“And my land.”
Alfred blew his cheeks out and let the air escape in a hiss of irritation. “What on earth are you doing, Luiza Kaldy, buying something you may only have for a day!”
“You think Erdei doesn’t know that? He thinks I am mad too. A private transaction, I suggested. A private one with the papers kept secret, and finally he was happy to agree!” She paused, glared at Alfred, and said, “Do you think, in normal times, he would ever have accepted the figure I offered? He would have asked for six—seven times as much! But he thought he could swindle a mad old woman, take her money and sign away a house that would belong to neither of us for long.”
“What would you expect him to do? You offer him a gift, a sum of money for something neither of you may keep, and—”
“How do you know we may not keep it? Are you so sure, Alfred Racs-Rassay? Are you absolutely, completely sure that we will not keep our land? If you are so sure of this, why are you and your family still sitting here, waiting in your big house, instead of going to Switzerland where your money is?”
“Well, of course,” Alfred blustered, “we shall not move one inch until the law actually comes to pass. But the government’s intentions have been made plain. And staying on one’s own property is one thing; buying more land is another. None of us would invest in land that we almost certainly are going to lose.”
“I am prepared to invest,” she said bluntly. “I am prepared to invest—with your money!”
She thought Alfred was going to explode. He coughed, shouted, and raged and finally, when he did calm a little, he spent several minutes explaining why she was mad and why he wouldn’t let her be mad with his money. At last he quietened, talking himself into rationality, and then he began to treat her not as though she were wilfully mad but just senile.
“Luiza,” he said with great patience, “you are in trouble, great trouble. I know, because you are a proud woman, that you would not come here asking me for money if it was not that you had some great need. Now, my dear”—he patted her shoulder and she bore the pat with fortitude—“if it is food, or your passage to another country if times make it necessary, then you must tell me. Together we will solve your problem. I will speak to Adam, and we shall see that you are provided for—”
“Don’t be more of a fool than you can help, Alfred!”
“I—”
“I know exactly what I am doing. I am risking all on a throw of the dice. Something I have never done before: gambled. My late husband”—her lip curled in a derisive smile—“it was something he did many times. He rarely won. But I am gambling just once, and I may win—if you will give me the money.”
“Give, now, is it?” screamed Alfred, his control snapping again. “Now it is ‘give me the money.’ A short while ago it was ‘lend.’ And my answer is still the same. I am not mad, even if you are. I will neither give nor lend you my money to throw away on a hare-brained scheme! Nothing will make me give you the money!”
“Not even as a dowry for your daughter?”
Fleeting expressions chased across his face. He was slow-witted, Alfred Racs-Rassay, for all his intellectual pretensions, slow and dull when it came to grasping a point. Fury, bewilderment, conjecture, doubt flew over his face and he did not answer.
“You have a daughter, Alfred. You wife has been trying to find a husband for Kati for four years. You know, and I know, that Felix was once a very favoured suitor.”
“Kati—”
“Kati is the richest girl in this area. Even now, with the war and the troubles that threaten us, Kati is still, will still be, a wealthy bride, a catch for any young man—or she would have been.”
“Would have been?”
“The young men are all gone now, Alfred. They are dead, or maimed, or lost forever in Russia. The few who have come back are very precious. They can pick their brides as they wish. Your wife was always aware that Felix was the most suitable husband for Kati. Yes, Kati is the richest girl in the country, but Felix”—her voice softened—“Felix is a gentleman, a Kaldy, an aristocrat! We are of the old stock, Alfred. You know it. Why, my father was once concerned because you danced with me too often at a ball! He was worried that I would fall in love with you... and he considered you, a Racs-Rassay, unsuitable as a husband.”
Alfred flushed. He resented the reminder, but the old laws of caste and strata were imbedded as deeply in him as in her, and what she said was the truth.
