There are no more Jews in the village. Or there is, but nobody talks about him. People act as if he isn’t there. There is one Jew, but he’s not even that anymore. In ’45, Young Mózsi came back from forced labor and waited for his family. He waited for his father, his mother, his wife, his son, and his little girl. He waited for them every day. He sat out in front of the gate and watched the street to see if they were coming. They would have to turn off from the Ramp, from where they had been taken away from the village. Then the cart had headed off to the left. Toward Berek, across the Tökös bridge. From there they were taken to Szatmár, into the ghetto. They were not allowed to talk to the gendarmes sitting on the coach box, or to the gendarmes on horseback accompanying the cart on both sides. They were given the order that they could not speak.
“Don’t talk! Shut your traps!” they were told.
“Well, Jews, you’ll have to work now”—that was all the gendarmes said, and they wouldn’t answer any questions. The wind played with the rooster feathers in their caps. It was May, the third of May.
When Mózsi came back, he inquired everywhere, he searched for them with the Red Cross. Then, as the days, the weeks, and the months passed, it became ever clearer that they were never going to come back. Mózsi no longer let his beard grow long. He didn’t grow out his earlocks. The plundered house awaited him. The books, the phylacteries, the candelabra were gone. Everything that could have reminded him of the old life. When the Sabbath came, he recalled that long ago at such times it was the Sabbath. When Passover came, then he recalled that at such times there used to be Passover. He tried to forget his memories. But it didn’t work. He waited for another thirty-seven years, but the Messiah didn’t come. Thirty-seven cannot be divided. When Mózsi died in ’83, he left everything he had to the Jewish orphanage. It wasn’t very much. Eighty-three cannot be divided.
Nothing on his gravestone indicates that the village at first repudiated him, then tolerated him. But they never accepted him. On All Souls’ Day, nobody ever lit a candle for him. But still, sometimes a pebble appears on the grave marker made of artificial stone. His friends emigrated to the Holy Land. Mózsi could not leave because his memories tied him to this place. The traces of his children, Goga and Rachel, remained only here, in this village. And only he saw these traces.
“She was a pretty little girl, that little Monkey. Goga was pretty, too.” That was how Máli remembered them.
I’M HIDING IN THE RASPBERRY PATCH WITH MY OLDER sister. It’s Sunday, the heat is suffocating. We go down to the end of the garden while my mother finishes feeding the Little One. Our land here slopes down at a sharp angle, but in the summer the ground is so hard that even with a hoe you can’t loosen it. Only a pickax will do. Our father has planted raspberries here. They grew very quickly. In the spring we always have to cut them back. In the summer you can hardly walk among them. Now they are ripe. Our mother falls asleep after feeding the Little One. We hide in the garden. The apple trees are big now, they were planted almost ten years ago. The raspberries are blooming. On one stalk there are flowers, on another ripe fruit. Our bees fly among them. Suddenly I cry out, because a bee has stung me. It flew toward my face and stung me immediately. Because of the sweat.
“Help me,” I yell to my older sister.
“What’s wrong?”
“A bee stung me! Help me!” I shout.
“Don’t yell, because our mother will hear. I’ll help you right away,” she says.
The dry surface of the earth is completely hard. We are not even able to scratch it with our fingers. My sister notices a mole burrow a little farther on.
“Wait. I’ll go pee on that,” she says. She crouches above the mound and pulls up her skirt. She doesn’t wear underwear. There is a long slit between her thighs. The pee comes out of there.
“Don’t stare,” she grumbles at me. “Turn around.”
“It really hurts,” I say. “Hurry.”
She aims the yellow stream toward the top of the mound. The dried-out earth gives off a fine dust from the pee. The earth mixed with urine flows in all directions from the force of the stream of the pee. It’s also on both of her legs. When she finishes, she mixes the urine with the earth. She mixes it into mud. She gathers a small mound in her palm. She kneads it.
“Well, show me—where does it hurt? Where did it sting you?” she asks, studying my face.
“Here.” I point at my forehead. My eye is already beginning to swell up.
