by Magda Szabo
“As soon as I can,” she heard the faraway voice say. “At the moment it’s impossible. But I shall ring you every week. Goodbye, my little one.”
The line buzzed loudly, then subsided into a steady crackle. A voice asked, “Have you finished?” and the connection was cut off. Finished indeed, thought Gina, and she stared dumbly at the receiver, as if it were something she had never seen in her life before. She doesn’t know just how much is finished. Now they’ve taken even this away from me. They haven’t given me any writing paper, and even if they had I wouldn’t be allowed to tell the truth, and there’s no point in telephoning because I’m like a prisoner standing between two guards. My classmates have rejected me. I’m not allowed to complain. What will become of me now?
She flinched: someone seemed to have said something. How long had the director been speaking to her?
“. . . so once again we have the extraordinary situation in which it fails to occur to a girl to thank the director and the prefect for sparing her anxious father any further worry by not mentioning that she has already had to be punished for highly inappropriate behavior, and yet . . .”
“Thank you,” Gina whispered. “Thank you very much.”
“Georgina Vitay may leave the room,” the director said.
Gina took her leave and followed Susanna into the corridor. When they reached the pupils’ quarters the prefect stopped her outside the day room. She could hear music coming from inside, Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik—the first secular music she had heard since she had been locked up in the fortress. Apparently once the letter-writing session was over a concert was held in the sitting room. The prefect peered inside to make sure that everything was in order. The fifth year were sitting around the gramophone and Salm was choosing the records. Seeing the new arrivals, they all stood up. Susanna nodded for them to carry on and closed the door again. Her grave, intelligent face looked into Gina’s for what seemed ages, then she asked: “Is something the matter, Georgina?”
She shook her head. Nothing.
“You don’t seem very happy. Has someone upset you?”
“No.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
No, she couldn’t help her. There was one thing that would have helped—to leave her alone with the telephone. But she hadn’t done it.
“I realize,” Susanna went on, “that your mood has been influenced by this unhappy start to the year, when you had to be punished so very early on and barred from going into town. But you can learn from Mari Kis, and Szabó and Murai. They have submitted to their punishment with fortitude. They don’t walk around with long faces. This will all be over soon enough, and the shame of not being allowed out will become easier to bear.”
She doesn’t imagine, she cannot possibly imagine, thought Gina, that that is the reason why I am so unhappy! Here now was her chance to take revenge on them all—all those who had been looking straight through her for a week: surely not even Susanna could be capable of pardoning these good Christians for their implacable refusal to forgive her?
But then again, here was a tiny ray of hope, one that helped her breathe more easily. This time she would not stubbornly persist in her anger as she had before. This time she would be no traitor. She knew that if she told Susanna the truth she would certainly believe her, and she would see to it that justice was done. Once she knew that Mari Kis had lied about the Mitsi Horn tradition and that the class really had been married to the likes of the Founder-Bishop and the graduation song, she would probably inflict a punishment on them as hard as Gina herself had suffered. But if Gina said nothing, would the others appreciate that when she told them?
“May the Lord be with you,” Susanna said in parting. Gina went into the day room. The music had come to a stop and Salm was searching for the next record. She sat down beside Cziller, who immediately stood up and moved her chair away. The sense of injustice that rose up in her forced her to break her silence. “You can stay where you are!” she said. “This time I am not guilty. They asked me what was wrong, but I didn’t tell them. I didn’t tell them about the way you are behaving towards me, even though both my father and Susanna tried to make me.”
Once again silence—that terrible silence that the fifth year knew how to produce when they wanted. She thought they were not going to reply. Then Mari Kis spoke up.
“You couldn’t have told your father because a Matula pupil is never allowed to complain—as they must have told you. Even the first years know that. As for Susanna, you might think it a great thing to have said nothing, but we don’t. You’re just weak, Vitay. You said nothing because you knew that if you betrayed us a second time we’d make it so hard for you you’d end up running away.”
Salm put some Beethoven on, the Fifth Symphony. Mari Kis placed her elbows on the table, her plaits fell forward and she gave herself up to the music: it was as if she had immersed herself in an infinite river of serenity. She did not look at Gina again. No one did. Gina remained where she was, her heart beating wildly. Mari Kis, my bitterest enemy, you may not have meant to, but you have given me just what I need. You have shown me the answer I couldn’t find myself. If I can’t ask my father for help, and you are going to reject me forever, then I can’t stay here. At home I could explain everything. My father would understand and forgive me. And if I can’t stay with him, he’ll find me another school for clever children. Thank you for showing me what I must do. I shall run away.
GINA PREPARES TO ESCAPE
So she was going to run away: but how?
Only the intention was clear. She had never been allowed out of the fortress on her own, and now not even as part of a group. She did not know the city, having moved there only recently, and she was banned from even setting foot outside the gate. As soon as she got up the next morning she raced through her chores to allow herself more free time. She walked round the courtyard examining the gates, the perimeter wall and the windows, looking for a way out. As soon as she was in the street she would ask the first person she met to tell her the way to the station.
