Abigail

by Magda Szabo

  AN OUTING IN THE COUNTRY

  Years later, when everything that had happened in the fortress was long in the past, and her memories of the war, and those historic times, and of everyone she had feared and loved and despised had become mere shadowy presences among her recollections, the period that followed the night of the air-raid practice seemed to her the most wonderful of her whole life. She continued to miss her father desperately and the anxiety she felt about him never diminished, but she thought less and less about Budapest, about her old circle, the Sokoray Atala and the faces of her friends there; and one day she caught herself thinking that if she could only see her father more often, and have regular contact with Feri and Auntie Mimó, she would be happy to remain in Árkod for as long as was needed. The black-and-white building no longer frightened her, and she slept in peace beneath its vaulted arches.

  She was among sisters, nineteen of them. After that stormy start to the year, and those painful early confrontations, she now lived among them in an intimacy and harmony such as she had never known before. One of the reasons for this was that every class in the school was a real community: you either joined in with everyone else or were totally outside. The other reason lay in the nature of life in the Matula. Once she had shed her isolation and was always among friends and comrades, Gina began to realize how exhilarating it was to live in a forbidden forest. Like hungry little foxes, they were always on the qui vive, looking to squeeze out every bit of fun they could in the thicket of rules and regulations and constant supervision. It was a never-ending quest, in which twenty pairs of shoulders and twenty young minds forever looking for love and laughter supported and sustained one another. Gina had also learned how much more special something was if you had had to struggle to achieve it, and how much stronger you were if you faced life as a group, like mountaineers whose very lives depended on an invisible rope linking them together, sharing the same passions, the same hopes, the same waiting and worrying, and were ready to act as one to help any of your number who needed it.

  After the air-raid practice something had changed too in her attitude to the adults. Without particularly analyzing it, she had come to see that they were not so much enemies as opponents, the way the class itself was divided into two teams to compete against each other in the gym. This permanent fixture against the adults could even be a source of amusement: you had to dodge them or sidestep them, outwit them, and finally take the ball from their hands with a piece of nimble footwork.

  If she could only have spoken more often to her father she might more easily have endured not seeing him, but although he kept up his regular weekly call he never repeated his visit. Once she had won back the confidence of the class she started to worry that someone would ask her why she and he communicated in the unusual way they did, rather than by writing. But the girls’ attitude was not what she had anticipated. That was because the censorship that was supposed to spare their parents undue anxiety made it impossible to write a proper letter home. The girls were very happy to receive them, but writing the same deadly boring platitudes over and over again was not to their taste, and they felt they would gladly give up writing if they could at least hear the voices of their mothers and fathers once a week.

  By now they knew everything about Gina—Marcelle, the world of the Sokoray Atala, the weekly afternoon teas, Auntie Mimó, and of course Feri. Just as she had taken the aquarium to heart, so they had adopted Feri, and every one of them doted on him as if he were not her suitor but their own. They often talked about him after the lights had been turned out. Gina had described what his eyes were like, his hair and his uniform; she had told them that no one had such wonderfully scented locks, and how he kissed her hand and tried to get her father to invite him to their home, because if they couldn’t talk to each other every day then their lives were nothing. Anna Bánki urged Gina to marry him as soon as she could, if possible before her school leaving exams: plenty of people as young as she was were married in wartime. It could be done by the Chaplain, here in the school. Every bit of her dress would be covered in shiny spangles—it would make the director explode! There was a cherished tradition that members of the school should marry in the chapel rather than in town. Mitsi Horn had in her day, to that certain young man. She loved the school, Bánki reassured Gina, and often came there to walk about the garden for no particular reason, just to see it. The porter adored her, as everyone did, including Gedeon Torma, and she was allowed to come and go whenever she pleased. Surely Gina must have seen her?