“This will heal it,” she says, and seriously, like our mother, she furrows her brow. She pinches the stinger between her nails and draws it out so the rest of the poison will not squirt into my skin. Then she rubs the mud mixture onto my face. Our father taught us this in the apiary. Then she spits on my skin where the bee stung me. She prepares a compress for the swollen skin. She rubs it and massages it.
“Keep pressing on it,” she says, “so it won’t fall off. It will bring down the swelling.”
WHEN YOUNG MÓZSI CAME BACK FROM THE FORCED-LABOR camp, he no longer looked like a Jew. He was just like anyone else. He came back like all the other refugees who were looking for their homes, their belongings, the families left behind here. Like everyone else who could not stop living. He lugged the burden that was life. He was bald, and he wore a threadbare soldier’s uniform. His luxuriant hair of old, his curled earlocks, were nowhere to be seen. No longer did he wear his black caftan. Nor his hat. Nor his white shirt. Never again the mourning shirt fringed at the corners that the men had always worn.
In the village, nobody talked about what had happened to these clothes. Mózsi, too, did not ask. Just as he didn’t ask what had happened to the goods from the shop. The books from the shelves. The hooks from the wall. The clothes from the cupboards. The compassion from the hearts.
Mózsi, emaciated to the bone when he returned, sat down in front of the plundered house that the village had taken apart every single night, breaking the gendarmes’ seal. Our uncles and their kin had been the first to start the mayhem at that time.
“Nobody dared say anything to them because they were members of the Arrow Cross, and at that time everyone was very afraid of the Arrow Cross men,” says Máli.
They didn’t even greet each other under the cover of darkness. They hurried, they moved around. There were those who even turned up more than once. Mutely, wordlessly, they ransacked the house and the shed. They broke apart the cupboards, grabbed the damask tablecloths right in front of each other, clutched the vases taken from the shelves. They did this in the darkness, as if they didn’t recognize one another. And they never again spoke about those nights. The village became filled with secrets. There were only hands reaching in the darkness for the dinner plates, the tableware, the woolen underwear, the sought-after Berliner scarves, the toys the children left behind. They took the prayer shawls as well, the matzoh plates, the embroidered Shabbat yarmulkes. They unloosened the mezuzahs from the doorframes. And then they were disappointed because there was no paper money inside, just a bit of rag-paper with scribbles on it. When they took apart the decorative chests, they didn’t even look at each other. When they dug up the earth in the larder and in the pantries. When they broke apart the chimney and examined it brick by brick. Because they were searching everywhere for the hidden treasure. For the legendary Jewish treasure spoken of in undertones in the tavern. They were looking for the money, the silver cutlery, the genuine pearl necklaces, the engraved pocket watches, the earrings of precious stone.
They considered Jewish property to be their own, because they had been telling each other for years that the Jews had taken it away from them. From the Hungarians. They had to get it back. Having it returned to its rightful owners was their due.
But now, when they tore apart the pillowcases and the quilts, when they turned out the straw pallets, ripping apart the upholstery of the divan, what they came upon was too little, because the coveted treasure that had been stolen from them was nowhere to be found. The longed-for objects
that they thought they had seen with Mózsi and his family—all the objects the family hadn’t had with them when the gendarmes took them away. Then they searched, they hunted obsessively. In the meantime they already suspected one another: maybe the more cunning among them had already stolen the items. Once again they were too late, because they never had any luck. They had observed everything, however—what kind of clothes the family wore, what kind of jewels they had. They had counted up the shop’s takings for many years back. And the treasures were nowhere. But they had to be somewhere.
“That fucking Jewish gold has to be hidden somewhere,” they kept repeating bitterly.
“Where can it be? Where can those filthy Jews have shoved it?” they muttered to themselves. There was a certain tone of recognition in their voices. Those Jews were clever, they knew how to hide things so well. But the villagers’ anger was greater. Rancor and greediness mixed with the eternal yearning of the poor.
During that time, they talked about the legendary wealth of Old Mózsi and his family every evening in the tavern. They calculated, they reckoned how much their income could have been over the years. They were searching for the margin. The margin between imagination and reality would not leave them in peace. The legend of Jewish gold electrified the village’s imagination. They spoke about it in undertones during the day, as well, on the Ramp.
