*****
SEPTEMBER 25, 1914
(TWENTY-ONE YEARS LATER)
Algiers, Algeria
We are making a new home again, Ferenc and I. It has been difficult to leave Paris, that wonderful city of art and culture where we have been so happy, but we left not a week too soon. Yesterday I received a letter from our Paris neighbor Charlene. The German army marched on Paris just as Ferenc feared it would. It had already reached the outskirts of the city by the time it was halted by the French army, with the aid of the British, at a battle on the Marne River. Hundreds of thousands of French and British soldiers died, but almost no civilians. It could so easily have gone otherwise. Charlene wrote to us on the night the fighting ended. Her letter says that it is the middle of the night. The city is frantic. Church bells are ringing, people crowd the streets, and gunshots punctuate the shouting. She says that everyone has been so afraid. It seems that they are safe for the moment but she still cannot rest easily. She says that we were right to leave, and that she would do the same if she had somewhere to go.
Our plan to come here was a good one. Algiers is sufficiently out of the way to be safe from the fighting, and since Ferenc grew up here and knows every corner of the city, it should not be too difficult to get settled. Because it is a French territory, its culture in architecture, dress, food, and manners is an interesting blend of North African and European. I am so relieved that we are here, and not in Hungary. I have spent pleasant times resting in Hungary, but for me to live there would be to exist at the edge of the civilized world.
The physical climate here in Algiers is temperate, with refreshing breezes blowing from the ocean. I am concerned about summer, though. It is said that last August the temperature reached 47.9 degrees Celsius, over 118 Fahrenheit. Ferenc, idealizing his childhood, says that it is necessary only to rise early to work, to stay indoors resting in the heat of the day, and to drink great quantities of cool tea. I am unconvinced, but then I am a more skeptical person than my husband.
Our new home, actually the top story of a four-level building, is small but comfortable, and we have had it scrubbed to a shine. It is high enough above the street to admit good light through its many windows, to protect us from much of the street noise, and to offer a view of treetops and sky. Because we have brought limited belongings, it has been fairly simple to unpack and make the place our own.
The small rooms present a challenge in displaying some of our larger paintings, but we do not mind hanging them, propping them, and leaning them everywhere. My favorites of Ferenc’s are his Algerian landscapes because of their harmony and movement. I like his Paris series very much, too, and I think I will look at them often when I miss our home there. My favorites among my own are all animals. In the newer paintings—“Camels Grazing at a Camp” and “Scene Orientaliste”—the sky is mainly light, and it casts its many-hued illuminations and shadows upon the animals and objects on earth. Especially dear to me are the drawings I made so long ago from the back of our covered wagon, of animals I had never seen before—“Antelopes,” “Bison Running,” “Coyote Drinking at a Stream”—and the paintings I later did from the sketches. In “Deer in the Woods,” one brave doe looks directly at me, unafraid. The other stares into the distance, becalmed. I am in their environment, in their atmosphere; they accept me, sensing my acceptance. How alive is the woodland around us, how vivid the light on leaves. One of my best paintings, “The Wolf,” remains in California with my family. I still marvel at how that wolf stood so still, watching me as I sketched him. But I have here with me my first, humble painting, “Mattie.” This I display in a place of honor over the mantelpiece.
I take Ferenc’s arm, and for a few moments, I am content to see our paintings in a new home. Algiers has its own beauty, its own charm, and we can be happy here.
Then there is a loud knocking at the door.
“Ouvre la porte! Nous sommes la police!”
As Ferenc moves toward the door, we exchange looks of bewilderment and fear. What concern could the French police have with two former Parisians who have come here with all the necessary papers?
“Bonsoir, officiers. Comment puis-je aider?” Ferenc says with his impeccable manners, making a slight bow.
