Parallel Stories: A Novel

by Peter Nadas

  Madzar waited cautiously; he did not want to reply to anything.

  I can also tell you that we do not have debates or arguments among us, Bellardi continued. At most, in the warm circle of his family, each member quietly strengthens his moral duties to the fate of the Hungarian nation. At the end of the conversation that follows the kind of lecture I’ve mentioned, everyone knows what to do for the foreseeable future. No need to talk about it much, no one gives orders to anyone; there are no lengthy voting procedures either. The nature of Hungarians is more suited to this quiet harmony than to noisy parliamentary democracy or anything like that. If a decision is needed, the supreme council can deliberate the question, and in matters of greater importance there is the tool of public acclamation. I can also reveal to you that our activities are approved by more than one important personality in the highest circles. In fact, many of them are active members of our community.

  He fell silent again.

  With his raised eyebrows climbing high on his forehead, and with his arms elevated above the table, he indicated that His Excellency the regent, gazing down from the summit of the hierarchy, silently supports their activities.

  He is, perhaps, our greatest patron.

  Of course he does not appear in person, he added in a whisper, almost as if in passing, but occasionally his elder son represents him, and Mihály is undoubtedly a most enlightened Hungarian gentleman.

  Madzar did not respond to this either.

  Seven percent of our annual income goes to a common pool, the captain added in the same whispery tone, again as if only in passing. The majority of this money goes for the university education, and study abroad if necessary, of young men with proven Hungarian patriotic feelings.

  From this moment on, Madzar not only felt an aversion to Bellardi but could not concentrate on what he was saying.

  He wants my money after all.

  Which he did not understand, but his not understanding was as profound as if he had failed to comprehend not only the other man but Creation itself.

  Only moments ago I was thinking of my money, wasn’t I.

  He felt as if suddenly he had lost his way in the universe, and while he searched for it the universe made a big turn on its own.

  No, it can’t be that Bellardi is a mind reader. The thought made him dizzy. Because he did have some money put aside, the money he made on jobs in Rotterdam with which he wanted to start his life in America. He could not touch that. He considered it a significant sum, but it was not so large as to allow for donations to charities from it.

  True, he had gotten a goodly advance for his future projects with the Szemzős, and he had not transferred that money to the bank in Amsterdam; it was deposited in the General Savings Bank of Hungary.

  On hearing Bellardi’s words, this worried him greatly. He felt that every possible trouble was crashing down on him.

  Only a few hours earlier, an article in the Pester Lloyd he’d picked up by chance had informed him that Baron Koháry, Bellardi’s powerful father-in-law, sat on the board of directors of this bank. This information made everything as clear in his mind now as if he had solved a complicated crime. Aha, he said to himself, how obvious. As if the steam engine’s pumps and pistons were not working three decks below him but sucking and thrusting the blood in his veins, and the paddle wheels were rotating noisily not in the water but in his brain; in his agitation, his temples began to pulsate.

  He reproached himself for his irresponsibility.

  They’ll grind me up.

  These people will take me and grind me up. Here, it seems to me, everybody is somebody’s relative and everything is connected to everything else.

  And in that case this conversation is far from being a chance one; the coincidence becomes visible.

  I should not spend so much time here; they will swallow me up.

  But from this point on Bellardi did not fully listen to him, or rather, he did not notice how he had miscalculated the effect of his words.

  Whenever he could talk to someone about this delicate subject, and those occasions were rare, he could not properly control his enthusiasm.

  The mere thought that after centuries of discord and division, Hungarians might again join hands, and that he was telling this, very cautiously, to another son of Mohács—this exciting thought all but untethered him from the palpable world. Made him happy. After all, the other man knew as well as he did why every Hungarian in Mohács had become lost; he really did not have to explain this to him. As children, they had both wanted to uncover the mass graves, and thanks to the swallows and the powerful river current, they did find one.

  He was filled with the happy feeling of liberty that he could build his case on something they both knew.

  His activities in the secret organization gave him the only practical opportunity to open the door of his bodily cage and step outside himself. And it did not occur to him that Madzar might reject out of hand such an exciting human community. The liberating feeling that had brought him so close to others strengthened him in the profound conviction that being Hungarian was not a condition gained by being born as one, but rather a belief and worldview one had to earn with actions and reinforce with communal activity. The moment he touched on this subject, he was stepping onto the vast battlefield that had teemed with true Hungarians at the fatal dawn of the modern era. Because the Battle of Mohács was lost not by those who fought the Turks but by those who stayed at home in their warm dens. This clear feeling turned historical time into a mere second. There was no difference between the Middle Ages and modern times. He was watching the face of his childhood friend, with whom he wanted to share his happiness, and he did not notice that he was losing the other man’s physical presence.

  His inner vision was held captive by the vision of this powerful community’s secret network. Its members trusted him and he trusted them. This trust controlled his entire sense of human responsibility. It was as if he were watching with their eyes to see where, in the net he had spread, he should tie up his friend, alive, what he might gain by this, and for what purpose and in what way the underground movement could make use of him.

