When the Summer Was Ours

by Roxanne Veletzos

  “I must do something, Dora! We must all do something, we must speak up, revolt to protect our friends, if it comes to that. We must see what we can do to help!”

  “Help?” Dora asked, chopping vegetables and dropping them into the soup pot with a quiet stoicism that infuriated Eva. “What can you possibly do to help? What can any of us do to help? I tell you, Eva, I never thought I’d live long enough to see such a thing, but there isn’t much that can be done. Especially not by someone like you. Now that you have a baby to care for, you have to keep yourself safe.”

  “Safe? How can any of us be safe? This defies any human decency, and as human beings we are obliged to act!”

  “I know what’s in your heart, Eva. I do,” Dora would say. “And I don’t disagree. But it’s simply too dangerous. Think of Bianca! What would happen to her if you went and got yourself arrested? Or killed? I’m too old to raise her alone. God knows, I may not be around by the time she’s ten. Do you want her to end up in an orphanage? Well, do you?”

  Nearly every such conversation ended much the same way: Dora would resume cooking dinner, thin-lipped, banging pots around, while Eva tended to the baby or tried to lose herself in her books. Lately, sentences passed in a blur, and she found herself staring at the pages, unable to absorb what she was reading.

  It was for this reason, perhaps, that the latest letter to arrive sat on the coffee table for nearly a day, untouched. It bore Dora’s name, although the Budapest stamp in the corner made it clear enough that whatever was contained in the pages pertained to Eva. It wasn’t the first letter her father had written to Dora. There were several letters in the months after Eva had failed to return from her supposed sojourn at the sea, and half a dozen phone calls as well, during which, Dora, precisely as they’d rehearsed, had assured her father that she, Eva, was just fine, that she was taking some time for herself, to refocus her life. She had moved on from the sea to Sofia, in Bulgaria, Dora explained, and planned on staying the winter at a friend’s. In time she would come home, as young people did; he just needed to be patient, and, of course, she’d agreed to keep him informed of further news. It had been astounding, really, how easily her father had believed the whole fabrication (as if wanting to believe it), and for a while the barrage of inquiries stopped.

  But this letter was different from the others. This one was marked Urgent.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Eva,” Dora said after they’d both passed it enough times. “Are you going to read this damn thing or not?”

  Eva shrugged nonchalantly. “Dora, you know that any news from my father is of no concern to me. I have no interest in reading it. Besides,” she added, trying to hold back a small ironic smile, “it says here that it is for you.”

  With a reproachful look, Dora tore open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of paper and read over the lines. Then, without any expression whatsoever, she handed it to Eva.

  “It’s not from your father. It’s from his lawyer, who’s been desperately trying to reach you. He says that if I should hear from you, to ask you to call immediately.” There was a slight frown. “I don’t know, Eva. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to make one single call, have your voice heard on the other end. Just for reassurance, yes? Lord knows we don’t want your father showing up here unannounced.”

  “Well, this should be interesting.” Eva took the letter and sighed impatiently, scanning the same lines, then headed into the bedroom, where the telephone rested on an old dresser with rusted knobs. “If this is how my father thinks he can get my attention,” she shouted through the cracked door, “he is sorely mistaken!”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Eva emerged back into the living room, her face drained of color. She stumbled to the sofa and picked up the baby from the playpen, smoothing down the edges of her crumpled shirt. Bianca gurgled and happily pumped her fat legs against Eva’s stomach.

  “My father, Dora,” Eva said over the top of the baby’s head, hearing her own voice as if from another room. “My father, it would seem, is no longer alive.”

  It was Dora’s turn to pale. “What? What do you mean? This can’t be true.”

  “Hard to believe, I know.” She felt faint, and she placed the baby back in the playpen and plunked herself down in a chair. It wasn’t sorrow she felt, but shock. “Isn’t it? I mean, we all thought that the indomitable Mr. César would live long enough to see himself declared a national hero. Yet it appears that as he was leaving a champagne gala at the Plaza in honor of the Führer, he suffered a heart attack. Collapsed in the street. Not one person apparently bothered to help him.” She swallowed hard and blinked. As if to convince herself, she affirmed: “So, yes, it is true, Dora.”

  In an instant, Dora was kneeling beside her, taking her cold hands in hers, but Eva couldn’t quite anchor herself to the moment. She kept her eyes on the window with its open lace curtains, where a drizzle was falling through the shriveled amber leaves.

