Erich Segal - The Class

Kissinger signalled to George to come and sit by him. “Listen, my boy,” he said confidentially, “I’m under a lot of pressure from back home. Certain factions in Washington think I’m spending too much time out here and neglecting other business. They don’t seem to understand that I can’t be in twenty places at once. So I’m going to have to put more responsibility on those young shoulders of yours.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“As you know, the President plans to tour the Middle East and then go on to Russia. I could do with a trustworthy advance man to lay the groundwork in Moscow. And, George, there’s no one I trust more than you.”

“You flatter me, Henry.”

“I have to,” the Secretary joked, “otherwise you wouldn’t work for me. The pay’s too low. Anyway, I want you to fly to Paris tomorrow morning. Brent Scowcroft and Al Haig will meet you there in three days and you can go on together to Moscow.”

“Fine,” George replied, genuinely pleased to have such prestigious responsibility. “But, Henry, what am I supposed to do while I’m waiting for them?”

Kissinger’s reply shook George as if turbulence had struck the plane.

“Go to Budapest.”

He did not know how to react.

“Listen,” the Secretary of State continued in a soft voice, “your father hasn’t got very long to live. I think you should make peace with him.”

“How did you know?” he asked (And how much? he wondered).

“It’s my job to know. You can pull the same trick I used when I first went to Peking. Check into the Crillon, fake a cold, then quietly slip out to the airport. It’s only a two-hour flight. You can go and come back and no one will be the wiser.”

George was still searching for words. All he could manage was to stammer, “I — don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything,” Kissinger replied, patting him on the arm. “It’s the least I owe you for the years you’ve helped me.

As the air-force plane began its final approach to Ben Gurion Airport, George thought, How can I tell him I don’t want to go? How can I tell him that I have nothing to say to my father before he dies?

I can’t. Because it’s not true. I do want to see him one last time. I have to.

Customs in Budapest was perfunctory. Except that the officer questioning George took a long look at his red diplomatic passport before saying, “Welcome home, Dr. Keller.”

It was a strange feeling being back in his native city. Though it was brighter — and the stores fuller — than during those dark days when he had fled, it seemed relatively unchanged. Rakoczi Street was like it always was. Here and there an ultramodern structure stood comfortably beside the old.

The terrace of the Hilton — a Hilton Hotel in Budapest! — looked out toward the ancient spires of St. Stephen’s Church. The huge Duma Intercontinental, where George was staying, was a concrete imitation of any new American hotel.

He checked in quickly, washed, and changed his shirt. And braced himself for the meeting that had brought him here.

Before George left Jerusalem, Kissinger had given him complete details on where his father was receiving treatment — even the phone number.

Now, he asked himself, should I call the hospital and say I’m here? Or should I just show up? My God, the shock of it might kill him then and there. No, it would make better sense to phone one of the doctors, announce his presence, and solicit advice.

In a matter of minutes he was speaking to Dr. Tamas Rozsa, chief of medical services at the People’s Municipal Hospital.

After the physician had repeated for the third time what an honor it would be to receive a visit from him, George finally exacted precise details of Istvan Kolozsdi’s condition.

“Ah, what is there to say,” Rozsa answered philosophically. “There’s so little one can do in cases such as his —”

“Did you give him medication?” George interrupted forcefully.

“Yes. Yes, of course. The very newest — right out of Switzerland.”

“Is he in pain?” George asked.

“He is and he isn’t.”

“Can you explain that?”

“It’s quite simple, Dr. Keller. If we drug him so strongly that he feels nothing at all, then he is comatose and cannot communicate. Of course, at night we help him to sleep comfortably.”

“So, in other words, in order to speak he’ll have to forgo some of the painkillers?”

“I’m sure your father will want it that way,” said Dr. Rozsa. “When he awakes I’ll inform him that you’re here, and ring you back. That should be about five this afternoon.”

“Is anybody with him now?” George asked.

“Of course. Mrs. Donath practically sleeps in the hospital.”

“Who’s she?”

“Comrade Kolozsdi’s daughter. Your sister, Dr. Keller.”

“Oh,” said George, as he slowly let down the receiver. And thought, I’ve got a second confrontation here in Budapest.

He now had several hours to kill and summoned the courage to go out and look at the city of his birth. To revisit all the places he had known when he was Gyorgy Kolozsdi.

His first entry into Budapest was like that of a swimmer into ice-cold water. But once he was actually in it and in motion, he began to feel warm and good and exhilarated. He reveled in the sound of his mother tongue being spoken everywhere.

Oh God, he thought, it must be fifty thousand English words ago that I felt so at home.

But his euphoria ended when it neared five o’clock. He returned to the hotel to wait for Dr. Rozsa’s phone call.

It came at about quarter to six.

He’s awake now and I told him you were here,” the doctor said.

“And?”

“He wants to see you. Grab a taxi and come over right away.”

George snatched his raincoat and hurried down to find a cab.

It was the evening rush hour and even the modern traffic underpass on Kossuth Lajos Street could not ease the traffic jam sufficiently. The ride seemed endless.

George walked slowly up the hospital stairs trying to calm his beating heart.

The building was someone’s idea of modern — amorphous glass and drab stone. It did not appear to be bustling like an American hospital.

He walked up to an old, fat lady perched behind a desk and softly stated his purpose. She responded quickly, lifted the receiver, and an instant later Dr. Tamas Rozsa, a jowly little man, appeared and greeted George obsequiously.

As they marched briskly down the halls toward his father’s private room (“Very rare in Socialist states, I assure you”), Dr. Rozsa gave a tedious account of how the hospital was only partially completed. And how much he envied all the medical technology the Western powers had developed.

What the hell does this guy want, thought George, a handout? Maybe he thinks I can just tell Congress to send him a few million bucks’ worth of equipment.

As they turned down a narrow, dimly lighted corridor, George spotted the far-off silhouette of a woman sitting by herself.

His instinct told him that this should be his sister, Marika. But she was three years younger than he. The person sitting there looked positively middle-aged.

As they drew nearer, she glanced up at George.

The eyes, he thought. Those are my sister’s eyes in an old woman’s face.

“Marika?” he said tentatively. “It’s me. Gyuri.”

The woman kept staring at him, her eyes like lasers.

“Marika, aren’t you going to speak to me?”

They both remained silent for a moment. At last, she responded with quiet anger. “You should not have come. You don’t belong here anymore. I told the doctors not to let you in.”

George looked at Dr. Rozsa, who nodded. “Yes,” he affirmed, “Mrs. Donath was very much against it. It was your father who insisted.”