by Magda Szabo
When Gina came in with the Deaconess’s robe her eyes were shining with admiration for Mitsi.
Abigail, Gina said to herself, you who see everything, who find a solution to every problem, who can make anything happen, you have even managed to make something of the impossible Kőnig. Thank you, and thank you, Mr. Mráz, and Sister Susanna, and you too, cowardly Kőnig, for standing by me and saving me from Feri Kuncz.
For the first time in her life she said a properly respectful goodbye to him. He bowed to Mitsi Horn, kissed her, and went to open the door. Susanna kissed Mitsi Horn, as did Mráz, and they all went off. At last Gina was alone with her Abigail.
Mitsi Horn pushed the latch back on the door and collapsed in a chair. The merriment had vanished from her face, and she looked every one of her forty-eight years. She was exhausted, and had no doubt been very frightened that evening. Gina buried herself in her arms and tried to say how much she loved her, but as she fumbled for the right words Mitsi spoke.
“First I lost my husband, then my son. I don’t want anyone else to lose theirs in such a pointless war, fought for such alien principles. It’s quite enough that I should be alone and unhappy.”
The evil witch’s face was now bleak and bitter, the face of a stranger. Gina put her hand on her arm.
“Abigail isn’t alone, even if her husband . . . her son . . . even if she doesn’t have a real family. Everybody loves Abigail, I more than anyone.”
Mitsi turned her big green eyes on Gina and laughed out loud—that same mocking laugh that had so alienated her at first.
“You more than anyone? Are you so sure of that? You can only love heroes, little Vitay, dashing young lieutenants and showy, high-spirited women who like to dance and say cheeky things to the director and won’t submit to anyone. Susanna loves Abigail, Vitay: Susanna. She knows what he really is, and she absolutely hates it when people are taken in by his play-acting and think him a sentimental old donkey.”
She stopped, too upset to carry on. The girl stood before her, stupefied. What she had just understood was so much more astonishing and shocking than anything that had happened to her in the last dreadful and wonderful seven months.
“You love Abigail?” Mitsi went on. “Until this moment you thought that I was her. I, and not the bravest and most noble hearted man I have ever known.”
She stood up, stretched her arms out and walked a short way around the room, as if to release the tension that had built up inside her. Then she smiled again and looked at Gina.
“Go to bed, Anna Makó. It’s been a difficult time. And not only for you. For all of us.”
She led her up to her room, as she had done once before. As she was about to leave, Gina blocked her way. She was trying to think of words to express what she wanted to say.
“Don’t say anything,” Mitsi Horn said, with a shake of her head. “Not everything has to be put into words. Try to get some sleep.”
As soon as she was alone, Gina turned the light out and opened the window a crack. The chilly, violet-scented March air came flooding in, just as it had at home (at home?) in the Matula garden. The moon was riding high. She looked up at the sky and filled her lungs with the fresh air of the spring night, with all that it promised and threatened. My father, she said to herself, my real father, whose name I shall renounce tomorrow, I am now Anna Makó, born in Bolita. Father, my real father, I said of that wonderful man that he was cowardly and stupid. I even dared to write that in an essay, the one the Bishop read out. My dear father, so far away, I have been rude and hurtful to him at every possible opportunity. How can I ever make up for the fact that I never realized Mr. Kőnig was Abigail all along?