Julie Orringer - The InvisibleBridge

“We’re not going to discuss this now,” Elza Hász said, laying a hand on his arm.

“Why not? We’re all here.”

Elza sent a panicked glance in the direction of her husband, who had come out onto the patio and was hurrying toward the lawn. “György!” she said. “Tell him he’s not to discuss it.”

“József, you will drop this subject at once,” his father said as he reached them.

“I won’t have you sell this house. This is my house. It’s meant to be part of my property. I mean to bring my wife to live here someday.”

“Sell the house?” Klara said. “What do you mean?”

“Tell her about it, Father,” József said.

György Hász fixed his son in his cool, stern gaze. “Come inside,” he said.

“No.” It was the elder Mrs. Hász who had spoken, her hands firm on the armrests of her wicker chair. “Klara deserves to know what’s happening. It’s time we told her.”

Klara looked from József to her mother to György, trying to understand what this meant. “The house belongs to you, György,” Klara said. “If you’re thinking of selling it, I’m certain you must have a good reason. But is it true? Are you really?”

“You mustn’t worry, Klara,” György said. “Nothing’s certain yet. We can discuss the matter after dinner, if you’d like.”

“No,” said the elder Mrs. Hász again. “We ought to discuss it now. Klara should be part of the decision.”

“But there is no decision,” the younger Mrs. Hász said. “We have no choice. There’s nothing to discuss.”

“It’s Lévi’s fault,” József said, turning to Andras. “If it hadn’t been for him, this wouldn’t have happened. He’s the one who convinced her to come back to Hungary.”

Andras met Klara’s questioning glance, and then József’s angry one, his heart galloping in his chest. He got to his feet and stood before József. “Listen to your father,” he said. “Take it back inside.”

József’s mouth curled with spite. “Don’t tell me what to do, Uncle.”

Now Tibor was standing beside Andras, glaring at József. “Watch your tone,” he said.

“Why not call him Uncle? That’s what he is. He married my aunt.” He spat at Andras’s feet.

If Klara hadn’t taken Andras’s arm at that moment, he might have hit József. He hovered on the balls of his feet, his hands clenched. He hated József Hász. He had never known it before that moment. He hated everything he was, everything he represented. He could feel the fragile twig-structure of his own life losing its center, beginning to slip. It was József who had done this. Andras wanted to tear the man’s hair out, tear the fine cotton shirt from his back.

“Sit down, both of you,” the elder Mrs. Hász said. “It’s too hot. You’re overexcited.”

“Who’s overexcited?” József shouted. “It’s the loss of my family home, that’s all. Mother’s right: There’s no decision. It’s finished already, and no one consulted me. You all kept me in the dark. Even worse, you made me feel like it was for my sake that we had to give up the furniture, the paintings, the car, and God knows how much money! And all this time we were paying for her mistakes, and her husband’s.”

“What are you talking about?” Klara said. “How does this concern Andras and me?”

“He brought you back here. You came back. The authorities have known about it for nearly three years. Did you think you could hide behind your French name and your married name forever? Didn’t you know you’d be endangering the family?”

“Tell me what he means, György,” Klara said, turning to her brother. She held the baby on her hip and moved closer to Andras.

There was no way to avoid a disclosure now. As briefly and clearly as he could, György laid out the situation: how Madame Novak had brought Klara’s identity to light; how György had been approached, and when; how he’d arranged a solution; how he’d hoped that the authorities would have satisfied their greed, or grown tired of the whole affair, before he was forced to give up the house; and how they’d persisted, bringing the family to its current pass.

Klara grew pale as her brother spoke. She covered her mouth with her hand, looking from György to her husband. “Andras,” she said, when György had finished. “How long have you known?”

“Since last fall,” he said, forcing himself to look at her.

She took a step back and sat down in one of the wicker chairs. “Oh, God,” she said. “You knew, and you didn’t tell me. All this time.”

“Andras wanted to tell you,” György said. “I made him promise not to. I didn’t think it would be wise to worry you, in your condition.”

“And you agreed?” she asked Andras. “You thought it wouldn’t be wise to worry me, in my condition?”

“We argued about it,” György said. “He thought you would rather know. Mother, too, has always believed you should know. But Elza and I disagreed.”

Klara was crying with frustration now. She got to her feet and began to walk up and down the lawn with the baby in her arms. “This is a disaster,” she said. “I might have done something. We might have come to some solution. But no one said a word to me! Not a word! Not my husband. Not even my own mother!” She turned and went into the house, and Andras went after her; before he could catch her, she’d grabbed her cotton jacket and gone out through the heavy front door, carrying Tamás with her. Andras opened the door and followed her out onto the sidewalk. She half ran down Benczúr in the direction of Bajza utca, her melon-colored jacket fluttering behind her like a flag. The baby’s dark hair shone in the afternoon sunlight, his hand on her back just the shape and size of the starfish pin she’d worn in the south of France. Andras chased her now as he’d chased her then. He would have chased her all the way across the continent if he’d had to. But the traffic at the corner of Bajza utca and the Városliget fasor brought her to a stop, and she stood looking at the passing cars, refusing to acknowledge him. He caught up to her and took up her jacket, which had slipped from her shoulders to trail a sleeve on the sidewalk. As he draped it around her again he could feel her trembling with anger.

“Can’t you understand?” he said. “György was right. You would have risked yourself and the baby.”

The light changed, and she crossed the street toward Nefelejcs utca at the same brisk pace. He followed close behind.

“I was afraid you’d try to leave,” he said. “I had to go back to the work service. I couldn’t have gone with you.”

“Leave me alone,” she said. “I don’t want to speak to you.”

He matched her pace as she sped on toward home. “I respect György,” he said. “He took me into his confidence. I couldn’t betray him.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

“You’ve got to listen, Klara. You can’t just run away.”

She turned to face him now. The baby whimpered against her shoulder. “You let me beggar my family,” she said. “You made the decision for me.”

“György made the decision,” Andras said. “And be careful how you choose your words. Your brother’s not a beggar. If he has to move to an eight-room parlor-level flat in the Erzsébetváros, he’ll survive.”

“It’s my home,” she said, starting to cry again. “It’s my childhood home.”

“I lost mine, too, if you’ll recall,” Andras said.

She turned again and walked toward their building. At the entryway she fumbled in her pocketbook for the key. He extracted it for her and opened the outer door. From inside came the splash of the fountain and the sound of children playing hopscotch. She crossed the courtyard at a run and began to climb the staircase; the children stopped their game, holding their broken pot shards in their hands. Her quick steps rang on the stairs above, sounding in a spiral as she climbed. She had disappeared into the apartment by the time he reached the top. The front door stood open; the air of the hallway vibrated with silence. She had locked herself in the bedroom. The baby had begun to cry, and Andras could hear her trying to soothe him, their Tamás-talking to him, wondering aloud if he was hungry or wet, walking him up and down the room. Andras went into the kitchen and put his head against the cool flank of the icebox. His instinct had told him to tell her the truth at once. Why hadn’t he done it?