplane
dipped in starlight on a moonlit night.
You didn’t know what air-raid warnings or bombs were,
or what it is to survive what’s on the film—
the troubles of the world weren’t washed
by evil waves onto the children, making them suffer.
Here you had points for clothes, meat rations and bread tickets;
you could play sometimes, though, little brother!
But your skinny playmates were burnt in the flames,
and death grinned at its meagre bread.
By the time you grow up and become a man,
a kind, smiling blond giant,
all these falling tears will be clouds,
this age will be history, a hazy vision.
If you muse on this bloody age,
remember a pale little boy—
his plaything was a scrap of grenade,
his minders murderous weapons.
If you have a son, little brother, teach him
that the truth is never a gun or revolver;
and it’s not the long range of the rocket
that relieves the suffering of the world.
And in the toyshop, little brother, don’t buy
soldiers for your son; on the white toy shelf
let there be wooden blocks, so that in his childhood
he’ll learn to build and not to kill.
Harry gave Miklós a pat on the shoulder. ‘I took your career in hand. I sent your poem to a Swedish newspaper, anticipating your approval. I asked them to translate it, telling them not to commission any old translator with the task because this was the work of a great Hungarian poet. You. That was three months ago. And this morning it appeared in print. I had the translation checked. It’s good.’
The others were still standing up straight, humming ‘Ode to Joy’. Miklós got to his feet and gave Harry a hug, concentrating on holding back his tears. Crying wouldn’t befit a great Hungarian poet.
This really was a fateful day—as Miklós was to discover.
It wasn’t yet midnight. Someone was hammering on the door, calling my father’s name—there was a man on the phone for him. Miklós woke up. For a moment he had no idea where he was. He found his way downstairs to reception in his pyjamas, his heart thumping.
‘Did I wake you?’ The voice on the line was unfamiliar.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I apologise. I’m Rabbi Kronheim from Stockholm. I want to speak to you on a matter of importance.’
Miklós’s feet were cold; he pressed one sole against his calf. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Not over the phone! What are you thinking?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Listen, Miklós, I’m catching the train from Stockholm to Sandviken in the morning. I’ve got two hours before I have to catch the train back. Let’s meet halfway.’
‘I can meet you in Sandviken if you like.’
‘No, no, I insist on halfway. Will Östanbyn be all right?’
Östanbyn was the first stop after Högbo on the bus to Sandviken. Miklós had passed through it many times.
‘Where in Östanbyn?’
‘Get off the bus and walk towards Sandviken. Take the first right and keep going until you come to a wooden bridge. I’ll be waiting for you there. Got it?’
‘Okay.’ Miklós was in a daze. ‘Could you tell me your name again, please?’
‘Emil Kronheim. So, 10 a.m. at the wooden bridge. Don’t be late.’
The rabbi hung up. It was all so fast that Miklós realised, with the receiver buzzing in his hand, that he had forgotten to ask what the rabbi wanted to discuss.
Miklós followed the rabbi’s directions and got off the bus in Östanbyn. He took the first right. He must have been walking briskly for about twenty minutes before he saw the wooden bridge. At the far end a man in a black ankle-length coat was resting on a big stone. Miklós was amazed that anyone could sit still in this frozen world. In fact, he looked as if he were en
joying a summer picnic beside a lake.
‘What’s the news?’ the rabbi yelled across the bridge in a cheerful tone.
Miklós stopped. Not only was the news good, it was positively splendid. But who knew what that grotesque figure over there was talking about?
‘Rabbi Kronheim?’
‘Who else? Who is this Catholic bishop? The one you promised to Lili? If it is the bishop of Stockholm, I know him well. He’s a charming man.’
Lili’s letter about a rabbi who lectured her on morality flashed into Miklós’s mind. Of course, this was Emil Kronheim! Miklós understood everything! The rabbi had come to chastise him. To hell with it! To think he had made a pilgrimage to Östanbyn for that.
‘We don’t need the bishop any more.’
‘I’ll wager you’ve found someone else.’
The wooden bridge was at least thirty metres long. In the valley below, ancient pine trees were standing guard, silence frozen in the light on their snow-covered branches. There wasn’t a breath of wind, no birdsong. The sublime beauty of the countryside was disturbed only by their shouting.
