Julie Orringer - The InvisibleBridge

Halfway through the unloading, when there were still five supply trucks’ worth of goods to be transferred to the train, an adjutant of Varsádi’s approached Andras’s work group and drew Faragó aside. A moment later, Faragó was calling Andras and Mendel from their duties. The company commander, it seemed, wanted a word with them in his office.

Mendel and Andras exchanged a look: It’s nothing. Don’t panic.

“Did the fellow say what it was about, sir?” Mendel asked, though there was only one thing it could be about, only one reason for the commander to call the two of them to his office.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Faragó said. And then, to the adjutant, “See they get back here as soon as Varsádi’s finished with them. I can’t spare them for long.”

The major’s young adjutant led them across the rail yard toward the low brick building. A clutch of armed soldiers stood at attention in the anteroom, rifles angled against their shoulders. Their eyes moved toward Andras and Mendel as they entered, but otherwise they remained still as sculptures. An orderly ushered Andras and Mendel into Varsádi’s office and closed the door behind them, and they found themselves standing unaccompanied before their commander. Varsádi’s uniform shirt was crisp despite the heat, his eyes narrow behind a pair of demilune glasses. On his desk, as Andras knew it would be, was a complete set of The Crooked Rail.

“Well, then,” Varsádi said, straightening the pages before him. “I’ll be brief. You know I like you boys and your newspaper. It’s given the men a good laugh. But I’m afraid it’s not-er-opportune to have it circulating at the moment.”

Andras experienced a moment of confusion. He had believed this meeting was to be about the resistance he and Mendel had stirred up. The quickened pace of work, the shift in the foremen’s attitude, had pointed in that direction. But Varsádi wasn’t accusing them of agitating. He seemed only to be asking them to stop publishing.

“The paper’s not really circulating, sir,” Mendel said. “Not beyond the 79/6th.”

“You’ve made fifty copies of each issue,” Varsádi said. “The men take them home. Some of those copies might find their way out into the city. And then there’s the matter of printing, the matter of your plates and originals. This is a sharp-looking paper. I know you’re not hand-cranking copies at home.”

Andras and Mendel exchanged the briefest of looks, and Mendel said, “We destroy the printing plates each week, sir. The circulation copies are all there are.”

“I understand you were both recently employed at the Budapest Jewish Journal. If we were to inquire there, or take a look around, we wouldn’t happen to find…?”

“You can look wherever you like, sir,” Mendel said. “There’s nothing to find.”

Andras watched with a kind of dreamlike detachment as the commander opened his desk drawer, removed a small revolver, and held it loosely in his hand. The body of the gun was velvet black, the muzzle snub-nosed. “There can’t be any mistake about this,” Varsádi said. “Fifty copies of each paper. That’s enough uncertainty in this equation. I need your originals and your printing plates. I need to know where those things are kept.”

“We’ve destroyed-” Mendel began again, but his eyes flicked toward the gun.

“You’re lying,” Varsádi said, matter-of-factly. “I don’t like that, after the leniency I’ve shown you.” He turned the gun over and ran a thumb along the safety. “I need the truth, and then you’ll be on your way. You printed this paper at the Budapest Jewish Journal. Can we find your originals there? I ask, gentlemen, because the only other place I can think to search is your homes. And I would prefer not to disturb your families.” The words hung in the air between them as he polished the revolver with his thumb.

Andras saw it all: The apartment on Nefelejcs ransacked, every paper and book thrown onto the floor, every cabinet emptied, the sofa disemboweled, the walls and floorboards torn open. All the preparations for their trip to Palestine laid bare to official scrutiny. And Klara, huddled in a corner, or held by the wrists-How? By whom?-as the baby wailed. He met Mendel’s eyes again and understood that Mendel had seen it, too, and had made his decision. If Andras himself didn’t tell the truth, Mendel would. And in fact, a moment later, Mendel spoke.

“The originals are at the Journal,” he said. “One copy of each issue, in a filing cabinet in the chief editor’s office. No need to disturb anyone’s family. We don’t keep anything at home.”

“Very good,” said Varsádi. He replaced the gun in the desk drawer. “That’s all I need from you now. Dismissed,” he said, and waved a hand toward the door.

They moved as if through some viscous liquid, not looking at each other. They had compromised Frigyes Eppler, his person, his position; they both knew it. There was no telling what the consequences might be, or what price Eppler would be made to pay. Outside, they found that the entire company had been moved to the assembly ground, where they stood now at uncomfortable attention. As Andras took his place in line, József threw him a look of frank curiosity. But there was no time to enlighten him; it seemed that the promised inspection was now to occur. The soldiers who had arrived that morning had dispersed themselves along the edge of the assembly ground, and the officers who had conferred with Varsádi stood at the head of the formation. When Andras looked across the expanse of gravel to the far edge of the field, he found that soldiers had lined up there as well. In front of Varsádi’s headquarters, soldiers. Along the tracks behind them, more soldiers. All at once he understood: The 79/6th had been corralled, surrounded. The soldiers who had been smoking and laughing with the guards now stood at attention with their hands on their rifles, their eyes fixed at that dangerous military middle distance, the place from which it was impossible to recognize another human being.

Varsádi emerged from the low brick building, his back erect, his medals flashing in the afternoon sun. “Into your lines,” he shouted. “Marching formation.”

Andras told himself to keep calm. They were half an hour from Budapest. This wasn’t the Délvidék. It was likely Varsádi meant to do nothing more than to scare them, make a show of control, correct for the laxity of his command. At his order the 79/6th marched out of the assembly ground and along the tracks, toward the south gate of the rail yard. The soldiers kept their lines tight around the block of work servicemen. They all stopped when they reached the end of the row of boxcars.

Three empty cars had been coupled to the end of the train, their sides emblazoned with the Munkaszolgálat acronym. Over the small, high windows of the boxcars, iron bars had been installed. The doors stood open as if in expectation. Far ahead, beyond the cars that had just been loaded with supplies, an engine exhaled brown smoke.

“At attention, men,” Varsádi shouted. “Your orders have been changed. Your services are needed elsewhere. You will leave immediately. Your duties have become classified. We cannot give you further information.”

There was a burst of incredulous protest from the men, a sudden din of shouting.

“Silence,” the commander cried. “Silence! Silence at once!” He raised his pistol and fired it into the air. The men fell silent.

“Pardon me, sir,” József said. He stood just a few feet from Andras, close enough for Andras to see a narrow vein pumping at his temple. “As I recall, the KMOF Rules of Duty Handbook says we’ve got to have a week’s notice before any change of posting. And if you don’t mind my mentioning it, we’ve hardly got the supplies.”