by Magda Szabo
“Good Lord,” he said, in a voice even thicker with a cold than before. “What are you doing in the garden at a time like this? The others have already lined up. And if it comes to that, why aren’t you wearing a coat?”
Kőnig was so insignificant she felt she could lie to him without guilt. She said she had just wanted to pop out and see what the weather had decided to do.
“At this early hour?” he asked in astonishment. “But you won’t be going outside before your afternoon walk. Wouldn’t it have been simpler just to look out the window?”
Luckily, that was all. He let her wipe her shoes on the doormat outside the teachers’ door, and the meeting turned out to have another benefit. When Susanna and her classmates saw her come in with him they assumed that he must have kept her back to tell her something: they had neither noticed what happened nor heard what was said. Gina did not explain, least of all to Bánki.
Bánki seemed calmer now, but she was far more withdrawn than she had been before. Gina observed her closely. She now thought of her as someone like herself, who had problems that went far beyond any that the others had, and she was struck by the natural way they accepted the change in her. They showed not the slightest interest in what had upset her and no one stopped to think why her mother had not brought her anything special to eat, or, if she had, why she had suddenly become so selfish and greedy and gobbled it up by herself. But if Bánki no longer cried, she began to behave very strangely, and she kept disappearing whenever she could. During break Gina noticed her whispering something to Krieger in year eight and she saw the look that crossed the older girl’s face; after the next lesson she spoke to Zelemér in year six, and her face also darkened; and then after lunch she sought out Kun in the third year, though no self-respecting fifth-year girl would normally talk to such babies. During supper and prayers the four of them were together again, and Gina noticed that they all had something in common. In some strange way Bánki, Krieger, Zelemér and Kun had begun to resemble one another: their faces had all taken on the same somber look of maturity.
The Christmas holidays began on December 22, with lessons ending on the twentieth. In all her time at the school Gina had never received so many bad reports as she did on that last Saturday, when, by some unwritten tradition, the question and answer sessions became particularly searching. The holidays might soon be upon them, but they were expected to show that even at a time like that the only thing on their minds was work. But she could not stop thinking that the holidays began at midday. Her father would be aware that teaching had stopped in all the state schools, and if he had managed to find a way to come it would have to be that afternoon, or the following day at the latest. The girls put a lot of effort into the last lesson, which was in the gym. It was as if they were deliberately taking the opportunity to jump about and exercise to get rid of the tension and excitement that had been building up in them. At the end of the session Gertrúd Truth reminded them not to forget to hand their kit in to the laundry.
For games they wore tops and trousers, gym shoes and special stockings. At the Matula the display of bare feet was considered indecent even when exercising—something Gina’s own children could never quite believe when she reminisced about her days in the school. The kit was kept in a row of individual lockers, and everyone had their own numbered shelf and hanger for their uniforms when they changed for gym. It was washed once a fortnight; it went in numbered bags that they took from trays hanging from the shelf for shoes. Gina was in the middle of changing and had started to rummage through her bag when she realized there was something in it. Her hand froze. She felt around inside. Something had been put there. A sheet of paper? No, several sheets. She tried to think who would have given her a present in such a secretive way. A game of hiding things in other people’s possessions had been going on for some time now. Oláh had even found a tiny mouse in one of her shoes and had let out such a scream that she was put in detention, along with the mouse-donor, Gáti. Gina decided that if it turned out to be a practical joke it would be better not to say anything while they were still in the changing room but to wait: you couldn’t have a proper laugh in there. She would empty the bag when they were back in the dormitory and could have a good look then at what she had been given—probably some satirical lines of verse or a cartoon of one of the teaching staff. She would have to take care not to attract Gertrúd Truth’s attention. As they lined up she studied the faces of her classmates to see if any of them seemed to be harboring a private joke, but they all wore the same expression of deadly seriousness. During this penitential week you could be told off if your face failed to suggest that all the extra prayer sessions and much needed calls for inner reflection had had their effect and you had put all worldly vanities aside.
