by Ann Swinfen
Sofia shook her head and smiled sadly. It would be difficult to imagine a more cultured, intelligent and beautiful woman than her mother, an ornament to the most elegant social occasion. But the deep-rooted nature of prejudice blinds the eye and distorts the judgement. Eva had made no secret of her part-gypsy ancestry, had indeed been proud of it. But the long contempt of the true-blooded Magyars for the gypsies must have affected her life and put her in great danger when the Nazi witch-hunts began. Curiously Sofia had never felt herself to be gypsy. Perhaps it was her upbringing in an aristocratic Hungarian milieu. Except for that one time, at the Paparuda, when the water and the poppies and the grasses had seemed to link her to the soil in some strange primaeval way.
Zsigmond’s desire to expiate his own in-born guilt – as well as his principles and his belief in a free Hungary – must have driven him to join the partisans and risk death. And in his union with Juliska, a true-born Magyar peasant girl, he had come to the place he was seeking. Magdolna and István seemed to Sofia to be the true fruit of Zsigmond’s blood, rather than herself. Like Eva she would always be displaced, a person outside, alien, wherever she lived. But now she was over seventy this no longer troubled her as it had done when she was young. She had learned to accept it as an intrinsic part of her own being, as Magdolna and István had learned to accept their illegitimacy.
If we could have another chance.
Her eyes met the words again. Zsigmond had made his own second chances. She had been given hers, partly as a result of his, partly through the wayward fortunes of war. She had never expected to find her mother’s Guarneri violin again. Yet, because Jakob Stern had survived the camps, because the vault of the instrument shop had been safely sealed, the violin had come back to her. More important to her was the discovery of a brother and sister. She would not return to Szentmargit to live, as Magdolna had urged. She had her own home, her own responsibilities, her animals, her garden – which was an expression of herself almost as powerful as her poems. But she would come again to the village, as long as she was strong enough to make the journey. And – she thought of it for the first time, as a sparkling possibility – there was no reason, now, why they should not come to her! She thought of sitting with Magdolna and József in her garden amongst the bees and the lush green growth, so different from the parched ground around Szentmargit, watching András romp with Ákos. István she could picture striding along the beach with Kate, laughing.
No. István and Kate would not be laughing on the beach at Dunmouth together. Sofia sighed and piled up the papers again. She wondered whether she should discuss it with Magdolna.
* * *
Anna arrived on Wednesday, and said she could stay until the weekend. Kate was reminded forcefully of Beccy when she met her. She was not sure whether it was because of their nearness in age and circumstance – both nineteen, both just having finished their first year at university – or whether they were indeed alike in personality. Anna’s attitude towards her parents combined affection and exasperation. Clearly she felt that for József to continue to work as a peasant farmer was not good enough for him (or, Kate suspected, for the father of Anna Buvari, soon to be a distinguished lawyer in Budapest). Towards her mother she was protective, like all the family, but also bracing.
‘Mama, you should come to Budapest sometimes, to open your exhibitions, to be seen. It is essential if you’re going to further your career in the arts, especially now that art lovers from all over the world are coming to Budapest. You need to build your network of connections in other countries.’
Magdolna smiled serenely and handed her a dish of plum pastry.
‘But then I would have less time to work, Anna.’
‘What I am trying to say is that you wouldn’t have to work so hard. You aren’t paid nearly enough for what you do. You know that. You could do less and still be paid more.’
‘Anna,’ said István, planting a firm, admonitory hand on her shoulder as he walked around the back of her chair to fetch the jug of cream from the larder, ‘your mother is not interested in how much she is paid, so long as she is paid enough to provide her with clay and glazes. All she is interested in is having the time to work out her ideas, to give birth, if you like, to each of her figures clamouring to be born.’
Anna sighed exaggeratedly, ran her hands through her long, curly hair and threw it back, then laughed ruefully.
