by Andrew Ervin
“You made it,” she said.
“Yes. Yes—I have made it.”
“Let me look at you.”
She took his shoulders in her hands and could tell how thin he had grown, that the meat had atrophied and shriveled from his bones. But her arms around him—this was why he had come. The tears swelled in his eyes. “I am so happy. So happy to see you.” He held onto her so that she could absorb all of his suffering and sleeplessness, as if her youthfulness and beauty would make it dissipate like smoke.
“You are so thin,” Magda said, “but you look healthy.”
Neatly attired strangers murmured around her in countless languages about the current state of Europe, about these awful, dreadful times, about what new travesties today would bring. They stirred cubes of refined sugar into their teacups and stabbed tiny forks at their plates. A young girl, not yet a teenager, wound her way through the labyrinth of tables, collecting soiled dishes.
“It’s unbelievable. Have I told you that you look exactly like your grandmother?”
“Only every time I see you.” “She was—”
“—the most beautiful woman in Budapest.”
“Are you mocking me, Magda?”
“Only a little, bácsi.” She was his same height, if not slightly taller, and she kissed him on both cheeks. “How is your room?”
“Fine, fine. Very comfortable.”
“Két cappuccino,” she told a passing and disinterested waitress, and they sat. “The coffee here’s great, ten times better than what we get down at the base. Are you hungry?”
“No, I had room service deliver some things. You should eat, however. Oh, and I’m terribly sorry. I bought you some hóvirág but, foolishly, I left them on the metro.”
The resemblance was impossible to fathom. She was the same age, or very close to the same age, that his mother was when he and Tibor saw her for the last time. Even her voice carried a distinct and soothing similarity.
The cukrászda doubled in the morning as a dining room for guests of the hotel, and the characteristic odors of baking sugar and of stale coffee lingered in the atmosphere. The pastry chefs arrived with regularity behind the counter to load the glass display cases with decorative cakes and tortes and every manner of creamy, rich dessert. The array of treats fascinated and repelled him; that people would consume such junk was an outrage, but that such an ocean of options existed, and in Budapest, was cause for celebration.
The difference between communism and democracy, he came to believe in the course of his travels, could be witnessed in that very display case full of cakes. On his last visit, he had spent an afternoon at Café Gerbeaud, the famous coffee house on Vörösmarty Square. At that time, they had one variety of cake available, which was extremely dry and not very delicious, but which cost him only ten forints. That was communism. Now, he could choose from a hundred varieties of cake, but each cost one thousand forints. That was democracy. Europe had chosen to choose, but Harkályi feared that they accepted only the illusion of choice. The display case was a mirage, a distraction. They were deciding from among different combinations of the very same ingredients used to make that flavorless cake in 1967.
“What would you say to a serving of Somlói galuska?” he asked.
“Bácsi, it’s not even noon yet.”
“What better time.” He, with some difficulty, got the attention of a waitress. “Somlói galuska.”
She appeared to be surprised. “Igen?”
“Igen. Két.”
“Kettő?”
“Igen, kettő.”
“Your Hungarian is returning.”
“Maybe one could say that I am returning to it. Perhaps that is why I am so nervous.”
“Nervous? You’ve been through this a million times.”
“Yes, and a million times I have been nervous. I cannot tolerate the pageantry involved with these events, yet I cannot avoid them because—”
“Because you are the ‘world’s greatest living composer.’”
“I have told you to stop that, Magdalene.”
“I’m only teasing. You’re not really the world’s greatest living composer.”
“Thank you.”
“This must be strange for you, being home. It’s been so long.”
“Since the death of Kodály, yes. It is strange. Do you know that last night I went to visit the synagogue and when I arrived it was on fire.”
“On fire? Was it destroyed?”
“No. No, and that’s the peculiar thing. With my own eyes I watched it burn and yet once the fire was extinguished, there was no damage at all. I know that I’m beginning to sound like a crazy old man, but I believe I witnessed a miracle, Magda.”