The class was trying hard not to show how keyed up they were, but they were very tense. This was the moment when the year’s work came to a head. The Bible knowledge competition was due that afternoon; the following day they would take Holy Communion, and as soon as the service ended those whose parents had arrived to collect them would be free to leave and enjoy the holidays until January 7.
Gina took care to arrive last at the laundry bin. She waited until she was completely alone before emptying the bag to see what was on the sheets of paper. She peered inside, then turned them over and over again in a state of total amazement. She could not believe what she was seeing. In her hand was a series of documents. They consisted of the baptismal certificates and parental details of Bánki, Krieger, Zelemér and Kun, all of them carrying tiny scars and splatters of ink. With them was a note. Its elongated capital letters were now familiar to her. They were identical to the ones that had so sternly ordered her to keep out of trouble and not provoke her teachers. But this time the message was rather different.
THAT NIGHT WHEN THE DIRECTOR’S AQUARIUM WAS KNOCKED OVER SOMEONE WENT THROUGH THE FILING CABINET AND REMOVED THESE DOCUMENTS. THEY REFER TO PEOPLE WHO BECAUSE OF THEIR FAMILY ORIGINS HAVE BEEN SUBJECT TO RESTRICTIONS OR PUT IN DANGER BY AN IMMORAL STATE DECREE. IF ANYONE DISCOVERS THAT THE SCHOOL RECORDS ARE NOW INCOMPLETE AND THE PUPILS CONCERNED ARE REQUIRED TO PROVIDE THEM A SECOND TIME, THESE ARE THE ONES THEY SHOULD PRODUCE. YOU MUST GIVE THEM TO THE GIRLS WHO ARE MENTIONED, AND TELL BÁNKI AND THE OTHERS THAT AT THE END OF THE HOLIDAYS THEY ABSOLUTELY MUST RETURN TO THE SCHOOL. IT IS THE ONLY PLACE WHERE THEY WILL BE SAFE, MUCH SAFER THAN AT HOME WITH THEIR PARENTS. TELL THEM THAT THE PEOPLE WHO PROVIDED THESE DOCUMENTS WILL LOOK AFTER THEIR PARENTS AS WELL. AND TAKE NOTE: IF YOU ARE NOT EXTREMELY CAREFUL YOU WILL PUT BÁNKI, KRIEGER, KUN AND ZELEMÉR IN DANGER, AND IT WILL NO LONGER BE CERTAIN THAT I CAN CONTINUE TO HELP YOU EITHER.
ABIGAIL
She stood there paralyzed. She was not thinking of her own problems and sorrows now, or about the sort of Christmas she would be having in the Matula: the concerns that had struck her with such sudden force were ones that had always lurked in the depths of her consciousness, only she had never given them much thought because they had not touched her personally. Of course the religion your parents belonged to was now a matter of terrifying importance. It even made a difference whether they had or had not themselves been baptized when they baptized you. And if they had not been Christian for more than a certain length of time, or either of them had not been christened at all, did that not also put you at a disadvantage, or even in danger? From what Abigail had written that certainly seemed to be the case. She looked through the documents again. Everyone named, including the parents and grandparents, was listed as belonging to the Reformed Protestant Church.
She ran into the dormitory to look for Bánki, then realized that she would be in the kitchen, helping the baker make bread. Only after lunch would they be able to talk in private. She slipped Abigail’s message into her notebook, the one she had to have about her at all times during the school day for recording things she needed to do, her homework, and any other instructions she might be given. These notebooks were kept in the day room from the end of lessons until bre
akfast the following morning, but the documents she did not dare leave anywhere out of her sight. Susanna or one of the domestics might get it into their heads to look in the cupboards and find them, and to hide them in the geranium boxes was out of the question: there they could be found at any time during the day by someone going into the washroom. Instead, she pushed them into her blouse and buttoned it up again. It gave her a very odd-looking bust, but the school uniform was so copious and shapeless that probably no one would notice.