‘You are hopeless, all of you. Can’t you tell her, Aunt Sofia? You are an artist of international fame. Imagine! I never knew that the poet Sofia Tabor was my aunt.’
‘Poetry,’ said Sofia, looking at her with amusement, ‘is not a highly paid profession. You get on with your career as a high-powered lawyer, as a young woman of your generation. And let your mother and me pursue our dreams in penury. We shall all rub along well enough.’
Kate liked Anna, despite this attempt to galvanise her mother into greater commercial awareness. She was a loving daughter, and had an affectionate if teasing relationship with her younger brother. She even tied back her hair and joined András and his friends in a game of football in the meadow. Not, thought Kate, quite as sophisticated as she would have us believe.
* * *
Anna’s visit injected a spice into their lives, bringing as it did a whiff of the capital and the wider world into the rural simplicity and hard labour of Szentmargit. Even József delayed his start for the fields each morning. He was gruff with his daughter, but affectionate pride glowed from him as took her round the village in the evening, showing her off. The whole party of them dined twice in style at the Blue Heron so they could enjoy more time for conversation free of kitchen chores. Only Sofia seemed abstracted, disappearing to her room from time to time, where she still had all her father’s papers.
‘I am sorry,’ she said, when chafed by Anna, ‘but I am busy writing. And it is essential to seize the moment, or the idea vanishes. Your mother will understand that.’
Sofia had said at first that she would come with Kate and István to Mohács to visit this other nephew of hers, but as she became immersed in her work she grew more doubtful. István had already telephoned a csárda in the village outside Mohács where László lived, and booked rooms for the three of them.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Kate can still use the double room. You will come, won’t you, Kate?’
‘Yes,’ she said, not wanting to disappoint him, and curious to see his son. ‘Why will you not tell me what is so special about Mohács?’
He laughed. ‘You will see.’
She could have consulted her guidebook, but decided to let him keep his mystery.
Friday was Anna’s last day, and she planned to spend it in the fields, helping her father and Imre with the harvest, most of which was now gathered in, thanks to the long period of exceptional sunshine combined with the successful irrigation scheme. Kate and István set out straight after breakfast.
‘I am going to take you to Lake Balaton for lunch,’ said István. ‘We are proud of our one large lake – it is a great refreshment for the eye in our land-locked country.’
Kate had expected an unremarkable stretch of water, and was astonished when they arrived on the shores of what looked like a small sea. The clear waters stretched away into the distance, sparkling under the sun and sprinkled with the multicoloured sails of wind-surfers and sailing boats. There were holiday resorts dotted along the shore, but the Golden Cockerel, the restaurant to which István had brought her, stood on its own in wide grounds, beautifully landscaped. The building itself was a fine, rambling old house perched on a slight eminence with spectacular views over the lake.
‘This was once the summer residence of one of the great aristocratic families,’ said István as they sat with their drinks on the terrace, waiting for their lunch to arrive. ‘Built first, very elegantly, in the eighteenth century, at the height of the Empire, then extended with less taste in the nineteenth.’
‘Who owns it now?’
‘It used to belong
to the State – seized after the war, of course. For many years it served as a holiday hotel and sanatorium for high-ranking Party members. Then three years ago the heirs managed successfully to claim it back. They had been living in Switzerland until then, and had gone into the hotel trade.’
‘Have many of the old properties been reclaimed?’
‘A few. The government likes to show that it is restoring free and democratic ownership. Many of the flats in Budapest have been returned to their owners, but nobody has the money to repair them, and they had been very poorly maintained by the State.’
‘Could you reclaim your father’s house? The manor at Szentmargit?’
‘I have no rights. I am the illegitimate son.’
He spoke abruptly. So it does still rankle, thought Kate.
‘No,’ he continued, ‘if anyone has a claim on the estate it is Sofia, and I do not think she will take any action.’