“A miracle, bácsi? There has to be some explanation.”
“Yes, of course you are right. Some explanation. I must admit that I have not thought of this city as ‘home,’ as you call it, but it is a joy to see you.” She leaned forward to kiss him on the side of his face. “I am afraid that I’m not very good company this morning.”
“Are you still having trouble sleeping?”
“Yes, sadly, but it’s always worst before a concert, much less before a premiere. But I am very deeply moved to see you. Before I get too sentimental, however, let’s try this galuska.”
She tapped at her eyes with a white napkin.
The cake—if that was the word for this bowl of unruly slop—looked awful; it was a mess of undercooked dough and runny chocolate sauce buried under whipped cream. The sight alone made his stomach turn.
“Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all.”
“You have to at least taste it, bácsi.”
“No—it’s getting late. But tell me. You are working now for the American Army?”
“Our company is consulting for them. We’re private contractors.”
“War profiteers, you mean,” he said, of course joking.
“Yes, in a way. We’re integrating a suite of technical and logistical support systems into the military’s preexisting network of security solutions.”
“Network of security solutions?”
“Now who’s teasing whom? I’m a translator. I assist the Hungarian security firms that the United States government hired to train the Iraqi police force.”
“You’re not serious. The Iraqi police?”
“We’re teaching them the skills they’ll need to relieve our soldiers of peacekeeping work in Iraq. My work will help them get home to their families faster.”
“Why is this occurring in Hungary?”
“Cheap labor, basically. Our company works in six different security centers throughout the former Soviet Union. All these countries have mandatory military service, right? So these Hungarians are basically trained and disciplined already, not to mention eager for jobs.”
“And you hire them to train Iraqi policemen?”
“On behalf of the United States government, right.” She stirred a packet of artificial sugar into her coffee cup, and then leaned forward to whisper into his ear: “We’re overseeing the interrogation of political prisoners from the Middle East.”
Harkályi coughed. It was uncontrollable. In his haste for a drink, he nearly spilled his water glass. “Please excuse me,” he said, taking a long drink. “I think it’s time that I got dressed. There will be a car to meet us at one o’clock. I will feel fortunate to have a personal translator with me today. We will go to Buda for the concert, and then have some photographs taken with the prime minister. Now, however, please excuse me.”
“I can’t wait. In the meantime, have you seen a post office by any chance? I told my boyfriend I’d mail some letters for him.”
“A boyfriend, Magda?”
“Yes, you’ll meet him soon, I hope.”
“I would like that very much. You should have brought him with you. Nothing is open today, of course. Perhaps you can find a mailbox.”
“Of course. I’ll do that, and be back before one. And then—a new opera! I�
��m so excited.”
“It is not so new for me, Magda.” He pushed the bowl of sugary goo away from his body and stood, with some effort. His knees no longer functioned as they once did. So much time had been stolen from him. “I will meet you downstairs. We will continue this conversation shortly. Seeing you, yes—it does almost feel as if I have come home. You are the last of the Harkályis, Magda.”
“It’s great to see you too. Just remember, you’ve been through this a million times before. Don’t be afraid.”
13.
Luck, a phenomenon that at age fourteen Lajos had already discerned as the afterthought of an indifferent God, one eclipsed from view in Bohemia, kept him and Tibor off those cattle cars bound for Poland and beyond the notice of the council of elders, whose unfortunate responsibility it became to condemn their fellow Jews to that passage across Mitteleuropa. While lethargy and apathy and incomprehension demagnetized the globe’s moral compass, bodies continued to burn in the distance, the smoke rising to obscure the light of two million stars, still twinkling bright yellow, though already dead.
In the spring, a film crew arrived from Berlin to shoot a documentary that would be shown to the world. Karel Ančerl was ordered to prepare a special concert, with only a few days’ notice, to take place on the main grandstand in the town center. It would include the Study for Strings, by Pavel Haas, and the children’s opera Brundibár, by Hans Krása, both residents of Terezín and both major influences on Harkályi’s earliest compositions.
