Abigail

by Magda Szabo

  Gina sat in the day room looking through her lesson notes; or rather, her schoolbooks were in front of her but she was staring out of the window. Almost every one of the teachers looked in on her at some point, even the director. The telephone in the duty room rang almost continuously. No one came to call her, and no one summoned her to the sitting room where visitors were received. When the class came back Mari Kis could not stop talking about the young man they had seen that morning. This time he had been standing on the pavement across the road from the school and ogling her again. Wasn’t it amazing that someone should have fallen so completely in love with her?

  So his attempt to visit me failed, Gina thought. Now it was up to her to make the final move in this complicated game of chess: she would have to be there at the garden gate at midnight, the gate that had no key.

  It seemed a thoroughly impracticable idea. The prefect was likely to come into the dormitory at the most unpredictable times, and indeed anything could happen—another air-raid practice, for example, or this time an actual attack. And even if it did prove to be a perfectly normal night, how could she possibly slip out of the dormitory at twelve and wait in the garden for perhaps a quarter of an hour without being spotted, or even get past the locked door at the end of the corridor? If she climbed out of the window she would be unable to close it behind her or climb back in. If anyone noticed it and thought it had been left open by mistake and shut it, she would be trapped outside and have to hunker down somewhere in the garden until the morning.

  But the thought of having friends who would do anything for her, at whatever risk to themselves, first calmed her nerves and then banished them altogether. When Susanna allowed them some time to themselves she took Torma, Bánki and Mari Kis to one side and asked them, very quietly, if they would help her: she had to be in the garden at exactly midnight to meet someone. The effect those words had was electric. The garrulous Mari Kis was reduced to speechlessness and stood there gulping in wonder. Torma began to shake and stammer, “Who with? Who is it?” The person least surprised was Bánki. She did not exclaim. Instead she asked, very calmly: “Could it be that your Feri Kuncz has turned up at last?”

  Gina was astonished. True, she had talked a lot about him, but it was hardly self-evident that her night visitor would be the lieutenant. It could have been Auntie Mimó—she was certainly romantically minded enough for it—or one of her girlfriends from Budapest, or even the General himself. So why Feri? Where did she get that idea from? Yes, they had all seen the young man, but everyone thought he was looking at Mari Kis and none of them had seen him swap the hymn books. Bánki did not leave her to wonder for very long. “Then he must have got my letter.”

  All was revealed. Mari Kis and Torma were now transported by the unexpected drama. Gina-Juliet awaiting her Feri-Romeo whose welcome in the Matula, once it was realized what he was there for, would be no warmer than Romeo’s had been in the house of Capulet . . . and Bánki, the Nurse and go-between, taking pity on the unhappy girl who had to spend her Christmas holiday alone. The moment Bánki had got back with her mother to the little town where they lived she had immediately written to Lieutenant Feri Kuncz, at 44 Zápor Street in Budapest. This is what she said:

  Respected Lieutenant,

  I am writing to tell you that Georgina Vitay is in the Matula Academy. She is very unhappy there, because she is not allowed to correspond with you and because she will not be going home for Christmas. It would cheer her up very much if she could see you.

  From a well-wisher

  She had not dared put her name to it, Bánki said, because she was afraid that this Lieutenant Kuncz might be indiscreet and pass it on, and if the letter were traced back to her the director would almost certainly expel her. But she really hoped that it would persuade him to come. It was the special Christmas present she had promised Gina, and she had been so disappointed when she came back from the holiday. She hadn’t mentioned that the present had been a letter because she had thought it was just the fickleness of men and that he had found someone else, or even worse—she apologized for the idea—that it had been all talk on Gina’s part, while he just saw her as a silly schoolgirl and was merely toying with her. But she now saw how serious the relationship was, and hadn’t she done well to bring the two lovers together?

  Torma thought the ruse both ingenious and extremely touching, and the selfless Mari Kis, apparently not in the least downcast by the revelation that it was Gina and not herself that he had been staring at in the church, congratulated her with genuine delight. Gina told them what Feri had written and how he had passed his message to her, but what privately pleased her most was that he had come to take her to her father, and that he had written because the General had asked him to and not in response to the letter. So there was no need for soul-searching: true, Bánki, in the goodness of her heart, had given away the secret of her hiding place, and yes, she herself had been forbidden to reveal it to anyone, which of course included Feri, but his visit had nothing to do with her letter. The lieutenant had asked her to meet him in the garden at midnight, she told the others. But she would not be able to do that on her own. She needed their help.