She would also have to get her own clothes back. In those happy days when the others were still talking to her she had realized what a significant presence the Matula was in the city, and she knew that any adult seeing her wandering about unaccompanied in her school uniform would know that the girls were not allowed out on their own: anyone might accost her and take her back. The housekeeper would never voluntarily hand over any of her belongings—she could be very sure of that; she would have to make the attempt dressed as she was. She would leave the hat behind, and take off her school stockings—those ugly black ribbed stockings that stood for everything Matula—and the uniform. That would leave the shapeless everyday school smock, but perhaps no one would notice it.
So far she had seen the road only as far as the white church. The main thing was to find a way out. Over the wall would be impossible. She was now familiar with the extent and layout of the main building and knew that there was a gate cut into the perimeter nearby, but it was made of cast iron. Naturally, it was locked, and apparently it had no key. Every window opening onto the street was barred. The only way to get out would be if someone, perhaps the porter, opened the main gate for her.
But of course, the porter!
She remembered the surly, thick-set man who had met them on their arrival. She ran across the garden, between the two wings of the U-shaped building, to the vaulted portal where his office was. If she could strike up a friendship with this man and get him so used to seeing her about that he no longer thought anything of it, she might be able to steal the key and nip out through the gate. Never mind if it was raining or whatever else the weather might be doing: coat or no coat, she absolutely had to escape.
She stood at the door of the lodge and peered in through the glass. The man had his back to her and was reading a newspaper. On the wall facing him was a board hung with keys, and halfway down there was a large, old-fashioned one, clearly the one for the main gate. In her o
ld school she had been on very good terms with the porter. From his office he sold all sorts of goods—sweets, pretzels, exercise books and pencils. Why not try to make friends with this one? She might just manage it. Well, she would do her best.
The porter put down his paper, as if he sensed that he was being watched. He turned round, spotted her immediately, and came out of the office to ask what she wanted. She had no idea what to reply. She simply smiled at him, unable to think of a sensible answer. She could hardly come straight out with the announcement that she found the dear old boy so very congenial she would like to have a chat with him. It was a bit too soon for that! In fact, impossible.
“You must go back to the school,” he told her, not angrily or sternly, but in a matter-of-fact tone that invited no contradiction. “You are not allowed near the office. Haven’t you read the house rules?”
She hadn’t read them, though there were copies posted up everywhere, in the corridors as well as the dormitories. The sight of their contents, the long lists of what was allowed and what was not, filled her with such repugnance that she had always just glanced at them and turned her head away. She went back to the main building and began to read the framed typescript.
Rising: weekdays, Sundays and public holidays, 6:30 a.m. Breakfast: 7:30 a.m. It was the daily timetable, which she already knew. Boarders are not allowed to borrow money from one another. Money must not be carried on one’s person. That wasn’t what the old chap had been referring to. It is forbidden to fraternise with the auxiliary staff . . .
So that was it. The reason was pretty obvious. If you hung around with the non-teaching staff you might make friends with one of the cleaners, or the porter, or the gardener, who might then offer to smuggle letters in and out for you, or turn a blind eye when you slipped out through the gate. It was no good: if she couldn’t rely on the porter she would have to think of something else. And she would have to bide her time. From now on she would be so conscientious, so hard-working, so meek and mild, so cheerful even, that people would think she had come to terms with the place, perhaps even come to like it. And as soon as a chance came up, on one of the outings, she would disappear.
For that to happen, she would first have to familiarize herself with the list of excursions. She would also need to know which routes led out of town, and what shops and public buildings there were for her to hide in before her final escape. All this would take patience.
At their next meeting in the staff common room the class teachers agreed that all was going well in the fifth year. The new girl from Budapest was exceptionally hard-working and the others seemed to be doing their best to keep up with her: no doubt they wanted to show her that no newcomer was going to outshine anyone who had been at the school from the start, and they were certainly matching her diligence. Miss Gigus, who had also taught this group the year before, both German and French, praised Kalmár for the way he was guiding them through the difficult stage of puberty. Last year it had been hard work keeping them in check; this term they were behaving well, and were most conscientious. The Vitay girl spoke French and German as if they were her mother tongue, and, as Sister Susanna would testify, the others spent every afternoon coaching one another so that they could keep up with her, and they were all making remarkable progress. Kalmár met this with a modest smile. He had no doubt that the change was entirely due to the fact that he was the form tutor. They were simply trying to please him, to impress him with their impeccable behavior, and of course Vitay herself would want him to forget the painful circumstances of their first meeting. He would never be able to imagine that there was a covert war going on against the girl. They were all so much in love with him they just didn’t have the time for one.