‘Well guessed, Rabbi. An excellent old man in Gävle. He will baptise us.’
On the other side of the bridge, Kronheim ran his fingers through his wiry hair. ‘Lili isn’t so keen now on that silly idea.’
Miklós decided it was time to look the man in the eye. He walked across the bridge and held out his hand. ‘She wrote just the opposite to me.’
‘What did she write?’
‘That a rabbi from Stockholm had preached her a sermon. Somehow or other he had sniffed out our intentions. Something like that.’
‘Your lovely fiancée would never have used such a cynical expression. Sniffed out, indeed! I’m not a bloodhound.’
‘Seriously, Rabbi, how did you find out? We haven’t spoken to a soul about it.’
Kronheim took my father’s arm and walked with him to the middle of the bridge. He leaned against the railing and gazed at the scene below.
‘Have you ever seen anything as magnificent? It’s looked like this for a hundred years. Even a thousand.’
The valley was eerily impressive. Dense pines as far as the eye could see, sprinkled all over with icing sugar.
Miklós decided it was time to leap the last hurdle. ‘Look here, before the war I’d have considered this a way to escape. But now it’s a clear and independent decision.’
Kronheim didn’t look at my father. He had surrendered to the wonder of nature. ‘This landscape is utterly unspoilt.’
‘I’m thinking of the fate of our unborn children,’ said my father, determined to continue. ‘In any case, I’ve never been a believer. I’m an atheist, and you can despise me for that. But I’d like you to know that our conversion has nothing to do with cowardice.’
The rabbi appeared not to have heard a word. ‘It’s been here from time immemorial. This bridge, for instance, was designed for people to admire the view. But they made sure to build it out of wood. Can you see any alien material here? Iron, glass or brass? You can’t, can you, son?’
‘Is this what you wanted to talk to me about, Reb, the wooden bridge at Östanbyn?’
‘Among other things.’
Miklós was fed up with all this riddling talk. Just when he was getting the better of his misgivings, this little wiry-haired man turns up and preaches to him about the pristine countryside. He understood him, of course he understood him. Several thousand years—you bet! But if Lili wanted to convert, he would sweep away every worry or hesitation that lay in her path.
He bowed. ‘I’m glad to have met you, Rabbi Kronheim. Our decision is final. No one can dissuade us. Goodbye.’
And he strode off in the direction he had come from. At the end of the bridge he turned round. It was as if Emil Kronheim had been waiting for him to do that. The rabbi pulled a letter out of his coat pocket and waved it.
‘I hate myself for this,’ he shouted. ‘But as the scripture says…or maybe it doesn’t. Anyway, the main thing is I want to strike a dirty deal with you, son.’
Miklós stared at him, baffled.
‘Come and see what I’ve got.’ The rabbi was still holding the letter in the air.
Miklós reluctantly retraced his steps.
‘I’ve written this request; it’s so heartfelt that no eye will remain dry. You sign it and I’ll take it to Stockholm today. They’ll agree, have no worries about that. On one condition: I’d like to be the one who joins you in marriage at the synagogue in Stockholm. Naturally under a chuppah. I’ll foot the bill for clothes, the ceremony and a reception for your friends. After that the Red Cross will be obliged to offer you, as newlyweds, a room of your own, say, in Berga.’
My father took the letter. It was written in Swedish. As far as he could make out it was addressed to the Stockholm headquarters of the Red Cross.
‘They don’t deal with cases like this.’
‘Yes, they do. They’ll be proud to. They’ll pull out all the stops. Make good use of it. Get the story into the newspapers. After all, two young people under their patronage, struggling to live again after all but dying, have forged a commitment to a new life together. By the way, what does your doctor say?’
‘About what?’
‘Your TB.’
‘So you know about that, too?’
‘It’s my duty to find out. That’s what I’m paid for.’
‘I’m getting better. The cavity is calcifying.’
‘Thank God!’ Kronheim gave my father a hug. ‘Do we have a deal?’ he whispered.
Miklós softened. He was already composing the letter to Lili in which he would explain that a grown-up person—especially if he’s a socialist—doesn’t quibble over trifling religious questions.
