Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

That's how, having gone around the clearing, we finally reached the famous spot, that jutting rock, where we had once touched each other and where, hiding behind the tall thornbush, Szidónia had watched Pista fight the conductor and in her excitement begun to bleed.

When I look at it today, it is not some great rock but a rather ordinary, not even very large flat stone that, ravaged by the elements and assailed by tree roots, is crumbling into separate layers; and when I recently found myself at this place again, it was surprising to realize that children, in their blissful ignorance, may consider a rather exposed spot or sparse thicket to be the safest of havens.

Krisztián must have finished preparing his stick, he said something, but we couldn't hear because of the wind, and Prém, thrusting his body away from the tree, dangling, his feet groping for a branch, began to climb down.

This was the right moment, or rather, we couldn't delay any further.

I rushed out first, I wanted Kálmán to follow me, the all-compelling, ready impulse could be restrained no longer; if I had let him he would have started out too rashly and I desired the more subtle effects of a surprise.

With long leaps we quickly gained the tent and slipped in unnoticed, fairly sliding on top of each other as we did, it was a surprisingly spacious, dark tent, its thick canvas letting in no light, also warm, and although we could have stood up, we chose to crawl on all fours; in the stuffy darkness I could immediately distinguish Krisztián's delicious smell; through an open flap on top a single beam of light fell into the tent, somehow making it seem even darker; we kept bumping into each other's hands and feet, we were blinded by both the darkness and the light as we moved about, touching objects in our way; I can still hear Kálmán huffing and puffing like an animal; hard as I try, I remember little else besides this groping and crawling in the stifling excitement of the heat and darkness, and the sharp ray of light hitting the back of Kálmán's neck, and his heavy panting; I don't know, for example, how long all this lasted or whether we said anything to each other — probably not, there was no need; I knew what he wanted and what he would do next and he knew the same about me; we both knew why we had to touch these precious objects which almost made us cry out with joy, objects which in a moment would be sent flying out of here! and still, we were alone, each of us locked in his own feelings, in the very center of what we had assumed was that secret, real, and conspiratorial life; I think he made the first move by knocking the entrance flap up to the top of the tent; anyway, I remember that first it made the tent light, and then I heard a thud as the kettle crash-landed after a great, arched flight; a flashlight was next; at first we were tossing things out one by one, whatever came to hand, the harder and more fragile the better! we hurled, smashed, shattered, pulverized them one after the other; after a while we didn't have time to pick out just the good ones, and we dug into the soft stuff, frantically heaving out clothes, sheets, sacks, blankets, bumping into each other in frenzied haste, for by then we saw them running up the clearing toward us, Krisztián with his stick and knife; there were still plenty of things left in the tent, but even in my feverish zeal I made sure that the more delicate items like binoculars, an alarm clock, the slightly rusty hurricane lamp, a tuning fork, compass, and a cigarette lighter were flung as far and in as many directions as possible.

I had to yell to reach Kálmán, and I did, at the top of my voice; I was also tugging and pulling him to come on! because stones were beginning to hit the stiff canvas top; Prém was running and throwing stones, with devilish agility running, bending down and throwing without breaking his stride, but Kálmán was so caught up in this orgy of destruction he saw nothing, heard nothing, and I thought I'd have to leave him there, though that didn't seem plausible, so I kept nudging and pushing him and still he didn't notice that they were almost on top of us and that Prém had overtaken Krisztián; we had no time left, I had to make a decision, so I sneaked behind the tent and, holding on to branches and roots, constantly looking back to see why he was taking so long, started to climb up, trying to reach that miserable rock and the safety of the large bushes; Kálmán stopped right in front of the tent, stood up straight, and stared them in the eye; they were only a few steps away; then Kálmán bent down and with a leisurely saunter circled the tent, pulling up every single stake, kicking the looser ones free with his feet, and only after he'd pulled up the last one did he take off, running and then climbing after me.

The tent collapsed the very instant the boys reached it, and the sight clearly stunned them; they may have had some idea about what they were going to do, but now they just stood there, panting, helpless.

In the still booming wind I could hear the crunch and then the falling of pebbles dislodged by Kálmán's feet as he scrambled his way up toward me.

Their defeat was so spectacular, so final, their losses so considerable, they simply couldn't move, couldn't yell or curse, couldn't chase us; a single look couldn't possibly take in the extent of the destruction, and any move or word would have been an admission of this total defeat; they simply couldn't find an appropriate response, which gave us further satisfaction; in spite of our retreat, we were in a position of perfect advantage: we were above, looking down at them from a well-hidden, protected observation post, and they were below, in a fully exposed open space; as soon as he was next to me, Kálmán threw himself flat on his stomach to avoid being a target, and we lay there quite still, waiting; victory was ours, but its possible consequences were unpredictable, and for this reason I can't say we savored it for long; it was as if we ourselves were reappraising the dimensions of our deed; I was now shocked both by the sight of it and by my own presentiment that we had crossed a barrier into the forbidden, not with the treachery of our attack or the unexpected termination of a friendship — we could always find a nominal justification for that— but with the real destruction of real objects; we shouldn't have done that, we couldn't just simply return from that and resume our customary games; so now something even more dreadful, something fateful was yet to happen, it was no longer a game; by smashing those objects, we had exposed the boys to unpredictable parental intervention; however justified our retaliation may have been according to the rules of the game, by doing it the way we did, we had in effect turned the boys in; our victory, therefore, was an act of treason, and it put us outside our own law, too, for not only had we administered justice but we had exposed them to the reprisal of the common enemy; we knew only too well, for instance, that Prém was beaten nightly by his father, and it was no ordinary beating: his father set upon him with a stick, a leather strap, and if Prém fell down, his father would go ahead and kick him, too; the hurricane lamp and the alarm clock belonged to his father, Prém had taken them without permission, I knew that, and I also thought about it the very moment when I'd heard them break to pieces; still, it was our victory, and we were not to be deprived of its momentary advantages by petty ethical considerations or the shock induced by the extent and possible consequences of the destruction, if only because our victory had given them a moral superiority we couldn't possibly endure.

They didn't look at each other, just stood there motionless above their collapsed tent; Krisztián was still holding his stick in one hand and his knife in the other, which in light of their stinging defeat looked ridiculous rather than ominous; their faces were also completely motionless, and it didn't look as though they were exchanging secret signals to ready themselves for a counterattack but that they realized it was all over; their necks were stiff, Prém was closing his fist as if still holding the stone he'd hurled at us moments before; but if it was all over, what then? I didn't know what Kálmán was thinking, I myself was weighing the possibility of an immediate, unconditional, and silent withdrawal; we had to extricate ourselves somehow from this impossible situation, back off, slink away, quit the battlefield in a most cowardly fashion, if necessary, forget about our victory, and the sooner the better; but Kálmán quickly got up on his knees and, realizing what a wonderful arsenal he had been lying on, scooped up a fistful of pebbles and stones, leaned out of the bush, and without even aiming began throwing them.