Abigail

by Magda Szabo

  The door opened a crack and Susanna peered in. Gina watched her through half-closed eyes. The prefect satisfied herself that everything was in order, closed the door behind her and disappeared. Now Gina really felt herself to be the more adult of the two. Susanna was the child, the pupil, bound in by her monochrome rules and regulations. Never mind: the days of exile were over. Tomorrow the world would open to her once again. She would be out there in it, while this child, this simple-minded Susanna, would remain a prisoner in the fortress forever.

  THE ÁRKOD DISSIDENT

  When they were concocting up their plans for Gina’s meeting with Feri, the four had debated long and hard whether to let the rest of the class in on what they were doing. Mari Kis was the strongest in favor. No one would give them away, she was quite certain. For five years they had lived together like sisters; now Bánki had found a way to bring Feri Kuncz to the school and they were preparing a romantic rendezvous with him that night—it was such a sensational thing that they really had to be told. Torma, apprehensive as ever, was against it: to help one of your classmates meet someone from outside was a serious offence and it would be most unfair to make them accomplices. Some of them had sisters in other years, and if they told them, the news would be out and what would become of the four of them then? They had to keep it secret. There was no need to involve anyone else. Bánki agreed, and things stayed as they were.

  The next day began with yet more deception, and not only because they were keeping the class in ignorance of what had happened. Gina’s fellow-conspirators wanted to hear about the romantic assignation all over again, and Gina had to keep making things up: they had sworn to love one another forever; the lieutenant had said he would wait for her because he loved her, but she would have to be patient because they would not be able to meet again soon; he was being transferred from Árkod and would not be allowed to write to her. When he did come again it would be on another Sunday. He would come to one of the Matula services, as he just had. During lessons that day Bánki and Mari Kis kept exchanging excited glances to remind one another of the sensational events they had been party to the night before.

  It had often happened in Gina’s childhood that she would get in a rage with Marcelle or her father because, inevitably, there were times when they had had to be strict with her, but when it had all blown over she would be filled with a burning desire to be especially good and kind to everyone. She would go down to the kitchen, ask who would like some help, dash off a bit of cleaning, tidy up the display cabinets without being asked or dust the contents of the bookshelves. Sometimes—the noblest sacrifice of all—she even offered to visit the aged aunt her father was so very fond of, a woman she found utterly boring and whom she could hardly bear to call on, because she would have to endure sitting for ages in artificial light in a drawing room filled with strange smells.

  She knew she had sinned against the Matula rules, and even though she did not for a moment believe in the legitimacy of those rules, and felt that what she had done and what she was planning to do were both necessary and inevitable, the urge to be nice to everyone possessed her once again. It was already strong in the first lesson of the day, when they were set a piece of French translation. As usual, Miss Gigus made her sit on the dais, to stop her helping the others. Gina had the supreme audacity to slip the crib she had prepared for Szabó, who always struggled with languages, into the teacher’s pocket while her friend watched, her eyes following Gina’s hand like the movements of a snake charmer. Miss Gigus wandered dreamily down the aisles, bringing the crib ever closer. When she reached Szabó she leaned over, as she always did, to see how she was getting on, and with trembling fingers the girl plucked it out of her pocket. Gina’s own translation that day was full of the most stunningly apt turns of phrase: her French, learned from Marcelle, was far more immediate, colloquial and natural than the classical tongue dunned into the Matula girls, even the best of whom would try to write in the language of the ancien régime. The crib Gina had sent mimicked this antiquated style so well that Miss Gigus might have written it herself.

  However it was in Kőnig’s lesson that this urge for universal benevolence reached its height. She did not misbehave once. She scribbled no secret messages. She did not draw or doodle, or sit there yawning or staring out of the widow; for the first time in her life she listened carefully to everything he said, and once again she was astonished by how very interesting, and how lively and persuasive, his arguments were, and, though it was also a source of private amusement, she rather regretted that she would not be there the next day to hear how the topic ended. Kőnig noticed how attentive she was, especially as, again for the first time ever, she volunteered for extra work as part of the team selecting the passage for the next day’s lesson. Latin had always come easily to her because of her French; the similar vocabulary helped her learn new words instantly. Kőnig congratulated her, and kept giving her thoughtful glances, as if he were wondering what had happened to the Vitay he thought he knew.

  The next lesson was music. She sang her heart out and rendered hymn 186, the subject of her preparation work, with such grace that Hajdú gave her the top mark. Bánki and Mari Kis, however, were sent to the corner of the room because they could not restrain their mirth during the performance, and Hajdú “failed to see the joke.” Gina had taken the song seriously, even though she too could see the relevance of the words to what had happened the previous night. “The sun is down, and darkness fills the sky, / Deep silence reigns, and nature lies at rest. / I too have found repose for weary limbs. / My dream awakes, my soul prepares to fly.”