  Years later, when the events of that afternoon were no more than a memory, she often thought of her precious friendship with the three of them: the fair-haired Bánki, with her proud, smiling face; spirited Mari Kis, who was game for anything; and Torma, with her big blue eyes and her timid little mouth widening in terror at the thought of what they were going to do, but still ready to play her part. Together they cooked up a plan that seemed both feasible and simple. Torma was the most nervous of the three, so her role was to pretend to fall sick during the evening. At 11:30 p.m. Bánki would summon Susanna, tell her that Torma was unwell, and Susanna would help her down to the infirmary. There, she would moan and scream in agony for a good half-hour, to make sure that Susanna and the doctor remained by her side. She had until the evening to decide what her ailment might be, ideally something not readily detected like a sore throat. Best would be a stomach ache, with a suggestion of appendicitis, Bánki advised, having had the operation herself. At a few minutes to twelve Gina would climb out through the corridor window, Mari Kis would close it behind her and then stand guard by the dormitory door. Bánki would meanwhile have stationed herself at the start of the infirmary corridor to signal when Susanna was on her way back or, if needed, to delay her by pretending that she too had stomach pains and throwing herself to the floor as if in the throes of some hideous ailment. At 12:15 a.m. Mari Kis would open the window again and let Gina back in from the garden. Gina would have to be there exactly on time: any longer and the risk would be too great.

  Once they had decided on their plan the usual pleasures of gossiping and giggling seemed to pale, and even the eternally smiling Mari Kis became serious: it was as if the plotting had made them aware of something else, something beyond the excitement and the secrecy of their enterprise, something to which they could not put a name. None of them had any appetite, and they could barely swallow their supper. Susanna studied them with particular interest during prayers. All the girls involved themselves in the service the way they should, but this group of four went at it with such intensity and fervor that Bánki had tears in her eyes.

  The lights were switched off at 9 p.m., but the class took a long time to calm down and fall silent. As always on a Sunday, seeing people from outside the school and spending so much time in the company of outsiders, even if only in the constrained atmosphere of a religious service, had left them more than usually excitable. Nonetheless, with the exception of the four conspirators, they were all sound asleep by eleven. At 11:30 p.m. Bánki went to Susanna and told her that Torma had been taken ill. Susanna, still in her day clothes, came to the dormitory straight away, beckoned to the anxious Torma to follow her and made a sign to Bánki to tell her to be careful not to wake the others.

  Gina and Mari Kis lay waiting under their quilts. Everything depended now on Torma and how she perf
ormed her role. A few minutes later Bánki slipped out and returned shortly afterwards to report that she had been to the infirmary: Torma was now uttering terrible cries; they were probably trying to make her vomit. Tense as she was, Mari Kis had to chuckle: poor Torma, it was the story of her life. Now she was having to put up with some disgusting laxative, and the three of them lay huddled up giggling together on Gina’s bed while everyone else slept—luckily no one had been disturbed by Torma’s departure. They kept glancing at their watches in the dim glow of the nightlight, and at precisely 11:58 p.m. they rose. There was no chance, and no time, to get dressed, but Gina had kept her underwear and her stockings on under her dressing gown, and Mari Kis gave her her own as well, to help her keep warm in the chilly garden. They crept out of the dormitory, Bánki took up her position at the bend in the corridor, Mari Kis opened the window and Gina clambered up onto the ledge. She leaned down with her arms behind her back, the two girls exchanged a kiss, and she was out in the garden. The window, in its wartime covering, closed gently behind her. She reached Abigail’s statue just as the garden clock began to sound twelve.

  It was a bright, moonlit spring night and she had no trouble seeing her way. When she reached the gate she was at a loss what to do, so she waited for a signal. She did not have to wait long. As the chimes came to an end she heard a gentle knocking on the metal door. Not daring to speak, she knocked back. She felt as if her heart were about to explode.

  Someone on the other side was fiddling with the lock and lifting the little iron tongue that covered the keyhole. Gina did the same on her side and put her ear to the opening. She heard a voice whisper: “Gini, my little Gini, is that you? Can you hear me?”

  “It’s me,” she breathed into the keyhole. Her whisper sounded alien and strange; it was as if someone else were speaking. “What’s the matter with my father?”

  “It’s his heart,” the voice replied. “There’s no need to worry. He’s already out of the worst danger. But he very much wants to see you, and he’s asked me to get you out of the school and take you home.”

  His heart? He had never had trouble with his heart . . . but if her father had asked Feri to come and fetch her then the lieutenant must also be in the resistance. What joy, that he too should be working with her father! Great as was her respect for the Árkod dissident, it would be even better to make her escape with Feri. But perhaps he would go with them? Perhaps he too was out there, standing next to Feri, though she of course couldn’t see.

  “Are you alone?” she asked.

  “Of course. Who else would be here?”

  “My father told me that if he couldn’t come himself he would send the man they call the Árkod dissident. I thought he might be here with you.”

  “The Árkod dissident?” the voice whispered.

  “The man who changed the hymn boards in the white church and hung up those placards. My father told me I should leave the school only with him.”

  “But that was me,” the voice breathed back.

  She did not know how to reply. There were a few moments of silence on the other side, then the whispering began again.

  “I’ve been here in Árkod for some months now. Your father had me transferred to be nearer you and to take care of you. I’m doing the same work here that he is in Budapest. Have you not noticed my presence?”

