Anastasia

by Rupert Colley

  ‘Zoltan? Zoltan, we can’t stay here.’

  Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes red, his face etched with symmetrical lines – years of age accumulated in seven days. ‘We can’t go out there; I’d be recognised.’ He looked back at Rakosi’s rounded and deceptively jocular features and his shiny bald head. ‘Lynched,’ he said, spitting the word out.

  ‘You have to go back to them and fight,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘To the AVO.’

  ‘The AVO’s dead.’

  ‘No. There’s still enough of you to take control of the city. Find Donath and fight, Zoltan. If you don’t, they’ll take over completely. The city, the whole country will be in the hands of barbarians. You owe it to us.’

  Roza nestled in closer to Petra’s bosom. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart, I’m going out soon to find something. You can come too, if you like.’

  *

  It could be that simple, thought Petra. She and Roza could leave the apartment and not come back. While they remained with him, they too were marked but not if they simply walked out on him. Most people wouldn’t know; wouldn’t associate them with Zoltan or the AVO. Ten years they’d been married, thrown together, like so many couples of their age, after the defeat of the Nazis. Did she love him; had she ever loved him? In 1946 it wasn’t a matter of love, it was a matter of survival, and a massive effort to start life again while adjusting to the ever-perpetual presence of the Russians. Love didn’t come into it, but ideals did. Zoltan was an idealist; they both were. A dedicated fighter against fascism, he became a communist, determined to root out those who threatened its early survival in Hungary. Stepping into the AVO boots seemed a logical progression. But ideals and logic had lost all meaning many years ago.

  A fine layer of snow covered the streets, mirroring the white dust inside. Petra walked quickly, holding Roza’s hand, encouraging her to keep up and get warm. Everywhere, people swarmed about or huddled in groups, youngsters with cigarettes and guns, men reading revolutionary newspapers, women carrying string bags half-full of vegetables, people in bandages, nursing their wounds, somewhere a dog barking. But still, she thought, how quiet everything seemed. No more crackle of machine guns, no screams of battle, no rumbling of tanks. But the evidence lay all around them; the debris of revolution all the more visible in the silence: disjointed corpses covered in lime to disguise the stench of death, burnt out tanks, hanging cables and uprooted tram lines, collapsed buildings and gaping craters, and smashed cars, abandoned trucks and empty trams. Everything around her in need of an adjective because normal things had lost all sense of their normality. Roza squeaked and hid her face in a gloved hand – hanging upside down from a tree, a man stripped bare, his body gently swaying in the wind, his torso red, black and raw, his mouth stuffed full with bank notes. Petra tightened her grip on her daughter’s hand and pulled her along, regretting the need of having to drag her along, exposing her to such sights.

  The queue was mercifully short but she soon realised it was because she was late. There was nothing left, said a robust middle-aged woman in a battered apron, come back tomorrow when they were expecting fresh supplies from the country. The look on Roza’s face reflected how Petra felt. But here, said the woman, have a couple of beetroots. It was of little consolation but Petra thanked her.

  She started walking towards the City Park, the opposite direction from the apartment. Roza asked where they were going and Petra palmed her off with something about needing exercise. She wasn’t going back; she’d made up her mind, she wasn’t going back.

  At first, she walked as if on golden pavements. She grinned at passers-by, believing that she shared in their victory – the Russians had gone, democracy was around the corner and she was free of Zoltan and the death sentence he carried on him like a label. But after almost half an hour, Roza’s occasional moan had become constant; the cold seeped into their bones and Petra, when she thought about it, had no idea where to go. In living the life of relative luxury as an AVO’s wife, she had, one by one, lost all her friends. Until this moment it had never bothered her. But it bothered her now.

  ‘Good morning, again, Mrs Beke.’

  She spun round. He was there, standing casually behind her, as if he’d been expecting her, as if he’d been standing there all the time, wearing his quilted jacket and beret, smoking a handmade cigarette. He must’ve been following them. The faint smile on his face made her shudder.

