Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“But he survived. He was not at the front. He didn’t take a Russian bullet,” he cried despairingly.

“He survived, but his hands…he will never manage to play a chord. He has the hands of a laborer because of that shovel. And a hundred of his companions are buried there. Shot to bits for nothing; a csikos from the plains fired at professors, doctors, lawyers. He killed the Hungarian in those who survived. Istvan, I tell you about this because I am fond of you as well. Don’t ask me to cry for you because you have family in Budapest. Your family will pass through this. You will have them. Mine are gone.”

As if he had just met her, entire expanses of pain and loneliness in her soul opened before him. He did not know whether to embrace her and beg for forgiveness, or walk out as Ferenc had done, visibly offended. But she sat looking at him hard — a large woman, warm and worthy of the deepest sympathy. He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Judit,” he whispered.

“For what? I only wanted you not to be wearing your troubles on your sleeve. Everyone here has his share of pain, though it may not always show.”

He almost ran to his office, humiliated, stinging with guilt. He took shelter behind his desk. Hunching over, he plunged into the daily pile of press, trying to gather information.

The tone of the bulletins was favorable to the uprising. The correspondents emphasized its anti-Soviet character and wrote approvingly of the lynchings of communists. Nagy’s calls for the Russian armies to leave Hungary made headlines everywhere. The dispatches also carried a warning from the temporary Air Force Command that if the march of the Russian columns toward the capital was not halted, they would be bombarded.

The Times did not predict that there would actually be armed conflict between Hungary and the Soviets. The commentator acknowledged that talks between Nagy, Suslov, and Mikoyan might lead to resolution of the difficult situation in which Hungary found itself. He dwelt on the question of what Nagy was like — whether he would display the necessary moral strength and political acumen.

The West had not shown itself inclined to shift the established spheres of influence and military deployments — the so-called “balance of threat,” which in the East was commonly called “peace.” He was relieved to immerse himself in these considerations. He made special mention of them in the report he was preparing for the ministry. Bent over his work, he sighed with hope that the conflict would quiet down, that further bloodshed would be avoided. He almost did not hear the knock at his door.

“Come in,” he muttered, thinking that his colleagues or the caretaker were opening the door without announcing themselves. He was surprised to see Mihaly, with a face full of distress. Something serious must have happened for the boy to have stolen so far into the building in spite of his father’s instructions.

“May I come in, uncle?”

“What do you want?”

“The police took her away. She has been arrested,” he said cryptically.

“Who?”

“Krishan’s new wife. Someone sprinkled sugar in the gas tank and that caused the accident. They think that she—”

“Impossible!”

The boy looked at him with profound gravity. His eyes flashed with tension. “They really did take her this morning. The driver told me.”

“Why would she have done that? The charge is idiotic!” He beat his fist on the desktop, not so much talking to the boy as thinking out loud. “She loved him.”

“They said it was revenge because he bullied her sister. He took all her silver and sold it to buy the motorcycle.” The boy repeated this information in a reproachful whisper.

“They know nothing.”

“But Durga confessed right away,” Mihaly insisted. “‘It was my fault,’ she cried. ‘I did not take proper care of him. You can kill me. I deserve it.’ So they took her. Uncle, is that what you think?”

“No.” Istvan took the boy in his arms. “I’m sure Durga is innocent.”

“Will you go there? Will you save her?” The boy’s voice was so full of hope and pleading that Istvan promised to intervene.

“We must defend her. Now run along before you get a hiding.”

The boy looked around the desk and reached for a two-tone colored pencil, then made a chain of paper clips.

“May I take these? They would come in handy for me.” He wrinkled his forehead, which could be seen from under his parted bangs.

“Take them and get going.”

The boy reached the door, then turned around. “Uncle — you promised,” he said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll have a talk with the police.”

Mihaly scraped the floor with one foot and bowed vigorously, then left the room.

How to defend her? He saw Krishan’s catlike, cunning face, the small teeth gleaming white under the mustache. After all, his horoscope had told him that sugar would harm him, Istvan remembered with astonishment. All his life he had not eaten sweets, thinking that he had a weak stomach, that it was hyperacidic. And he had not escaped; sugar had been his doom, only, as if in a bitter joke, sugar burned in the pistons.

Horoscopes are rubbish. They provide yet another opportunity to foist off the responsibility for one’s life on fate, to tell oneself that what is going to happen will happen as it is written in the stars. But there is a cruel mockery in what befell Krishan, since he never put sugar to his lips.

Durga is most certainly innocent, though in her despair she is ready to accuse herself, and the police are eager to seize on her statement. Suddenly he recalled what she had said in the narrow room full of the whirring of sewing machines about the boys crowding around their hero. Like a revelation it came to him: a lollipop on a stick. The little boy who at a friend’s command put a candy into the liquid — the gasoline must have washed it off. He pulled out the bare stick. Istvan was certain that it must have happened so; he marveled that it had not occurred to him at once. He looked out through the dusty screen to the yard. He wanted to call Mihaly; the child remembered every word. He had open eyes and a mind like a sponge. One had to be careful around him, for he repeated everything with an undesigning ruthless candor.

Below his window the new driver, a Hindu, was polishing the ambassador’s Mercedes with a chamois. The boss must have returned. With what had the Chinese regaled him?

The telephone rang. He heard Nagar’s excited voice. “Turn on your radio. There is extraordinary news. You surely have a radio there?”

“I have. But tell me — what is happening in Budapest?” he demanded, his tension rising.

“Peace is near. Hungary is on the back burner; there is a new bombshell. Armored forces from Israel have struck on Sinai. The Egyptians are fleeing — as fast as they can flee on camels. Nasser is announcing that he will defend his territory to the last round of ammunition, which is to say, not for long. He is calling in help from Yugoslavia and Moscow. Ben Gurion fired off a speech about how that Arab rabble would not give him a moment’s peace. He listed the border incidents, the boycott of goods, the arrest of Jewish bankers in Cairo. Naturally he assured the world that the goal of this expedition was simply to maintain order and that the tanks were on the move for no reason except to secure peace in the canal area.”

“Do you think they will be successful?”

“Israel? They have the best army. They have modern equipment. They will rout the Egyptians. They will reach the canal tomorrow. France and England have sent an ultimatum to Egypt and Israel demanding that both sides cease fire immediately and withdraw ten miles from the canal. It is too vital an artery to be interfered with by acts of war. The canal will be protected by English and French troops; do you understand their game?”