Iván Sándor - Legacy

The head of the home left the room with the candle guttering in the draught, which allowed me to observe the boy’s face. He was as tall as I had thought and older than me, although perhaps only by a year, maybe not even that. I saw no anger on his face; I am surprised that I seem to see sadness or, rather, obstinacy. He throws a fresh punch, but that, too, seems to lack passion but is powerful none the less. I duck away, just as he ducks away from my punch. I do not leap at him as yet, although I sense that this will be the next move. I can see that he has it in mind to leap on me. Arms hold me back; him, too. I wrest myself from the hold, as does he. A stick whistles down between us, not touching either of us, rather as if a sword blade had slashed in two the few centimetres that separate us; we do not cling to each other, but now I scent his sweat more strongly, although maybe it is my own body odour. My arm is twisted behind me; his, too.

The head of the home is standing near the candle.

He shoves us in front of two men; they say nothing, neither does the head of the home.

I return to the bed and again start packing my things back into my rucksack.

One of the men picks up the stick which had whistled down between us. The stick is white. The other boys are sitting on their beds. I don’t know where the two men came from. One is wearing a raincoat, the other a frayed black winter topcoat. The head of the home says to the raincoated man that they should play something; all the gentlemen here appreciate music. One boy in the corner guffaws. The raincoated man leaves the room and comes back with a fiddle, plucking the strings. I do not climb on to the top bunk but sit on the lower one. The lanky boy takes a seat next to me.

The head of the home snuffs the candle’s flame between two moistened fingers and leaves the room. I ask Beanpole why, of all things, he needed my shell. He does not answer. I ask him how he got to the home, but he does not answer. I ought to clamber on to the top bunk and try to get some sleep.

Beanpole had been in the Kolumbusz Street home in the XIVth District. He tells me that after we have been sitting on the bed for ten minutes. That time the Kolumbusz Street home was fired on I could hear from number 76 Amerikai Road, I say. That was us, old chap, although I didn’t come from there but from Józsefváros Station. In Kolumbusz Street the camp leader was shot, the camp physician was also shot and the young and elderly were hauled off to the ghetto, whereas I was taken with the other physically fit men to the goods yard.

I ask how he managed to get away. It was dark; the Arrow Crossers and soldiers could barely see anything. They would fire off a burst every five minutes so that everyone would shit themselves, but after the fourth burst I knew when the fifth would be coming, so I had a few minutes to do a bunk.

There was a shell like it on my father’s writing desk, he says. My father was the camp doctor on Kolumbusz Street. I can give you the shell if you want, I say. Give over, he says. It’s not even mine, actually, but belongs to a friend of my father’s; I’m going to give it back. When will that be? I ask him whether he has heard anything about being sent from here to the ghetto. No, doesn’t know anything. Do you reckon the head of the home knows? The rabbi, you mean? I didn’t know he is a rabbi; it’s Friday evening, but I haven’t seen him praying. He doesn’t pray, he says. What about you? I don’t pray. But you said he’s a rabbi. I asked him, he says, and he replied that he doesn’t pray; he has looked up at the sky and saw it was empty — there’s nobody to pray to. Good, huh? Got you, I say. He used to have a long beard, he says, but he cut it off with scissors as he doesn’t own a razor. He said it was for health reasons, but I don’t reckon that was the real reason. Your father was the doctor at the Kolumbusz Street camp? Let’s get some sleep, he says. I’m freezing, I say. Take your blanket down from the upper bunk and lie down next to me, he says. You won’t freeze so much under two blankets. Who is the girl? he asks once I am lying down next to him. You saw her? I saw her. She’s a cousin. That’s crap! Cousins don’t behave that way. Well, she’s called Vera. Vera? That’s right.

I am not able to fall asleep. Nor can he. I still don’t get it, I say. What? That the rabbi doesn’t pray. He told me he doesn’t want to lie. To whom? To the Everlasting Father. I don’t understand that either. He said he doesn’t want to lie to the Everlasting Father that he places his trust in Him. I understand that even less. I don’t understand it either, though … Though what? All the same I understand it a little. What? Let’s go to sleep, he says. A person needs sleep. At least try. A person needs to eat and needs sleep. Is there any food here? No, no food. Two boys go to the Teleki Square market and nick whatever they can, and we share that out. They’re good at it; two others were caught, though, so they’ll go out instead until they get nabbed. What happens then? We’ll draw lots to see who the next couple will be. Could it be you? Sure it could, he says; it could be you, it could even be the two us together. And if the person who draws the lot doesn’t want to go? There’s no option. Try and get some shut-eye.

I thought things would become clearer in the morning. That one could choose between darkness and opening the window with its blue-paper shades. The stairwell is lit by a dim electric bulb. Jolán Bors is at the front door; she has brought two pairs of warm socks. One of these I pull on over the socks I am already wearing, the other pair I shall hand over to Vera.

That was when you sent the third letter, Mother says. Jolán said you were all right; she was always seeking to put my mind at rest.

Where did I lay hands on these small folding letter cards? I wrote on both sections inside, numbering the pages. They are hard to read, with one line slipping into another.

Did I go back to the room and write it there?

Maybe I sat down on the top of the stairs and wrote on my knees.

The pencil was almost certainly what was still left of the stub from Mihály Munkácsy Street; the point must have been totally blunt by then.

Jolán Bors stands behind me on the landing and waits until I have finished the letter.

Mother tells me that they asked Dr Temesváry where we might go if we could not go to the hospital yet, and the head physician may have said that the children in the Nagyfuvaros Street home had not been sent to the ghetto yet.

Mother gets up from the brazilwood easy chair and takes her medicine for the evening. Stay, she entreats, but says nothing more. I say nothing more and just take a seat in one of the armchairs, which used to be Grandfather’s. Mother feels comfortable among old furniture, so do I, and I am sitting in one of Grandfather’s chairs as, thirty-five years later, I write that Mother, having handed over the third of my letters, entreats me to stay.

Dearest Mother and Father,

We are well. Don’t worry about us. We still don’t know exactly but it looks likely we can stay here. If we cannot go to you tomorrow or the day after, then we shall stay or else go to another Red Cross home. If we have to leave after the 22nd but before the 31st (I don’t think it will come to that), will we be able to go to your place? I am hoping that the police don’t show up suddenly and so we get a chance to sneak off again. It would be good if Jolán comes here every day; I can then send a letter every day. Ask her to drop in on you straight after here, so she can bring your letter the next day!! She should bring any grub that she can!!! If you can, send a cap, gloves, shirt, underpants with her and for Vera stockings and any underwear that’s available. Of course, only send them once it is certain that we can stay here until at least 31 December. Write to say whether you will be staying there. If so, until when? If we were to go there, where could you put us up? How long could we stay at your place? Perhaps by tomorrow we shall have something sure to report on, so Jolán should come. It is maybe not too late if we only find out tomorrow that we have to leave by the day after! If it is at all possible, we would go after it is dark!! (That’s because of the police raids on Teleki Square.) If that’s impossible, of course, we shall go in daylight; in any event speak to all the doormen, so that if we should turn up looking for you they let us in without any trouble. It could be that all the preparations are pointless because we can stay here. Send things only if it is sure that we can remain here, because we have very little room to store anything!