‘No, I don’t think so. She has made her own little kingdom.’ And Kate began to tell him about Sofia’s garden, with its goat and hens and bees, and of how she had first seen her, fishing barefoot amongst the rock pools for crabs.
After lunch they drove on at a leisurely pace along the beautiful lakeside, then took the road for Mohács. They bypassed the town and reached the village of Kishíd, where László lived, and where they were to stay until Monday.
‘László will not be available until Sunday,’ said István, ‘but we have plenty to do tomorrow. Can you get up very early? Where I want to take you is best seen early, before other people are about.’
‘Didn’t I get up early on the Day of New Bread? Two hours, at least, before you did.’
‘Very true. We will meet by the front door of the inn at – shall we say half-past six? It will be too early for breakfast, but we will have something later.’
The inn was comfortable enough, but not as friendly as the Blue Heron, where Kate felt entirely at home now. Mihály, she realised, was responsible for much of the atmosphere there, welcoming all his guests like members of the family. Her room here, with its two single beds and a dormer window looking out over an orchard, was pleasant and unpretentious, although she did not much care for the holy picture of a bleeding heart which hung on the wall above the dressing table. Surreptitiously she took it down and rested it facing the wall behind the curtains.
After dinner they went for a short walk around Kishíd, but there was not much to see. It seemed to be partly a farming village like Szentmargit, and partly an overspill for commuters working in Mohács. It lacked the rural isolation which made Szentmargit so peaceful, if poor. Here there was a sense of being in the suburbs.
They met next morning as they had planned and let themselves out of the sleeping inn. The sun was already up, but still low, flushing the undersides of leaves pink and gilding the cross on the top of the small church which, like the Church of Szent Margit, had the characteristic onion-shaped dome. They drove a short way through the countryside, where cows stood up to their knees in mist, which would soon be burnt away as the sun climbed high.
‘There are more animals here,’ said Kate; ‘less arable.’
‘Yes, just here, perhaps. But the area for the big herds is the east of the country. Did you know that we have horseherds, cowherds, shepherds and swineherds, and the hierarchy is very strict? That is in the puszta, of course.’
‘I’ve seen wonderful pictures of men herding great droves of horses.’
‘I wish we had time to go there too. I wish you did not have to leave on Wednesday.’
Kate thought with a shock, It is so soon. She had been pushing it to the back of her mind.
‘I wish I didn’t have to leave on Wednesday.’
‘You cannot stay?’
‘No. Not possibly.’
‘Perhaps next time we can visit the puszta.’ He looked at her quizzically.
‘Perhaps next time.’
They drove for a while in silence, and found themselves in the outskirts of Mohács.
‘Now,’ said István, ‘I want you to close your eyes until I say you may open them.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Do as you are told. You will not regret it.’
She obeyed, and soon the car stopped, manoeuvring into a parking place.
‘Now?’
‘Not yet. I will open the door for you and then lead you to where you may look.’
He took her by the hand and led her – feeling foolish – over what seemed to be gravel and grass with the hard parched feel of this summer’s heat. There was the grating sound of a metal gate. Then he stopped and moved behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders.
‘Now before you look, I want to tell you a story.’ He paused, then continued quietly, ‘In the year 1526 Suleiman the Magnificent, Sultan of Turkey, emperor of all the Ottoman lands, which then extended from Spain across north Africa to the Middle East and into Europe as far as Bulgaria, Romania and Serbia, turned his eyes at last on a small proud country called Hungary. Her king was called Lajos and he was a brave young man, just twenty, and an inspiring leader of men. He had been king since he was ten, and while he was a child he was under the control of the powerful nobles who were busy pursuing their own interests. While he was hardly more than a child he had been married to a Hapsburg princess. As he reached manhood he realised that unless the national army could be re-established, Hungary had no chance of defending herself against Suleiman’s greedy reach. But he could not convince the parliament.
