Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

A wide peace, a drowsiness like that of a sleeping village, emanated from the most imposing artery of the city. Far away, like low stars, the lights of speeding automobiles were winking. Their glare sparkled on a vitreous piece of coral stuck on a cow’s horn by a devout hand. Istvan thought with a shudder: I am walking here, while my boys…At once, as if he had been carried home by magic, he saw eight-year-old Geza, saw the child push his head out above the sill of a broken window and watch with delight as innumerable orange and green beads cut through the sky over the park; they were firing machine guns with luminous ammunition.

“Move away,” he said in an undertone, as if his son could hear him. Dazed, he looked around the sky as it darkened above the enormous trees, looked at the long rows of glowing street lights. He could have sworn that a moment before he had been in Budapest. His head was still reeling. He paused, breathless, like one who has been pushed from a great height and still hears a ringing in his ears.

Two women with children bundled up passed by. He heard the jingle of bracelets and anklets and the soft singsong voices. They came out of the dusk, their red saris gleaming, and dissolved into the darkness under the trees.

He raised his head toward the sky, which was very remote. Only a few stars blinked unsteadily there. From the depths of his heart he pleaded, “Spare them for me. Hide them. Shield them. I so rarely beg You for anything.” The stars trembled lightly and blurred as a tear dimmed his vision.

He wanted, after all, to be free. His conscience seemed to remind him of a half-formed wish: if it were not for Ilona, you could…You said, I also have a right to be happy. It came to him with a shock: not at such a price.

Desperately he sought the proofs that he was not the worst of men, worthy only to be condemned and trampled underfoot. Like change in his pocket he carried a handful of merits, of constructive actions, but already he felt the enormity of his guilt. You had no time for me, a voice accused him. You demand that I concern Myself with you…

In front of him stood the dark building, like a gigantic tub reeking of tar, in which Krishan had been killed. He had not yet come here to remonstrate with the police about the woman they had arrested. And Mihaly had begged him so earnestly, had looked so trustingly into his eyes. Tomorrow, he vowed. Tomorrow. First thing in the morning.

Though it was not late, the streets were empty. The bracing chill had swept the Hindus off them. Only a seller of peanuts napped, crouching over his hot stove with his head covered by a paper bag with slits. Ashes reddened by a gust of air glimmered on his extended hand.

“Sahib,” he whined, “sahib, fresh, very tasty monkey nuts.”

Istvan bought as if fulfilling the mandate of the goodness he hoped to attain. The little pouch made from fronds warmed his fingers.

If my statement is not enough, I will ask Chandra for help. Poor Durga. Or perhaps it is better that they locked her up; he remembered the avaricious eyes of her caretaker and her cohorts, whose faces were hidden in the shadows. They promised gowns and trinkets and pushed girls toward ruin. She had lost the man she loved and her body had become useless, a vexing burden. She could dispense with it. She had lost Krishan; she had lost the world. With a leap into the fire that had absorbed the visible form of her beloved, she had made her choice: she had died.

Automobiles hurtled past. In the greenish glow of the streetlights he spied red jackets and gold braid: the officers of the president’s guard. Perhaps Khaterpalia himself had sped past him. Behind him came a huge black limousine with a small, hunched white figure; yes, it was Nehru, with his beautiful, gloomy daughter. He glanced at his watch. Ten after eight. The grand reception at the Russian embassy was just beginning.

Like a moth lured by a light he made his way toward the park, which was ablaze with the glow of headlights. The large building with its pillared front resembled an ancient temple. Two policemen in white gloves were urging the drivers of the arriving cars to keep them moving. The glow of hanging bulbs dusted the layered branches of trees whose lower trunks glittered with reflected light. Beds of salvia blazed scarlet. From a distance the tinkle of lively music could be heard, and the swelling din of guests eating and drinking.

Istvan stopped in the dusk. A group of onlookers covered with sheets of linen sat on the sidewalk, quivering in the chilly air, drinking in the unusual spectacle. Cars flowed in through the gate, bearing dignitaries over the crunching gravel toward the carpeted staircase. Other people alighted from taxis and walked with dignified steps, splashed with glare from the headlights of automobiles almost in gridlock. Women in saris threaded through with gold seemed to sail on streams of fragrance, sweet aromas of perfume and flowers. On their shoulders some wore fur stoles drooping low so as to reveal necks framed by gold collars sparkling with jewels.

On the grassy island opposite the gate a small, compact group of men in white were rhythmically shouting a slogan. No one hampered them. Istvan thought they were partisans of a new political order demonstrating in support of a revolution. There were about twenty Hindus. All at once he understood their chant and felt a pain so acute that it frightened him.

“Hands off Hungary! Hands off Hungary!”

An embassy official moved toward the wide-open gate — a tall, powerfully built man with a mane of blond hair. His navy blue suit was rather too large; his trousers fell in wrinkles onto his yellowish shoes. He exchanged a few words with the police, who called an officer over and pointed to the group of demonstrators. The officer threw up his hands in a gesture of powerlessness. The group’s shouts grew louder; guests alighting from their cars paused to listen before moving on quickly to the radiantly lit park with its holiday decor. They don’t want to spoil the festivities, he thought, and clenched his fist. What do they care about Budapest?

The embassy official returned with three Hindus. They carried, as if it were an unknown weapon, a black bullhorn with coils of cable, which they installed by the gate so that the device faced the dark street. A song spurted at high volume from the megaphone, surging with chords sung by choirs at full voice. The demonstrators opened their mouths, but their voices were lost. They stood for a moment more, conferring with each other, huddling together. At last they began to disperse listlessly, scattering into the dusk along the avenue.

He walked behind them. He wanted to know who they were and where they had come from. When he caught up with them and asked, they gathered around him in a friendly way, pressed his hand with cold fingers and exclaimed one after another:

“We are from the university!”

“Today we shouted catcalls at Nehru himself when he began saying that the attack on Hungary was justified.”

“He forgot why the English put him in jail.” Someone breathed the odor of spicy food and cheap cigarettes into Istvan’s face.

“Equivocator!”

“Defeatist!”

A slender boy hung on Istvan’s arm, entwining his fingers around his palm like a woman. Long, matted, frizzy locks of his hair brushed Istvan’s cheek as he whispered close to his ear, “Krishna Menon said before the United Nations that he could not approve the actions of the foreign armies, and called on the Russians to leave Hungary.”

“Nehru said the same thing only a few days ago,” declared another student with an angry, accusing air. “Nehru lost his nerve.”

“It is true that we are not a military power, but our strength is real. We must be the conscience of humanity.”