  Gina had not seen her, nor was she very interested. The memory of Mitsi Horn still rankled. However kind she had been towards her, and however true it was that everything that had happened at that time had turned out for the best, the name of Mitsi Horn was linked in her mind with the memory of that failure: she really had no wish to see her strolling about the building or in the garden.

  But playing with the idea of marriage was a source of pleasure, as was tending to the aquarium. She took such good care of it that Éles was often moved to praise her. As a relationship it was so much more real than what she currently had with Feri. She was not allowed to write to him; if she should ever manage to get hold of an envelope and wanted to smuggle a letter out of the school, her father had made her promise not to; and even if he hadn’t, she had no idea how she would send it. Whenever they came anywhere near a postbox Susanna marched them past at near-running pace, and gave it such a wide berth that they would have needed arms four meters long to be able to reach it. But for all that, Feri was alive among them, in the same way that Murai had her philosopher, and Salm her Samuka. This “Samuka” was really called Pál, but by another Matula tradition every theologian was given that nickname.

  Moreover, as she now discovered, they too, every one of them except Torma, had someone to dream about other than their husbands from the class inventory—some living person in the outside world, a real boy, a young man of flesh and blood, whom they could talk about and compare with the object of other people’s desires, someone they could hope to meet again in the school holidays and perhaps even exchange a few words with, away from the prying eyes and ears of the Matula. And there was another thing they had in common: they were all just a little bit in love with Péter Kalmár.

  This last feeling was genuinely disinterested, not only because they knew that it was hopeless but because they were so attached to the idea of Kalmár that they argued all the time who he himself might be in love with, and how they could help him find happiness with her. They were sure that his chosen one, if she existed, would have to be kept as much a secret as their own husbands from the class inventory. Kalmár would be watched just as closely by the director as they were by Susanna; if he really were courting a woman it would have to be with the specific intention of marrying them, and not in the long term either, because that would be considered most unsuitable: the teachers in the Matula were either not involved in relationships or they married immediately and moved out of the staff residence to live in the town. The class might not be able to follow his movements beyond the school gate, but they were confident that he was seeing no one outside, because if he were he would be wearing a ring. To track down whoever it was who filled his private thoughts they would have to look elsewhere, somewhere closer to home: perhaps even in the school itself.

  That they had been right in this became clear on the country outing.

  When she had bumped into Kőnig on that stormy evening of her attempted escape, Gina had not paid much attention in the pelting rain to what he had said about an outing. It was only later that she learned from the others that this was an event that happened twice a year, in the spring and autumn. The trip took them a short way out of town, to where the school owned a piece of land consisting of a vineyard and an orchard. In the past they had always gone in October to pick the grapes, but since the start of the year there had been doubt whether the Bishop would authorize it. In the end, he did give his permission, though it came a full month later than usual,
and Kőnig was sent to see if there was somewhere they could shelter in the event of another air-raid warning and to check that there would be a suitable train connection. He found that neither the wine-pressing room nor the hut could be considered, as both were too small, but there was a little wood nearby to which they could withdraw if the need arose. It was not improbable at that time, November 1943, that any vineyard or orchard around Árkod might be attacked.

  Kalmár made the welcome announcement in person, with a warning that they should make very sure that none of them did anything that would result in their having to be left behind. The class breathed a sigh of happiness, but the only time they dared let off steam was an hour later in the gym, when Gertrúd Truth emerged from her office and tossed the big ball over to them. She told them afterwards that she had enjoyed listening to the lively enthusiasm they had been showing, but in fact they had ignored the ball completely. They had been rolling about on the mats clinging to one another, and thinking of anything but gymnastics. A country outing that broke up the weekly routine of the Matula—now that held possibilities.

  During the next seven days their behavior was exemplary. By the Saturday assessment not one of them had incurred a single punishment. Sunday passed as usual. Because every form of physical labor was forbidden on the Lord’s day, even on outings, the trip was set for the following Monday, a normal working day that Gedeon Torma had declared a school holiday. Apart from the porter everyone was going: the kitchen staff, the cleaners, the doctor (no one was currently ill) and the entire teaching body. As the procession reached the front gate Gina was struck by the thought that not since she arrived had the fortress been so dead and deserted: there was now only the porter in his office and Abigail down at the end of the garden.