The soldiers are not polite. They do not even bother to answer, but push past him gruffly, their brusqueness and ill intent monopolizing the room. Next to my composed husband, they more closely resemble chimpanzees than men. One, who appears to be their leader, takes our papers from the table and put them in his bag. Another rifles through our suitcases, closets, and drawers. A third inspects the backs of our paintings, pulling off the paper finishing, evidently hoping to find something hidden behind it.
I can tell that Ferenc is very angry only by the pallor of his face and the fact that his speech is even more controlled than usual as he demands to know the reason for this search. The police do not respond until they have finished destroying the order we have only just created here. At last, after what seems a long while, one who appears to be their leader addresses, not Ferenc, but me. His features and the deep tones of his skin tell me that he is at least part Algerian, and not simply one of the French nationals who are occupying the country. He speaks good English with a French accent.
“Madame Lotz, this man—”
“I am Madame Lotz Blaskovits, sir, and this man is my husband.”
“Pardon. I know your work, Madame. You are a great painter, and you have portrayed the people and animals of this country for the whole world.”
I bow my head to acknowledge his regard.
“Madame, pardon, but your husband is Hungarian. He is an enemy of France.”
I let escape a rueful laugh. “An enemy of France? We have lived in Paris, and been celebrated in Paris, for many years. If you know of me, how can you not know this?”
“You and he have lived in France, Madame, but your husband is a citizen of Hungary, which is at war with France. He is an enemy of the state. He is under house arrest, and as his wife, you are, as well.”
“For how long?”
“Until the war is over. We have not found any evidence to condemn him as a spy, but we cannot allow either of you liberty to act outside our observation.”
They cannot allow us liberty—how often must I hear this? Why does no one seem to realize the absurdity of such a statement?
“But surely we will be allowed to leave to transact business, to buy food, and to take some exercise?”
“From time to time, when we are able to spare an officer to accompany you.”
“This is my problem,” Ferenc says to the commander. “It does not involve my wife. She needs to be allowed freedom to walk and to shop in the normal way.”
Still he does not recognize Ferenc. This must be a strategy to subdue and humiliate him—the enemy of the people.
“I will send one of my men on occasion to accompany you to the market, Madame,” he says. “Remember, neither you nor your husband is to leave this house unaccompanied. Good evening.” He makes a slight bow, and leads the search party out of our house.
Ferenc and I sink into chairs, defeated, emotionally exhausted. It will do no good to argue. We are prisoners in our own home.
*****
MARCH 1915
(SIX MONTHS LATER)
Algiers, Algeria
It has been torture for Ferenc to remain helplessly inside our house while the world is at war and his homeland is one of the major combatants. News reaches us seldom, and even letters from our families are seized and read, only sometimes being returned to us. Months after the fact, he has learned that his two older brothers have died in battle, one gassed to death on the Western Front, the other dying on the Eastern Front of “unknown causes,” likely dysentery. This leaves Ferenc as the only remaining child of his widowed mother, but he cannot even be certain that his letters are reaching her. He longs to visit her in Hungary, to comfort and protect her, but even if it were not for our arrest, to try to go to Hungary now wo
uld be suicide, the cruelest blow to his mother and of course to me.
The physical restraint imposed on us is very wearying. Both Ferenc and I are accustomed to walking daily, in recent years up and down the steep hills of Paris, particularly Montmartre. For six long months, we have seldom walked anywhere but inside this small house. We open all the windows and follow the short circuit over and over, as briskly as possible. Anyone observing us would think we had lost our minds, but that person would not be taking into account the ache of unused muscles or the torpor of a mind in a body that does not exercise.
Roughly once a month, the commander of the police sends us a chaperone as promised, and we are able to shop. The pleasure of these few respites from our monotonous imprisonment is comparable to world travel for those who have their freedom. First, to step from the house, descend the stairs, and stand under the sky and trees delight us. Next, we walk, freely swinging our legs and arms, for at least half a mile. This is no great distance but a fine change nonetheless.
