Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“Nothing. I would only like to ask if you received your letter, counselor.”

Istvan grasped the thin sheets, which were folded accordion-style, and showed the man the envelope.

“Thank you. I have it.”

“No, not that one. Among the old newspapers I cleared from here I found a letter you had written by hand. Tom brought it here, but the secretary met me and said that he himself would give it to you, and sent me to the warehouse.”

“Why do you think he couldn’t give it to me?” The counselor tilted his head.

“I saw him read it, and then he took it off somewhere. Where, I don’t know. But I could see that you had written it and laid a newspaper on it, and then something happened and you forgot about it. But a letter like that had better not get into the file.”

“Did you read it?”

The caretaker squirmed uncomfortably and shifted from one foot to the other.

“My English is weak. It was not in the envelope. I read — counselor, sir — I read the letter, so nicely written…” He put a hand on his chest. “Comrade Ferenc is in. Perhaps just now you could—”

Istvan moved toward the door.

“Wait here.”

He went to the secretary’s office. Ferenc brightened at the sight of him.

“Give me the letter,” he snarled.

“In good time. Sit down. What is your hurry? I have been wanting to have a personal conversation with you.”

He groped in a drawer and drew out an unsealed envelope. Istvan saw the address: Miss Margaret Ward. Agra. He did not dare glance inside and see which of his letters it was and what declarations of feeling it contained. Heat flowed along his spine. He could have choked with rage at himself. All those evasions and concealments, only for this — that all should be lost for such a stupid reason, everything given away. He tucked the envelope into the pocket of his jacket. He would have given anything to be able to see its contents.

“Take a seat,” Ferenc said invitingly. “Whither away so fast? Surely not to the post office; that is dated two months ago. It can wait. When are you taking your furlough?”

“Before the holidays.”

“For long?”

“As long as I can!” he said vehemently.

“Have you found us so trying?” Ferenc said regretfully. “Well, what next?” He took out his wallet and carefully counted out ten banknotes. “Here is a thousand. Take it; don’t be tiresome. It is honestly earned. Your commission from the firm for cases of whiskey delivered at your order. Don’t be coy. Take it as I give it.”

Istvan did not look at the money, only at the ingratiating smile on the secretary’s face. What stratagem was hidden behind it?

“You have no reason to be offended by the money. By me, you may. Surely you cannot think that I am a Judas so upright that I share the silver with my victim. I have not shown the letter to anyone. It is your private affair. In your case I have other reservations.” He looked at the pocket into which Istvan had put the letter as if he wanted to touch it so as to divine the content of the message. “But remember this: I will not dig a pit under you.”

“Thank you,” Istvan muttered after a pause. “There is no point in my not taking it. Since you charged the order to my account, I suppose I am entitled to it. The first business I’ve done — through no wish of my own — thanks to you.”

“If you would not be so hotheaded,” Ferenc sighed, “we could look around for more. Profits are there to be made, but it is difficult to count on you.”

“Best not to count on me.” He gathered up the notes. “I’m not a businessman.”

As he was walking out the door, a whisper reached him: “And I am not your adversary. I would gladly help you if you had decided to—”

“To what?” He whirled around.

But the secretary only waved.

“Nothing. You are so distrustful of me, there is nothing to say.”

“Did he give it back?” the caretaker asked worriedly.

“All is well.” He pulled out the wrinkled letter, and when the door closed he held his breath as he glanced through a dozen lines. He read it with a critical eye, suspiciously, looking for hidden connections between simple words and his actions, plans, the decisions which, in their judgment, he might make. You know, Margit, I have no secrets from you. I tell you everything as it really is. These words might be read as referring to the professional secrets of the embassy, real and imaginary. It will be as you wish. Only call me and I come…You are my whole world.

Yes, these turns of phrase might attract Ferenc’s attention, might arouse suspicion that by chance a confession had fallen into his hands — the confession of a man who was about to betray and desert his country, who had caught a glimpse of freedom and chosen it. My flight would be convenient for them. A deserter — anyway, we suspected it a long time ago. Our collective (that word takes on luster in this case!) showed true devotion to the cause of socialism, and to you, Comrade — here for the time being a space must be left for the correct name, since no one knows if Kádár will remain in power a month.

Never! He bit his lip in impotent rage. Already he felt a despondency suffused with bitterness. Why not listen to them? They are afraid of independence; they depend on their positions. Yet two hundred thousand have left the country. Bela, on whose integrity I would have staked my life, died trying to pass into Austria. By what right do I judge myself wiser than they? How can I doubt Bela’s patriotism? Because they killed him?

His letter described events that had occurred hardly a month ago. Terribly long ago; the distant past. The letter, like a twig pressed into coal, says little about the murmur of the primordial forest. A lost epoch; perhaps in years to come posterity will search out and retrieve those buried memories. We must go forward. Looking behind me will not bolster my courage. Bela’s grave in an Austrian cemetery offers no hope; it puts me on guard. No bullet will reach me here. I put the country’s borders behind me long ago.

But as he pressed his fingertips against his eyelids, he felt that that border was in his heart, and had not been crossed.

To go away, to break this tether…enough of the embassy, of the same faces, conversations and rancors, which wore on him like the stench of burning feathers. He rested his head heavily on his hands and shut the world out. Fate, after all, hides events in its sleeve, and death is not the worst of its surprises. I am prepared. I am ready for that final meeting.

But even as he passed judgment on himself, other solutions occurred to him. If Ilona…We all would be saved, we all would benefit, even You. I would not have to shatter Your stone tablets. One may shake the Ten Commandments in helpless anger, but no one is exempt from them. They are always with us, etched on our consciences; they weigh every action, affixing their sign of approval or condemnation so as to crush us in the last hour and accuse us for eternity.

Why should I not shake myself free of the past and begin a new life, cut off from all that had been — from myself as well? Let the new poet, Istvan Terey, be born on the shores of Australia, writing in English. Indeed, I can write in that language. I have proof that I can reinvent myself. My work is being printed.

Perhaps in years to come someone will ferret out the fact that I came from Hungary and feel that he has made a discovery. And that is all. People are quick to forgive the abandonment of one’s past. They forget that their speech was supposed to be the yes that means yes and the no that means no, like border stones between good and evil. And they long for leniency for themselves; they want us to be tolerant of each other and not take notice of faults, because we are, at bottom, accomplices.