Julie Orringer - The InvisibleBridge

“I’ll pay a visit to Hász,” Andras said. “They’ve got to have a chest of kroner hidden somewhere, or something they can sell.”

Mátyás nodded. “I don’t suppose József Hász has to go to the front lines.”

“No, indeed. József Hász has got himself a nice atelier in Buda.”

“How timely,” Mátyás said. “The destruction of the Western world should make an interesting subject.”

“Yes. Although, strange to say, I haven’t felt the urge to visit him and check the progress of his work.”

“That is strange.”

“In seriousness, though, I’m not sure Hász the Elder has ready cash. I think it’s all they can do to keep that house on Benczúr utca and maintain Madame’s furs and their opera box. They had to sell their car to get József exempted from his second call-up.”

“At least they still have the opera box,” Mátyás said. “Music can be such a comfort when other people are dying.” He winked at Andras, then raised his glass and drained it.

The next day, after Andras had seen his brother off at Nyugati Station, he went to call on György Hász at home. He knew Hász came home every day to have lunch with his wife and mother, and that afterward he liked to spend half an hour with the newspaper before he went back to his office. Even in uncertain times he was a man of regular habits. In defiance of the change in his professional circumstances, he had retained the gentlemanly schedule of his days as the bank’s director; his services were too valuable for the new bank president to prevent him from taking that liberty. As Andras had expected, he found his brother-in-law in the library of the house on Benczúr utca, his reading glasses on, the newspaper butterflied in his hands. When the manservant announced Andras’s arrival, Hász dropped the paper and got to his feet.

“Is everything well with Klara?” he said.

“Everything’s fine,” Andras said. “We’re both fine.”

Hász’s brow relaxed and he gave a sharp sigh. “Forgive me,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. I didn’t know you were home.”

“I’ve had a few days’ furlough. I’m going back tomorrow.”

“Please sit down,” Hász said. To the man who had conducted Andras in, he said, “Tell Kati to bring us tea.” The man went out silently, and György Hász gave Andras a slow, careful perusal. Andras had chosen to wear his Munkaszolgálat uniform that day, with its green M on the breast pocket and its mended places where Major Barna had torn off his marks of rank. Hász glanced at Andras’s uniform, then put a hand to his own tie, blue silk with a narrow ivory stripe. “Well,” he said. “You’ve got only three more months of service, by my calculation.”

“That’s right,” Andras said. “And then the baby will be born.”

“And you’re well? You seem well.”

“As well as can be expected.”

Hász nodded and sat back in his chair, crossing his fingers over his vest. In addition to the blue silk tie he was wearing an Italian poplin shirt and a suit of dark gray wool. His hands were the soft hands of a man who had always worked indoors, his fingernails pink and smooth. But he looked at Andras with such genuine and unguarded concern that it was impossible to resent him entirely. When the tea arrived, he prepared Andras’s cup himself and handed it across the table.

“How can I help you?” he said. “What brought you here?”

“My brother Mátyás has been deployed to the Eastern Front,” Andras said. “His company left this afternoon to meet the rest of their battalion in Debrecen, and from there they’ll go to Belgorod.”

Hász put down his cup and looked at Andras. “Belgorod,” he said. “The minefields.”

“Yes. They’ll be clearing the way for the Hungarian Army.”

“But what can I do?” Hász said. “How can I help him?”

“I know you’ve done a great deal for us already,” Andras said. “You’ve looked out for Klara while I’ve been away. That’s the best service you could have rendered me. Believe me, I would never ask for anything more if I didn’t believe it was a matter of life and death. But I wonder if it might be possible to do for Mátyás something like what you’ve done for József. If not exempt him entirely, at least get him transferred to another company. One that’s not likely to be so close to the action. He’s got eleven months left.”

György Hász raised an eyebrow, then sat back in his chair. “You’d like me to buy his freedom,” he said.

“At least his freedom from working on the front lines.”

“I understand.” He steepled his hands and looked at Andras across the desk.

“I know the price isn’t the same for everyone,” Andras said. He set his cup in the saucer and gave it a careful turn. “I imagine it would be a great deal less for my brother than it was for your son. I have the name of Mátyás’s battalion commander. If we could arrange for a certain sum to be transferred to him through an independent agent-a lawyer of your acquaintance, say-we might accomplish it all without revealing to the authorities the connection between your family and mine. That is to say, without compromising Klara’s security. I’m certain we could buy my brother’s freedom at what would seem to you a negligible sum.”

Hász pressed his lips together and brought his steepled hands against them, then tapped his fingers as he looked toward the fire. Andras waited for his answer as if György were a magistrate and Mátyás in the seat of judgment before him. But Mátyás was not, of course, before him; he was already on a train headed toward the Eastern Front. All at once it seemed a folly to have imagined that György Hász might have the power to stop what had already been set in motion.

“Does Klara know you came to me?” Hász asked.

“No,” Andras said. “Though she wouldn’t have discouraged me. She’s confident of your help in all matters. I’m the one whose pride generally prevents the asking.”

György Hász pushed himself up from the leather chair and went to tend the fire. The previous day’s soft heat had blown away overnight; a sharp wind rattled the casement windows. He moved the logs with the poker and a flight of sparks soared up into the heights of the fireplace. Then he replaced the tool and turned to face Andras.

“I have to apologize before I speak further,” he said. “I hope you’ll understand the decisions I’ve made.”

“Apologize for what?” Andras said. “What decisions?”

“For some time I’ve been operating under a rather heavy financial and emotional burden,” he said. “It’s entirely independent of my son’s situation, and I’m afraid it’s going to continue for some time. I can’t imagine what the end of it will be, in fact. I haven’t spoken to you about it because I knew it would be a source of worry at a time when your greatest concern was to stay alive. But I’m going to tell you now. It’s a grave thing you’ve come to ask of me, and I find it impossible to give an answer without making you understand my situation. Our situation, I should say.” He took his seat across from Andras once again and pulled his chair closer to the table. “It concerns someone dear to us both,” he said. “It’s about Klara, of course. Her troubles. What happened to her when she was a girl.”

Andras’s skin went cold all at once. “What do you mean?”

“Not long after you went into the Munkaszolgálat, a woman came forward and informed the authorities that the Claire Morgenstern who had recently entered the country was the same Klara Hász who had fled eighteen years earlier.”

His ears rang with the shock of it. “Who?” he demanded. “What woman?”

“A certain Madame Novak, who had returned from Paris herself not long before.”