  The teacher almost had a fit when he realized that that reprobate Mari Kis and the shameless Bánki were still giggling and smirking in the corner for all the world to see. What was so funny about the fact that, for the first time ever, Vitay had properly mastered this beautiful hymn to the night? But her friends knew only too well what had gone on in the garden when the sun went down, and that her body and soul had not exactly been “at rest” around midnight, and not only hers but theirs too, with Bánki standing guard in the infirmary corridor and Mari Kis at the window in her nightshirt, because she had lent her nightgown to this person now warbling away like an intoxicated nightingale when a few hours earlier she had been exchanging whispers with her lover through the garden gate.

  The fourth lesson was with Kalmár. Gina was still in her mood of wanting to be good and helpful to everyone, but he failed to ask her any questions and she was given no chance. In fact he addressed not a single word to her; he simply talked nonstop until the bell went. All she could do was behave impeccably, pay constant attention throughout, and slip his piece of chalk into her pocket as a memento when he left.

  Kerekes appeared for lesson five. Ever since their first lesson in September he had criticized Gina for not writing her number four properly. She had never bothered to change it, because she found it both incomprehensible and exasperating that someone should have nothing better to think about than the shape of some insignificant digit. This time, when it was her turn to go up to the blackboard, she produced the most beautiful four ever seen. Kerekes looked at her incredulously, reached for the comments book and wrote: “Today Georgina Vitay wrote the number four correctly. I congratulate her, András Kerekes.” He rarely praised anyone, and in other circumstances this would have given Gina no small pleasure, but now she found herself blushing with delight. How very strange, considering that it was all now so meaningless.

  The fifth lesson finished and Kalmár came in promptly, as he always did, to ask who had done best that day. He was told it was Vitay. It was the first time this had happened all year. He looked through the notes in the class register and the duty report, nodded twice, and Gina knew that her name would be read out by the director at the end of lunch, when the names of those who produced the best results on the day were announced. Naturally Gedeon Torma, in his blackest of voices, would also be revealing those who had been in trouble. How often had she herself been sha
med that way! But this was the very first time she would be among the praised. It was both highly amusing and rather sad.

  With just a few hours to go she had the urge to leave a few remembrances of herself. She wanted everyone to think of her as a clever, cultured, thoroughly pleasant person and a good friend, always kind, polite and generous. Just before lunch she knocked on Susanna’s door to ask if she could take time out during the afternoon walk to buy some presents for her classmates from the money she had left over from Christmas, and to be allowed to visit poor Torma in the infirmary afterwards. Without a word, Susanna pulled open a drawer and handed her what she wanted. As she did so Gina spotted several other envelopes with her name on them, and she realized that when he had enrolled her in the autumn her father must not only have paid the full boarding and tuition fees but also left her monthly pocket money for the rest of the year. Susanna gave permission for the visit to Torma, but only for a few minutes, because her condition was being closely monitored. If she had improved by the evening it was probable that she had been suffering from some mild liver complaint during the night, but if she was worse she would be taken to the hospital for a stomach X-ray in the morning. She was not to be tired out: she had had a very bad night and had been given several powerful and rather unpleasant medicines.

  At the end of lunch the director did indeed read out Gina’s name.

  The practice was that the named girls would leave their seats, walk towards the teachers’ table and bow, first to them and then to their classmates. In her early months in the school Gina had found this ridiculous, but as she grew accustomed to it, it seemed less so, and rather an honor to be envied. Going up between the tables she was again surprised to find just how much the congratulations meant to her, and when she made her bow to the director’s table and noticed that Kőnig was again paying her particular attention she smiled back at him without a flicker of irony or ill-will.

  It was a day of real happiness. She was feeling self-confident and liberated, and the air around her was filled with radiance. She knew she would soon be free, Feri would be taking her home, and everything there would be well: her father was over the worst of his illness, and the German occupation obviously wasn’t too much to worry about—in fact it would bring an early end to the war. She felt as charitable, gentle and serene as only a perfectly contented person could be. But always she was aware of Kőnig’s eyes on her: he never seemed to look anywhere else. No doubt he was still astonished that there should exist another Vitay who smiled and could be found worthy of praise.

  That afternoon the class waited patiently while she made her purchases at Hajda’s patisserie, and then again at the flower shop next door to it, where she spent her last few fillér on a little pot of hyacinths.

  “You’re in a good mood today!” Susanna commented, when they were back from the walk. By then the class had all been treated to Mr. Hajda’s delicacies and the prefect had found her usual place adorned by the pot of pretty white flowers. She lifted the hyacinths to her nose and breathed the perfume in. “You have every reason to be happy, Georgina. You have now joined the ranks of the very best pupils, so naturally you want to give presents to everyone. But I cannot accept these flowers from you. I have done nothing to deserve them. They would, however, make a very good present for the director, especially if you offered them to him on behalf of the class for his name day. His first name is Gedeon, and tomorrow is the twenty-eighth.”