“My father even now, if he were alive, would spit at me if he knew I were contemplating allowing my son to match with your daughter—my son, Felix Kaldy, to wed with the little Racs-Rassay girl—and remember, Alfred, Kati’s antecedents are not too desirable on her mother’s side.”
He was bewildered and helpless. Somehow he was convinced he was being tricked but he could not see where.
“If—if these things are true,” he faltered, “if I admit these things are true, if I say that Kati’s marriage with a Kaldy would bring great credit to her—if I admit these things were so before the war, I cannot admit them now. What difference would it make to Kati now, married to a Kaldy, when neither of them will have any land or money?”
She had trapped him! A surging of confidence pumped blood through her body at a speed that set her heart fluttering again. She had won. A few more points and she had won.
“But if they do have the land, Alfred, then Kati has made a brilliant match!”
Alfred looked puzzled and unhappy again.
“A bargain, Alfred. Give me the money to buy my house back, and even as that transaction is private, so shall the engagement between Felix and Kati be private. We need not even tell them too definitely. If we win our gamble—if the dice fall our way—then I have the Kaldy estate, complete as it used to be, and Kati will be married to the head of that estate and will bear a noble and honourable name.”
“And if we all lose our land?” he muttered unhappily. “If the government takes it away from us?”
“Then I have lost my house, you have lost your money—but only a little of your money—and Kati is still free to make a more suitable match.” Her lip curled again. “To a Swiss watch manufacturer, perhaps. Or even a socialist if they are to be Hungary’s new lords.”
Alfred was trying to follow, trying to see where the snags lay.
“You see, Alfred,” she explained patiently, “you are spending some money on a chance. If you lose, you have only lost your money. If you win, your daughter is mistress of an estate and will bear the name of Kaldy. Her... antecedents... will be forgotten. She will be a Kaldy who was once a Racs-Rassay. And your grandsons will be the inheritors of the old lands.”
He was floundering, helpless, puzzled, but dazzled by the logic of it all.
“I will call Gizi,” he muttered at last. “These things are for Gizi to decide.”
And then she knew it was all right. Gizi Racs-Rassay, whose “antecedents” she had been forced to dwell upon in order to press her point, was a woman of her own brand. Gizi knew exactly what she wanted, had always known. She wanted Felix for her daughter, and when money was the only stake she would be happy to spend it. Money was easy to make. She had created Alfred’s fortune for him, and now some of it was going to be spent on the things that were important.
The interview with Gizi was smooth, efficient, crisp—two clever women settling a bargain to their mutual advantage. There was only one moment of unease and it came when she was on her feet ready to leave.
“I have one point,” Gizi Racs-Rassay said softly, “and it is about your son.”
She stiffened. Had any rumours leaked back? Had the news of Felix’s... difficulties... during the war been made public? He had done something wrong; even she wasn’t too sure what it was except that he had apparently left the place he should have been in and gone somewhere else.
“Yes?” she said guardedly.
“All last summer, in the town and here in the country, it was observed that your son spent much time with my niece, the younger
Ferenc girl. I think it would be most unwise for this... friendship to continue. The engagement is secret for the time being—I shall hint only lightly to Kati; she is foolish at times and might well confide in her cousins—but secret or not, Felix should not spend his leisure with Eva.”
Of course the woman was right. She would see that Felix was kept away from the Ferencs. And yet—the memory of Felix as he had been came to her mind—the zombie-like, catatonic creature who had lain on his bed unwashed. He had never really been cured until the little Ferenc trollop had taken a hand last summer. Whatever she had done, Felix was more human, more like the son she used to know. What would happen if she kept him away from Eva Ferenc? She felt the flutter round her heart again. She did not want Felix to be—ill—like that again. He was her pride, her hope, her firstborn. He was his father again, but his father with the deceit and fecklessness ground out.
But the land... the house... the bargain with the Racs-Rassay family....
“I will do my best,” she promised. “I will see that the friendship is... restricted.”
