by Magda Szabo
She arranged and oversaw the formation of the chairs into two circles, and assigned the two senior years to one and the sixth and fifth years to the other. Then she took up position at the center of the first and asked Susanna to take her seat in the second as leader of that group. Susanna went to the appointed chair with the joyless face of someone practicing stern self discipline. She’s making it an exercise in humility, Gina thought, to fight down her feelings of jealousy. She thinks Mitsi Horn is giving her these orders to parade her superiority. She will never know that Abigail has asked for her to be put in charge so that she won’t be able to leave her seat when she notices that I’m no longer here.
Mitsi had come well prepared for the evening and had brought a large book of games, which she handed to the Deaconess. It contained a great number of distinctly un-Matulan activities. Susanna’s task was to play questions and answers with her group. The book had a list of questions with a hundred possible answers, each one numbered. The leader posed a question to which the answer was a number, which was then read out. It produced some surprising results. To the first one, “How can I win your heart?” the elder Aradi responded with the first number that came into her head: “Nineteen,” (the age of her Kutyó).Susanna ran her eye down the list and read out, “With sorrel sauce.” The eighth-year girls put their hands over their mouths to stop themselves laughing out loud, but the presence of the cook, who was standing at the service window, added to the general hilarity: there was no one in the school who did not know about Aradi’s aversion to spices.
“And how can I win your heart?” Susanna now put the question to Aradi’s friend Tenk, in a quiet, rather sad-sounding voice. “Nine,” was the reply. Susanna looked up the answer: “With a goods train.” The teachers watched in surprise as Tenk’s face turned scarlet and her classmates wriggled about in their seats with more suppressed laughter. What was so funny about that reply? The fifth year were also totally at a loss—the older girls had not confided to them that in that other world outside, the one in which young men existed, there was a railwayman who was courting her.
Mitsi then joined the combined fifth- and sixth-year group as a playing guest. Murai came back with the paper and writing implements. She also had a message from the duty sister, Sister Erzsébet: would she please call the director to the telephone, that evening, if at all possible? She was sorry to say that Mr. Ruppert was on the line. Murai had spoken very quietly, but everyone at the staff table looked at her as if she had announced a meteorite. Ruppert was the director of the Cock-a-doodle-doos. Whenever he called the Matula the consequences were always dire: it was invariably to object to something, announce this or denounce that, or to complain that yet again a Matula girl had shown insufficient respect. Ever since the state school had been opened there had been this constant friction between the two institutions. Murai was sent back to say that the director was not available that evening but would ring back in the morning. “This evening must run according to whatever the dear witch has planned. I want nothing to disturb or upset me.”
The game Mitsi had proposed was so amusing that the adults asked if they could join in. To prevent Susanna’s group feeling slighted the staff were divided between the two groups, so that all the girls could have teachers with them. The only exception was the director, who remained on the dais looking on, with a certain shamefaced affection, while his colleagues and pupils roared with laughter. Kőnig was in Susanna’s group, along with Éles and Kalmár; Kerekes, Hajdú and Miss Gigus were with Mitsi Horn. Their game was a clever one. A sheet of paper was passed from hand to hand; the first person wrote down a phrase and passed it to her neighbor, who had to draw an image of what she had read; the paper was then folded to conceal the original phrase, and the third person had to write down what they thought the illustration depicted; the fourth drew a picture of what the third person had written; the fifth had to say what they thought their drawing was about, and so on. “At the end of the round,” Mitsi promised them, “you’ll see what the last drawing has made of the original phrase.”