Then we arrive at the bazaar, a city unto itself where we find everything we need to buy and much that we do not. Fabrics of brilliant red, blue, green, and purple jewel tones trimmed in gold are suspended from poles above the crowd and delight the eye as they wave in the breeze. Walls display intricately patterned carpets. Gold and silver jewelry sparkles on tables. Aromas of fresh bread, coffee, spices, and roasting lamb mix with those of incense and rich perfumes. Someone may be playing a drum or a flute. Merchants hawk their wares, but also smile and invite us, offering tea as they show us their items. The great challenge is to concentrate on purchasing what is necessary—meat, vegetables, fruit, nuts, cheese, flour, honey, as well as canvas and paints—before enjoying the show. We try to keep our police guard from knowing when we have what we need until he tells us we have no more time. To be fair, the guards have generally been courteous. Finally, we enjoy the walk home, talking about what we have purchased and deciding what we will sketch tomorrow of all the images the day has presented us.
Arrest has had a further consolation, and an important one at that. With nothing to do but paint, we have painted prolifically, and also well, I think. Adversity has a way of focusing the mind, and to work has been a way of venting anger—so much anger at first—and avoiding crippling self-pity. The ancient Greeks wisely recognized that drama can provide catharsis, but in my experience, all the arts are capable of purifying and ennobling emotions. Indeed, I do not know how I could have borne these past months without painting. I do not know how I could have borne most of the events of my life without painting.
******
EARLY MAY 1915
(TWO MONTHS LATER)
Algiers, Algeria
When we were children enduring difficult times, Mama often reassured us with the words, “This, too, shall pass.” Our imprisonment in Algiers appears to be coming to an end, and not a moment too soon. The political climate here is becoming more dangerous as the war progresses. Last month neighbors cast disapproving looks at us as we walked to our shopping, and this month we have not been allowed to go out at all. Not only that, but in November the Ottoman Empire did indeed join the war on the side of Austria-Hungary and Germany as Ferenc had thought it could, and its borders are dangerously close to Algiers.
The French have exchanged us for prisoners held by Hungary. Of course we are relieved. We will leave as soon as possible, within several days, for Tata, Hungary, where Ferenc’s mother lives. But our release has strict conditions. We are allowed to bring with us nothing but the clothing we wear. We must leave not only our furniture and jewelry but also our documents, our letters from family members (some of whom are dead), our books. Our paintings. Dozens of them. Every one of our paintings must be left behind.
At first it is unthinkable, and I am in a kind of shock. Ferenc, of course, thinks first of me. He comes to the window where I am staring at the sky, and takes me in his arms.
“Have courage, Matilda. The art is inside you. It is what you see, how you see, and who you have become. You have been fashioned by every painting you have created. You are your great oeuvre. You are the work of art.”
His words pierce through the armor that has kept me from feeling my grief, and I collapse against him, sobbing for a long while. When the emotion subsides, he leads me to a chair and pours a glass of wine.
“And you, Ferenc, are your paintings inside of you, too?”
“They must be. And less grandly, they are on the canvas, too, and the French police here are not stupid. They will not destroy the paintings, but no doubt sell them. If so, the paintings can be seen by anyone. It is cruel that we lose them, it is unjust, but who knows where our work may travel, or who may benefit by it?”
“What you say is probably true, but I do not want to hear it now. Tell me something else, something better.”
Ferenc kneels beside my chair and kisses my hand. “Very well, Tillie. I will tell you that the French will allow me to take you with me, and that is enough.”
*****
LATE MAY 1915
(SEVERAL WEEKS LATER)
Tata, Hungary
We arrived in Tata last week, and have taken a small house on the grounds of what was once Ferenc’s ancestral home. It has a red-brick structure with windows that, although not large, are plentiful enough to admit good light. Here we can easily walk to the great house to care for the countess, Ferenc’s mother, who now relies on him so heavily. Not only has she lost her two other sons, but conscription has claimed most of the servants, leaving only a faithful few, mostly women and children, to care for the countess, the remaining animals, and the sparse crops.