She had no idea what they were singing about or praying for before the meal, and by then she had had more than her fill of the religious life. Ever since the penitential week had started they had all had to be extremely circumspect and attentive to the state of their souls. Her own mind was not in the least taken up with heaven-directed thoughts. She was tense and impatient and just wanted everyone to eat up and leave. That day Bánki stayed late in the kitchen to help with the washing-up, and by the time she got back the class had already changed for their walk. Gina asked Mari Kis and Torma to keep the others away from the two of them as she wanted to speak to Bánki on her own. The girls’ attitude to Bánki had softened again: having initially had difficulty believing she had not been given the usual parcel they had realized that her mother must have come to tell her something serious had happened in the family, something that was too painful for her to talk about. Mari Kis was very good at dealing with this sort of request. She took Torma’s hand and they stood shoulder to shoulder to create a living screen, at a point where they could turn away anyone who came too near and at the same time block the view of Gina’s locker, which was now standing open. Gina called Bánki over and leaned halfway into the locker to unbutton her blouse and fish out the notebook. There was no chance to say anything—Mari and Torma were standing too close. She took her hand and guided it to where the documents were, so that she could see what was there and read Abigail’s message.
Among the many other images of her time in the Matula that Gina took with her into adult life was the face of Bánki at that precise moment, with her skin slowly turning red. She often thought back, too, to the many other extraordinary moments and events of that winter, the spring of 1944 and her days in the fortress; and she thought especially of Abigail, the person who had directly involved her in those grown-up matters, fateful as they were, and of her father, who had given her a wider perspective on life and made her understand things that, as a fifteen-year-old girl who was not in danger herself, she had never thought about or would have been able to grasp without his help.
Bánki was incapable of speech. She simply nodded to show she had understood what she had been given, then leaned forward and rested her head against the shelf. Her whole body was trembling violently. Gina waited for her to calm down and for her hands to stop shaking, and to give her time to fold the papers up and stuff them into her blouse as she herself had done. At that moment Susanna appeared, and Mari Kis and Torma instantly let go of each other’s hands. Susanna asked them when they thought they might get round to putting their coats on: they must surely have realized that they would be going out earlier than usual because the competition started soon afterwards. And she stayed with the class until they set off.
Even when walking three abreast they were expected to keep in step. Bánki was just behind Gina, with Szabó to her right and Murai on her left, and for the entire outing Gina heard Szabó grumbling that Bánki was weaving about all the time and getting out of step, “and I’m going to be blamed because of her!” Today I did something good, Gina herself was thinking. It wasn’t really me, it was Abigail, but in part it was due to me. When I wrote to her I had no idea that she had already been in the office and looked to see who might be needing help. Perhaps when we get back from the walk my father will be here as my reward, or at the very least he’ll speak to me on the telephone.
But there was no message waiting for her, he had not telephoned, and he was not in the building. No sooner were they back than they were told to put on their formal going-out uniforms. Susanna was furious with Bánki, the ever meek and gentle Bánki, because she had been wandering all over the place, hanging around the third-year dormitory, holding a sotto voce conversation with Zelemér and another with Krieger next to her locker. When she threatened her with punishment Bánki looked at her with the serene calmness of someone who has just been paid a compliment. Third-year dormitory, Éva Kun, Gina said to herself. She isn’t yet thirteen, and she will have to learn to keep her mouth shut, and shut tight, about the fact she has been in real danger and has only just been saved from whatever it was. But what about all those people whose papers are not in order, the ones Abigail is unable to help? And what exactly is that danger? She could not begin to imagine.
She would of course learn later what she could not have known then, when the threat had merely advanced its shadow, that in just a few more months all hell would be unleashed against those affected by the Jewish Laws, and it would become clear that Abigail had indeed saved Krieger, Zelemér, Kun and Bánki, and their parents with them.
