Iván Sándor - Legacy

The whites of Mother’s eyes seem damp even though she was not crying. It’s of no significance, says the doctor; it’s the sort of thing that comes with age, you know, says Mother, after Józsi’s death and even more so after little Eva’s death, Gizi really had only Bőzsi left, what with Uncle Henrik and her mother already having died before the war.

When Mother was speaking about Gizi that’s what she always called him, Uncle Henrik, but she never mentions Gizi’s mother by name. Is that because she didn’t like her? Did Gizi, too, dote on her father? I had forgotten that Gizi’s daughter, little Eva, died two years after Józsi was buried.

I unfold the squared paper of the letter:

Dearest Mother and Father,

We took our leave thinking that day we would going to the Red Cross with the children, but we had to stay in the brickworks another two days, and after that in the Dohány Street Synagogue. We went from there to Vadász Street, but we didn’t want to stay there. Vera and I went back home without wearing a yellow star. We had to leave Amerikai Road, we were in the workshop for two days, and from there we came here. Girls and boys are kept separated. At first I was very bitter about ending up in a pig-awful place, but then it turned out fine. I have two friends as well, the sons of Riegler the paperman.

I describe the daily fare.

Breakfast: awful BB packet soup and a dried-up slice of sour bread.

Lunch: BB soup or some crummy soup with pasta or, if we get lucky, hard beans.

Supper: BB soup or unsugared tea.

We were originally allowed to defer return to the ghetto until 15 December, which has now been postponed to the 20th.

Next the most important of all:

The thing is, we are not going to the ghetto. It was rumoured that everyone between fourteen and fifty years of age was to be taken to the ghetto. But where to? I heard from Jolán Bors that you are trying to acquire papers. It’s not just a birth certificate but Levente papers, an identification card and maybe a registration or deregistration form as well. If you can, send blank papers urgently with Jolán, because I have now acquired a Levente messenger’s pass.

If possible, please get hold of papers for Vera as well. For her a birth certificate will be enough. She has had no news of her mother; it is said that Uncle Seidel has been taken off to Germany. She doesn’t want to be left alone, and I don’t want to leave her here either.

Dearest Mother and Father, write in detail what the situation is. Are you going to leave or stay? How long can you stay? Where would you go? Can you send me the papers? Write to tell me how you are. If you can send Jolán, she should bring a shirt, socks and underpants from the workshop.

Send food if it’s possible and most urgently of all send as much money as you can. I am now down to 20 pengő.

I have received the things you sent so far. Many thanks for those! I hope you are both well, dearest Mother and Father.

Many kisses, Iván.

PS If there is any way of doing so, please send papers for Vera as well!! Try to get Jolán to have a look what can be retrieved from 76 Amerikai Road.

I tap on the glass door to the second-floor corridor. I open the door. There are girls sitting at the bend in the corridor. Vera does not come up to me; just waves. She has a tot holding on to both hands. I recognize them as her cousins. I wasn’t aware they were already here, nor was Vera. Edo has passed his sixth birthday, Judy is going on five. They don’t know what has happened to their parents, says Vera. They met yesterday evening. They were permitted to go into the room I’m in, she says, so we were able to sleep together.

She’s telling a fairy story. Judy has an oval head; her features follow the story. She blushes and knits her brow.

I have to get back to my room.

Soproni comes.

Could I lend him my windcheater? He is going to disappear for a day or two, but I shouldn’t tell anybody. His overcoat is long and heavy; it would be easier to move about in a windcheater. You’re taller than me; it will be tight for you. He tries it on. Yes, it’s bit of a squeeze, but no matter, he says. It’s good because it has four pockets. He’ll give me his own coat to keep until he gets back. He brings a Halina duffel coat the colour of milky coffee. That appeals a lot as I never had a coat with fancy braiding. He says it came from Transylvania. It’s a shame it is so heavy and just a bit too long for me.

We check that the spot where the yellow star on my windcheater used to be is no longer visible. It’s fine, he says. He can wear it safely on the street. Don’t worry. I’ve got really good papers. I’ll bring one for you when I come back.

It is cold in the room, so at night I spread the coat over the blanket. The older Riegler says that Soproni also has some hand-grenades.

I dream that I’m walking in the street wearing the duffel coat. An Arrow Cross patrol is coming the other way. They admire the coat. We hail each other with the fascist greeting ‘ Kitartás! ’ 4They are driving along a yellow-star group, and I turn away in case I am recognized by anyone in the column. On the pavement two men and a woman break out laughing. The laughter echoes louder and louder as if the whole city were resounding, as if it were not just three people but many thousands. Vera steps beside me, bringing Edo and Judy, and we are going to our workshop on Francia Road; Vera does not ask where they are but takes off her knickers. We lie down on the big trestle table. She sits up, leans forward and cups her chin in the palm of one hand before lighting up a cigarette, exhaling blue smoke through her nostrils, spreading her naked thighs apart, well aware that I can see. She blows the smoke, and I am startled awake by the sound of the window being opened. I can see the moon from where I am on the palliasse. The lad who pretended to be wanking is standing by the window. I get up and also go over. I don’t know what he is called, but in the moonlight his face looks like that of a clown covered in flour. A policeman is strolling in the snow at the front entrance, hands in the pockets of his cape, the collar turned up.

It has to be at least ten below freezing, says the boy. Do you reckon the grub round here is edible? I reckon it’s uneatable. I don’t answer, instead I go back to bed, break off two squares from the bar of chocolate hidden in my haversack and give one to him. I can’t do a swap. I’ve got nothing. Take it, I say, let’s try to get some sleep.

Perhaps it wasn’t snowing; perhaps the moonlight was not that intense.

The sad clown’s face.

As I recall, I said to Mother when I took over the letters from her, at six o’clock the next morning there was a pounding on the door to the room.

Six o’clock in the morning. They are banging with fists on the doors along the corridors of the Red Cross home on Mihály Munkácsy Street. The room seniors are holding a meeting. Now then, lads, the older Riegler returns to the room, the brothers are waiting for us, next it’s either the ghetto or the banks of the Danube.

Seated on our palliasses, we pack our haversacks. We are given five minutes. I am practised in doing that by now. A gendarme on the landing of the staircase is issuing orders. The girls are sent off from the second floor. I stand on tiptoe but cannot spot Vera. The supervisors have put on Red Cross armbands. The Arrow Crossers shove them, too, among us.

We line up in threes facing Délibáb Street. I discover Vera is standing fifteen to twenty metres in front of me. She has Judy holding her left hand and in her right hand is the little case, with Edo hanging on to the handle of that. Vera is wearing a shawl under her beret to keep her ears warm.