  She turned her back on him. ‘Come on, Roza, we’re going home.’

  ‘Back to Mr Beke?’

  Roza glanced inquisitively up at her mother. ‘Isn’t that –’

  ‘Yes, come on,’ she said, pulling on her hand, desperate to get away from him as quickly as possible.

  ‘Mr Zoltan Beke, officer of the AVO,’ he said, the voice behind her quiet but piercing.

  She stopped but didn’t turn around – too frightened to do so, too frightened to carry on walking. But Roza did turn round.

  ‘Hello, you must be his daughter.’ His familiarity towards Roza repulsed her.

  She listened as his footsteps approached slowly, deliberately. He drew level but still she couldn’t bear to look at him. ‘What do you want?’ she said, her voice edged with guilt more than fear.

  ‘Your husband and me go back a long way, Mrs Beke.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘A long way.’ She wanted to deny him, to say she hadn’t seen him for weeks, but she couldn’t, not in front of Roza. ‘Guess he must be out of a job these days.’

  ‘Roza,’ she said, firmly. ‘Please, wait for me on the corner there.’

  ‘But why –’

  ‘Roza.’ Her daughter looked at her and at the stranger, opened her mouth but then decided to do as she was told.

  ‘What a considerate mother you are. So, tell me, how is he these days? Still alive? So many AVOs now taking their own lives, you never know.’

  ‘I said what do you want?’

  ‘I’d like to see your husband get the justice he deserves.’

  ‘He was only doing his job.’

  ‘His job cost me six years of my life and my fingernails.’ He fanned his fingers out in front of her face and, sure enough, a layer of skin had grown where his fingernails should have been. ‘Cost me half my cock too, want to see that as well? No? Can’t say I blame you, it’s not a nice sight but hey, it’s still functional in every way, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you.’ Immediately, she regretted the patronising tone.

  He pushed his face into hers. ‘Oh, are you, Mrs Beke, you AVO whore?’ She twisted her head, the smell of tobacco and garlic filling her nostrils. ‘I followed him for months, got to know where he lived, got to know you, your daughter. But I didn’t have the nerve to do anything. Didn’t even have the means. Then all this shit takes off and someone puts a gun in my hand. I go to find him. But of course everyone’s gone. Imagine my delight in seeing you yesterday. Meet me tomorrow,’ he growled, thrusting a scrap of paper into her hand. It was an address but she didn’t read it, not wanting to know it. ‘After dusk. Don’t bring the kid. I’ll be waiting for you.’ He made to leave, throwing the cigarette on the road.

  ‘I won’t come.’ Her heartbeat stopped.

  He laughed. ‘Your daughter – pretty little thing. It’s Roza, isn’t it?’ Lifting his voice, he shouted, ‘How old are you, Roza? Nine, ten?’

  Roza nodded back, her eyes checking for her mother’s permission.

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Petra. ‘After dusk.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’ He tipped his beret. ‘Nice seeing you again, Mrs Beke. Goodbye, Roza.’

  She watched him leave for a few moments, then glanced at her daughter, still waiting obediently on the corner of the street. She walked up to her, her feet heavy and awkward. ‘Shall we go home?’ she said.

  ‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ She wanted to kiss her, to hug her, but something held her back. She kne
w if she did, she’d never let go.

  3.

  The column of a dozen tanks rolled across the Hungarian countryside, Budapest already an hour behind them. Following in the rear came the motorcycles and trucks. The T-54 in front of them had placed a gruesome mascot on the back of their tank – a dead comrade, propped up and held in place by ropes. The dead soldier watched Budapest fade into the distance. Petrov had complained, saying it wasn’t right that they were being subjected to a dead man’s vacant gaze from here back to Moscow. A dead Hungarian he could have coped with, perhaps, but not one of their own, too close for comfort. But the team in front said they were taking him home in dignity; not for their colleague the trucks full of stiffs thrown in haphazardly without any respect.