The countess has been extremely kind to me. When we met many years ago on my visit to her house in Budapest with Earl Esterházy and his family, she was courteously imperious, keeping at a distance from the American painter of animals who is, astoundingly, a woman. Now, since suffering has softened us both, she embraces me as the wife of her only remaining son, and has even requested that I call her Anya—Mother. Knowing that we arrived with nothing, she has pulled from the closets any article of female and male clothing imaginable for our use. This has worked out well for Ferenc, whose physique is similar to his father’s and brothers’, but I have a slighter figure than my mother-in-law, and have some alteration work ahead of me. Thankfully, when I was a girl, Mama taught me well how to take in a dress or raise a hem.
The countess—Anya—has also furnished this vacant tenant house where we have chosen to stay with her own furniture, draperies, bedding, kitchenware, and tableware. She would have preferred that we live in the great house with her, and we did for several days after we arrived, but we immediately saw difficulties. Since her husband died many years ago, she is accustomed to making every decision, finishing every discussion with her pronouncement. This is no atmosphere for our young marriage, and Ferenc and I are of one mind about needing our autonomy. It is not as if Ferenc must now assume a high state position, receiving dignitaries in his estate house—the war has changed all that—so he may as well live quietly and paint as he chose to do years ago.
We plan to see his mother as much as possible, even daily, since we are the only brightness on her horizon. Her lavish lifestyle has been reduced to subsistence. All of Hungary is experiencing a food shortage due to poor harvests and the Allied blockade. Of course, she has been one of the fortunate ones, since the stores of food in a house such as hers are able to supplement for quite a while the little that can be purchased, but she has many people depending upon her. She still supports a number of servants—women whose husbands have been conscripted into the army, and children, and in the town, long lines of men, women, and children wait daily to receive the soup and bread she provides.
Ferenc and I have spent the past several days assisting the servants in carrying furnishings to our little house and placing them where we want. Now we are surveying our arrangement of the parlor in yet another dwelling, where yet again we have been compelled to flee. The absence of our painti
ngs is painfully conspicuous, but we do not mention them. Instead, Ferenc puts his arm around me.
“We will be happy here, Tillie.”
Ah, happy. Ferenc can simply be happy as Paul could simply be happy. Opposites attract, as the saying goes. I see things very differently. We will surely be sorrowful here, and lonely, and frightened. We may have to suffer here and to endure. But we will be together, which means that, at least at times, we will be happy. And, pray God, we will at last be safe. This reminds me of something the room is lacking, not the paintings that are obviously missing, but something that I am capable of adding.
“Wait, Ferenc. I’ve just remembered something.”
I take my coat from the rack in the hall and my scissors from the sewing basket and rip open the lining of my coat to uncover a small parcel the size of a deck of cards, wrapped in my finest silk scarf, a parcel so small that the French police did not detect it as I fled from Algiers. I carefully unwrap it to find the images of Papa and Mama in an original miniature, my gift to them on their fortieth wedding anniversary, which Paul sent to me after Papa died. I walk to the mantelpiece to display it in a place of honor. This one item that I have been able to bring makes a small corner of this place a home.
Now I can answer, and truthfully. “I will try, Ferenc. I will try to be happy here.”
*****
NOVEMBER 21, 1916
(SIX MONTHS LATER)
Tata, Hungary
Ferenc enters the parlor with a troubled demeanor and takes my hand.
“Tillie, my dear, the emperor is dead. He died peacefully in his bed last week.”
I embrace him, and we stand a moment in silent mourning. This is a sorrow, but not a tragedy. The emperor was in his late seventies, and he was not murdered. I will remember him with high regard—Emperor Franz Joseph, his imperial majesty. He understood the way that I see and paint animals. My portraits of his three horses pleased him so much that he awarded me a generous bonus, and displayed the paintings in a place of honor in the palace. He was a great man, and very kind to me. It seems to be an attribute of many of the very great that they are also humble and kind.
Lift My Eyes Page 14