They Were Found Wanting (77 page)

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Authors: Miklos Banffy

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Then followed three dreadful days.

Dr Kisch had arrived but he did not visit the sick man so as not to excite him. He said that he would see him soon enough when the time came to take him away; for, after hearing all the details, Kisch had realized that Uzdy would have to be closely confined. It had been immediately obvious to him that Uzdy was too far gone to be left alone in the freedom of his own home: it was too dangerous for him, and for everyone else.

On the fourth day Adrienne was on duty. It was the hour of dawn, but it was still dark. A small night-light flickered on the window sill and Uzdy, propped up on several pillows, was
apparently
asleep. His wife was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, and not a sound was to be heard, except for the ticking of the clock.

The hours crept slowly by, terribly slowly, because she was haunted by the thought that at eight o’clock that morning Dr Kisch would come to Uzdy’s room to take him away. The Red Cross ambulance wagon had been there since the previous day, hidden in the stable court. Two nurses had come with it, and they were going to take the patient to the clinic for nervous diseases in Kolozsvar – which was always referred to as ‘The House with the Green Roof’ – and there he would be kept in close confinement.

For Adrienne it was the end of everything for which she had yearned, waited, and struggled for so many years. It was the end of her dream of freedom, just when it had seemed so very close. It was the end of any chance of happiness, of anything which for her would make life worth living. It was the end of that dream for which Balint had given up his home and it tolled the death-knell of any chance of a free honest life, of having another child, and especially of that longed-for, oh, so-often-imagined boy who had never been born and who never now would be born! She felt as if, when in half an hour they would take her husband away as
hopelessly
mad, her love for Balint would die or at least be subtly transformed into unending frustrated pain. Now she would have to remain in that hateful house for ever, chained to an absent
husband
she had always loathed, living in hell with an estranged daughter and a half-crazed mother-in-law.

She had thought of nothing else during the past few days, but it had never assailed her with such force as it did that morning just as she was waiting for the final stroke of fate which would throw her life into havoc. Right up until this last minute she had felt that there might be some hope, that something, anything, would happen … some miracle that would cure him. She had been like a drowning man clutching at imaginary straws.

So she sat there, her head hanging low and her face covered by her hands. She could feel the pulse throbbing in her throat, and she looked back dismally at the seemingly endless sorrows of her life. She had been really happy only once, during those four short weeks she had spent with Balint in Venice; and even then, though dazed by the happiness of passing her nights in his arms, she had been menaced by the thought of that self-destruction she had thought to be a price worth paying for the fulfilment of their love. Now she thought she should have killed herself then. At least she would have been saved this present suffering.

Tears rose in her eyes and suddenly she was racked with sobs. No matter how hard she tried she could not control them. Leaning forward as if mourning the dead she cried … and cried … and cried … her tears falling through her fingers onto her blouse and into her lap.

Then a voice said, ‘Are you crying, Adrienne?’

Uzdy was looking up at her from his pillows. She had no idea how long he had been awake. Now he was staring at her with
surprise
in those strange slanting eyes. She looked back at him, unable to reply. His expression was amazingly peaceful. She had never seen him look like that before.

Uzdy did not move his head, and his long hair lay on the pillow like a dark wedge reaching up on each side of his face in strange peaks, his eyebrows and sharply pointed beard making him more than ever like everyone’s idea of Mephistopheles. Only now there was nothing satanic about him and on his lips was a slight, apologetic smile.

‘Why do you cry?’ he asked gently. ‘Surely not for me? Why should you cry for me?’ He spoke slowly as if he were really only talking to himself. ‘I know you were never happy with me,’ he went on, ‘so why should you cry for me now?’

He paused, and then went on, ‘Perhaps I oughtn’t to have … I know I should have behaved differently, quite differently … but I didn’t know how. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. My own mistake, of course, but then I didn’t know …’

Adrienne was again racked by sobs, so much so that she pressed her fists into her temples and put her head between her knees. Now she was crying silently, her blouse quivering as her back shook with her sobs. When she was at last able to look up she saw that he was looking intently at her, probably waiting to say
something
more. When he did speak it was very quietly, like a voice from another world, ‘No matter what happened, no matter why, or how … I must tell you I loved you very much!’ he said, and closed his eyes as if infinitely weary.

He did not open them again, not even when daylight flooded the room and the clock chimed the hour of eight, nor when the door opened and Maier came in. His eyes were still closed and he seemed to be asleep when Adrienne rose and brushed her
husband’s
locks with her long, cool fingers.

In the corridor outside, behind the Saxon doctor, two dark
figures
moved forward carrying an iron stretcher.

Adrienne slipped quietly to the stairs, thinking she would flee to her own room so as not to see anything of the terrible scene that would be enacted below when those fateful figures bore down upon poor Uzdy. Try as she would she could not go more than a few steps. Her legs seemed as if made of lead and she found herself forced to remain, leaning against the wooden walls of the stairway. From downstairs she could hear the sound of a door opening and footsteps. Then her husband’s voice, full of
surprise
, called out, ‘No! No! No!’ quite strongly. And then nothing. Nothing!

The silence frightened her. Then there were more steps, and this time they had something of a military ring. The glazed door leading to the garden opened and she could just hear some sort of command. They must have gone out, thought Adrienne, and rushed down the stairs. In the bright sunlight before her she saw a little group of men carrying a stretcher and on it lay Pal Uzdy, his body covered by a white sheet like a shroud. She supposed they must have given him some quick-acting injection. His face looked as pale as if sculpted in wax.

Adrienne’s knees buckled and she tried to support herself on the bars of the window by which she stood. And once again she wept, but this time it was not for herself. They were the tears of pity.

