Anastasia

by Rupert Colley

  Later that afternoon, George jogged home from a training session. It was gone five o’clock; the streets were full of workers winding their way home, with trucks and cars clogging up the streets, with mothers pushing prams, the sun still hot, shadows stretching across the pavement. Bordas had seemed agitated at training, short-tempered. It was unlike him. George began to suspect that he too had been approached by Beke. He’d downplayed Sunday’s game, emphasising that ultimately, the game meant nothing – it was only a friendly. If only, thought George, if only.

  As he climbed the stairs to the apartment, George made way for two grim-faced men coming down. Instinctively, he pressed himself against the spiral banister and avoided eye contact. Neatly dressed with smart, navy suits and red ties, thin lips and steely stares, George knew secret policemen when he saw one. Conscious of the amount of space he was taking up, he watched them descend. One of them glanced back at him. George quickly turned round and made his way up, hoping they wouldn’t call him back. What were they doing here? Who were they after now? He shuddered. The AVO had been here and their presence lingered still as he climbed the last few steps to his apartment on the third floor.

  He paused outside the door, key in hand, and felt a cold chill run down his spine despite the airless heat of the hallway. As he turned the key and pushed open the door, he tensed up, preparing himself for the shock he knew was awaiting him inside.

  He heard the simpering first, breathless, almost apologetic. ‘Mother?’ A man was sitting on a hardback chair, his back to him. At his knees, his mother, her eyes swollen, her hand over her mouth. For a moment, George thought it was his father sitting there, the cause of his mother’s distress. But as he circled round the chair, he realised it was an old man sitting there, with skin the colour of wax. Who was he? Only as the old man’s slate-grey eyes locked onto his, did George realise. His heart fell with a thud as if one of the AVO men had thrown it down the spiral staircase.

  ‘Hello, son.’ The voice, reedy, delicate, was not one George recognised.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head, visualising the father he knew against the ghost of the man now sitting in front of him, this impostor who had the gall to call him ‘son’.

  His mother was at his side, linking her arms into his. ‘They’ve just brought him back,’ she whispered through a veil of tears.

  The two of them stood, leaning into each other, staring at the delicate, grey being, who was now staring at the wall ahead of him. How thin he looked, how angular, as if his limbs could snap at any moment. How big his ears without the dark sweep of hair, how shallow the skin, stretched like parchment across his gaunt face; how pathetically ragged his clothes; and how he smelt, like a vat of rotting leaves.

  ‘Any chance of a tea?’

  Mother and son looked at each other. Somehow, the request seemed inappropriate, too mundane. ‘I’ll go,’ said his mother, patting her husband’s arm as she went.

  George sat on the settee opposite him, conscious he was seeing his father not as a person but as an object of distaste; unable, unwilling to connect the memory of his father with the gruesome exhibit in front of him.

  ‘How are you, son?’

  ‘Erm...’ Never had a simple question been so hard to answer. Never had bland politeness seemed so out of place.

  ‘How’s the football?’

  ‘It’s... it’s fine. It’s going well.’

  ‘Good.’ He nodded and George realised that it was all his father needed right then. Just a simple reaffirmation that life had gone on without him, that he was returning to a normal world. Not yet the details – that could come later. Yes, thought George, this man was not a ghost, but a man. And this man was his father. His father who had invested in George his dream, who had loved him as any father loves his only son, who had thought of him day and night during his time away, who had suffered unimaginable indignities, but who had come back. George was a man now but the hummed tune came back, the tiger who growled, the boy playing football in the park for hours on end. His father was an old man now, old before he needed to be, but he was back. Back in time to see his son fulfil his dream, for the dilemma that had plagued his thoughts for so many days was no more. His mind was made up. He knew what to do now; he knew where destiny would take him. The relief surged through him. For a moment he thought he was going to laugh. But when he opened his mouth, he burst into tears. Huge boy-like tears.

