Abigail

by Magda Szabo

  The same could not be said of Kalmár. First of all, he lived on the other side of the grille-gated corridor, in the staff residence from which there was another exit onto the street, and when not on duty he could come and go as he pleased. And their daily timetables were very different. There was simply no chance of their ever meeting without other people being present unless they themselves planned it, which, knowing Susanna, was not likely to happen. None of the girls doubted that she had been far from indifferent to the way he had looked at her on the train, or imagined that he could be any less attractive to her than he was to them. They spent many hours considering the possibilities.

  It was therefore both hilarious and confusing that night, when the prefect came unexpectedly into their room to stop them gossiping after the lights had been turned out: at just that moment their “gossip” had been every bit as altruistic as she expected from them at all times in other areas of life. How could she possibly have guessed that it was her own wedding that they were busy organizing, and debating how she should do her hair for the great occasion, and what indeed could be done with such long tresses. Torma knew the most about these in-house Matula weddings. She had been barely seven when she first visited her uncle and met some retired former employees who had been there at the start of the century and had actually attended Mitsi Horn’s wedding, the first ever in the school, in which, she claimed, Kőnig had acted as a witness. No one was ready to believe that, but Torma swore “honest to God,” which brought a temporary chill to the proceedings (to swear an oath in regard to such matters was considered a terrible sin). She also insisted that the previous porter, who had retired two years earlier, had always said of Kőnig that not even Jesus could understand how he turned out such a coward, because he had not been like that in his younger days. Again they refused to believe her, or rather, they decided that if he had said that then he must have been pulling her leg. That Mitsi Horn—Mitsi Horn of all people!—would have allowed the young Kőnig to be a witness at her wedding was completely improbable. Murai told Gina that when her time came to be joined with Feri, if the wedding was to be in the Matula, then perhaps she too should have him as a witness. He would stand at the holy table, a lunch box in one hand and his hat with the ear flaps in the other, and listen dewy-eyed as Gina vowed her undying loyalty to Feri. After all, if Mitsi Horn had done as much, she had a duty to keep up the tradition. The idea was so hilarious they nearly fell out of bed laughing, and Gina was reduced to whimpering that she had a pain in her stomach from trying to hold her laughter in. She thanked them profusely for their advice, but as a variation on the idea of Kőnig as a witness she would like to propose a new tradition for the Matula: after all, where was it written that only Mitsi Horn and her successors could start one? The class listened in great excitement as she told them that at her old school girls who hadn’t fully prepared their lessons would avoid the usual questioning if they kicked the statue of Sokoray Atala, the man who had given his name to the school; whereupon Salm, whom the class inventory had given in marriage to the school’s founder, János Matula, protested vehemently, worked herself into a frenzy and swore that anyone who tried to kick her husband would find themselves in real trouble. That made them laugh again until their jaws ached. Murai then asked Gina if she would be so kind, in consideration of the exceptionally strong feelings of Mrs. János Matula, née Gisella Salm, as to suggest some other custom from the Sokoray Atala Gymnasium. Nothing sprang immediately to Gina’s mind, but the next day, during Kőnig’s first lesson, an idea popped up in her head while they were doing a written test, and her face lit up so much that he asked her what had so galvanized her, and was it possible that writing a Hungarian essay could have such power to raise her spirits?

  Kőnig had changed since the country outing. He smiled less often, and rarely engaged in conversation with the pupils. It was as if he felt so ashamed of himself for his woeful behavior that he no longer wanted to be in company. Gina did not answer him—something you could get away with only with Kőnig—and as she bent over her exercise book again she nudged Mari Kis’s elbow. (Mari, like Torma, had returned to her seat as soon as Gina made her peace with the class and their view of the blackboard had been somehow restored.) Mari knew instantly that Gina had had the idea she had been searching for, and that in the break, when they circled round the corridor in pairs pretending to be repeating their lesson aloud, as they were supposed to, she could tell them what it involved.

  There was still some time to go before the bell. Gina had made very little headway with her composition and she would have to make a special effort if she wanted to excel herself. They were always given two hours for writing, the first of which was spent preparing a draft; that day’s topic, “A Letter to the Front,” was written up on the board. Like everyone else, she wrote urging the heroes to stand their ground. She promised them that those at home would in their own way also be working for victory, and added that if that victory came at the cost of their lives they should not feel that their sacrifice would be in vain. The war was in a sacred cause, and those left behind would preserve their memory faithfully. But as she warmed to her task and became absorbed in the essay—it was one that every schoolchild in the country was asked to write in November 1943—she found her buoyant mood fading. Looking along the rows of heads bent over exercise books she thought of how, back in the dormitory, the girls talked about absolutely everything but the war. There was scarcely one of them who did not have someone at the front; the thought of it was always there, just below the surface of their consciousness; and yet all they ever whispered about was love, their teachers, and what had happened in lessons that day. She was the only person in the class who worried about why it had all started and how it might end. Some of the pupils were actually in mourning; they were allowed to ignore the usual rules and wear whatever they chose under their school uniforms to mark their grief. The father of one of the first years had fallen in the summer, and the same had happened to a girl in the seventh year. The orphans whimpered and shed tears whenever they thought about it, but their loss never led them to ask whether things could have been any different.

