The Dispossessed

by Szilard Borbely

Around the time of Saint Andrew’s Day, when the moon is full, she came to our house with a clean damask kerchief. Otherwise my mother wouldn’t let her pick up the baby in his swaddling clothes. My grandmother was wearing her very best clothes that day, the ones she would wear when she was buried. She was very careful about that. She regularly spread out the clothes at the head of the bed and explained to Máli how it should be done. Otherwise, she only wore these clothes on the Feast of Tabernacles. She kept them in the good room.

  “Pray as if you are going to die tomorrow. And work as if you would live forever,” she would keep repeating.

  She was ready for death. She awaited it every evening. Every Sunday, she dusted off the formal dress that she would wear in the coffin; she smoothed it out, almost caressing it. She prepared her boots, as well, rubbing and polishing them.

  The days were already cool, the evenings were cold. My grandmother said that for once, we should not disturb her in what she was doing. She would never ask for anything ever again. This was her last wish. She knew that her daughter-in-law hated her, that she thought her grimy. But she wouldn’t live for long. She asked for only this one thing. Let her take out the baby just like that, naked. She would swaddle the baby well in the damask, there would be no problems. But no one was allowed to sneak out after her, because that person would go blind.

  Neither my mother nor my father liked this kind of sorcery. But they said nothing. They accepted this as my grandmother’s last wish. The last wish of a dying person. Then, as my mother told me later, “Your grandmother took you and circled around the house. She was doing some kind of sorcery. But she never said what it was. After that, she didn’t live for too long. She died that fall. We’ll never know. She never told us her enchantments. Not even the curses, although she promised to teach me. If she was angry at someone, she held a special fast. Everyone was afraid of her. I was, as well.” She wasn’t considered a witch, but everyone in the village was afraid of Mari Pop. Because you never know.

  ONE YEAR EARLIER, WHEN MY LITTLE BROTHER WAS ALREADY crawling in the middle of the room, which was at the same time the kitchen, my mother went to see whether the stars had come out. The Friday fast ends when the evening star comes out. That’s when the Sabbath begins. My mother set the table, unfolding the starched damask tablecloth. She always ironed it in advance. It had a fresh fragrance. The scent of well water and sunlight. My little brother crawled underneath the table. He already knew how to crawl then. The folds of the damask tablecloth draped downward, giving him a hiding place. He swung in between the beams that braced the table legs. Two transverse boards connected each leg. He liked to hide away in this nook. Then, he was still in a good mood. We built him a door made out of the stool. We covered it with the old blanket used for ironing. He stayed there for a long time. He was quiet then.

  I’M GOING UP TO THE VILLAGE WITH MÁLI. I AM QUIET, MÁLI speaks continuously. Between us there are thirty-seven years. Thirty-seven can be divided only by itself. Máli yells over to everyone, calling into each and every gate. I am holding her hand, and she is holding mine. I count our steps. I’m ashamed to walk with her because people laugh at her. In her other hand is the food carrier; we are bringing something for my grandfather to eat. There will be something for Máli to eat the next day, as well, because she doesn’t like to cook. We’ve gone beyond the belfry, though, because one of the boys who was playing in the street is running after us. He jumps across the ditch onto the sidewalk. He hastily slaps me in the face. Then he quickly runs off. Máli notices too late. The boy is far away by the time she yells after him.

  “The pestilence take you, what the hell is your problem?” she yells. “I hope you croak!”

  I cover my ears. My face is burning. My ears are fire-hot from shame.

  “Stinking Jew,” the boy calls back.

  “May your skin freeze over!” screams Máli. “And cancer eat your heart!”

  The boy is not alone. There are two others running after him. They run up to an abandoned courtyard. There they disappear amid the weeds and nettles as tall as men. The heavy stalks of hemlock sway for a bit, then once again they are still. Their smell is sickening. The geese get sick from it. The greediest ones die.

  “Bizhi, bizhi, bizhi,” we call, but by that time they don’t respond to anything.

  There are those who die. Most of them survive.

  Máli is still cursing.

  “May God string you up on his cock,” she says.