“Mózsi and his family had so much gold,” they hissed into each other’s ears, “that you could pave the entire street with it, from the Ramp to the belfry.”
They imagined that they remembered the precious jewels, the glittering brooches, the heavy candelabra, the silver cutlery, the women’s diamond earrings.
“Neither Szále nor Rézi took those things with them. They didn’t even give them to the little girl,” said the women, who, watching carefully on that May day through their sobbing tears, had scrutinized everything through their fingers held in front of their faces. All of it was engraved in memory, everything the deportees had: the blouses, the shirts, the bodices, the skirts, the box-calf boots.
“They weren’t wearing earrings,” they said.
“There wasn’t even any jewelry on the little girl. If there had been, I’d remember it,” they kept repeating.
“Of course it’s possible that they hid it somewhere in the house or in the shed, or they crammed it in there—in the place where only women can tuck away smaller items,” they kept saying with a delicate laugh.
And the men reached over to that place so they could hear the women’s shrieks as they jumped away from the approaching hand. Of course, there were some who jumped too late. And some who didn’t even jump away at all but toward it. Everyone laughed about this on the Ramp.
“WHEN THEY TOOK AWAY THE JEWS,” SAID MY GRANDFATHER, “it was May. The carts came from Csaholc. The people were already waiting on the Ramp, because it had been announced. Everyone knew that they were coming for them on the third day of May. Old Mószi and his family were at home, by then it was forbidden for them to leave the house, they could not come out. Young Mózsi had already been taken away for forced labor long ago. At the beginning, they still heard from him. A few postcards, short letters written hastily. Then not even that. Old Mózsi prayed so much. From dawn until late in the evening. Maybe by that point he wasn’t even sleeping. In his tasseled white shirt, with the straps on his arm and on his forehead, he chanted prayers the entire day. His wife just cried. Szále, their daughter-in-law, had stopped crying by then. She didn’t speak to anyone. She just hugged her children to herself. She was dread itself. She did not move. Just waited. I’ve never seen anyone so afraid.
“May was beautiful. The winter of forty-four had been hard. Starting from 1940, when the Germans attacked the Russians, every winter was hard. The tree trunks cracked open. The crows fell down one by one from the branches. There was nothing for them to eat.
“‘Maybe the winter from forty-three to forty-four was the worst.’ The old people used to say that. Bad news was coming from the front, but it was spoken of only in whispers. On the radio, the only news was of victories. Of smaller tactical withdrawals. Of the realignment of troops being carried out for the coming attack. Of course, everywhere, people were talking about the approaching Russians. Talking openly about the Arrow Cross. They cursed the regent, whom, however, it was strictly forbidden to insult. But mainly they threw mud at the Jews.
“Your great-uncle and his family were the biggest Arrow Cross men in the village. They were the ones who played all the tricks in the Jews. They snuck in through the garden and smeared pig shit all over Mózsi’s door. They wrote JEWISH PIGS on the limestone wall. And then JEWISH PIGSTY. They were having fun. At the beginning everyone was ashamed, but nobody dared say anything. And they even denied doing it. But then they started to boast.
“‘The Jews made the war, they created Communism. They were behind Trianon, too, and the crisis, the Great Crash.’ They yelled this. They smeared everything on the Jews. As the military situation worsened and they talked about how they would round them all up, women, children, even old people, and take them to Germany to work, your great-uncles got louder and louder. By then they were going into Old Mózsi’s shop during the day, pointing at the goods that were still there, at this or that, whatever took their fancy. They had no intention of paying. If Mózsi asked for money, they just guffawed.
“‘Shit is what you’ll get,’ they said. And when they were going to the outhouse they didn’t even say, ‘I’m going to the outhouse,’ but they would say, ‘I’m going to pay the Jew.’ And then they snickered.
“‘Report it, Jew,’ they would say to Old Mózsi if he spoke up. They never greeted him anymore the way they used to in the old days, when they would say: ‘Upon my honor, Mr. Mózes! How is your health today, dear Mr. Mózes?’
