Gratitude (48 page)

As the days passed, Paul paid less and less attention to the wheeling of the sun and moon. He was becoming more like his sister. When he broke into a rant at the dinner table, he was thinking less of what to put in the way of evil, and less about how to get out of the way of evil, and more about what gave rise to it.

The trouble was the thinking itself. His thinking was crowding out experience, crowding out his life. Making sense of the world was no longer the point. What Paul tried to make sense of was hatred fuelled by feeling alone, by impulse, not thought, a hatred so pure and unblemished it banished thought. More importantly, it banished the countervailing signals of conscience, rose out of the natural plane to where the air was thin but pure and gave life to creatures who were untroubled by the world below. Plans, yes. These creatures hatched plans. Excellent, elaborate plans. A special kind of genius. How to round up the vermin, how to dehumanize them, how to develop Zyklon B and dispense it cheaply and efficiently for the eradication of all communists, homosexuals, Gypsies and Jews. But not if a Jew is Jesus? Not if a homosexual’s wife bears a child? Not if a Gypsy violinist plays Wagner? Not if a communist turns nationalist-socialist? No. The plan does not allow for complications. The plan is not excellent; it is perfect. Complications admit thought, awaken conscience. Oh, how we complicate the world for you, we human pulp, you unthinking genius of evil; you cannot have second thoughts if you haven’t had first ones. Just a plan. A good plan, carried out by loyal, thoughtless ministers.

Dare we feel it? Dare we utter the words? They become giddy with the weight of it, weightless, and the weightlessness buoys fearlessness.
They
are what have hurt us.
They
are what have hampered us.
They
are the ones who have stood in the way of our achievement.
They
are what we hate. He pounds his fist, and we pound ours.
Die Juden—ja, ja, ja—die Juden!
So pure. So simple. Beautiful as Bach. Pure as mathematics. The word clean as a bell. They. So simple and tidy. What a tidy little place to locate our hatred, roll it into a ball and fire it at them. They are the ones. Do you hear it? You.

Where, then, will the criminals’ trials lead us, we nations united against you? Are you all to be found guilty? Were we all innocent? In the pure, untroubled air of certainty, yes. In the earthbound world languishing among the ruins of thought, no.

What would it have been like, this thoughtless, forbidden place? Paul asked himself. A place without consequences. And how must it feel to be dragged down now by your repressors into sullied consequence and thought? Imagine those unfettered days—off with his head, off with hers—anyone who offends you, anyone who might offend you, strangers from a group you’ve decided will certainly offend you. Off with their heads! How glorious! How free!—Headless Nation!

Only now, today, to be hauled back down into thought. God must be so weary. Dear God, if our Adolf stands before You, in that thin air, on that special plane, don’t let him evade You. Seat him before his handiwork. Seat him at the gates of Auschwitz, his legs crossed, his soldier’s back straight, his mouth stilled, and let him stare until the key to the vault of his conscience slips in through his eyes or his ears, slips in on the wings of a grey bird, or until the Polish winter buries him, scentless like a gas.

A LETTER CAME
for Paul from Philadelphia. His former assistant, Viktor, had tracked him down and brought it to him. It was two days before he opened it. It was from Zsuzsi Rosenthal in Philadelphia, and it was dated April 19. Almost two months had passed since she’d mailed it.

Suzanne Rosenthal Stein
22 Washington Boulevard
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
April 19, 1945

My dear Paul,

I’m writing on the chance that you have made it and will read this greeting. It has been too long. I thought of you often in the middle of the turmoil at home. I imagined you crusading in the way that you do. I had only a glimpse of that quality in you, but it stayed with me. The news reports that came to us here were quite incomplete. Only now are the stories and pictures appearing. I hope your family came through it all right.

I think about us in Komarom that day, how your aunts Klari and Hermina had arranged a lunch. I didn’t think the lunch would turn out so memorable.

I have an eight-year-old son, but no husband any longer. Jonathan went over last June to fight in Normandy and, on July 6, I had word that he’d been killed in action. I guess there’s no guarantee of safety wherever you go.

I have enclosed a photograph of my son and me, taken when he was six. His name is Sam. We’re standing in front of the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

If it is ever possible, I hope you can visit.

Look after yourself, Paul.