  I swallow back my tears. I am ashamed of my impotence. Bitterness, like the smell of hemlock, is nauseating. I don’t want my mother to know. I don’t want my mother to cry. The bitter liquid flows back into my throat.

  AT HOME, WE DON’T SAY THE WORD JEW. MY FATHER NEVER pronounces it. Nor does my mother. They are afraid of this word. The word Jew can never be uttered. Sometimes my older sister whispers it. When my father talks with my mother, he always alludes to it. Or he just says a name.

  “You know, he was one, too,” he says.

  “What, he isn’t anymore?” my mother asks at such times. This makes my father angry, and his reply is always the same.

  “Meaning that he isn’t observant anymore,” he says, as if there were no significance to this statement. As if he were saying, “The sun is shining today.” But he never says what isn’t being observed.

  “Oh, like that,” says my mother, who is trying to act stupid. But my mother isn’t stupid, she just likes to annoy my father. She shows her love by annoying him. My father always loses his patience. My mother shows him the tip of her finger.

  “Here it is, here it is,” she says and laughs. She points the finger right up close to his eyes so that he can’t see it anymore, because it’s too close. When my mother does this, it means she’s in a good mood. Lately, she hasn’t been in a good mood.

  MÁLI ALWAYS SPEAKS VERY LOUDLY. SHE NEARLY YELLS.

  “They can hear you all the way to the Ramp,” my father says when she comes in the gate.

  “And so what?” says Máli just as loudly as her throat will allow. She yells just the same inside the house, as well. The farm laborers always yell while they’re working so they can hear each other, because they’re far away from each other. The machines rattle. The wind blows. There’s always something making a clattering sound. People are used to it, so they yell at home, too. And on the Ramp. They try to outshout one another.

  Máli is calm until my grandfather and his family get home; she has shouted herself out. She flares up quickly again, though, and then quarrels with everyone. Then she suddenly calms down again. She laughs at herself, plays jokes. Her face is wrinkled, browned by the sun and wind. Many people think she’s a Gypsy. Those who don’t know her stay away from her. Máli has two teeth. One on the top, which you can see when she laughs. The other one is on the bottom. She chews on it. She’s like a child. You can taunt her. She’s used to it. You don’t have to respect her like the other adults. She quarrels with us as if she, too, were a child. We vex and tease her. She loves us. If she’s offended, then she tells on us.

  “Máli, Máli,” they say to her, “don’t stoop to quarreling with children!”

  She’s only one head taller than us. Her face is full of wrinkles. When she’s being nasty to us, she laughs. Her small eyes are lively and sharp. Everyone is afraid of her tongue, of her immediate retorts. She’s quick-witted. Even though she never really learned to read or write at school. Wrinkles run all around her eyes. Around her mouth, too. Because of the missing teeth, her lower lip has fallen in and it’s all wrinkles. It makes her face look like a goblin’s.

  She doesn’t like to wear shoes. As the weather grows warmer, she kicks them off her feet. She can write her name only in a cumbersome hand. She spells out the syllables in agony. She doesn’t like to read. And she doesn’t, unless she really has to. But she remembers everything that has ever happened in the village and that she was told. She knows everyone’s family tree. And she knows what happened on what day, what was being cooked, w
hat kinds of clothes everyone was wearing, and who they were talking to. And most important, what they were talking about.

  MÁLI’S NAME IS MALVIN AMáLIA. EVERYONE LAUGHS AT that. She tells everyone her name, even if they don’t ask. She likes to introduce herself. She always adds, “I’m Bobonka’s daughter.” She says that so people will know she’s a woman. She introduces herself to men a lot. She’s the only one with two first names. She’s proud of her name, just as she is proud of her family. But everyone just calls her Crazy Máli.

  She was given in marriage twice; each time, it was a trial marriage. The first time, she went to the neighboring village. To the son, who was also touched in the head, of a large landowner. Máli was just a little bit touched. She was shorter than everyone else. In reality, she’s remained a child. A nasty and quarrelsome child.

  “In the old days, relatives used to marry each other, because of the land,” says my mother. Then defective children would be born. Crippled children. One such boy was proposed for Máli. One week after the wedding, at midnight, she ran home. She refused to go back. She didn’t say why. The second time, she was given to her cousin, whom she didn’t love.