“By now they just cast out their words with contempt.
“‘Add it to the rest, Jew,’ they would say haughtily when they took things out of the shop without even a greeting. They looked at him with loathing. They no longer shook his hand, because Jews are filthy. There is some contamination in them, they knew.
“‘All Jews must be avoided, because whoever fornicates with them commits racial degradation,’ they read on the announcements put out on the Ramp, ‘and whoever helps them shall be slaughtered on the spot.’ Who would want to get himself slaughtered?
“Come evening, in the tavern they guffawed with laughter at terrified Mózsi, who was afraid of them. Who had been so self-confident before. So proud. Like some lord, that’s how he used to act.
“Your uncles were still young lads, they still had one or two years left before their call-up for military service. They were the ones who set the tone in the village. All the men were at the front. They marched up and down in Kepec Meadow like members of the Levente corps. They drilled with cudgels made of hazel wood. They worshipped Szálasi. And in the spring, they became even bolder. There was nothing they could not do. There was no one who dared speak up to them. They were free, like the flea that God let go.
“In the evening, they smashed in Mózsi’s windows. The old man cried out.
“‘Who are you?’ he asked.
“‘The Messiah is here,’ they said. But they couldn’t hold out for too long. They did not wait for an answer. They broke out in raucous laughter. The night watchman didn’t dare speak to them. They went over there at midnight, after the tavern. Or at dawn. When they were already drunk. Anyone who had to do a little job relieved himself. They hushed one another. Like drunkards. They pissed on the doorframe. Then some of them, whoever needed to, shat in front of the door. When they farted, raucous laughter broke out.
“The day has eyes, the night has ears. Everyone heard everything. By the spring of 1944, the pranks were happening every day. They took everything from the shop. Mózsi still wrote down who had taken what. He did the inventory every evening. But no one paid their debts.
“Mózsi let them take the things away. What else could he have done. By this time,
the entire village was in debt to him. When the gendarmes came for them on the third and they put the family in the cart, it was almost a kind of relief. Mózsi’s wife, old Rézi, lamented. And again, Szále was crying. She embraced her two children. Many who were gathered that day on the Ramp wept for them. Mainly the women. They were sorry for the children, the innocent. But everyone kept their traps shut. No one spoke a word.
“The Jewish families from the neighboring villages were already sitting in the cart with their permitted allowance of hand luggage. They, too, were weeping. The gendarmes were malevolent, haughty. They shouted at the people.
“‘Get lost! There’s nothing for you to look at here! This isn’t a circus! Don’t stand there gaping! You can get on, too, if you want! There’s plenty of room!’ It was evil, but, well, an order is an order.
“The Jews cried out as the carts set off toward Berek.
“‘My God, what did you do to us, Béla Kun? What did you do’ . . . As if Béla Kun could have been responsible for everything.
“Then the carts disappeared on the way to Berek, and the rows of linden trees leaning toward each other above the road closed in behind them. They disappeared from our view. The dust settled, and yet the people stood there for a long time, watching where they had gone. The women were sniffling. They dispersed from the Ramp only very slowly.
“Those who had debts thought about their debts. About how they no longer had any debts. They felt relieved. As long as Mózsi didn’t come back, they would not have to come up with the money. No authorities knew how much they hadn’t paid. Only the list of debts would betray this. The gendarmes put a seal over the entrance to the house.
“‘Somehow, we have to make that list disappear,’ they said.
“That’s what they were talking about that night on the Ramp,” my grandfather said.
WHEN I HEAR TALK OF JEWS, I FEEL LIKE I’M SUFFOCATING. If I hear the word Jew, my throat contracts. I gasp for air. My ears start to ring. They will notice me. I’m afraid that I will give myself away. I try to behave as if I’m not interested at all. At times like that, I hold my breath. I am not allowed to breathe for a while. I know that I can’t hold my breath for a long time, but I don’t move. I don’t dare take a breath. My ears are burning. They certainly can see that, too. I have to look in a mirror. I am afraid that my ears will betray me. They often talk about Jews. The words are full of menace. I am afraid of the words.
The Dispossessed Page 16