  Chapter 8: Eva

  I woke up alone. It was a Saturday. No school. Two nights ago, my husband left me. I hadn’t seen him since. I had absorbed this new development in my life with a certain detachment. Already, within just thirty-six hours, Josef’s sudden departure seemed almost inevitable. In a strange way, I was grateful that he’d left me so abruptly. No arguments, no lingering resentments. I often said he was the most matter-of-fact man I’d ever met. I missed him, but only in a way one misses a long-staying houseguest.

  I replayed my conversation with Josef time and again. How my attempts to win back my husband had failed. Instead, I’d lost him for good. A colleague at work. That was all he said. But I could imagine the rest. A kind word from an attractive colleague, a shoulder to cry on. I couldn’t blame him. We had drifted so far apart. By the time I noticed and decided to do something, it was already too late. I was angry, not with him so much as myself. The following morning, he went to work with a small suitcase of clothes and that was it. That evening, he didn’t return. Where he was staying, he didn’t say. Perhaps it was with the woman, perhaps a hostel. He talked of practicalities – my coupons, paying the rent. Everything was arranged. How long he’d been organizing a life apart, I don’t know. How long he’d been seeing this woman, I had no idea. I didn’t ask. When I thought about it, I realised I didn’t need to know the answers – what difference would it make? As he left, suitcase in hand, his coat draped over his arm, his last words to me were the ones that hurt the most. ‘One day, Eva,’ he said, ‘you’ll thank me for this.’ And then he was gone. I listened to his footsteps echoing on the stairway while I tried to absorb his parting words. It was only after a while, after I’d closed the door, that I thought what a ridiculous thing to say. What presumptuousness. Why would I ever thank him for casting me adrift, to face the vagaries of life in isolation, the vagaries of a woman like Karolina, without support.

  I had to call in on Karolina.

  The day was warm but overcast, large clouds moved quickly across the sky. As I caught a tram and made my way to Karolina’s apartment on Lehár Street, my mind wandered back to 1944. Josef and I had met a few weeks after the Germans marched in and reduced Budapest to a city of desperation and Hungary to a country of torment. Within these throes of suffering, I met a handsome, principled man who was soon to become my husband. Josef, an ardent anti-fascist, assisted in the protection and removal of Jews to safe houses. He worked with the Swedes, forging false identity papers, facilitating lines of communication. The number of Jews he saved from the camps can be counted in their dozens. And when the Russians entered the city, he welcomed them like brothers. He dismissed the tales of Red Army soldiers raping as exaggeration; the Soviet Union was our saviour, communism the future. But the system that had saved my husband from the Nazis was now slowly destroying him.

  *

  Karolina and Vida lived in a salubrious area; Lehár Street was lined with trees, the buildings loomed tall. But prestige and influence in the People’s Republic counted for nothing. As I strolled down the street, not in any hurry, I tried to rehearse what I would say. Surely she would understand. She and I were comrades-in-arms now – two women who, in the space of days, had lost their husbands. Still, I felt that nagging sensation in the pit of the stomach. I doubted that our common ground would make our encounter any easier or bring about a sense of female solidarity.

  I passed a small parade of shops – a butcher, a bakery and a bookshop called Horizon. The first two were busy as housewives fought for space and things to buy. The latter was empty. I saw the young man inside, his feet u
p on the counter, reading Free People, smoking a pipe. He looked too young for a pipe. As I approached Karolina’s block of apartments, the front doors swung open and there was Karolina, a man at her side. It took me a few seconds to register but the appearance of another man behind her confirmed it – she was being taken away. The first man was leading her by the arm. The men were AVOs. I stopped short, metres away. Parked on the curb, the car, the type driven by them, a female chauffeur waiting behind the wheel. Karolina saw me. Her fox-like eyes widened in acknowledgement. I felt myself shrink as her eyes then narrowed. She was still staring at me with a chilling look as the second AVO pushed down her head, guiding, almost pushing her into the car. The chauffeur revved the engine, indicated and glided off at a gentle pace. I stood and watched the car make its way down the street and out of view.

  *

  I decided to go to the café. The encounter with Karolina had unnerved me.

  The café was unusually busy for the time of morning – the breakfast crowd had gone but it was still too early for the first lunches. Yet, on this particular May morning, almost every table was occupied. So, it came as no surprise when a figure hovered at my table. ‘Can I take a seat?’ The deep voice, I thought, had a Russian accent.