  “He was too old for me,” she said. Kálman was an only child, also the son of a large landowner. Although usually large landowners wouldn’t even talk to us. My grandfather would have been happy if they had gotten married. But by that time, no one had any land anymore. It didn’t matter. And so Máli remained an old maid.

  She didn’t mind, though. She yelled, the house reverberated with her yelling. She either cried or she laughed. If she cried, it was for herself. If she was in a good mood, then she sang “The Song of the Louse-Ridden Person”: “Oh how many there are that vex me, my Lord!” In the meantime, she scratched herself. She continually quarreled with my mother.

  “No one who has children should complain,” she said. “They only complain, but they have everything good.

  “You want to leave here? Where? What’s the point?” she says mockingly.

  She gets into my grandfather’s supply of brandy. That always puts her in a good mood. Her face turns red. She talks to everyone, and teases or annoys the rest. She never catches a chill. She doesn’t understand what my mother’s problem is.

  “If your ass was pricked with a pin, even then you wouldn’t be happy,” she always says when my mother complains. Because according to Máli, my mother puts on airs. She’s choosy and fastidious. Always wanting something else, beyond what she has. Always dissatisfied with everything.

  “The shit will wear down your teeth,” she says to my mother.

  “WHEN I’M BIG, I’M GOING TO TAKE A PISTOL AND SHOOT you,” I tell her. Máli laughs. I feel angrier and angrier.

  “I’m going to shoot you, and then shoot everyone else,” I shout.

  “Me, too?” asks my sister.

  “You, too, for sure,” I say.

  Then my older sister also laughs.

  “Turkey poo, turkey poo,” they mock me. Máli is cackling, full throated; I can see her gums. In the meantime, she drools. It makes me nauseous. I kick her shin. But she just laughs even more. My older sister mocks me. I tremble with impotent rage.

  “Yes, be aware of the fact that I will shoot you all! I will take you out to the cemetery and bury you. Then you won’t laugh at me anymore.” But this just makes them break out in even louder guffaws.

  I’m trembling in rage. I grab Máli’s hand and bite it. But she just laughs. I bite into her wrist.

  “Your mother’s cunt, you idiot,” she says.

  “YOU MUST NEVER SLEEP TOO MUCH. YOU MUST NEVER GET up late. You must always get up earlier than your body wants,” says my father.

  “You can sleep a little after lunch. Just to clear your head a bit.”

  “Sleep is the snare of the wicked,” says my father. “You must never stay in bed too long. Daytime exists so that we can conquer the night.”

  “The children have to be woken after they’ve slept for six hours,” says my father to my mother. Sometimes my mother lets us sleep an extra hour.

  “After you get up, the first thing you should do”—my mother says this—“is wash your face.”

  “A father’s words are like warm clothes. Whoever wears them shall be protected,” she says. “But nothing protects one from pain,” says my mother. “Or from disappointment,” she adds sadly.

  You must wash your eyes and all around your eyes thoroughly. Then you must get dressed. On holidays, our clothes must be clean. The underclothes, as well.

  “The eye of God sees everything,” she says.

  When I get up, my mother has been awake for a long time already. I rarely see my father. He’s left already. If he is still at home, he putters around the courtyard. I pretend that it’s Saturday. On Saturdays, he prays in front of the window. The sun has already risen; it shines through the kitchen window. The fragile green of the asparagus on the windowsill disrupts the bleak view. There are a few ceramic jugs on top of the kitchen cupboard. Their decorations look a little bit like the branches of a pine tree. Only the tiny needles are sparser. At the end of winter, sometimes red balls appear on them. They are shining and taut, like pearls.

  When we are ready with everything, we put on our caps, and our hats, and, turning to the east, we pronounce the morning prayer.

  “If we were Jews, you wouldn’t have to take off your cap,” says my mother when I forget my cap on my head after praying. She isn’t making fun of me. My mother recites what she learned at home:

  “May the one who has given food and drink be forever blessed.”

  When we have finished, my father always repeats the same words:

  “Never forget: the basis of everything is prayer. The entire world is upheld by prayer. Without it nothing could survive, neither people nor things. Everything is in God’s hands, except for the fear of God itself. Engrave this into your memory.”