  All this had an alienating effect on Madzar, and not only because of the seven percent. The threatened secrecy of his bank-account number was only a practical symbol of his thinking. He could neither comprehend nor feel the impersonal enthusiasm that radiated from Bellardi’s being, so the other man’s fervor was painful to him. Not only did it not fill him with a sense of liberation, it affected him as a painful physical sensation; he experienced it as a rape committed by his beloved, as if several people at once had cornered him or shoved his body into a lair smelling of decay. In his shame, he bowed his head. His powerful chin nearly touched his breastbone and from there, head lowered, he looked across at Bellardi’s face shining with the power of the secret society, in a partly defensive, partly offensive attitude. In the fluttering candlelight his thick hair became like a specially wrought rubescent copper helmet. It made his skull invulnerable, it was an armor no one could penetrate.

  Bellardi will not manage to get his money from him either.

  And what about that seven percent.

  These people know how much money he has.

  Money he will not give to anyone.

  He was dizzy, felt bad at the sheer thought of donating money.

  Where on earth did Bellardi come up with the idea that he would give a single penny to anybody, for anything.

  Not one, to nobody.

  Meanwhile Bellardi was going on, saying that in the interest of a definitive solution of the Jewish question, Hungarians could not lay themselves open to the Germans, in other words could not endanger Hungarian interests because of the Jews. Waging war cannot be avoided, but the task is to cut off simultaneously the heads of both dragons, all fourteen of them. Only romantic patriots tend to forget that a weakened Hungary is not in the Germans’ interest today. German and Hungarian interests coincide at many important points. We cannot
fight alone against Bolshevism. But, in the interest of the Hungarian race, we must oppose those endeavors that the German secret service, using Swabians and ethnic Germans in Hungary, has been promoting and financing for many years. The price the Germans are asking for the annexed territories* is so high we cannot possibly pay it. This is a fight for breathing space, for survival, for sheer existence, and he would very much want Madzar to understand that. The Germans are bent on acquiring more and more positions; they are taking over the police, the entire system of public administration, and the highest echelons of the armed forces.

  That is why he keeps saying that civilians have no notion of what goes on deep below the surface. Like moles. Jewish and German elements have undermined the Hungarian state and gnawed it to pieces, and in a weak moment they would lay their hands on it.

  This is a struggle, he cried out in frustration, for even these last words the beloved man’s face remained motionless.

  Not a hopeless struggle, not at all, and don’t think, he exclaimed, that it’s happening only at higher levels or in higher circles. This needs truly deep Hungarian feelings, but not the sentimental kind. Public administration must be cleansed of German elements, commerce and industry of the Jews. In the interest of progress for the Hungarian race, we must be alert at every moment and acquire every position about to be vacated. In the service of Hungarian goals, we should engage both those who are already among us and those who are not yet with us.

  And even those who cannot possibly be among us.

  Lowering his voice to a whisper, he continued.

  Listen, while we are peacefully talking about these things, the Mayer boy is trying to recruit my Swabian stokers into the Volksbund.* An enormous struggle for their souls, he whispered desperately. It is our job to talk the Swabian element out of this.

  How could you possibly remain indifferent.

  At this point Madzar interrupted Bellardi’s impassioned speech, his voice gentle.

  But my dear Laci, you know that I myself am a good part Swabian.

  Bellardi’s instant silence suggested deep surprise, his breath nearly stopped.

  Oh, come on, you don’t know what you’re saying. I’ve always considered you a good Hungarian.

  That’s only one side of the coin, what you’ve considered me to be.

  Maybe you didn’t understand me correctly.

  But what I consider myself to be is a whole other thing.

  There is no better Hungarian than Professor Lehr. Even Dezső Szabó isn’t a better Hungarian than he is. And Ferenc Herczeg is a good Hungarian too.

  Madzar laughed, not because he was in a good mood but because he was upset by what he had heard, so he laughed as if he thought that what Bellardi had told him was entertaining.

  Before you tell me too much, before you tell me more than you want to, he said, still laughing, I’d like to warn you that Hungarian is not even my mother tongue. You couldn’t possibly have forgotten that you and the other boys found my accent in Hungarian a reason for constantly making fun of me.

  Actually, even today he was reluctant to admit that being laughed at had hurt him.

  My mother’s name is still Barbara Stricker.

  His voice faltered, but he did not add that the boys had laughed at him especially because of his mother’s name.

  And after so many years, he almost broke down over the old humiliations.

  They were sitting opposite each other, painful seconds ticking away in their shared pain, the evenly puffing luxury liner continuing to slice the night in two.

  Never again, he thought fervently, never.

  As if they had been pulled apart for good and continued to keep their seats only out of tact and politeness. Madzar motionless, angry, his head down, his face raised to the captain’s, while his heavy fist, strong to the point of shapelessness and in an ominous state of readiness, lay on the cream-colored tablecloth. Bellardi floating in his state of surprise, oblivious to his cigar.

  Hard as he exercised his mind, suddenly he could not return to his subject.

  I don’t remember anything like that, he said very quietly and uncertainly, I don’t remember ever making fun of any of your traits or abilities. All my life I’ve admired you, my friend.