  ‘By all means,’ I said, gathering in my newspaper to make room on the table. Not that I meant it; I had no desire to share my space with a Soviet.

  ‘Thank you, comrade.’ He seemed too young to possess such a low growl. He’d bought a coffee and a white bread cheese sandwich. ‘A lovely day,’ he said.

  ‘Mmm.’ Equally, I had no desire to converse, and concentrated my thoughts on an article about the AVO’s unstinting devotion to duty. But my thoughts were full of Karolina. How vulnerable we all are. I realised I was in danger. If she was angry with me for not having come sooner, it would be so easy for her to denounce Josef and, by association, me. The central AVO office was at 60 Andrassy Street – everyone knew that. The address alone was enough to induce fear in the stoutest of hearts. I wondered whether I should try and visit her. The thought of stepping into the place made me shudder. And would it do any good? I tried to read.

  Within my peripheral vision, I could tell the Russian opposite felt self-conscious eating next to me. He took small bites at a time and kept wiping non-existent crumbs from his mouth. He was handsome, dark with wavy black hair, and thickset eyebrows beneath which his eyes were surprisingly blue. I wondered what had brought him to Budapest. I began to feel annoyed with myself for giving him so much thought. But the more I tried to concentrate on the tiresome prose, the less I saw of the words.

  It was almost a relief when I realised that someone was arguing at the counter. ‘All I want is a cup of tea; is it that so much to ask?’ The irritated voice cut through the babble of conversation.

  I couldn’t hear the reply. My companion was facing the right direction to see what was happening but either he chose to ignore it or perhaps hadn’t noticed. I wanted to turn round but feared I would appear nosey.

  The voice at the counter was becoming louder. ‘I can pay, I can’t see the problem.’ This time the Russian heard and looked up at the agitated man.

  ‘Oh, this is ridiculous. A cup of tea, that is all.’

  By now the café customers were silent, conversations paused, ears pricked, waiting. Now it would have appeared odd not to have taken an interest. I turned to see the red-faced young girl behind the counter say, ‘I am not allowed to serve you.’ Her voice shook as she spoke.

  The old hag appeared next to her young assistant. ‘Oh, it’s you again. Don’t you ever learn?’

  ‘I want to see the manager,’ came the retort. He was an old man with a long, white moustache wider than the width of his face, and a beard. He wore a large hat, black and battered, and an equally battered long coat. The man was a Jew.

  But instead of the manager, out came two burly boys in stained white overalls.

  ‘He’s back again,’ said the old hag, with a roll of her acid eyes.

  ‘Get out,’ said the taller of the two boys through gritted teeth.

  ‘I will not. I demand a cup of tea.’

  The boys looked at each other and then emerged from behind the counter from opposite ends. ‘We’ve told you before, we don’t want your type in here; now get out.’

  ‘I will not; I insist –’

  Before he could finish his sentence, the boys grabbed an arm each, lifted the man off his feet, and carried him to the door. ‘Get off me, you bastards. Get off!’ But the boys were strong and in no time had opened the door and dumped the old man unceremoniously on the pavement outside. The man sprang back to his feet with surprising nimbleness and resumed his protest. What happened next shocked me – the shorter of the boys punched him. The man’s hat flew off as he staggered back. The boys re-entered the café, satisfied grins plastered over their faces for a job well done. The old hag nodded a thank you, and the pretty girl went redder still.

  ‘They needn’t have done that.’

  I’d quite forgotten about my silent companion. ‘No, I agree.’

  ‘Look, he’s coming back in.’

  I looked back round and the old man, his hat back in place, was coming in, pulling on his moustache and shouting, ‘How can you do this, eh? Me, an old man?’

  With my back turned on my companion, I hadn’t noticed him rise from his chair. Approaching the old man, he called out, ‘Hey, comrade. Come join us at our table. I’ll buy you your tea.’

  The man eyed him for a few moments and then grinned broadly, first at the Russian and then at the young girl and her frosty old colleague behind the counter. ‘Thank you, young man,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Thank you.’