Gizi smiled. “I would prefer that it ceased altogether,” she said sweetly and the two women tensed, waiting to flare, each wanting to exert the ultimate authority over the other.
But the bargain meant too much to both of them. The moment passed and the demands were not emphasized. They said a careful farewell and then, at last, she was free to go back to the farmhouse and lie exhausted on the bed.
15
And now the real revolution broke over their heads in a red cataclysm of terror. This was no moderate socialism, as—they soon realized—Karolyi’s had been. This was the raw, brutal stuff born in the Soviets, bred in Siberian prison camps, and matured finally in the misery and despair of the Hungarian poor after four years of war. Count Karolyi, aristocrat and idealist, had tried to create Utopia out of a country broken by war. He had promised free elections and land reform and had been cheered in the streets of Budapest, but when his dream had not turned into an instant miracle, when he had failed to prevent the victors of the West from exacting their pound of flesh, the people’s hopes turned to Russia. If Karolyi’s republic could not save them, Bolshevism would. This was the triumph of Bela Kun, prisoner of war in Russia and a disciple of Lenin.
They were still in the country, where they had been all through the winter. Papa was in Budapest, a Budapest that was unstable and violent. Mama, who had at first been afraid but who was now bored, had written and asked if they could return to their house in town. Their own little country town was not like Budapest; it was quiet and calm and fairly settled. Felix had reported on his last visit to the country that, although there was no fuel, and little food in the restaurants, some attempt had been made to establish a social life. Mama couldn’t see why they should have to stay in the country where it was cold and miserable. She wanted to go home.
Papa’s reply had been swift and adamant: they were to stay where they were. And a postscript had added, “Also, my dear Marta, it is possible that the future may see the need for more serious economies. Opening the town house is an unnecessary expense at this time. On the farm you have fuel, food, and servants, and the company of Alfred and Gizi if you need it I wish you all to remain there.”
And so, when the revolution burst over their heads, they were alone on the farm.
The boys were the first to bring back news. Throughout the winter they had been receiving lessons from the schoolmaster in the village. It was unthinkable that they should attend classes with the peasant children, and so every day after school hours were over they went to the master’s house for rudimentary private tutoring. And the news they brought back was that a real revolution, like the Russian one, had broken out and that they were not to go for lessons any more.
“Men came and sat in the schoolhouse,” Jozsef said. His face was very red and flustered. Leo was silent. “They said they were from the revolutionary tribunal. What is the revolutionary tribunal, Malie?”
“I’m not sure, dear. It’s something to do with the government.” She was uneasy but not really afraid. This was their farm and all their peasants knew them, and everyone in the village knew them too. They could hardly come to any harm.
“Everyone in the village was going to the square to listen to them. And the schoolmaster said it wasn’t safe for us and we must come back here and stay here.”
“I see.” Of course it was safe. Their own peasants would hardly let them come to any harm. And anyway, everyone in the village was too cold and tired and hungry to be fired with revolutionary ideas. They would do what peasants always did, listen and neither agree nor disagree.
But nonetheless they all stayed close to the house for several days. No one was really afraid, but perhaps it was wise to be careful. Roza walked into the village to see her sister. When she came back she reported that something called a committee was being formed and that the village was full of strange men, most of them in ex-military uniforms. And then Uncle Alfred came over and what had been no more than uneasiness began to grow into fear.
“The land has been nationalized!” he shouted. “We’ve lost! All of us—your papa, that foolish Kaldy woman, Gizi and myself—we’ve lost everything we have. All gone, all taken away by the Bolshevik rabble!”
“But Uncle Alfred, we’re still here! What have they done if we are still here?”
“For the moment you’re still here. At present it is the big estates that are being divided; soon it will be ours. The Kaldy woman... she fooled me, trapped me.” His face was red, his words incoherent, and none of them really knew what he was talking of. But the fear he generated spread to them all.