  The locals certainly lacked respect. The whole route seemed lined with peasants, silent and angry, wanting to see with their own eyes the departing Russians. Many jumped out to spit at the tanks and yell Russian obscenities at the soldiers. Vladimir, who spent most of his time leaning out of the turret, remarked that at least the Russian language lessons weren’t for nothing. At first, he yelled back at them but soon lost interest as the line seemed to stretch ahead continually.

  How lovely it was to feel the cool air chasing away the nauseous smells of grime and diesel fumes inside the tank. Vladimir, still leaning out of the turret, started singing a bawdy song, too loudly for Valentin’s liking. He resisted the temptation to pull his friend down by the legs and tell him to shut the up. Why upset the locals even more? Part of him was impressed however, amazed how cheerful Vladimir could remain after living on their nerves for six days with very little sleep. But they were going home and that was excuse enough for Vladimir to sing his songs. The relief at leaving Hungary was tangible but Valentin felt too exhausted to appreciate it. Never had he been so tired, and so unable to sleep. But there was more to it than that. For the second time in his life, he was leaving Budapest with a knot in his stomach.

  He remembered the first time. In some ways it wasn’t too dissimilar, together with a bunch of men, a team united in their objectives and by their experiences, relieved to be leaving and talking of what they’d do when they got back home. But last time, they were on a plane; last time they didn’t stink, nor salivate at the sight of a cow in the field. But at least this time he didn’t feel as if his heart was breaking.

  He remembered the flight so well – the face he forced himself to adapt not to give himself away, the food he forced himself to eat, the jokes he forced himself to laugh at. And all the while he recalled every moment and detail of the previous day, wishing he could relive it a thousand times.

  It’d been seven years. How many permutations can a person’s life take in seven years, even within a country with closed borders and limited choices? The more he thought about the woman in front of the bonfire, the more he realised it couldn’t have been Eva. All he had to go on was the red hair and a strange feeling that pricked his heart. She was too far away, too obscured by smoke and the chaos around her. But why had she remained so resolutely calm when a 100-millimetre tank canon bore down on her. His colleagues had dismissed her as a crazy woman but, at the time, he thought them wrong. Fanciful thoughts that defied logic and clouded reality. It wasn’t her; it was ridiculous to think it was. But in his tired, tired mind, he allowed his imagination to indulge the fantasy.

  Chapter 27: Day Eight – Tuesday, 30th October

  1.

  Josef and I had more physical contact in those two days than we had had in the last three years of our marriage. I fed him, bathed him, helped him to sleep. I gave him some of George’s clothes and lent him George’s razor. He slept little but often. One of the joys of being free, he said, was being able to sleep without a dazzling light bulb perpetually on, constantly penetrating through the eyelids. Once, he remembered, there’d been a power cut and the men cried for joy, so relieved to escape the intensity of false light. Sometimes he cried for no apparent reason. Not the huge sobs of the park, but quiet, rather dignified tears. I’d offer my hand and he either took it or waved me away. Either way, I didn’t mind, I was only pleased that he was coming to terms with the misery dealt him by the AVO.

  I went out twice and obtained more food and an extra blanket, each time hoping George wouldn’t return during my brief absences. But all the time, I couldn’t equate this man I was tending as my husband. His mind as well as his physical being had been permanently changed. Gone was the man I married, the man of principles; gone too the man who dedicated his life to work for fear of doing otherwise.

  How I enjoyed these couple of peaceful days together. This man I once knew vaguely as a husband playing the part of the perfect guest, polite, undemanding and unassuming. The care I lavished on him was not of his asking but purely from my want. Between us, we perfected an isolated existence, divorced from the world outside.

  After breakfast, Josef excused himself, saying he needed a shave. He felt the desire to shave twice a day, although he had no need to. But after so long with a beard, he said, he simply enjoyed the process and the sensation of clean, shaved skin. So many ordinary things he appreciated.

  I cleared away the plates and breakfast things and busied myself with the washing up. It amused me to occupy my time with domestic chores while half the apartment looked as if a Soviet bomb had hit it.