Lajos copied the music with the promise that he would be granted the honor of performing with the second violins. The orchestra practiced around the clock, confident that their very lives depended upon a perfect performance. Haas and Krása attended every rehearsal to assist with certain questions of interpretation that arose, ecstatic that their music would gain a worldwide audience. Lajos’s hands ached from the constant scribbling of notes, yet as he was frequently reminded, his suffering did not match that of his brother, whose tireless physical servitude to the kapo made him just as invaluable. Lajos’s own hard work and dedication, rare for a musician of any age, endeared him to Ančerl.
In preparation for the film, and apart from the small circle of musicians otherwise occupied, every able-bodied woman and man—which is to say every woman and man, as those who were not of able body did not remain for long in Terezín—dedicated their labors to the beautification of the town. They added fresh coats of paint to the buildings and planted vast flower and vegetable gardens, though few among them would live to see them bloom again.
For days, the filmmakers shot images of children playing soccer, of families sitting around large, food-laden tables, of citizens in line to deposit fake money at the town’s newly built bank. The world would see the glorious gift that the kaiser had given to the Jews—their own Edenic village, far from the devastation of the war. The concert would be equally farcical, with a row of plotted plants placed in an orderly line along the front of the stage to hide from the camera’s view the shabby shoes that failed to match the dark, hastily tailored suits, each with a bright and prominent Star of David emblazoned on the chest.
On the morning of the performance, at the instruction of Ančerl, the concertmaster approached Lajos while he practiced his scales, a chore he relished for its distraction. The maestro had decided that he would not allow Lajos to perform in the concert. His cinematic debut would have to wait for another day, and for different circumstances. When asked why, he was told that he did not appear sufficiently Jewish to make the proper impression for the camera and, in addition, that his playing was simply not up to the standards of the adults in the string orchestra. If he wanted to become a concert violinist, he would have to dedicate himself to practicing more, without the distraction of copying music or notating the melodies that even then had started to ferment in his imagination. The disappointment stung; anger surged through his sunken frame, but he was powerless. The memory of that rage embarrassed Harkályi for the rest of his life. He had said some things out of youthful indiscretion that he will always regret.
He refused to attend the concert, and instead hid in the barracks. Tibor would later describe the event in detail, movement by movement, and in particular the immediate aftermath: once the camera stopped rolling, Ančerl with a wave raised all of the musicians to their feet and asked them to place their instruments on their chairs. He led the procession, baton still in hand, as they lined off the riser in single file, laughing at the joy of a successful performance. Men shook hands, grabbed proudly at their fashionable lapels. Smiling the entire way, they followed Ančerl’s slow, funereal pace straight into the cars of the transport train, which already contained the families of every participant of the concert. Word quickly spread that they were being freed in recognition of their gift to the Reich, and they cheered and shouted to each other, despite the crowded conditions. At Auschwitz, so Harkályi learned many years later, only Ančerl among the hundreds of them would survive the day.
The maestro had rehearsed and conducted the concert, under the gaze of the cameras and of the entire world, with the full understanding that immediately afterwards he would lead the men in his charge to their deaths. In dismissing Lajos from the performance, Ančerl knowingly and deliberately saved his young life.
Twenty years later, Ančerl toured the United States and Harkályi, by then a professor of music in Philadelphia, though not yet internationally recognized, attempted to arrange a reunion. His letter to Ančerl was returned unopened by the management of the Czech Philharmonic, and he never spoke with the maestro again, not even after he emigrated to Canada.
“Goddamn Karel Ančerl,” he had said back then, in Terezín. It was the first instance in his life that his prayers would be answered.