  Well, I thought, he might have asked me first for my consent. I had no desire to share my table with a misfit. What if word got round? Eva Horvath mixes with socially undesirable elements. People are routinely arrested for less. No, I wanted nothing to do with this. As the Russian returned to the table (‘our table’ he’d said), the old man behind him, I swigged the last of my (now cold) coffee, and quickly folded my Free People. I snatched my string bag from under the table and rose.

  ‘You don’t have to leave,’ said the Russian.

  I blushed. ‘No, I have to... to go now.’

  ‘Please...’

  I paused and, despite my embarrassment, looked him in the eye. He held my gaze.

  Sometimes one’s fate lies in moments like this. I could have said no, could have stuck to my instinct and left, walked out of the Café of the Revolution and never seen him again.

  But for some reason, I didn’t.

  Chapter 9: Zoltan

  I, the undersigned, am willing and able to write a full confession of my crimes against the Party and the State. In admitting these heinous crimes, I confess to acts of betrayal and treason and that I freely admit my guilt and am prepared to accept the full and just consequences as decreed by law.

  Zoltan re-read his introduction. He’d written these words on so many previous occasions, he could recite them by heart. He thought about the intended recipient of this document and tried to think about the sort of heinous crimes she might be guilty of – planning to sabotage the Party and re-implement capitalism was far too big a scheme for such a small-minded woman; that was the sort of confession they gave to the fallen politicians or economists. Her hands were too clean to be involved in direct action, such as industrial vandalism or transportation wrecking. No, hers was a more subtle kind of treachery. Spying. Yes, she’d make a good spy. And she had some distant cousin in America, Philadelphia, he thought she’d said. She could be guilty of passing secrets to the States, nothing grandiose, simply small but vital pieces of information over a number of years.

  Zoltan enjoyed this part of the job – writing out full confessions of spectacular crimes, inventing the detail, the means, the elaborate self-flagellation, the grovelling pleas for full punishment. And he loved the expression on their faces as they read through his prose, their eyes widening with
disbelief – you expect me to sign this? How tedious it must be, he thought, to work as a policeman or a lawyer in those democracies where there are so many rules to obey, where the accused stood innocent until proven otherwise. How much simpler it is here; where no one talks about rights.

  Unlike so many of his colleagues, Zoltan enjoyed the paperwork, the desk jobs. Far preferable to being out on the streets, chasing men like Milan Ignotus. He still shuddered at the thought – how the brute had humiliated him in front of Fischer; how his assistant had had to come to his rescue. Fischer hadn’t said anything; there was no need. But they knew. The goalkeeper had intimidated Zoltan; he’d been afraid. It wasn’t meant to work that way – the secret police intimidated the populace, not the other way round. That was why Zoltan preferred writing out confessions – using his brain, not his brawn. Muscle power was why the AVO employed the Fischers of this world, Zoltan Beke was destined for better things.

  It was ten minutes to eleven. At eleven, he had his weekly meeting upstairs with Donath. He hoped to get away early for once – today was Roza’s birthday, three years old. He’d promised her, and Petra, he’d be home in time for the party. Nothing big – just a few of Roza’s friends, all girls. Petra had baked the cake, bought the candles, the presents and the balloons. He sighed. Sometimes, he felt as if they belonged to a different world where everything was warm and comfortable, far from the routine brutality of the AVO offices. He saw so little of his wife and daughter; he sometimes missed them, so long was his working day. Not today, though; he’d made them a promise and he wasn’t going to let them down.

  *

  ‘So, what’s happening at your end?’ Donath looked bored as usual, resting his face against his palm, the folds on his rubbery cheeks bunching up.

  Zoltan briefed his boss on the previous week’s events – the new and old cases, punishments meted out, cases he sent to the more formal court proceedings, amusing anecdotes, enjoyable confessions, interesting pleas for mercy. Occasionally, Zoltan heard an unusual plea, something beyond the wife and children or elderly mother routine. He remembered the old chap who was worried about the mice invading his apartment. He worried that if they sent him to prison for years on end, the place would be overrun with dancing mice. They reduced his sentence from five years to three, merely for the novelty value.