  My one sweet pal, what are you talking about. He moaned as he said it.

  It sounds rather improbable that you don’t remember.

  Bellardi would have to return from his ideals and step back into reality.

  He did not want to remember what he was being reminded of because he did not want to see himself in all his sinister narrow-mindedness.

  He remembered the slingshot too, of course he did.

  They were looking at each other’s tear-filled eyes, at each other’s struggle, but they could no longer read each other, could no longer see behind each other’s face.

  In helpless anger Bellardi crushed out his cigar and kept squeezing and grinding it until it fell apart, leaving only dry, stinking debris.

  Because even at this very moment he loved his old friend, adored him.

  What makes you think I don’t know whom I’m talking to, he exclaimed finally in a suppressed, strangely threatening voice. In what other ways would you like me to woo you. You don’t think we checked your background thoroughly. How else might I convince you of my honest intentions.

  He paused to control his emotions.

  Do you think that such an extensive organization can be built and maintained without keeping a record of the people we think of as potential members and of how we size them up. It can’t be that I so misjudged this encounter, he thought to himself at the same time.

  You’re deliberately misunderstanding me, and I also know why, pal, he said loudly. Don’t forget that whatever you know, I also know very well.

  Nevertheless, all right, I admit, I’m not a great moral giant, and there was a time when I nastily betrayed you. All I have to say for myself is that I didn’t do it out of convenience. Maybe my conscience told me to do it.

  He was shaking with emotion as he shuttled desperately between haughty rejection and sensible admission.

  But you also know very well that I loved you more than anybody else and to this day I love you like a brother.

  I didn’t love you any less, said the other one heavily.

  Yes, I am a race protector, Bellardi bellowed, his voice now at top volume.

  Because he could not help noticing that the other man referred to his love only in the past.

  But that does not necessarily make me a racist.

  Which I am not, he added.

  He realized that with his statements quoting Professor Lehr’s words, so often repeated as self-reassuring commonplaces in the society organized for the protection of Hungarians, he had truly surprised his old friend.

  It is not a prerequisite of membership, he continued somewhat more objectively, that both one’s parents be pure Hungarians. It is enough that the person’s father and paternal grandfather are Hungarian. Even if you tried not to, you could not help fulfilling this requirement.

  He laughed briefly with these last words.

  And another reason you should understand all this, he continued quietly, more sarcastic than angry, is that this is what you think too. Weren’t you the one who told me how the Jewish element was striving to control architecture all over the world, he asked.

  Hearing so much explanation and self-justification astounded Madzar. As if he had suddenly seen the mechanism of the other’s soul and finally realized that in that gapless mechanism no room had been left for a sense of reality.

  He became frightened of Bellardi and had to be on guard to maintain his self-control.

  I’ve told you clearly what I am not. And a national socialist I definitely wouldn’t want to be because, unlike you, I do know what that means.

  You mean that in your eyes I am a national socialist.

  I make no judgments about you.

  Ridiculous. Truly ridiculous.

  For God’s sak
e, would you like to tell me then what’s the difference between German and Hungarian race protection. I don’t want to tear the world apart in the spirit of race protection.

  In that case, Bellardi replied, our views are one hundred percent identical.

  That’s the reason I’m going away, Madzar whispered passionately.

  I too would prefer to be a humanist, Bellardi continued, if you permit me to share with you this guilty, mixed company. At least that’s what I still am because of my upbringing, and I will remain one too. I never gave you cause to call me a national socialist.

  I did not call you anything.

  But that’s what we’re talking about, about why Hungarians cannot let the Germans occupy Hungary by exploiting Hungarian racial interests. We must resist them, and who says resistance is a crime. In a life-threatening situation such as the current one, there is no other solution. Even the more reasonable Jews admit this and cooperate with us. You should really hear Lehr speak. His very beautiful wife is Jewish.

  My dear Lojzi, I am not interested in your bloodline, and you know that very well.

  If I took matters that seriously, I should reprimand you for working for a Jew, since that means you are strengthening them.

  Or I could have said I wasn’t interested in the Hungarians’ cause because according to my bloodline and my name I am Italian.

  He did not seem to be near the end of what he meant to say when suddenly Madzar’s fist rose as if he were going to strike the table.

  But he did not.

  He rose, kicked the armchair out from under him, and stood up.

  You don’t imagine, I mean you don’t think, he said dryly, without emotion, that anyone has the right to tell me, or keep a record of, whom I could or should not work for.

  The polite smile did not disappear from his face.

  By now he had gained a reliable insight into the way the other man’s thinking and strategy dovetailed.

  In response Bellardi also rose, but he took his time to tower over the table.

  Nevertheless, putting my trust into good old common sense, I will continue, he said very quietly, almost amiably, as if free of disturbing emotion. Even though at that moment, because of his own sluggishness and lack of comprehension, he loathed and disdained Madzar with all the released force of his zeal; or perhaps it was himself he hated so much. He could not understand why he wanted so passionately to lure Madzar into something he knew was not right for him.