For the four girls who had been gated, the second week of their exclusion from outings was coming to an end. The practice was that after the last lesson on a Saturday the subject teachers and prefects would attend a brief meeting presided over by the director to share their experiences of the class. On this second occasion everyone spoke so highly of them that, after a short pause, the director announced that, if the standard of work continued at the present level, then they might perhaps be put forward for the annual invitation to a certain event in October. The teachers exchanged smiles, Kalmár gazed round complacently, Miss Gigus expressed her strong approval, the Chaplain said he could see nothing against it, and even Gertrúd Truth, the physical education teacher for whom nothing was ever good enough and who always demanded more than was humanly reasonable, nodded and made no objection. “They must not be told beforehand,” the director concluded. Everyone agreed. It had happened more than once that the implied compliment had gone to the girls’ heads.
It was Kőnig who had argued most strongly that the decision should be kept a secret. But the moment the meeting was over he raced over to the refectory, where the pupils were sitting waiting for the teachers to arrive so that they could start eating. Only the deaconesses ate with them. The teachers’ table stood on a raised platform, which greatly annoyed the girls. It meant that it would be noticed from above if anyone had spilled her soup on her napkin, or let a morsel slip from her spoon, which did nothing for the appetite. He went straight to the fifth year and told them what had been decided. Their faces lit up. Gina did not know what the invitation involved, and it would have been pointless asking the others—she would just have to wait and see what would happen. Someone sitting near her mentioned Mitsi Horn, and that only increased her bitterness. She had never met this person, but she loathed the very sound of her name.
She also had her opinion of Kőnig. He had begun his little speech by saying that really he should not be telling them what he was about to: he just wanted to put them on their guard and warn them against denying themselves the anticipated pleasure by some stupid prank. To think that a grown-up should be so incapable of managing his tongue! Especially when what he was saying was in their interest rather than his own!
It was a gray, joyless Saturday. Her father telephoned again in the afternoon, this time not from Budapest but from Sümeg. The conversation went exactly as it had the week before, but this time both Susanna and the director thought that she had been much more natural and less depressed.
The next morning at breakfast the prefect seemed unusually preoccupied. Since it was a Saturday the meal was at eight. She had a prolonged conversation with Sister Erzsébet and then disappeared. She returned with a radiant face and went straight to Gina. It was now clear where she had gone, and for what purpose. She had been to see the director.
The two-week gating was due to end on Monday evening, but it would mean that the offenders would miss a second church service. Since its purpose was obviously to fortify their minds and souls, she had asked if she could take them to it, and the director had decided that yes, considering their exemplary behavior over the last fortnight, they could go, and they could also join the afternoon walk into town.
The four girls were delighted, but none of them as much as Susanna. They donned their going-out uniform and set off. Once again Gina found herself walking between Mari Kis and Torma. They pointedly whispered to each other over her head, but it no longer upset or even interested her. She was studying the road to the church with fresh eyes, looking out for any possibilities it might offer for escape, and this continued once they were inside the building itself. But she quickly realized it was probably the least suitable place of all. Every class was assigned to its own pew, and members of the clergy stood at all the exits. If she feigned illness it would achieve nothing. Susanna would simply leave the church and take her back to the school.
When the service was over they had some free time. After lunch came the handing-out of the post. The parcel that her father had promised the previous Saturday had also arrived. Going up to receive the large cardboard box Gina could almost see Auntie Róza carefully placing the delicacies in rows, her hands caked with icing sugar, flour and jam. Her father must have had more time than usual to spare, because he had written: Fo
r my daughter Gina, in the care of Sister Susanna. And perhaps he also thought it unsoldierly to use his rank when naming the source: she read Sender: János Tóth (the name of his batman). Place of sending: Monor. He certainly seemed to be doing a lot of travelling.
It was now time for her to hand them around, though you were not required to share anything sent from home. She began by offering the pastries to Susanna; she took a small sugar-coated star and placed it beside her place setting, but did not eat it.
“Bring some side plates,” she instructed the girl on duty. “You are all allowed to have some of Georgina’s pastries.”
The girl on duty was Bánki. She fetched a large round platter and twenty side plates from the kitchen. Susanna went over to the window and stood looking out into the garden, where Miss Gigus was walking arm in arm with Eszter Sáfár, the Head of the Lower School. Instead of her black gown Miss Gigus was wearing a brightly colored dress and blue shoes with enormously high heels, and Susanna was completely unaware of what was happening behind her back. Though she knew exactly what would happen, Gina started to offer the platter round, beginning with Ari, who was sitting across the table from her. Without even a “thank you,” Ari turned her head away. Salm, sitting beside her, hissed: “Don’t waste your time, there’s no point. You can stuff the whole lot yourself.”
She stood with the plate in her hand, helpless and mortified. If Susanna discovered that the offerings had been refused it would be seen as another betrayal. But the prefect was still staring out into the garden, at the extraordinary dress, and had noticed nothing.
Eventually she came back. She looked at the untouched platter in surprise.
“Did you not offer them to the others?” she asked.
“She did,” the fifth year replied with one voice.
“Has everyone had some?”