Chapter Six
 
 

A
DRIENNE WROTE TO BALINT
, not from Almasko but from Kolozsvar where she had gone the day after they took Uzdy away. There were so many things that had to be done.

On the first three pages she related the bare facts, as drily as possible, recounting what had happened day by day, like a
historical
chronicle. She wrote in short sentences, each like the
hammer
-blows of Fate, and the last one read: ‘…
and
the
day
before
yesterday
they
brought
the
poor
man
to
Kolozsvar
.’ After that her writing became more confused, with broken sentences and words scratched out and replaced by others.

With this everything is over! I
can
never
get
a
divorce
and
so
you
can’t
marry
me,
never,
do
you
understand?
Never!
Not
while
he’s
alive

and
he
may
live
for
years.
He
could
even
outlive
me.
We
can’t
count
on
Uzdy’s
dying,
even
though
that
would
give
us
our
freedom.
We
can’t!
And
even
less
on
his
getting
better.
So
you
see
everything
we’ve
planned
is
impossible.

All
sorts
of
other
things
must
be
over
between
us
too.
The
life
we
used
to
lead
is
impossible
now.
Don’t
deny
it,
you’ve
said
it
yourself
many
times.
I
’ve
all
your
letters
here
in
front
of
me.
Remember
when
you
wrote
‘What
sort
of
a
life
do
we
lead,
always
pretending,
lying,
hiding
like
thieves –
and
that
of
course
is
what
we
are
because
we
steal
our
meagre
ration
of
happiness,
sometimes
for
a
few
hours,
rarely
for
a
whole
night
together,
always
taking
precautions,
watching
to
see
we
are
not
discovered,
like
convicts
on
the
run’?
Every
word
you
wrote
is
true,
utterly,
absolutely
true.
In
another
letter
you
said


so
don’t
you
see
how
degrading,
how
humiliating
our
life
is
now?
We
are
forced
to
treat
as
a
shameful
secret
what
we
should
blazon
to
the
whole
wide
world.’
You
then
went
on
to
say

This
can’t
go
on!’

I
never
answered
those
words
before,
or
I
would
have
said
you
were
right.
Perhaps
I
thought
it
wasn’t
necessary,
but
I’ve
always
known
it –
I
sensed
it
in
Venice,
remember?
That’s
why
I
wanted
everything
to
end,
to
die
rather
than
come
back
to
this
slavery.
It’s
just
as
true
for
me
as
for
you.
We
can’t
go
on

I
couldn’t
stand
it
again!

There’s
a
lot
more
too,
things
you
didn’t
write
about,
but
which
I
felt
all
the
more,
perhaps.
Our
child?
To
be
afraid
of
having
a
child
when
it’s
what
I
long
for
above
everything.
Always
to
be
afraid,
knowing
the
disas
ter
it
would
be
if
we
weren’t
ready,
when
it
should
be
our
greatest
joy.
That
has
always
been
with
us,
but
think
what
it
would
be
like
now!
Is
this
what
we’ve
got
to
look
forward
to,
for
ever
and
ever?
Even
if
I
wanted
to
I
couldn’t
do
it,
not
now.
Supposing
it
happened?
Could
we
destroy
it
before
it
was
born
or
bring
it
into
the
world
and
then
hide
it

our
son?
Even
if
I
could
accept
that,
for
his
sake
how
could
we
burden
him
with
the
shame?
Once
again
I
have
to
quote
your
own
words,
words
you
have
written
to
me
in
your
letters:
‘I
want
a
successor
who
bears
my
name.
Not
a
day
passes
when
I
don’t
long
for
it
more
than
ever.
I
am
now
32
years
old
and
I
suppose
this
yearning
is
true
for
all
men
at
that
age.
It
is
at
the
root
of
all
religions,
in
ancient
days
as
much
as
in
our
own.
It
has
been
true
for
Christians,
Jews
and
Chinese,
all
these
have
wanted
descendants
who
will
remember
and
revere
their
forebears.
The
curse
of
Jehovah
lay
on
those
who
had
no
sons:
and
I
am
the
last
of
my
line.
Without
an
heir
my
family
dies
with
me.
I
am
now
the
last
link
in
the
chain

and
if
that
chain
is
broken?’
All
this
you
wrote
to
me
yourself
.
You
also
said

I
want
to
pass
on
to
him
our
traditions
so
that,
with
faith
and
decency,
he
will
accept
the
responsibilities
so
gladly
shouldered
by
my
father
and
grandfather’.
And
then
you
went
on

It
is
the
only
hope
of
immortality
in
this
world,
and
I
cannot
renounce
it!’

Why
do
I
write
all
this?
It
is
because
I
want
you
to
marry.
I
command
you
to
do
so
in
the
name
of
our
love.
Don’t
argue
with
me.
This
is
what
you
must
do.
If
we
ourselves
do
not
erect
barriers
between
us,
we
will
never
be
able
to
keep
away
from
each
other –
and
then
we’ll
just
be
in
the
same
intolerable
situation
as
before.
Do
this
now,
at
once!
When
I
finally
made
the
decision
to
leave
Uzdy
and
get
a
divorce
I
knew
that
I
was
taking
the
awful
risk
that
it
would
send
him
mad
and
that
I
would
be
responsible.
That’s
why
I
hesitated
so
long.
You
can
have
no
idea
how
hard
I
tried
to
decide
before;
and
when
I
did
decide
it
was
with
full
knowledge
of
what
I
was
doing.
Also
all
of
this
that
I
am
now
saying
to
you
today –
and
that
I
now
expect
of
you.

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