Julie Orringer - The InvisibleBridge

Through those dreamlike days he was aware of little else beside the ebb and flow of Tamás Lévi’s needs. The war seemed far away and irrelevant, the Munkaszolgálat a bad dream. But on the night of the seventh of December, the eve of Tamás’s bris, Andras’s father brought the news that the Japanese had bombed an American naval base in Hawaii. Pearl Harbor: The name conjured a tranquil image, pale gray sky above an expanse of nacreous water. But the attack had been a bloodbath. The Japanese had badly damaged or destroyed four U.S. battleships and nearly two hundred planes, and had killed more than twenty-four hundred men and wounded twelve hundred others. Andras knew that the States would declare war on Japan now, closing the ring of the war around the earth. And in fact the declaration came the next morning as Tamás Lévi entered the covenant of circumcision. Three days later Germany and Italy declared war on the United States, and then Hungary declared war on the Western Allies.

As Andras stood at the bedroom window that night, listening to a volley of voices from Bethlen Gábor tér, he found himself considering what the new declaration of war might mean for his little family, and for his brothers and his parents and Mendel Horovitz. The city might be bombed. What had become scarce would get scarcer. More troops would be called, more labor servicemen deployed. He had just told Klara that he was home for good, but how long would this spell of freedom last? The KMOF wouldn’t care that he was just now beginning to recover the health and strength he’d lost during his months in the Munkaszolgálat. They would use him as they’d used him all along, as a simple tool in a war whose aim was to destroy him. But they didn’t have him yet, he thought: Not yet. For the moment he was here at home, in this quiet bedroom with his sleeping wife and child. He could look for work, could begin to support Klara and the baby. And he could give something to György Hász, some small part of the vast sum he was paying each month to keep Klara out of the hands of the authorities. He had hoped he might approach Mendel Horovitz’s editor at the Evening Courier and speak to him about a position in layout or illustration, but Mendel had left the Courier when he’d been conscripted; his old job had long since been filled, and the editor himself had been fired and called into the Munkaszolgálat. Since his return, Mendel had been pounding the pavement every day with his portfolio of clips. In the afternoons he could be found at the Café Europa at Hunyadi tér, a cup of black coffee before him, a notebook open on the table. Well, Andras would go to Hunyadi tér the next day and approach Mendel with a proposition: the two of them might present themselves at the office of Frigyes Eppler, Andras’s former editor at Past and Future, and ask to be hired jointly as writer and illustrator. Frigyes Eppler now worked at the Magyar Jewish Journal. The paper’s offices were located on Wesselényi utca, a few blocks from the Café Europa.

At three o’clock the next afternoon, Andras walked through the gilt-scrolled doors of the café to find Mendel at the usual table with the usual notebook before him. He sat down across from his friend, ordered a cup of black coffee, and stated the proposition.

Mendel pulled the V of his mouth into a narrow point. “It would have to be the Magyar Jewish Journal,” he said.

“What’s wrong with the Journal?”

“Have you read it lately?”

“I’ve been the full-time servant of Tamás and Klara Lévi lately.”

“It’s been dishing up a steady diet of assimilationist drivel. Apparently, we’ve just got to put our faith in the Christian aristocrats in the government and all will be well. We’re supposed to keep saluting the flag and singing the anthem, just as though the anti-Jewish laws didn’t exist. Be Magyar first and Jewish second.”

“Well, we’re safer if the government considers us Magyar first.”

“But the government doesn’t consider us Magyar! I don’t have to tell you that. You’ve just done your time in the Munkaszolgálat. The government considers us Jews, plain and simple.”

“At least they consider us necessary.”

“For how much longer?” Mendel said. “We can’t work for that paper, Parisi. We should look for work at one of the left-wing rags.”

“I don’t have connections at any of those places. And I don’t have time to spare. I’ve got to start supporting this son of mine before I’m conscripted again.”

“What makes you think Eppler would consider taking us both?”

“He knows good work when he sees it. Once he reads you, he’ll want to hire you.”

Mendel gave a half laugh. “The Jewish Journal!” he said. “You’re going to drag me down there and get me a job, aren’t you.”

“Frigyes Eppler’s no conservative, or at least he wasn’t when I knew him. Past and Future was a Zionist operation if ever there was one. Every issue carried some romantic piece about Palestine and the adventures of emigration. And you might remember their lead story from May of ’36. It concerned a certain record-breaking sprinter who wasn’t to be allowed on the Hungarian Olympic team because he was a Jew. Eppler was the one who pushed that story. If he’s at the Jewish Journal now, it must be because he means to stir things up.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mendel said. “All right. We’ll talk to the man.” He closed his notebook and paid his bill, and they went off together toward Wesselényi utca.

On the editorial floor of the Journal they found Frigyes Eppler embroiled in a shouting match with the managing editor inside the managing editor’s glassed-in office; through the windows that looked upon the newsroom, the two men could be seen carving a series of emphases into the air as they argued. Since Andras had last seen his former editor, Eppler had gone entirely bald and had adopted a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He was round-shouldered and heavyset; his shirttails were apt to fly free of his trousers, and his tie often showed the mark of a hasty lunch. He never seemed to be able to find his hat or his keys or his cigarette case. But in his editorial work he missed no detail. Past and Future had won international awards every year Frigyes Eppler had edited it. His greatest triumph had been his placement of the young men and women who had worked for him; his efforts on Andras’s behalf were among the many generous acts he undertook to promote the careers of his writers and copy editors and graphic artists. He had shown no surprise when Andras had been offered a place at the École Spéciale. As he had told Andras then, his aim had always been to hire people who would quit for better work before he had a chance to fire them.

Andras couldn’t make out the content of the argument with the managing editor, but it was clear that Eppler was losing. His gestures increased in size, his shouts in volume, as the altercation went on; the managing editor, though wearing a look of triumph, backed toward the door of his own office as if he meant to flee as soon as his victory was complete. At last the door flew open and the managing editor stepped onto the newsroom floor. He called an order to his secretary, trundled off down the length of the room, and escaped into the stairwell as if he were afraid Eppler might chase him. The fuming and defeated Eppler stood alone the empty office, polishing his scalp with both hands. Andras waved in greeting.

“What is it now?” Eppler said, not looking at Andras; then, recognizing him, he gave a cry and clapped his hands to his chest as if to keep his heart from falling out. “Lévi!” he shouted. “Andras Lévi! What in God’s name are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see you, Eppler-úr.”

“How long has it been now? A hundred years? A thousand? But I’d have recognized that face anywhere. What are you wasting your time at these days?”