  The clarity that Gina owed her father in this matter was a real burden. In his lessons on national defense Kalmár painted a horrifying picture of anyone who opposed or even questioned the war and thereby undermined national solidarity. His voice took on a special edge whenever he held forth about why the struggle was necessary, repeating over and over that whatever sacrifice might be called for, in the end good would come of it. It would restore order to our neighbors in Europe and secure the return of our lost lawful territories. Had she not had that fateful conversation with her father in the Hajda patisserie Gina might never have thought otherwise: it was also what she had heard time and time again in Budapest, at the Sokoray Atala and at Auntie Mimó’s.

  It would have been so good if there had been someone in the Matula who knew what the truth was, the way her father did—someone who could keep her abreast of what was really happening, so that she would know at every stage how long the war was likely to last and when life might return to its usual course. But in the Matula, to all appearances at least, there was no one who did not enthusiastically support it, and Kalmár was such a persuasive speaker that at times she had to shake herself and remember the things her father had told her.

  And that was difficult, because Kalmár’s expositions were always so much more comforting than the grimly objective picture painted by the General. She had even managed to persuade herself that his zeal was genuine, that he really did believe what he taught them. There were moments when she pitied her class tutor for being so grievously mistaken and predicted that when he did wake up to the truth he would realize that he had been an advocate of pointless bloodshed. The poor man, how astonished he would be to find he had been wrong all along. Perhaps by then, she hoped, he might already be married to Susanna, and she would help him regain his self-respect.

  At break she told Bánki and Salm about the
Sokoray Atala tradition she wanted to introduce. In her old school, she said, there had been a senior girl who liked to write two versions of her Hungarian essays, the first as the school expected it to be and the second for private consumption. She was a clever, rather daring sort of girl, who had had a very unusual upbringing. Even while she was still a pupil her parents took her everywhere, including going out dancing in the evening and to nightclubs. Of course, none of the teachers knew about that, and as for what else she might have got up to, best not think about it. She was not only a bit of a madcap, she was also the best in her class at essay writing. She absolutely hated having to write on the topics she had been set, so, to relieve her boredom, and because she enjoyed a bit of mockery, she would produce two versions. In the lesson she would write what was required, and when she got home she did the whole thing again, both for her own amusement and to entertain the class. The home versions were of course secret. They would be passed round from hand to hand, and the girls almost died laughing when they read them.

  For example, if they were asked to write on “An Evening at Home,” she would conjure up a picture of sitting with her family after supper. Her mother and father would both be there and she would be playing the piano and singing traditional songs for her dear old grandmother dozing next to the stove, until the old lady took herself off to an early bed, devoutly told the beads on her Rosary, and went on to dream of the smiling faces of those she loved.

  The private version went as follows: it was really her grandmother who liked the nightclubs; she was much younger at heart than the girl’s own mother, quite astonishingly so; she smoked like a chimney day and night, she made the best cocktails of anyone in the family, she hated schools and was forever telling her to clear out of that stupid academy because what was the point of staying for your leaving exams—those endless lessons must be so boring, so why not just have a good time? Whenever she gave a party the grandmother would dance with the boys until even the ablest and fittest of them would throw in the towel. Her father was never around, and no one could ever find out where he went. His wife would be at the dressmaker’s or the women’s club, or if she wasn’t at the hairdresser’s she would be sitting in the cinema. The girl could not recall a single occasion when they had all dined together. By sheer good fortune they all loved going to shows and dances, and that was how they met and how she and her parents and grandmother were able to get together on a regular basis.

  Salm and Bánki instantly saw the possibilities this presented, and when at the end of the second hour Kőnig announced the topic for their homework preparation, “Portrait—a Character Study in Words,” Bánki squealed with delight, then excused herself for having a hiccup. It could be a portrait of anyone, Kőnig went on, anyone they knew personally. By the afternoon, when the time came to prepare for the next day’s lessons, the whole class knew what the game involved. Susanna, sitting in for the teacher, was astonished at the zeal they brought to the task: naturally she had not the least idea that they were writing a double essay, the second one hidden from her sight under the blotting paper and destined for one another’s amusement back in the dormitory, a very different audience.

  In their class exercise books almost everyone wrote about their father or mother. Gina had found it harder to choose, and considered three people. Of her mother she had no first-hand memories, only what she had heard from other people. As for her father, from what she now knew about his secret activities it was unthinkable that she should present him as an enthusiastic soldier. His real character was a secret she could never reveal, and she did not want merely to describe his appearance, so she decided to write about Marcelle. She described what the young Frenchwoman looked like, outlined her character, explained their close relationship, and ended by saying how much she missed her, and how much she hoped that when the war was over she would be able to return to her former position in the house on Gellért Hill.