  She placed her two hands on the iron door; her legs could barely support her. Her father had told her that she would recognize the dissident of Árkod when she met him, but she had not realized it would be Feri himself—that it had been Feri all along! So then, if he had been stationed here for some months he could not have had Bánki’s letter, and even if it had been forwarded to him, it would have told him nothing he did not already know. She had always believed that the heroic dissident, that incredibly brave man, must be a soldier . . . and it was her Feri! Everything was now clear, and how wonderful it was. All it needed was for her father to get better, as of course he would. Feri had just said that he was over the worst.

  “I haven’t seen him since November,” she whispered into the keyhole. “At first I wasn’t too worried, because he had said he wouldn’t be able to come for a while. But then I started to think that there must be something wrong, something to do with the work he was doing. But that’s not the case, is it, Feri?”

  “Not at all,” the voice returned from the other side.

  “Is the work going well?”

  “Of course,” came the reply.

  “Why are the Germans here?”

  “They aren’t here to stay. They’ll be leaving soon. Don’t you worry about it.”

  “They won’t be here long? So there’s no danger?”

  “Listen, Gini. I’ll be back here tomorrow night. You must be ready to leave immediately. I’ll have a key made for this door, I’ll open it from this side, and by the morning we’ll be with your father in Budapest. I have to do things in this rather romantic way because these lunatics won’t speak to me. They won’t even let me see the director. I told the porter that your father had sent me, and he said it was no concern of his. Never in my life have I seen a school like this one. It’s not a school, it’s a prison.”

  How true that was! As someone who had lived in it since September well knew.

  “The car will be waiting for you here, outside the gate. The moment you step through it we’ll be gone. After fifteen minutes you will have forgotten you were ever here.”

  I shall never forget that, she thought, and she was filled with wonder that even at that strange hour, standing in that chilly garden bathed in frail moonlight and filled with the scents of spring, she should find herself thinking that she would never forget the Matula.

  She waited for him to say something. Though she was ashamed to admit it, she was hoping he would say something personal, something other than what her father had told him to say or to do with his orders. But perhaps these young men working in the resistance and busying themselves with heroic deeds never spoke about such personal things as love as they went about their business.

  “Same time tomorrow, Gini. Be here on time,” the voice breathed. And he left without a word of farewell; all she heard was the sound of his disappearing footsteps. She waited a while for him to come back, but he did not appear again. She soon understood why. There were more footsteps; someone was walking around the perimeter fence, some late-night passer-by with a heavy tread. His approach must have alarmed the lieutenant. Never mind, they had talked about what mattered. She ran back through the garden and knocked on the window. It opened immediately. Mari Kis reached down and helped her climb inside the corridor again. In a few seconds they were back in the dormitory.

  They did not go straight to bed; they were still waiting for Bánki. Gina stood there shivering from excitement and the freezing air of a night in March.

  “Did he kiss you?” Mari was desperate to know, and was immediately covered in embarrassment. How could they possibly have kissed with the wall between them? “Did he get Bánki’s letter? Does he worship you? Did you get engaged? You must tell us everything!”

  Gina did not dare reveal that he had said not one word about love, only about her father and the resistance, and that Bánki’s letter had been irrelevant because Feri had been based in Árkod almost as long as she had but had obviously not been allowed to let her know. As for the outrage in the church, she might not have seen him among the members of the local garrison, but he could still have been the person who tampered with the hymn boards. She decided to go along with the idea that Bánki’s letter had reached him after all, so that her friend could at least have that satisfaction. Tomorrow I shall be leaving these people forever, she thought, but I won’t tell anyone or get them involved. I don’t want them to get into trouble when it all comes out. Tomorrow at midnight the gate will be open, and even if Susanna does come out of her room while I am climbing out of the window she’ll be too slow to catch me once I’m in the garden: she’ll be in her long nightgown and she won’t be a
ble to run as fast as I can.

  At 12:30 Bánki came back from the infirmary to report that all was now quiet there. Torma had stopped groaning, but Susanna and the doctor were still at her side. To spare her the feeling that she had been standing all that time in the corridor for nothing, Gina felt she had to offer her the fiction that she and Feri had talked of love, and that it was all thanks to her. The girls couldn’t have enough of it. They had to hear over and over again the tender words that she and Feri had never exchanged. After all the risks they had taken for her that night she felt she owed them that pleasure. When they were at last in bed she lay there, wide awake, thinking about the strange and unexpected way important events in our lives come about—never as we imagine them beforehand, always in quite other ways, in very different circumstances and seemingly by chance. One fine day a young man appears on a balcony in a church, two people exchange glances, and life is transformed forever.

  It was her last night in the Matula. The next day its occupants would still be there without her, caught up in their dreams and their black-and-white rules, and she would be spending it with her father. The moment he saw her at his bedside he would get better, she was sure. He had said that if he couldn’t come for her himself the person he sent in his place would be someone she had known a long time. How had she not realized that it would be Feri, the man she loved? All this secrecy and mystification surrounding her father’s work! To keep up the illusion he had even gone so far as to let her believe that he disliked the lieutenant and would not even have him in the house, when all the time the two of them were the best of friends, and, obviously, since he had placed his beloved daughter in his care, the most trusted of colleagues.