‘His entire army of loyal followers consisted of no more than twenty thousand men, while Suleiman could put half a million into the field against Hungary alone. The forces of the Ottoman Empire were feared throughout Europe. They had a reputation for ferocious bravery and terrible cruelty to any unfortunate enough to be taken captive by them.’
Kate shivered. She could see against her eyelids the small, gallant force of Hungarians and the hordes of Turks, like a great sea rolling in from the south-east, their wicked curved swords glittering as they raised them in the sun.
‘King Lajos tried everything,’ István went on. ‘He tried diplomatic missions to the Sultan, but his ambassadors were caught in a sticky net of honeyed words. He sent to his allies for help – to the Hapsburgs, to the king of the Poles, to every Christian king in Europe, including Francis I of France, who (unknown to Lajos) was secretly an ally of the Turks in an attempt to surround the Hapsburgs and curtail their growing power. Once again his ambassadors were turned away with smooth words. Why should these great princes endanger their armies in such a conflict? Hungary was far away, let her look after herself.’
‘They didn’t come?’
‘They didn’t come.’
‘Just like 1956?’
‘Exactly. Well, Lajos took to the field with his small army, knowing he had no hope, but what could he do? He was not the man to bow the knee to Suleiman without a fight. The armies met here, near Mohács.’
‘Did he win after all?’ Kate asked in sudden hope, although she knew the answer. She had, after all, read her Hungarian history.
‘No, he was defeated. Here, on 29 August 1526. It will be the anniversary on Monday. Thousands of men died that day, but they went down fighting with honour for the freedom of Hungary against the foreign invader. Lajos himself was crossing a small stream when his horse lost its footing – it was perhaps already injured – and they fell together, the horse crushing the king under him.’
‘So the Turks came to rule Hungary.’ She could hear an odd tinkling noise, like a string of bells – softer and less disciplined than the mass bell in the church at St István’s feast, higher and sweeter than the bells she had heard on the few bellwethers around Szentmargit.
‘Well, that isn’t quite the whole story. The Turks seized Budapest, as you know – you must have seen the Turkish baths and mosques there, and the Muslim prayer niche, the mihrab, in the Belvárosi Templom? But they did not conquer the whole country. When they were at the very height of their powers, in
1566, they over-reached themselves at the siege of Szigetvár, not far from here. Eventually they destroyed the tiny garrison, while a Hapsburg army of a hundred thousand waited in safety near Györ. But the Turks’ own forces had received a mortal wound. Suleiman himself died there.’
‘So the rest of Europe was saved.’
‘As you say. So they were quite right, weren’t they, those kings and princes? They had not lost a single soldier to the Turks, and Hungary held the line against any further Turkish attack. We were the final rock on which the wave of their advance broke.’
‘May I look now?’
‘In a moment. The Turks were driven out, as I am sure you know, after their attack on Vienna in 1683 – something the Hapsburgs couldn’t ignore. Then in Hungary we had the Austrians instead of the Turks. Then the Germans, then the Russians. But in 1976, on the four hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the battle here at Mohács, this memorial was built.’
‘To commemorate the Turkish victory?’ Kate asked, incredulous.
‘As a memorial to those who died valiantly trying to stop the Saracen advance against all odds, and to commemorate the halting of that advance at Szigetvár.’ He paused. ‘And of course the driving out of the Turks in the following century. You have to remember that at the time this memorial was created the 1956 uprising was twenty years behind us. We were just emerging from the dark years, on the road to the freedom which came in 1989.’
He reached up and brushed his fingertips against her closed lids.
‘You may look now.’
Kate opened her eyes and blinked. Dark shapes swam in front of her eyes, and she felt momentarily dizzy. She saw a meadow dotted with strange figures which to her blurred vision seemed to sway. There was a pole with... no, it was too horrible... three severed heads hanging from it. István placed a steadying hand under her elbow and then her vision sharpened and she saw that the heads were carved from wood. The heads, she supposed, of Hungarian knights cut off by those terrible curved scimitars.