  During the lesson Mari Kis had sent a note round under the table asking everyone to say who they would be writing about in secret. When the list reached Gina, she noticed that while most of them had opted for Kalmár, Torma had chosen the director, two others Mitsi Horn, and four Susanna. Only Szabó had chosen to write about Gertrúd Truth and their difficult relationship in gym lessons: because she was unable to climb ropes, the teacher was constantly making remarks about her fat legs and how she would be good for nothing but the harem, spending the whole day sitting around on cushions eating sugary sweets and waiting for the sultan. Perhaps next time they’ll choose more wisely, Gina reflected. How could you make fun of Kalmár and Susanna when we are all so fond of them? And the director is such a fearsome figure he is hardly a suitable subject. Why didn’t they think of the one person who really would be right for this sort of exercise, Kőnig himself?

  They were working in the large study room they shared with the year six girls. Susanna was the only one who noticed the Bishop’s entry. With him were the director, the Chaplain and five of the teachers. The long table at which the fifth year were sitting was nearest the door. The Bishop nodded genially at the sixth year, spotted an empty seat beside Dudás (Gáti was absent just then), and lowered himself onto it. It was almost directly opposite Gina. The teachers remained standing beside the table. At a sign from the prefect half the class stood up to offer their seats to them and to Gedeon Torma. The fifth year stood gaping at the Bishop as if they had been turned to stone, though his manner was so affable and self-effacing you would never have known that he was an even more important person in the school than the director himself.

  “Close your exercise books,” Susanna ordered. “Vitay, Kis and Torma, go and bring some chairs from the day room.”

  Their heads spinning, they went out and picked up two chairs each. No more were needed because the Bishop was already seated, and the only other teachers present were Miss Gigus, Hajdú, Kalmár, Kőnig and Mrs. Sáfár, who taught the second year.

  “We’re done for,” said Torma. “If they open my exercise book and the blotter comes up with it, it’s the end of me. They’ll throw me out.”

  “They’ll throw all of us out,” Mari Kis said darkly. “If they see what I wrote about our beloved Deaconess I’ll be on my way this evening. I said that she wasn’t a member of the Reformed Church but a closet Buddhist, and not a real deaconess but a film actress come here to prepare for her latest role.”

  “They can’t throw us all out,” Gina said. Her hands were icy and stiff with tension: once again she had put the class in jeopardy. “They would never do that.”

  “You don’t think so?” said Torma. “You halfwit. This is the Matula, not the Sokoray Atala, where you can go to nightclubs and your granny makes cocktails. Haven’t you learned anything yet about the sort of place this is? If my uncle caught himself doing anything wrong he would throw himself out.”

  On their way back to the study room they heard laughter. Torma’s eyes filled with tears and she began to rattle through the Lord’s Prayer, and the proud and fearless Mari Kis kept muttering, “Jesus, sweet Jesus.” Gina was the first to pull herself together. She was thinking that if they were laughing then perhaps it wouldn’t be quite so bad. She was about to go in when her fingers went numb and the chairs fell from her hands with a clatter in the doorway. The Bishop was reading aloud. It was clear from his tone that he found the text amusing, but he was by far the most restrained person in the room. Study room A resounded to howls of delight. The sixth year were shrieking with mirth, the teachers were all smiling, and Kalmár was actually laughing. The only person who was not was Susanna. Her face was solemn, in fact almost grave, and she was staring fixedly into her lap. Kőnig was blowing his nose and his face was hidden behind his handkerchief. Gina froze. It was her essay that the Bishop was reading—not the one copied out in her fairest hand into the exercise book but the secret one. He was only halfway through.

  “. . . he follows the latest fashions with a keen eye, as can be seen in his extraordinary hat with the ear flaps and t
he ties he purchases with such unerring taste. The dazzling sharpness of his wit is admired by all, but even that is surpassed by the spirit of heroism, the manly fortitude and the almost legendary courage he shows. His ability to cope with the sight of blood makes one wonder why he does not retrain as a surgeon. The moment he qualifies he should waste no time in claiming the hand of his beloved. She will surely respond with an immediate yes, for who would not happily entrust her life to such a man?—although not perhaps at apple-harvesting time with a goods train approaching.”

  “This is grotesque,” said Mrs. Sáfár, who had been looking after the second year during the outing and had witnessed none of the events that it referred to. “Utterly grotesque.”

  “Isn’t there something rather sarcastic about this, something rather contemptuous?” the Chaplain asked anxiously.

  “There certainly is,” said the Bishop. “It has obviously been conceived as a satire. Who wrote it? And what kind of exercise is this? Surely not something for a Hungarian essay?”

  The writer’s eyes were fixed on the floor. She sensed that everyone was looking at her—Kalmár and Susanna, Kőnig himself, the director, her own class and the sixth year. Dear God, she kept thinking. Give me somewhere to hide. Don’t let them send me away. If I can’t stay here, what will become of my father?