Miklós Vámos: The Book of Fathers

A biting wind stung their faces as they made their way downhill. Not till the last turning would the village heave into view; Grandpa Czuczor used the time to prepare his daughter and grandson for the sights to come. But the horror that met their eyes far surpassed his imagination. Zsuzsánna sobbed and sobbed, her face a sodden pillow, despite her father’s admonitions that this would hardly help matters. Kornél surveyed in silence the destruction of the burned-out houses, the dead and dying animals, the vultures circling high above the village. Nor did he cry when he saw the earthly remains of Burkus. He sensed that this was only the beginning of something, though he could not put into words what that something was. He would not let go of his grandfather’s warm and reassuring paw, and went with him everywhere. Grandpa Czuczor’s first port of call was not the house-of which only the kitchen and part of the yard still had a roof-but to the bottom of the garden and the rose bushes there. These had not been touched by the bandits. He nodded and proceeded to douse them with his own water. Kornél’s eyes opened wide in astonishment as he saw his grandfather’s member for the first time, both in length and breadth the size of a very decent sausage.

Their furniture was in smithereens, their clothes and everything else had either been taken or else torn and trampled into useless rags.

“What are we to do now?” asked Zsuzsánna.

Grandpa Czuczor did not reply but drew a stool that was more or less intact up to the composing frame, sat down, and began sharpening the quills. He poured ink into the inkwell and began to write in the folio.

Day of mourning. We have lost Wilhelm, as we have most of the res mobilis. My equipment is largely gone and as yet I lack the strength to scrape what remains out of the mud where it lies. Our lives, too, are in danger. We can do naught but trust in our God. Justus es Domine, et justa sunt judicia tua.

He glanced sideways and saw his grandson crouching under the composing frame and drawing with a lead pencil on a scrap of paper, while resolutely clutching his grandfather’s trousers with his right hand.

“What are you doing there, Kornél?”

“Grandfather dear, I am writing.”

“Indeed?” Grandpa Czuczor gave a groan as he went down on his knees to take a closer look at the scrap of paper. To his great surprise the unsteady and imperfect letters formed themselves into more or less readable script. “Day of mourning,” Kornél had written. “We lost Burkus and I’m going to bury him at the bottom of the garden, under the rose…”

“Not there!” Grandpa Czuczor burst out.

The boy did not understand. “I beg your pardon, Grandpa?”

“No, not there… You have to bury him in… dry soil. Let’s do it together!” He led Kornél into the garden. “Tell me… where did you learn to write?”

“I watched you, Grandpa dear.”

By the fallen fence they found a casket of rotting wood. In it they laid to rest the body of Wilhelm, placing it by the shed, where the previous owner had planted a small pine tree. For Burkus they dug a hole in the ground and buried him in the purple tablecloth Zsuzsánna had made for the big dining table. They had found it in front of the house, torn and covered in puzzling brown stains.

By the evening the other villagers had also sneaked back. The night was riven by sobs and cries, as each family reached their front door.

It was well into the night when the sound of slamming and of horses’ hoofs was heard.

Grandpa Czuczor swept up Kornél, still wrapped in his blanket, and headed out onto the road and up the mountain. Behind him came Zsuzsánna, her wooden clogs clattering as she ran. This second time round, only a third as many folk managed to reach the Old Cavern, mainly those who lived nearby. Bálint Borzaváry Daróczy was nowhere to be seen. Apart from Grandpa Czuczor, there were only two men: an old peasant and lame old Gáspár Dobruk, which suggested that even with his game leg he could run faster than most. The suddenness of their departure meant that this time they were short of food as well as light, and only a single lamp sputtered in the Cavern.

“If we have to stay here tomorrow, we shall all starve!” said Gáspár Dobruk.

“As long as we’re alive, there is hope!” countered Grandpa Czuczor. “Let us share out everything, like a family, until the danger has passed.”

They took stock. The only folk to express any unease were old Mrs. Miszlivetz and her daughter, who had brought six round loaves, two skins of butter, a rib of salted pork, and several bottles of wine. Grandpa Czuczor rounded on them: “You have no lamp of your own, yet you benefit from the light we share… if you begrudge us these victuals, get you hence! But if you stay, accept your fate as Christians! And let us now remember those we have lost!”

At this, the women’s wails rose up in chorus. The wife (or more likely now, the widow) of Bálint Borzaváry Daróczy let out such a high-pitched shriek that there was concern that it might be heard outside. She kept bashing her head into the cavern wall until Grandpa Czuczor and Gáspár Dobruk wrapped her in a horse blanket and tied her up. Kornél watched all this almost with interest. He was still not afraid, although he suspected that the old world had come to a complete and definitive end, the world in which he had sat in the evenings, with a full belly and contented by the crackling fire, listening to the stories of his grandfather. He was sorry that they did not have with them paper, quills, and ink, so that he might practice his newly acquired skills of writing.

His grandfather, too, was turning round in his head what he might have written in the folio by way of summing up the events of these chaotic days.

I understand not the purpose of our Lord in visiting these blows upon us; how great can be our sins that we deserve the destruction and loss of our homes and land? We must, nonetheless, we must believe in His almighty power, for we have sunk so low that hence the road cannot but lead upwards. Nemo ante mortem beatus.

Farkas Balassi had erred in assuming that the village was still the property of István Rigómezei Lukovits, who was thought to have made his fortune in Italy. Lukovits had in fact moved to Vienna months before, together with all his assets. It was the rumor of Italian treasure that led Farkas Balassi’s freebooters to keep combing through the village of Kos; they would not settle for scraps and trash as booty.

At the fork at the top of the village, where the high road winds up the hill and the low road leads into the valley towards Varasd and beyond, to Szeben, a green kerchief of fine silk lay in a puddle. It was Jóska Telegdi, the quartermaster, who noticed it. Dismounting, he picked it up and sniffed it: a woman’s fragrance tickled his nose. With some reluctance he trailed his hand in the muddy water in case there was anything else there. His fingers came upon a hard, egg-shaped object. He rubbed it clean. It was a decorated egg, made of some kind of metal. His initial joy dissipated when he bit into it and found it was not gold. He turned it around and around in his hands, tapping it here and pressing it there, until the top suddenly snapped open. It was a delicate timepiece that showed the day, month, and even the year. It had stopped. Perhaps water had seeped into it? Looking at it closely, he saw that it showed the ninth day of October and the year 1683, a little after twelve o’clock. His face darkened as the date sank in: it was that of the Battle of Párkány, where his father had lost his life. He tried winding up the mechanism and shaking the metal egg, but it would not come to life. Could it have been lying here ever since 1683? Impossible-no trace of rust. But whoever had dropped it could have lost other items as well. So he cut off a couple of branches from the nearby bushes, fashioned them into a rough broom, and began to splash the water off the road’s surface. He found nothing more.