She handed the paper to Gina for her to start. Gina wrote: “A small column of soldiers marching below a lofty citadel.” This went to Mari Kis, who sketched a mountain topped by a castle, with some tiny figures walking below, done the way children draw them, with matchstick arms and legs. She folded Gina’s text down and passed the drawing on to Bánki, who studied it for what seemed ages and, when she finally thought she understood it, wrote: “We are on an excursion to the hills.” Szabó now had to illustrate this; she drew two girls with oversized heads, to make it clear that they were wearing regulation Matula hats, and, to avoid any further possibility of error, added a railway line at their feet and a sign saying “To the Mátra Mountains.” Salm likewise thought for a long time, then her face lit up: she had remembered that once, in their early years in the school, Cziller and Gáti had been punished in a geography lesson for not knowing enough about those same mountains. Beneath the two large-headed girls she wrote: “Cziller and Gáti gave the wrong answers.” Miss Gigus, who was next in line, found this very hard to illustrate. But she had a good eye, and spent some time studying the two girls intently to try and create a good likeness.
That particular group was relatively calm, because its members were busy drawing, or trying to work out what they had to draw. By contrast, the circle around Susanna kept exploding with laughter. Susanna had now arrived at Kőnig with the prescribed question. It was, “What can I do to win your heart?”
“Fifty,” he replied. Her voice did not waver as she read out the answer, “Nothing, ever.”
At that point Sister Erzsébet put her head around the door and announced that Mr. Ruppert was still on the line. He was insisting that the director should stir himself and come to the telephone. The man in black puffed his cheeks and told her, “Tomorrow,” and Erzsébet disappeared.
The scene stuck in Gina’s memory for a great many years: it was exactly twelve months later to the day that she sat down again in her old seat in the classroom between Mari Kis and Torma. Some of those present that night she would never see again. Their idol and favorite, Kalmár, was called up a few days later and died in the Carpathians. The older Aradi, who carried the school banner with such flair, was killed in a bombing raid in the summer. Sister Erzsébet, who had cooked that special Christmas feast for them, perished during a fire in the east wing trying to save the library. In her mature years Gina often thought back to that last evening, not only because it marked the beginning of her freedom but because her adult awareness allowed her clearly and finally to see the two contrasting sides of the occasion—the gaiety and laughter, the flow of high spirits inside the massive walls, and the darkness outside, including the full dangers faced by a girl out on the streets who desperately needed to get to Mitsi Horn’s house.
Susanna had now moved on to the second question: “What would most make you happy?” Igger in year seven answered, “Forty-one,” and Susanna read out, “Winning at roulette.” In Mitsi Horn’s group Miss Gigus was still working on the two, now very tolerable, portraits, which Szabó naturally failed to recognize: she thought they represented two girls’ heads in the Árkod museum. I’m actually very frightened, Gina thought. I am terrified by what I have to do, even if Abigail is there to help.
For her, time had never flown so quickly. It was now 8:30 p.m.; soon it would be 8:45. But there seemed little cause for worry. The others were all so caught up in the game that probably no one would notice if she were fidgety and restless, or even realize she had gone. Her phrase about the “lofty citadel” was now long in the past, and a new sheet of paper and words had reached her. It had been started by Salm and it was her turn to draw the picture. She dashed off something that was neither well-executed nor convincing and passed it on. She and the director had been the only people not following the game but rather viewing it from the outside, and they were the only ones to notice that someone had appeared at the door. The staff realized what had happened only wh
en the director rose to his feet, mastered his dismay with his customary self-discipline, and went to greet the man. Gina had no idea who this emaciated person standing in the threshold might be, but she could see from the look on the director’s face that it was someone important. Her heart beat wildly in terror: had he come for her?
“Matula, stand to attention!” Gedeon Torma barked, with all the bitterness of a man who lives to rule his domain with a rod of iron and who, for the first time in his life, finds himself face to face with his arch enemy—Ruppert, the director of the Cock-a-doodle-doos—at precisely the moment when this witch Mitsi Horn has turned his house upside down, demijohns of wine shame him from every corner of the room, and the deaconesses and pupils are given over to frivolity. He had to call out twice before the games finally subsided, everyone came to their senses and stood up. Mitsi Horn was gazing at the new arrival with bright, intelligent eyes.