  Abigail had not shown her hand for some time, or if she had come to anyone’s aid Gina had not heard of it. But she thought about her constantly, and kept trying to imagine the face, the real face, of the person behind the statue. She began by thinking that if she could keep a steady watch on it, by night as well as by day, she would be able to spot which of the grown-ups was taking the messages left in the stone pitcher, but she soon realized that would be impossible. It would be unwise to be seen lingering there for too long. The site was in full view of the staff residence, and anyone standing in front of the Empire-style recess in the wall for hours on end would inevitably attract attention sooner or later, and besides, there would be little point in watching it by day. The person behind the mask surely went there at night, when all doors and windows had been shut and the pupils were safely in their dormitories. The moment they had got back to the school after the party at Mitsi Horn’s, that old gossip Kőnig would surely have prattled away to one and all about how he had found little Vitay at the station, soaked to the skin. That would have been how Abigail knew about it, and immediately realized what she had been up to. The contact they had had, the fact that Abigail had written to her, was the one thing she had not told the other girls about, even when they had become indispensable to her. The reason, oddly enough, was not that she wanted to hide the fact that she had run away because she was so angry with them but that she could not bear to admit that it had been Kőnig who had not so much found her as caught her, that in his soft-hearted benevolence he had told lies on her behalf, and had physically dragged her back. To have been rescued by him, to have been his victim, as she felt it, was so humiliating that she had not yet got over it.

  The procession was now on its way to the station. Everyone was dressed for work and the girls had scarves on their heads. The early November morning was crisp, and the outlook was promising, but they had come prepared for both rain and seriously cold weather. Instead of their usual school bags they had brought rucksacks to carry their lunch boxes, a raincoat, an extra coat and gloves for picking fruit.

  They were now passing down the street where Mitsi Horn lived. As they neared the monument to the Sorrows of Hungary Gina involuntarily glanced to her left, but this time there was no placard. Mitsi Horn’s windows were open, but they did not see her, only the old lady, who was shaking out a duster and who called out a greeting. At the station they had to mark time briefly. It was still rather early and there was little daylight in the large waiting room, where some passengers whose train was due were dozing on the benches. Now that they were sitting side by side, rather than walking in line, Gina could study the adults more easily. Kőnig was wearing a battered old loden coat, knee breeches, a scarf and a very strange-looking hat. Kalmár did not have a hat. He looked cool, dapper and elegant in his freshly ironed, russet-colored sporting gear, a joy to behold in the morning light.

  Kőnig went from one class to another, as if he had not yet decided which one to join, but no one invited him to stay. He asked the fifth year if they were glad to be on the outing. Their reply was so frostily polite that he quickly moved on and started to stroll about the room. Finding it rather dark, he looked around for the light switch and turned it on to help everyone see. He wandered up and down, yawned, gazed around, then suddenly stood rooted to the floor and shouted, “For heaven’s sake!”

  All eyes followed his gaze. Gina clapped her hand over her mouth, as if to stop herself completing the response that was rising inside her. One of the walls was covered entirely with posters about the war. The nearest to them showed a map of Hungary, Hungary as dismembered at the Treaty of Trianon, surrounded by all the lands she had lost. Above it, in huge black letters were the words:

  NO, NO, NEVER!

  The slogan had been extended with yet more letters in black, heavily daubed to make them stand out even more dramatically. Around the map of Hungary as she now was, these words followed the original three:

  DO NOT SEND YOUR SONS TO HITLER’S BUTCHERY!