  Finished in the bathroom, Josef hovered and seemed awkward. Finally, he declared that he had to meet a few friends but would it be OK if he came back to stay for a while longer. Yes, I said, that’d be fine; he could stay as long as he needed. He looked relieved and thanked me. Taking George’s coat I’d lent him, Josef hesitated before leaving. Perhaps he wanted to tell me how grateful he was, how he never forgot me during his time away, how he knew now what a neglectful husband he’d been, how selfish his behaviour after Anastasia’s death; I could see it all in his eyes but he said nothing, the words stayed imprisoned within him.

  I couldn’t decide whether I minded not being asked to accompany him but obviously he had things to do, things that didn’t concern me, things that perhaps he thought I wouldn’t understand. I sat down with another coffee wanting to reflect, wanting to be overcome with a guiding emotion. But for a long time, nothing came. I simply sat there, my mind empty. Josef’s return, I knew, was going to change me. Too long I’d spent looking backwards, wishing that things had been different. Anastasia is always there, I wouldn’t wish it differently, but after so many years I knew it was finally time to bury her in my mind, to let go of the physical being that lived still in my dreams. And Valentin, who’d occupied so little time in my life but took up so much space in my emotions, had to leave. In my mind, I kissed Valentin one last time and bade him goodbye. No more would I wonder where he was, or what he was doing. I picked up the book of famous Soviet footballers, and threw it out of the window – quickly, not allowing myself a second thought. How ridiculous to attach such importance to something that reminded me of him by his very omission. My future belonged in the present; I could no longer afford to suffocate myself with the past. Josef was back; Josef, I hoped, was my future.

  Of course, I still had to tell George. George who had rescued me, who had given my life a direction at a time when his own life veered precariously left and right. Mutual rescue.

  *

  George, when he finally returned, came back alone, looking dishevelled and tired but happy. Josef was still out doing whatever he had to do. George told me in great detail the places he’d gone – with or without Milan. It seemed as if not one part of Budapest had been spared his presence at some point over the previous couple of days. I was pleased for him; the uprising had rejuvenated and changed him. I was seeing a different George now, a more animated George, one ready to embrace life and whatever it held, not the man I was accustomed to, the one who silently suffered, who, like the rest of us, wore his blinkers, hoping the world would go away and leave him alone.

  I’d been washing-up when George walked in. Having half-listened to his adventures, I re
sumed my work, picking up a tea towel to dry the plates, and at the same time, deciding that I had to tell him about Josef. ‘George...’

  ‘How’s your hand now?’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine.’

  ‘Have you heard – it’s confirmed; they’ve cancelled Sunday’s Hungarian–Sweden game. No surprise there. Pity though.’

  ‘George, I need to speak to you.’

  He caught the tone in my voice and sat down slowly at the table. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, really, but there’s something I have to tell you.’ I was still drying a side plate, wiping in a continuous circle. His eye caught it. I placed the plate to one side and, still holding the green checked tea towel, sat down opposite him. ‘George, I’ve been thinking about... well, about you and me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘When you think about it, we only know the edges of each other’s past and yet it is our pasts that brought us together. And we carry on living without plans and with no idea where we’re going or what to do with our futures.’

  ‘Not any more. Everything’s changed now; it’s changing as we speak, we have a future more glorious than any of us could ever have hoped for.’

  ‘People can start making plans now.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. What was the use of plans when we had no future? We, the proletariat worked for the benefit of everyone, but only the Party benefited from the work we did. But things have changed and perhaps now we do have a future to look forward to. Once a National Assembly is in place, and we have a new government that truly acts in accordance to the people’s will and not to Moscow’s whim, then everything we’ve fought for in the last week will have been worth it, and those who died will not have done so in vain. Then, we really will have a future.’

  I picked at the tea towel, unthreading a strand of green cotton. ‘And the past? Our past?’

  ‘The past will always be there, as a reminder of how we let ourselves be manipulated and tortured, of how we lived in fear of the State and how that fear infected our daily life like a cancer. But it is to the future we need to focus our energies on.’