Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

We had trouble getting down to business that morning. It was hard to find the right tone. If I abandoned my sense of humor and accepted what they considered a realistic position, then I myself became unrealistic; and if I didn't accept it and made light of things, then my position in our relationship would become unrealistic. These are the times one really feels how much flexibility, imaginative insight, and infinite patience it takes to function as a son of a small nation. In my days as an apprentice negotiator I often felt it was best to get past the table-pounding stage quickly; I was frustrated because my boss, with the experience of four years in Russian captivity behind him, preferred holding back, delaying, putting things off, turning evasive — but even with these tactics we made no headway.

After the morning session we had lunch with two of our local commercial representatives in the hotel restaurant, a cavernous affair, more like a grand hall of columns than a restaurant. At one point my boss slowly put his knife and fork down on his plate and said it might be a good idea to open a window. Considering the size of the place, the suggestion didn't make much sense, so we more or less ignored it. There is no air, he said. I never saw anyone sit so still. A few moments later he spoke again: we should get his medicine from his pocket. At the same time he opened his mouth, letting his tongue hang out a little. Beads of perspiration were forming on his ashen face. He said nothing more, he didn't move, his eyes stared vacantly, but the way he was sticking out his tongue clearly indicated that he wanted the medication placed under his tongue. As soon as the tiny tablet dissolved, he felt much better, let go of his knife and fork, wiped his face, and color began to return to his cheeks. But again he complained that there was no air, and as if groping for air in the air, he got up restlessly and went in search of more air. We tried to support him, but he took such forceful steps he didn't seem to need us. We let go of him. When he got to the lobby he collapsed. He was taken to a hospital. In a deep coma, he lived for two more days.

The talks were broken off. I called the director of our company to tell him what had happened. Hopes for recovery were slim, and the patient could not be moved. I asked him to notify the family. Conversations with my boss had centered exclusively on professional matters, yet I imagined members of his family, whom I had never met, to be just like him: strong, agile, a little worn-out, but sturdy. My director's position was that the talks must resume without delay. He thought that all the wrangling had been mostly a show and therefore superfluous. The Russians' offer had to be accepted. He had given my boss — who always started fussing when there was no need — very specific instructions to that effect. He was authorizing me to lead the negotiations with these instructions in mind. He would telex his decision to the head of our trade office, who would then officially inform the Russians of the change in our delegation. If the whole thing weren't just a matter of formality he would send a replacement, but as things stood now, I could step right in. I should keep that well in mind, too. But it didn't happen that way at all. A senior member of our embassy's commercial section took over formally, but he let me handle the practical end of the negotiations, saying he hadn't been sufficiently briefed.

In the next two days I had a great many things to attend to. Feverish activity always generates more energy and the need for more activity, which is maybe why I couldn't stay put at night in my four-poster bed in the hotel, though I knew I should be there to receive a phone call. I went to sleep with a guilty conscience in the flat on the Pervomayskaya. In the embrace of a strong, calm female body I relived the death of my father, whom I now lost forever.

I had trouble falling asleep. Not even with making love could I get death out of myself. Hovering between sleep and wakefulness, I was drifting along a snow-covered highway. It was a scene deep inside me, often imagined, endlessly replayed.

More than two weeks after the enemy broke through the bridgehead at Uriv, on January 27, 1943, to be precise, my father set out by motorcar to make his report. That was the day their retreat began. They were not completely surrounded yet, but the Russians were closing in fast. There was a point in my drifting when I either fell asleep or had to start the scene over from the beginning. The only thing we knew for certain was that at 2030 hours the retreating battalion encountered the Russians and within half an hour suffered a defeat, losing 50 percent of its troops. But they did manage to break through the Russian lines. The car in which my father had left earlier that day was found about six hundred meters from the scene of the battle. It was riddled with bullets. Its doors were flung wide open. It was empty.

For years we waited for Father to come home; after all, the car was empty.

I've got a picture of him, sent from the front. An endless field of sunflowers under a perfectly clear sky. In the middle of the field a tiny figure waist-deep in flowers.

Quite early on the morning of the second day, when I took a taxi back to the hotel, I could hear the persistent ring of my telephone even before reaching my room. Such rings are unmistakable. There was really no need to pick up the receiver. But we are such fools. We pick it up to find out when exactly the thing we knew was going to happen did happen. An hour and a half later the talks were resumed. In a curious atmosphere. The Russians were emotional and quick to express their condolences, yet we all tried to sit down at the negotiating table as if nothing had happened. The slight hesitation over the agenda, the preoccupied air with which we shuffled and exchanged and leafed through our papers helped to preserve the semblance of normalcy. However, when it was my turn to speak, I couldn't keep myself from briefly eulogizing my colleague. And these men, all of them much older than I and for the most part hardened war veterans, listened in stunned silence as I spoke of our morning bathroom ritual.

For us Hungarians, death evokes stark terror. For Russians it is like the softening sign in their language: silent in itself, it cannot be voiced, but it softens the letter preceding it. My instincts perceived this difference during the two nights I spent on Pervomayskaya. My blond friend was the first and for a long time to come the only woman on whose lips my own mouth came alive. After the brief commemoration, I immediately got down to business. I don't think my motives were improper in any way, yet I didn't follow my director's instructions. There was nothing in me but this terror, and it made me stubborn. The session lasted all of ten minutes, and the Russians accepted every one of my proposals. We spent the rest of the day working out the details, even skipping the usual lunch break. The man from the embassy's commercial section did not dare reproach me, but he was fuming. Both parties were anxious to get the whole thing out of the way, if only because all this was taking place on November 6, the eve of their most important national holiday. Nobody felt like working anymore.

It was late afternoon when I got back to the hotel. I was tense, wound up from lack of sleep. In such an overtired state one always feels energetic somehow. I was dying to get rid of my necktie and that impossible black suit and head for Pervomayskaya. I couldn't really enjoy my little breakthrough at the talks, even though it was something of a coup. It came at too high a price. And it was really the dead man's coup, not mine, and the breakthrough was death's breakthrough, not mine. I was pretty sure my director wasn't going to give me a hard time. And even if he did, our commercial people had no choice but to back me up. One thing was certain, the way I handled the matter would evoke his fierce displeasure. I'd be considered some kind of liability for quite some time, which meant kissing promotion goodbye. That's the kind of mood I was in before stepping into the hotel elevator.