If Gina had not performed so appallingly in the Bible-knowledge competition perhaps Bánki might not have felt so sorry for her for having to spend her Christmas holidays in the fortress, and might not have been so keen to make her the gift that she thought the best present Gina could possibly have at the time. But the truth was that Gina could never have hoped to compete with girls who had been brought up in a religious institution from the start; nor could she ever have imagined she would do so badly. There were fifty questions. The director read out fifty short passages from the Bible and they had just thirty seconds to write down who had said them and in which book they appeared. They were not simple questions—they included quotations from the Book of Revelations and Jeremiah—and there was also a brief interruption when Suba appeared at the door. He stood there with his mouth open until an irritated Gedeon Torma waved at him to tell him not to disturb them, but he ventured in regardless and whispered something in the director’s ear. The director nodded and told him, yes, he had gathered that, but there wasn’t time for it right then, and would he please allow the competition to continue?
Bánki identified every one of the fifty quotations, and she got nearly every detail right; Oláh knew forty-eight, and there were some other outstanding results. Aradi got forty-seven and a girl in year six got forty-five. The two youngest classes did not take part, but, as the final list showed, even the third years did better than Gina, who came last with a score of twenty-six. When the results were announced Susanna looked at her reproachfully. Gina was all the more upset when she realized that she had actually known another ten but had been too scared to write them down in case they were wrong. Never in her life had she come bottom in a school exam. Of course no one tied her to the stake. Susanna said nothing, but the odious Kőnig came over to her and blathered on about what everyone knew, that she had been brought up in a school of a different denomination and she shouldn’t take it to heart: next time she was sure to be among the top few. She found his commiserations so offensive she could have hit him. So she had come last. There was no need for anyone to pity her.
Kalmár did not attempt to console her. He told her to take it in good part and go and congratulate Bánki, who had just received her prize, a fine special edition of a work by Ferdinand Ziegler in the original German describing the joys of the religious life. He told her that at least she wouldn’t mind lending it to others because it was the sort of book one could always do without for a while. For the first time in ages Gina almost smiled: it was good of Kalmár to express so delicately the ghastly nature of the prizes given out in the school, and to hint that the competition was not worth grieving over.
Then it was Gina’s turn to go up to Bánki. The moment she saw her Bánki dropped the book noisily onto the table and smothered her in kisses. Susanna promptly removed her arm from Gina’s neck, but said nothing. She did not approve of these unwarranted outbursts.
“Next year we shall do better
, I think, Vitay,” the director said. He had come over and was standing by her side, and she lowered her gaze to avoid looking at him. “You are a bad loser,” Marcelle had once told her while they were playing a game in company. “Good manners require that you do not spoil the winner’s pleasure by putting on a long face. You really must learn how to lose gracefully.” That was something she had yet to do. Now it was the director gently admonishing her. She had to stand there and hear him through, and she did not enjoy it. The only thing that made it bearable was the knowledge that he knew nothing about something that she and Bánki and Kun and Zelemér and Krieger did, that certain papers had vanished from his office that night when the aquarium was smashed. One day, when he went through the files and realized that the documents of four of his pupils were missing and needed to be replaced, would he notice that the ones that came back were not the same as those that had gone missing? But her chain of thought was interrupted. The director was speaking to her again. Suba had brought a message, she heard him say: while they were doing the competition there had been a telephone call for her, but she had not been available to take it. Her father had rung to wish her a happy Christmas and to tell her she would be getting some money to buy herself a present. He had left it with the prefect on his last visit. Unfortunately it would not be possible to have her at home because the boiler had exploded.
There were several fireplaces in the villa, and tile-backed stoves in even the smallest rooms, but she understood what he was telling her. It made her realize that she had not taken him seriously enough when he had said that they might not be spending the holiday together. The disaster of the competition and the thought of spending a bleak Christmas in the deserted Matula, away from both her father and the rest of the class, became too much to bear and she burst into tears. The director informed her that such displays of hysteria were unworthy of a good Protestant girl, especially during the week of penitence, and sent her out of the room. He told her to come back in five minutes and show the prefect that she had washed her face and calmed herself down. She was back before the five minutes had elapsed. She was perfectly composed and was determined not to show her grief and disappointment to anyone. When there was no one else about, she would pour out her heart to Torma. They would be the only girls staying on in the school.