Zsuzsi

Paul spent a long time studying the photograph. She looked exactly the same, slim and elegant—elegant as a calla lily—though this picture was taken at a little distance. The boy in the photo had curly hair, while hers was straighter. He stood quite upright and confident, in her care.

AS KLARI HELPED LILI
get ready for her big day, Rozsi excused herself and fled to Robert’s study to visit with her brother. Paul sat looking straight ahead in the half-light of the room. He had Zsuzsi’s letter and photograph in front of him, and she asked if she might look.

He pushed the letter toward her, and she read it, examined the photo, and cried. She looked at her brother. His eyes were open and unblinking. He frightened her, until he said, “They’re nice, aren’t they?”

“Very,” she said. Then she asked, “Are you going to the wedding?”

He didn’t answer.

She approached him, placed a hand on the back of his head, grasped the auburn curls. “In the last days,” he said, “Adolf was throwing choirboys at the Russians and Americans—did you know that? ‘Rip them to pieces,’ he must have been telling them. ‘Throw off those robes, strap on these uniforms—off with their heads! Off! Off! Chew them up and spit them out. Chew them up with those same fangs and tongues and lips with which, after vespers, you daily sing ‘Panis Angelicus’ and dear Papa Bach’s ‘Schlafe, mein Liebster.’”

Rozsi stepped back from her brother. He smiled at her, looked contrite. “Palikam,” she went on, “just tell me, please. You know everything, you and your Swede. Look into your crystal ball and tell me, is my Zoli coming back to me?” Paul looked up into her eyes but couldn’t answer. She sat on one of his bony knees and hugged him. “Forgive me—please don’t judge me,” she said. “I’m in despair, that’s all.”

“That’s plenty,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t you?” she said. “Of course you do.” She kissed his cool cheek.

They sat quietly.

“I miss people,” Rozsi said. “Even the ones who are still with us.”

They sat for a minute. He heard her sniffle, and she said, “I miss you.” He put his arm around her waist. “We’re all here because of
you
. Zoli was not as smart as you. You knew how to get out there and order them around. That’s what the Germans knew best—being ordered around.”

He gave her his handkerchief and she blew her nose, tried to smile at her brother. “I know that you have the rest of Zoli’s pictures. I can’t even look at them. I saw a couple of them. The rest must be horrible. I’ll look at them only when he gets back, and he can tell me what’s in them.” Paul nodded but didn’t answer. “What if he doesn’t come back to me?” she went on. She was looking down at her ruby ring, twirling it on her finger. It was far too big. Everything was too big. A heavy rain must have passed over them when they weren’t looking, she was thinking, and shrunk them all.

“I sometimes think of our cousin, Alexander the Great,” she said. “I want to ask him to remake the world for me like Hollywood. End it the way Hollywood does. Not Europe. Europe is no good at these things.”

He tried to smile again, but couldn’t find anything reassuring to say. “Listen to us,” she said, getting to her feet. She looked unsteady. “You’re talking about throwing choirs at people, and I’m talking about Tinseltown.”

Hermina surprised the Becks by coming from Paris. The family had already been disappointed by Istvan. He had called to say Marta was not feeling up to the trip. They were very sorry. It was Marta’s third trimester, and they wanted to be careful.

So Hermina’s appearance brightened up the Becks’ Budapest home. Klari was happiest to see her, and she laughed out loud. Hermina was got up in a splendid blue taffeta dress with a majestic black collar. “It’s a
quinze-seize
,” Klari said. Hermina wore a silk slip under it. “I asked one of the ‘residents’ living in my house—because we have had permanent visitors since we
abandoned
the place to go be kidnapped and hung off frozen cables in Munich—I asked one of them, a seamstress, to turn some curtains into a dress for me, clever thing. She agreed without a bribe, so I gave her a gift of a pearl bracelet my dear Ede had found for me in Munich, of all places, a bracelet I’m sure was confiscated from some soul in heaven by now. I didn’t care for it much, to tell you the truth. But at least it’s made it back to the right place, or close to it. Here’s the matching necklace and earrings,” she said, running her fingers over the pearls.

“Hermikem, only you could have conjured up such a thing,” her sister said. “And your hair! Goodness. How did you manage the lovely black colour?”