  The director threw a murderous glance in Kőnig’s direction, and Gina heard him asking in a loud hiss why he had drawn attention to it. If he ever saw something like that he should keep it to himself and inform the station authorities later, not point it out to the pupils. The sleepy travellers were all now staring up at the wall; some of them had got up and moved nearer the offending poster. The director ordered the school to turn their faces away, with the result that even the youngest and most naive of the first-formers now knew exactly what was there. At this point Kőnig disappeared. There came the sound of boots marching their way, but their train was drawing into the station, it was time to board, and they never saw the soldiers standing on one of the benches, trying to tear down the poster. It was later found to have been attached not with nails but with an unusually powerful glue.

  The dissident of Árkod. The man into whose care she had been entrusted!

  She felt her heart beating so violently that she imagined its trembling must be visible under her coat. This was the second time she had seen his handiwork. Oh, how brave he must be, how incredibly daring! He must have slipped out during the night, climbed up onto the same bench and painted his message at lightning speed before he could be spotted. If only she could have seen him and found out who he was! But his face was as great a mystery as Abigail’s.

  It was of course forbidden to discuss what they had seen, though some of the teachers felt free to comment. As soon as they were on the train the girls’ faces all turned towards Kalmár, as the person who always spoke most eloquently and in the manliest terms about the war. But at that moment he was not much interested in the poster and he ignored the questioning eyes. His own were fixed on someone else—Susanna, who had just sat down beside him. He had whipped out his handkerchief, rubbed the bench vigorously (it was not quite as spotless as it might have been) and given her a look that made the fifth year draw in their breath. It was no longer a matter of supposition, of mere conjecture: this was certainty. He was in love with the prefect; she was his chosen one—the severe saint who every morning hid her golden locks beneath her gray bonnet (pointlessly, of course: by midday they would have slipped out to shed their golden glow on her kindly forehead again). Their suspicions were confirmed:
his hopes were in vain. And then, to make the journey even more memorable, something of even greater significance occurred, something that made Gina disloyally turn her thoughts away from the dissident of Árkod. Kőnig had not found a seat for himself or a hanger for his rucksack, and was still hovering between the different classes, and he too—she saw this quite distinctly—had noticed what Kalmár had done and his face had immediately darkened. Kalmár and Susanna had their heads bent over the fifth year’s work schedule. He was making the decisions and she was writing them down on sheets of paper. They were so close together they must have been able to feel each other’s breath. Kőnig immediately turned away, found somewhere to sit at last, and began to root around in his rucksack.

  This was beautiful beyond beauty and exciting beyond excitement. Kőnig, the clown, had he not pursed his lips at the sight of Kalmár and Susanna leaning their heads together? Was this not hopeless love? Was this not pure jealousy? “Are we allowed to sing?” Nacák asked ecstatically, and Kalmár sent Bánki to the director to ask permission. She came back with a favorable answer, and Mari Kis asked Susanna for her favorite song. The prefect hesitated for a moment, as if she were unsure whether it was entirely proper for her to have such a thing, then said that she liked songs about flowers. The class immediately started on “Lily of the Valley,” and she sat listening with her eyes closed. Hajdú came in from another compartment and almost managed a smile at the sounds of love and youth and joy welling up from the fresh young throats, so much lovelier and more meaningful than even under his baton.

  Suddenly Kalmár rose to his feet and moved away, as if it were now all too much for him. Kőnig emptied his rucksack, took out his lunch pack and gazed at it thoughtfully. The director, who had also come to hear the singing, noticed what Kőnig was up to and shook his head in disapproval. Everyone knew why: yet again he had been obliged to point out to the teacher that his behavior was out of order; it had been made quite clear from the start no one was to eat anything before lunch. “Sausage heals a broken heart!” Torma whispered, and the class began to laugh until they were almost choking, each girl egging the next on to further hilarity, and Susanna’s eyes snapped open. The director, sensing that his niece’s remark was somehow the source of this unseemly delight, told her to go and sit in the corner until the next stop. Then his dark presence vanished through the door.