Lajos was left behind to rot, so he believed, while all of the other musicians and composers gained their freedom in Western Europe and elsewhere. He grew embittered, but also productive. With the sudden shortage of competent performers, the homesick guards approached him with commissions. They grew tired of hearing the same few marches, so they sent to Leipzig and Berlin and even Paris for new music—tangos and csárdás, arias from the latest operettas—which Lajos had to transcribe for a rotating cast of musicians and whatever instruments were on hand. The living could fill out the chords of the dead. He assigned all of the parts to all or to almost all of the musicians simultaneously, with only slight variations in form or timbre, so it didn’t matter if he only had three violins or if his oboist had been shot, or even if there were no cello strings to be found within fifty miles. His inner ear grew accustomed to awkward variations in pitch, which he learned to incorporate into the music he composed based upon the Volkslieder the weeping officers sang drunkenly to him. The rapid turnover of musicians made it difficult to orchestrate precise melodies, so Harkályi taught himself a unique compositional style, a style that eventually gained him a vast, international following and brought him back here to Budapest after all of these years.
14.
They were sealed in a windowless, unadorned stone room in which two metal chairs had been placed before a table of colorful catered food. Sturdy padlocks prevented entry into the closets, where the priests hung their civilian clothes while saying mass. A sentry stood guard in the hallway, the personal bodyguard of the prime minister of the republic of Hungary, of Magyarország, who was said to be interned in an adjoining backstage cell. Magda picked at a strawberry, then at a misshapen cube of melon, while Harkályi paced in small, waltz-like circles.
“This melody you will hear at the very end, in the final string quartet—it is the lullaby that your grandparents sang to us.”
“I remember. Papa would sing it too, but his voice was awful!”
“Perhaps not ‘awful,’ but what he lacked in talent he compensated for with volume.”
“Yeah, that’s definitely true.” Magda’s smile electrified him. “It’s funny that your parents sang in Hungarian.”
“They learned to sing bef
ore they learned how to speak. That was how they accumulated a vocabulary—one folk song at a time. It’s such a tragedy. They believed they would be safe in Budapest.”
“Papa didn’t really talk about the war, but I heard him tell my mother once, when she was sick, that his parents—your parents—wouldn’t have been safe anywhere. They were ‘too vocal.’ That was the term he used. That the best they hoped for was his safety and yours.”
“Tibor was fearless, even as a boy, as strong as a bull.”
“He always cried when he sang it.”
“Yes, that is understandable, certainly. It was very painful for me to transcribe, and perhaps it was a mistake to do so.”
“I can’t wait to hear it.”
“I cannot wait for this concert to … listen.”
The orchestra had started to warm up, to arrive at a shared tuning. To Harkályi, the cacophony was gorgeous, like a summer meteor shower dripping from the heavens. There were sounds, often from the reeds and winds, that some listeners would consider unappealing, but in reality no awful voices truly existed—not even his brother’s. The pre-musical chaos contained something honest, even truer than the manicured tones that would follow; it was music in the raw, free of false order, of linearity, and for that reason was ignored by the audience as if it were white noise. It was his favorite part of every concert. Colors and patterns of sound swirled forth from the altar, but were muted by the heavy wooden door.
His career as a composer was born, in a concentration camp, from hideous necessity. And it was in a concentration camp, now, that his beloved niece had gained employment. It was enough to make him weep. So like her grandmother, and so very and incalculably different. He wanted now to be alone, to fall to his knees and cry.
During the following weekend, the production of The Golden Lotus would be transferred across the river to the opera house, but Harkályi would not remain in Hungary long enough to witness the transition, or even to see for himself the Oriental-looking sets they constructed. He needed to return to his studio, to the empty staves that awaited him. Someday soon he would take on more composition students, when he felt confident that he had something to teach them. He would impart upon them the necessity of embracing the variety of willful ignorance that saw him through the greatest horrors that humanity can bestow, and which were responsible for this absurd celebrity. He will teach them to avoid the mistakes he had made. He will teach them to compose what they did not yet know and wished to understand.