Seventeen
EVERYTHING HAPPENED quickly. The rabbi, as promised, procured the relevant permits. Within two months Lili and my father found themselves in the synagogue in Stockholm under the chuppah. Kronheim paid for the rental of a white taffeta dress for Lili and a dinner jacket for my father, and organised a reception after the wedding. The King of Sweden, Gustav V, sent a congratulatory telegram to the young couple who, having barely survived the concentration camp, were now about to swear their undying love.
In February 1946, before the wedding, my father suffered for weeks in a dentist’s chair. Kronheim had insisted he swap his alloy teeth for porcelain.
‘It can’t be much fun kissing you, son,’ he said one day. ‘I’ve been talking to my congregation and they unanimously decided to raise the funds for the dental work. They collected six hundred kronor in three days. I’ve been in touch with a first-class man for the job. Here’s his address.’
Emil Kronheim could have rubbed his hands. He really had pulled this whole thing off. But before the wedding, at the beginning of March, a visitor arrived to dampen his happiness.
It began with two long impatient rings of the doorbell. The rabbi was eating herring, as usual, and chuckling to himself as he read an American comic. His wife let the visitor into the flat and was so shocked by the stranger’s distracted appearance that she led her into the main room without taking her coat, fur cap and snow-covered galoshes. The rabbi didn’t even notice her as he lifted a bit of herring out of the brine.
Mrs Kronheim restrained herself from slapping his hand. ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ she hissed.
The rabbi stood up in embarrassment, wiping his hands on his trousers. Mrs Kronheim made a distressed sound. ‘Your trousers! Dear God!’
There were snowflakes on the young woman’s upper lip. She looked like a female Santa Claus.
‘Ah, my conscientious letter writer! Sit down,’ Kronheim said, offering her a seat.
Judit sat, not even unbuttoning her coat. Mrs Kronheim left discreetly and went into the kitchen.
‘I saw you in Berga, Rabbi. Thank you for not giving me away.’
‘How about a little salted herring?’ he asked, pushing the plate of fish towards her.
�
��No, thanks. I don’t like it.’
‘What is there not to like about salted herring? It’s full of vitamins. Full of life. Now why would I have given you away, dear Judit? I’m grateful to you for the last-minute warning.’
The snow on Judit’s galoshes was melting.
‘No, the last minute is now!’
‘Good God, did you come all the way to Stockholm to tell me that?’
Judit grabbed the rabbi’s hand. ‘We have to save Lili.’
‘Save her? From whom? From what?’
‘From marriage! I can’t believe it. My friend wants to get married.’
Kronheim would have liked to withdraw his hand, but her grip was tight. ‘Love is a wonderful thing,’ he said. ‘Marriage is its seal.’
‘But the man who wants to marry her is a scoundrel. A marriage con man.’
‘My gosh, that’s no joke. What makes you think that, Judit?’
Mrs Kronheim came in with homemade vanilla biscuits and tea.
The rabbi hated anything sweet. ‘Help yourself to tea. Relax. I’ll stick to herring if you don’t mind.’
Judit took no notice of the biscuits or the tea. Nor did she notice that the tile stove was pouring warmth into the room of imposing furniture. She didn’t even loosen her scarf. ‘Listen to me, Rabbi. You don’t know everything, so just listen. Imagine a man who gets hold of the names and addresses of all the Hungarian girls convalescing in rehab hospitals in Sweden.’
‘I can imagine him.’
‘Now imagine that he sits down and writes a letter to each of them. Do you follow? To every single one of them.’
‘I see a determined man before me,’ said the rabbi, picking up another piece of herring.
‘The letters are identical. The same sickly sweet wording. As if he’d made carbon copies. He then walks to the post office and posts the lot. Can you picture it?’
‘Oh, that can’t be true. Where did you hear that?’
Judit Gold gave the rabbi a triumphant look. Her moment had come. She took a crumpled letter out of her bag. ‘Look at this. I got one too. In September last year. Of course I had no intention of replying. I saw through his tricks. What do you say to that? Lili received an identical letter. I saw it and read it. The only difference was the name. You can check it for yourself.’
Fever at Dawn Page 15