Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

I told you we couldn’t take it off like this.

They could probably pull his pants over his shoes but not the long underpants. They quickly made him sit back on the bench. Familiar smells were mixing in the thick steam, most of them overwhelmed by that of chamomile, but this did not keep him from seeing himself, wearing these awful clothes, standing in a familiar summer meadow where chamomile was flowering.

He wanted to warn them there would be big trouble, but did not dare.

He fainted when they tried to take off his shoes the first time; it was clear that afterward, along with his tattered underpants they might pull off his striped pants, which were completely soiled on the inside. Then this would be discovered. He could already hear them starting to shout and then beating him up but good. He felt a bit of joy when his shoes wouldn’t let go of his feet. He’d gain some time. He was so weak; his flesh would not survive another beating. And these men are well fed; no longer young but fit as a fiddle, their blows must be really hard. He had learned well what a pleasure it was when death grants a small reprieve. The shabby, three-buttoned, wooden-soled prisoner’s shoes in which his bloody, pus-encrusted feet were embedded swelled up and absorbed his toe rags. He would have liked to warn the priests not to experiment, accept that this was how things were, but could not put together a proper sentence because he had no idea what language he should use. Not German. It was easier to imagine an entire remaining lifetime without ever taking off his shoes.

It pained him that he would never again be German, that he could be.

He let everything happen, endured it all, let them do whatever they wanted to do; let it be. This did not take much effort on his part since his mouth was filled with the sweet, familiar taste of the sticky sugared milk; let them have their way.

He remembered the promise that he would get more after a bath.

Wait, for the love of, are you blind, cried the monk who stood above his shoulder in alarm, watching what the other priest was doing to the boy’s terrible hooves.

His foot is completely stuck in it.

What do you mean stuck; it’s rotted into it, said the monk irritably, squatting in front of the boy and trying to hold the shoe so as not to soil his frock. He did not pull it to him completely, his face showed restrained disgust, but he did peek into the uppers, and then sent in his fingers, cautiously, drilling down. He reached into something soft and slippery, mud, filth, clotted blood, or bare, oozing bones.

Should be cut off along with his foot. He looked up, grinning, he didn’t know what to do, he mumbled desperately, and he had nothing to wipe his fingers with.

It’s a good thing you always know what to do.

He concluded he had no choice, he must pull off the shoe with one swift yank.

He looked up again at the other monk, but another grin would have been out of place.

Are you holding his shoulders, he asked.

Why should I hold his shoulders, retorted the other monk irritably.

But then the boy spoke up too, because he really didn’t want to have any trouble.

Truth is, he told them quietly, I shat in my pants.

He would have liked to explain, to make them understand he couldn’t help it when he got stuck atop a hedgerow and two people were beating him, which actually helped him fall down on the other side of the hedge. But before he’d even finished his words the monks were already shouting, except it was not shouting but guffawing with no trace of jollity.

You don’t say, shouted one of them, almost choking, this is fantastic. Shat in his pants.

Who would have thought.

For half an hour we’ve been enjoying nothing but the smell of your shit, you wretch, enthused the other monk, who hugged him from behind, pulled him close, buried his face and shoulders in the sleeves of his frock, as though dipping him into the homey fragrance of a lemon drop’s sweet filling.

Hold the stinking Jew dog tight, don’t you dare let go of him, yelled the first monk.

He came to only when in the lazily vaporous silence the large naked men were already standing around him.

Both his shoes were there, on his feet, as if nothing had happened.

Someone had brought some warm water and poured it into the shoes, but that had accomplished nothing, it poured right out.

In the meantime the two monks had disappeared.

He must be dreaming, should wake up; or could the earth have swallowed them up. Their absence made him think all this was really nothing but a dream and he was only replacing one painful dream with another. Instead of the monk who had been there before, now a large naked man was squatting before him, his long coal-black hair fallen over his forehead, knitting his thick, long-haired eyebrows a little distrustfully. He listened with his lively eyes set too close to each other, and he was speaking, kept speaking to the boy, who understood every word even though he couldn’t place the stranger’s language. As if he had never heard it.

He said he was some kind of lieutenant, he mentioned his name too, some lieutenant in some army, maybe the Royal Air Force, and he was curiously waiting for him to say his name, and where he was born, where he was from.

From where had he been deported.

From where, indeed.

The lieutenant’s lips parted halfway, he leaned very close, his healthy white teeth flashed encouragingly, but then his sweeping black lashes began to flutter with disappointment because in this unfamiliar language the boy could tell him only the number. The five-digit number, as it was, as they could see on his lower left arm; he showed it to them as his name. Why should he hide it, if they had given it to him instead of his name. Someone was holding his arm, held it down and drew his fingers across it as if to test the reality of the numbers, but seemed to be commiserating a little. Perhaps he could also say his name if he really put his mind to it, but he didn’t want to, and therefore he didn’t remember it, even though he thought about it. The lieutenant looked Italian, or at least not the way the boy imagined Hungarians looked. And he could not understand what a Hungarian was doing in the British Army.

In the meantime the others came up with the idea of soaking the boy’s feet, with his shoes on, in a large bucket. The insane logic of recent events could not be broken by the demands of common sense.

Everything continued in its own way. Until now they had used these buckets to throw cold water at each other. They were pleased with their idea. He laughed along with them, though he did not become as excited as they did. The water was undoubtedly nice and warm; at first it burned but he was glad to be among such attractive people. The lieutenant was only watching him now; he’d stopped asking questions. Then he noticed, in the midst of the general laughter, that one of the monks was standing with his back to him, not very far off, leaning his head on the white wet tiles, covering his face with both arms. As he watched the trembling shoulders, the boy was not certain they weren’t shaking with laughter, and he wondered who could have said something so funny or whether they were laughing at him.

Finally he asked the naked man, whose black hair ran up from his belly in parallel stripes, something like water in a fountain, all the way to his neck, from where it fell back to frame his chest muscles, what they had done with his coat.

It was odd that he could say anything in this unfamiliar language.

The lieutenant showed him, there, look, they’re burning it right now.

And indeed he saw that the other monk was shoving his belongings into the fire.

He didn’t trust this lieutenant, because he wasn’t as white and red as the others, but skinny, as though he himself had been a prisoner for a few weeks.