“Good evening, director,” said Ruppert. “What a jolly and pleasant atmosphere you have in here, a real Isle of the Blessed after the darkness outside. I see you are already aware of what has happened and have arranged a farewell party, so I have troubled you needlessly. Your secretary or whoever it was asked me not to bother you when we spoke, but I truly believed you knew nothing about the matter and would find out only tomorrow. So I thought . . .”
He stopped. There was no fifth-year girl, however generally unaware, who did not understand what he had failed to say. He went on: “I thought that in the circumstances it no longer matters that for generations our two institutions have been at loggerheads, with us being a state school and you a religious institution.”
“Do come in,” said Gedeon Torma. “Can I offer you something to drink? Have you dined?”
“No, thank you, I don’t want anything. If I still had my school I would be glad to return your hospitality. It would give you a chance to see what very good order we keep. Especially in all this . . .”
He fell silent again, and once more what he had not said was perfectly clear. He continued: “This hostility between our schools is really absurd, Torma. Can you even remember how the whole nonsense started? It was so long ago I certainly can’t.”
“What did you mean, if you still had a school?” Gedeon Torma asked. The silence in the building was like the silence during prayers.
“Well, if you’re holding a farewell party, then you must have heard the news from Budapest. The Minister has announced that from March 31 every educational institution in the country will be closed. That’s two days after the end of the school term. The pupils will get their results on April 4 and all boarders will be sent home. Only the final year will stay on, for their leaving exams.”
The director took him by the arm and led him in silence out of the refectory. He did not take his leave of the assembly and the girls did not say goodbye to him. No one had told them to. They stood where they were, stock-still. All year they had been dreaming of being allowed to go home; now they could only stare in stunned dismay as the two men vanished from the room.
That’s it, Gina thought. It’s now 8:45. I really should be gone by now. But the games have stopped, everyone is standing up and no one is talking. They’ll all see me. How will I ever get away?
“Shame on you all!” Mitsi Horn called out. “I don’t know what to make of you! Won’t you be pleased to be at home with your mothers? What silly girls you are!”
All eyes turned towards her—unsmiling faces, edged with fear.
“You’ll be so glad to be back home!” she went on. “So why all the glum faces? If we are going to have to leave soon, let’s at least enjoy ourselves for a while. You won’t have a chance tomorrow, because by then the director will be back to his usual self. So do carry on!”
She looked at the teachers, the pupils and the deaconesses in turn, and every adult understood her message: “Help me. We must do something to stop them being afraid!”
“Next question,” Susanna called out. “What do you love most in the world? Mr. Éles.”
“Number thirty,” the science teacher replied. Susanna readout, in all earnestness, “Embroidered underwear,” and blushed furiously. Almost no one laughed.
“What a dreadful lot you are!” Mitsi Horn exclaimed. “In my time, if anyone had said to us, ‘School’s over, no more exams, no more reports, because there is no alternative in the circumstances,’ we would have been beside ourselves with joy—and there would have been none of these long faces. Talk about degenerate youth! Isn’t it better to be enjoying yourselves at home than sitting around here praying all day?”
The worst of it was that not one of the teachers said, “Come on, Mitsi, you’re talking nonsense.”
She’s wasting her time, Gina thought. The mood for games has passed. Everyone’s too awake and aware of what’s going on. I can’t do what you want me to, Abigail. I’m done for.
Heads were put together and the girls began to whisper among themselves.
“Stand to attention, Matula!” Hajdú bellowed. “Who gave you permission to talk?”
That certainly helped: something familiar, reassuring. Hajdú’s squeaky voice, the commanding tone, the old severity. The girls rose to their feet and stood to attention. Hajdú scowled at them the way he did at anyone who sang their psalms badly. Gina, thinking now like an adult, understood what he intended: at that moment anything would be better than panic. Better by far to put on a show of anger, however pointless or rude, to stop them being frightened and confused.
The girls stood in numb silence, and the book of games slipped from Susanna’s hands.