“Klarikam, a girl doesn’t give away all her secrets.” Hermina patted a newly made curl at her temple. “But if I left it to Nature, she’d leave the job undone, save all her colour for the young. Heartless Nature. More snake than nightingale.”

Then Hermina turned to Lili, and Klari introduced the young woman. “Like the gold stingy Nature has given to you. So this is the bride.” She stepped back from the younger woman and took her hair in her warped fingers. “Nature has not lost her touch. We should be happy.” But Hermina looked dramatically teary.

She said to Lili, “Look what I’ve brought for you for your wedding. The taxi driver carried it in for me.” She closed the front door and, behind it, folded into a small silk Persian rug, was a grand portrait in oils of a young woman sitting in a chair. The woman was no older than twenty-seven or-eight. Soft eyes looked out from the picture; soft hands were folded in the woman’s lap. One hand, adorned by a warm gold wedding band, rested on the other, which bore an amethyst ring.

Lili stared at the impressive painting and said, “She looks familiar, the eyes…” She turned toward Hermina.

“Yes, dear,” Hermina said. “It’s a portrait of me. Look at me then, and look at me now.” She held up her hands to the light. The fingers were curled as if they were cradling something. “They’re like talons.”

Klari took her sister’s hands in hers and kissed them, and then Lili stepped between the two and took the liberty of kissing them both. “What a lovely, thoughtful gift,” Lili said. “I’ll cherish it.”

“And it was done by a fine artist, too—Ferenc Martyn. The man has strange ideas, but he’s an immense talent, as you can see.”

Simon turned up then, and Lili showed him the painting his aunt had brought, but Hermina held up her hands again. “I look like a crow,” she said.

“No you don’t,” Simon said, and he hugged her, too. “A robin maybe, or today a bluebird,” he was looking at her dress, “but certainly not a crow.”

His mother swatted at him, but he got out of the way.

Lili burst into tears. Simon took her in his arms. “What happened, my sweetheart?”

“Nothing,” she said, but her sobs intensified.

“It’s your parents, isn’t it?” Klari said. “Your family.” Lili nodded. “It’s her wedding day, and her family’s not here.”

Simon held her. “I wish I could meet them.”

Just then Robert arrived home. “Tears?” he said. Robert was the most remarkably shrunken of them all. There were only so many times a suit could be taken in.

Klari explained, and Robert said, “Of course. Poor dear thing. It’s an emotional day.”

And then he saw his sister-in-law. “Hermina,” he said, “what a wonderful surprise. Is Ede with you?”

“He couldn’t come,” Hermina said. She offered her cheek for Robert to kiss. “He’s as busy as you are, I imagine.”

“I’m sure he is. What an ordeal you went through,” Robert said.

She held up the curled hands. “I’m a crow,” she said.

He stood back from her and brought her fingers to his lips as he studied her. “Not a crow,” he said. “A peacock.”

Now his wife swatted at him. He almost tripped but caught himself in time. “Damn!” It was the suitcases. Klari had insisted on keeping a packed suitcase in the hall since the family had arrived home. She feared anything could still happen, and she wanted to be able to slip away at any time before they were dragged away. So the suitcase, containing a change of clothing for each of them, some flour, some sugar, some salt, yeast and lard, stood always in the vestibule just behind the door. Every second or third day, Robert stepped in, turned around and tripped over it. “Damn thing! Damn!” He glared at his wife. But Hermina’s suitcase had been set down beside his wife’s, so he didn’t carry on.

He straightened himself up and said, “Look what I rustled up.” He held out four corsages.

Klari said, “How on Earth did you manage these?” They were red and white carnations. “Gorgeous.” She plunged her nose into one and inhaled its scent.

“Do you remember Dezso, over on Vaci Street? He’s back. He made them. He looks like hell, but he’s selling flowers again. He’s determined. ‘What should I do, apprentice to a blacksmith?’ he asked me. ‘It’s all I know, and all my parents knew.’ He was in Buchenwald. His parents and sister didn’t make it back. Only him. And he’s got his flowers going again. ‘It’s June,’ he told me, ‘and the land is full of flowers. They don’t know any better, and neither do I.’ Ha!”

“I need to get ready,” Lili said, wiping her eyes with Simon’s handkerchief.