  Then my father leaves for the pen to rake out the cow manure. Cows and horses are men’s work. Everything else is women’s work. And children’s. Mainly the care of the poultry, the smaller livestock. The house and what surrounds it is the domain of women. My mother pronounces the blessing over the food on the table.

  “Nothing belongs to us; we owe thanks for everything,” she says, explaining why we must say grace and give blessings.

  “Thanks be to God, this day, too, has passed,” she says in the evenings. She places her hands in her lap; tired, she sits at the table. The Little One is already asleep. The room is dark. The fire glimmers in the stove. It illuminates the room through the grate. The flame moves on the wall. I imagine that it happened like that. My mother sits in this darkness. Then she slowly lifts her left hand. With it, she undoes her hair knotted in the kerchief. She fumbles with it for a long time, but she does not raise her other hand. Her left hand, weakened, pulls the kerchief down by the force of its own weight. When it finally comes off, her arm falls tiredly down. The ownerless hand hangs motionless for a long time next to the kitchen stool.

  IN THE EVENINGS, MY FATHER SITS AT THE TABLE. RECENTLY, he’s been reading. He is signed up for an engineering correspondence course. He’s reading the textbook. It’s all about machines: I looked at the pictures. Seeders, plows, grain elevators, harrows. There’s a special book about pumping systems. Hydraulic pumps. Pumps in which—I understood this much—the vacuum is very important. In the evening I ask my father:

  “What’s a vacuum?”

  My father’s forehead wrinkles, his cigarette burning in his hand. He doesn’t look at me. The smoke swirls and eddies, creating all kinds of shapes. When guests are at our house, or when we go somewhere and the men are speaking at the table, I like to watch the smoke. The women sit on the beds, always working at something. Their hands are always moving. They sew, they patch, they weave. And all the while, they gossip. The men are in the middle of the room, leaning their elbows on the table underneath the bare lightbulb, making the chairs squeak. They drink brandy, their voices getting louder a
nd louder. All of them are smoking, and they suck air in through their teeth. But I like to watch the smoke.

  Now I’m watching it again and, coming closer, I sneak a glance my father’s face.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “What did you say?” I ask, because I’m not sure he was speaking to me.

  “Nothing,” he repeats.

  “What’s nothing?” I ask again.

  “Well, the vacuum. It’s nothing,” he said.

  “What do you mean, nothing?” I wonder.

  “Just that, nothing. There’s nothing there. Do you understand: nothing nowhere, just smoking shit,” he says. Then he turns away so that I will leave him alone, because he’s studying now. I steal away. Back to the woodbin in front of the stove. But before too long he is sleeping already, slumped over the book. I go on playing on the ground with the corncobs. I’m building a tower.

  I’M ALWAYS GOING SOMEWHERE WITH MY MOTHER. SHE can never stay at home. She’s restless. She takes my hand and pulls me along with her. I would like it if she picked me up, because I can’t bear to walk. I can’t walk as quickly as my mother. I trudge after her. I lag behind. Then she grabs my hand and pulls me along. I count my steps so I won’t get bored. If we’re going somewhere, usually it’s to my grandfather’s, or we are coming back from there. We always walk along the one street that slopes toward Hajnalvég after the belfry; then it goes straight toward the small church square. And only then does it curve off sharply to the left. That is where the east is; every morning, the sun rises from there.

  We come out of our courtyard and shut the dilapidated little gate behind us. It’s held in place by a crooked wire that hangs from the gatepost. The bottom of the gate creaks and grates as it slides along the cement. My mother kicks the dog, Gypsy, back with her foot. Gently, so it won’t hurt.

  “Get back, you! Go back!” she says. The dog flies back half a meter. It whines once but then jumps back up immediately. It trots back to the little gate. By then, the gate is closed. It can’t get out. It follows us behind the gate as far as the neighbor’s fence. From there, it whines after us. We go on. We pass three houses, and already we’re on Stone Road. It passes through the low-lying part of Buffalo Bath. Our street lies along a culvert. Stairs lead up to Stone Road.