“Well, you do get bored easily,” Mitsi Horn said. “Look at Vitay standing there as if her feet were glued to the ground. But she’s a fast enough runner when she’s up to no good. But alright, if you aren’t enjoying these two games, let’s find something else.”
“Go on, Matula: get on with it!” Kerekes ordered in the voice he used in his math lessons.
Mitsi Horn went from one group to another explaining the next game: they had to stand with their faces to the wall and turn their backs on her. One of them would be blindfolded and have to feel her way along the line. Any person she touched would have to make a noise, any noise, and the blindfolded girl would have to guess who it was. If she guessed correctly, the two of them changed places; if she was wrong, she would have to carry on until she got someone right.
No one seemed very much amused. Miss Gigus asked why they had to face the wall, because if the person were blindfolded they wouldn’t be able to see who it was anyway.
“She might recognize the person from the shape of her nose or her forehead,” Mitsi Horn explained. “Touching the back or the shoulder makes it harder to identify the person.”
“Line up, Matula, and face the wall!” Éles bellowed. It was back to school again, no longer a celebration: Ruppert’s visit had totally destroyed the buoyant mood and the spirit of fun. The classes went to their places in silence, with Mitsi Horn darting here and there to sort out the line and to persuade the teachers to join in. Which they all did. Gina turned round and looked hesitantly back at Mitsi Horn, who promptly called out to ask why the girl from Budapest wasn’t facing the wall; time was running out, it was almost nine o’clock. Gina translated this in their new shared secret language to mean: “I’m doing this for you. I’ve made them put their faces to the wall so they won’t see you going. Your time’s up. Go as quickly as you can.”
But Gina stayed where she was, staring at the wall, as she had been told. She had no idea how she was going to get away. There were girls on either side of her, Bánki on her left, in Torma’s absence, and Mari Kis on her right. They would certainly notice if she left.
“And who is that dark-haired girl standing next to her? What’s your name?” Mitsi went on. “Give her the blindfold.”
Mari Kis turned round and presented herself. She was furious. She detested this game! Only the little ones played it, and she loathed the idea of going around touching people. How could you pos
sibly tell who was meowing or heehawing just by putting your hands on them? This Mitsi Horn could go to the devil. She should just let them get on with the usual prayers and bedtime. The class had a million things to talk about; the school year would be over in two days’ time and they would all be separated. And she stayed where she was, hoping she would somehow be passed over.
“Well?” asked Mitsi Horn. “How long will it take you to do us the honor?”
“Off you go, Mari Kis!” Kalmár barked. “What do you mean by this? You’re holding up the game.”
“A fine game this is,” Mari muttered angrily, as she went across to Mitsi Horn. Gina could see what her plan was: with Mari gone there would be no one next to her. Centimeter by centimeter, she edged away from Bánki. Mitsi Horn announced that to make it more fun she would join in herself. She went over to Éles to borrow his handkerchief, then covered Mari Kis’s head with her scarf and tied the handkerchief over her own eyes. “Off you go, then,” she said, and sent Mari Kis on her way. Mari stumbled towards the line; Mitsi went straight to Bánki (so unerringly that she clearly hadn’t covered her eyes properly) and started to tug her pigtails. At that point Gina stepped back from the wall, and the space next to Bánki was now blocked by Mitsi standing there and pulling her hair. The girl responded by making a series of cackling noises, trying to disguise her voice. Mari Kis had reached the other end of the room and began to prod a girl, who just giggled. During the shrieks of laughter that ensued Gina was able to open the door without being heard. Her last glimpse of them all was of Mari with her head completely covered and the others standing with their backs to her. At that moment the giggler finally found utterance and grunted. Gina was still too young to take in the full horrifying ambiguity of the situation. Her heart beating wildly, and almost choking with fear, she fled down the empty corridor, taking care to avoid the duty room, whose door was still standing slightly open. “Matula, stand to attention! Get on with it, Matula!” War. Death. Grunt, grunt.