  There was something exhilarating, even intoxicating in the idea. Susanna had forgiven Gina, as her faith required, but she had also made it quite clear, however gently and tactfully, that she would never accept a gift from her, not even a miserable little pot of hyacinths, so how perfect it would be to visit the man in black, present him with them and then vanish overnight. When they started to look for her the only clue would be these white flowers on the director’s desk. And when she had finished in the teachers’ residence she would call on Torma. Torma, she decided should be her heir. She loved her even more than Bánki, not because of the little plaster dog, or the fact that they had spent the winter holidays together: what bonded them so closely was that they were both orphans in the fortress. Watching Gina tidying her hair and putting on her going-out uniform (nothing else would do for the occasion) Bánki and Mari Kis almost fainted with laughter. That she should have the cheek to call on the director after all that had happened the night before! If he knew about that it would strike him dead in his chair. Arranging her locks in the tiny washroom mirror made her think of the curlers she had left in the drawer of her bedside chest at home. It was so long since she had last done her hair with them she would have to learn how to use them all over again.

  On her way to the teachers’ quarters, with the flowers, freshly and prettily re-wrapped, in her hand, she found herself humming a little tune. The barred gate was locked, as always, but she did not have to ring. Gertrúd Truth happened to be standing in the corridor on the other side, spotted her and let her in. She found the director in his sitting room. Kőnig, Kalmár and Miss Gigus were with him. The meeting did not seem a very happy one. They were all poring over open registers. How typical, she thought. So this will be the final image I take away of them: the director disciplining his staff. Miss Gigus and Kalmár regularly forgot to sign off her lessons in the record book, and Kőnig was so absentminded he almost always wrote his name in the wrong subject column.

  She looked at them as an adult might look at three little boys and a girl found playing with marbles. The director stared at her blankly as, without the slightest trepidation, she wished him a happy name day on behalf of the class. He stood up and offered her his hand. Gina noticed to her surprise that his face had turned bright red. She had long seen him as merely the gloomy source of impenetrably stupid prohibitions. Who would have thought he would have been so affected by someone simply wishing him a happy name day and giving him a pot of flowers? Nor would she ever have thought him capable of asking her to sit down, as he now did. She replied that she did not wish to intrude, she had come only to congratulate him, and she was in a hurry to go and visit his sick niece.

  Every morning the director was sent a report on anyone who was sick, so he knew that Torma had been taken ill in the night and had sent a message that he would come and see her at some point during the day. But he had also expressed surprise. This was a girl who was never unwell. She had not missed a day’s school since she had been in the Matula; she had a constitution of iron. He bade Gina goodbye and then, surprise of surprises, offered her his hand again. Gina took one last look around the black-and-white room, and at the teachers sitting there gloomily among piles of exercise books, bowed, as Susanna had taught her, and hurried off to the infirmary.

  She found Torma alone. She had been lying down, but as soon as she saw Gina she sat up and asked her if she had brought her anything to eat: she was being systematically starved and was dying of hunger. Gina had a cake with her that she had asked Mr. Hajda to wrap separately for her friend, and she gave it to her.

  The poor creature, so grievously afflicted with stomach pains, wolfed it down without even pausing to chew it. Her mouth was still full when she demanded to know for the love of God what had happened to Gina during the night. Mari Kis and Bánki had been to see her but they had exploded in fits of laughter as soon as they came in, and when they did finally start to tell her the nurse had come in and sent them away. Gina gave her the same story she had concocted for Mari Kis and Bánki, about the wonderful romantic conversation she had had with the lieutenant. Torma breathed a great sigh. She was glad that she hadn’t endured those emetics and laxatives for nothing, though she certainly had suffered.

  Gina looked at her, at the drained, weary face, that kind and gentle face that had become so much more dear to her over the last weeks and months than that of any of her friends at home. Inside her bag were all her personal treasures, the things she had hidden under the flower box and the ones her father had brought for her on his last visit, including the pr
esents from Auntie Mimó. They had all given pleasure to the rest of the class, but of course they were Gina’s and the others had not felt free to make use of any of them, not the bottle of perfume, which they had held up to their noses without daring to put any of the contents on their skin, nor the squirrel brooch with the wonderful marcasite eyes, which the General had brought even though he knew she would never be allowed to wear it, or even (the two things they had most universally admired) the stick of rouge and the special pencil that could write in different colors, blue, green, red or black, depending on how you set it up. What a joy that would have been to try! But of course such a thing would never be allowed. No distinction was to be made between the richer pupils and the poorer, and that principle applied even to the pencils they drew with: everyone made do with the same Hungarian-made items, low-quality wartime goods that produced unreliable colors.

  Torma stared in wonder as each of these splendors was laid out on her quilt. She had no idea what Gina wanted to do with them. The infirmary was no place to play with them. They would be confiscated the moment anyone popped in to see how she was.

  “I brought them to give you,” Gina explained. “Everything. For you to keep, forever.”

  “Are you feverish?” Torma asked in astonishment. “Or have you gone mad? All these lovely things? What would you have left for yourself?”

  She could hardly reply, “Freedom, Budapest, my father’s love, my old home,” and she kept silent. She was so glad that even as she was about to escape she had thought to give her most precious things away, knowing that they would be in good hands, the hands of an orphan whose only possession in the world was a provocative nightdress.