“What shall we do, Alfred?” asked Mama shrilly. “What can we do? Oh! Zsigmond was so cruel to leave us here! We have no man to protect us and now we shall be murdered, murdered like they were in Russia!” She began to cry and Malie had an overpowering desire to smack her. If only Mama would help sometimes instead of being so very feminine and helpless.
“Do?” shouted Alfred. “What we must do is go back to town, all of us. We have homes there and we have friends. We can group together for protection. And Zsigmond must come back from Budapest and guard our interests. Yes, we must go back to town at once, all of us.”
Malie felt someone touching the back of her skirt. She didn’t turn round because she knew it was Leo. He was too big now to look for reassurance from her openly, but she was familiar with his slight touch, seeking the comfort that contact with her brought.
“Yes!” Mama’s tears ceased. “Yes, we shall go home! Everyone is in the town. Only we remain here—stupid creatures that we are—to be murdered in our beds!”
“Mama, don’t you think we are safer here? Papa said—”
But Mama was already halfway towards the door. “Papa!” She waved her hand in the air. “Papa said we must stay here until things are settled. Well, they are not settling, they are growing worse. And Alfred has said we must go, so we shall.”
“Tomorrow!” bellowed Alfred. “Be ready in your coach when we come by and we will travel together!”
“Is that wise, Uncle Alfred? Surely a procession—two coaches—would be more likely to attract attention than single travellers?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Mama. “We will go alone. Too many together—I’m sure it is dangerous... and we have Sandor.”
“Mama, I still think we are safer here. We should remain here. No one would attack us. Everyone knows us!”
“What about the strange men? The men—the councils or whatever they are called? They do not know us. And they are the ones who will turn us from our land!”
Amalia gave in. They packed their clothes and took all the food that was available, and finally, because Mama would not wait, they agreed to start at once, that day, instead of waiting for Alfred and the Racs-Rassay coach to be somewhere on the road with them.
Roza was crying, standing at the door rocking to and fro, not understanding but not wanting to be left alone. Finally her weeping p
enetrated through to Mama, who patted her shoulder as she passed her with an armful of petticoats. “Don’t weep, Roza dear. Nothing can happen to you. You are safe. You are one of them. They wouldn’t dream of hurting their own people.”
“But madame—”
“Roza, dear,” interrupted Malie quietly, “go to your sister’s. It will be better for you there. And if—when—your sons come home and you are not here, where else would they go but to your sister in the village?”
She was persuaded, and weeping, screaming farewells, she set off through the trees, a basket of sausage and bread on her arm, a black shawl wound tightly over her head. The farm without Roza was frightening.
“Come. We must leave very soon. Otherwise we shall be travelling in the dark.”
They climbed into the coach and Uncle Sandor flicked the horse. Malie looked back through the acacia trees that were covered in tight green buds. The dogs were staring after them, sad and not understanding. The farmhouse had never looked so bleak.
“Malie, we can’t leave the dogs. What will happen to the dogs?”
“They’ll be all right, Leo. There’s water in the stream and the weather is warmer now. We can’t take them with us.”
“But what will they eat?”
“Roza will send someone to feed them, and they will forage for themselves.”
Roza wouldn’t feed them. There wasn’t enough food to go round among the people for anyone to worry about the dogs. But she was tired, oh, so tired of having to find answers to all the problems and questions. Eva and Mama seemed already to have forgotten why they were leaving; they were just pleased to be going home, Mama because she was bored with country life, Eva because she would be closer to Felix.
The spring countryside was quiet, uncannily quiet. There was hardly anyone working in the fields, and they didn’t pass another person or cart or coach anywhere on the track. There was no sound—not even that of the birds—except for the clopping of Sultan’s hoofs and the noise of the wheels. They passed the boundary of their land—only it wasn’t to be theirs for very much longer—and then the Kaldy land. Everything was the same: quiet, deserted, and somehow... ominous.
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