  “Oh, Eva. I’m so sorry, my darling,” Dora was saying. “I know things between you have been strained to say the least, but I hoped that someday, in time, you would find a way to make peace with him. I hoped that—”

  “Furthermore,” Eva interrupted, only half listening, “it seems that I must go to Budapest. To settle the matter of his assets.”

  “Budapest?” Now Dora struggled back to her feet, setting her hands on her robust hips. “No, Eva! You are not going to Budapest! Didn’t you tell me that there are air raids going on almost daily?” There was a pause, and Eva looked up, realizing Dora wanted an answer, and saw in the crimson of her cheeks that Dora was incensed. “How can you even consider going there at a time like this, with danger lurking at every corner? You’re a mother now, Eva, a mother! Haven’t we discussed this already? Unless this is just a reason”—she waved her finger around—“for you to get back there so you can meddle in affairs… affairs that are none of your concern!”

  “Dora! That’s not what this is about!”

  “No?”

  “No! How can you even say that? I’m my father’s only surviving relative, and there are matters of finances to be handled. There are debts, apparently many debts, left unsettled, and if I don’t make an appearance, all of my father’s assets will be frozen. And you know well enough that we desperately need the money! For that reason alone, I must go.”

  “No, we will manage. We have managed so far, and we will continue—”

  “Until when? You’ve been taking care of me for over a year, and now Bianca, too. How long are you going to keep going at this pace to support us? To see you work as hard as you do just to keep up with bare necessities is eating me up inside. It’s killing me, Dora!” She paused for breath and lowered her voice, aware that Bianca had begun to whimper in her playpen. “I will not be an unnecessary burden to you, Dora, not if it can be helped. I will not stand by and see you work yourself into the ground for any mistakes that I have made. So please, Dora. Let me go. If I leave in the morning, I could be back by week’s end. Maybe sooner.”

  Dora went and picked up Bianca, bounced her on her hip, cooing in her ear, and they said nothing further about it. But Eva knew in that ensuing silence the battle was won.

  17

  THAT NOVEMBER AFTERNOON, AS EVA trudged on foot from the Nyugati station toward the center of town, she found it impossible to believe that this was the same city she’d left just over a year ago. Her Budapest, the Pearl of the Danube, had become a land of debris, of broken glass and despair. She hadn’t been able to get a cab and was thankful that her valise was light enough for her to cover the two kilometers to Saint Stephen’s Basilica on foot. Along the way, rows of apartment buildings stood as if leaning on one another for the last ounce of support: windows had been blown out or boarded up with wooden planks, and the once-gleaming, unabashed Parisian facades blended under a layer of soot. The parks, usually teeming with people soaking in the last rays of sun, were empty, the flower beds choked in overgrown weeds. At the corner of Szent István
tér, she passed her favorite bistro, where as a child she would go with her mother on Sundays, insisting that she be the one to read out loud the day’s specials. Now, in that same display case, a sign of a very different kind was posted in black lettering: Not serving Jews. Similar signs peppered windows everywhere, like mushrooms after a summer rain.

  Minutes later, she entered an art nouveau building and walked up three flights of stairs to a heavy oak door with beveled glass left ajar. It was surprising stepping in to find herself not in a dusty, cramped office but rather a vast apartment with tall ceilings and custom bookshelves. A grand piano stood regally at the center. The lighting, warmed by red silk curtains, gave the sensation of having waltzed into an old boudoir painting salvaged from surrounding ruins.

  “Ah, Miss César. Eva. Welcome.”

  She turned to the booming voice. Behind her stood a barrel-chested, aristocratic man with a shock of white hair leaning on an ivory walking cane. “I’m Igor Georgy.” The cane shifted from his right hand to his left so that he could shake hers, gripping it firmly like a man’s, which she rather liked. “First, let me extend my condolences. I know this must be very hard for you. It was rather… unexpected.”

  “Thank you, yes, it certainly was. But you did say that I needed to come urgently, so here I am.”

  “Would you like a refreshment?” Igor asked as he ushered her to a bright red brocade sofa near the window, beyond which the dome of Saint Stephen’s Basilica sparkled in the softening light like some uncut jewel. “I have a wonderful peppermint tea that is just the perfect pick-me-up. Surely you must be tired after your journey. Or perhaps you would prefer something stronger.”

  “I’ll take the stronger choice. Thank you.”

  Igor returned a minute later with two crystal glasses filled with ice and scotch and settled himself in a chair across from her, drawing his silk lounge jacket neatly over his crossed legs. There was a calmness about him, a solidness that set Eva at ease, and picking up the glass she reclined against the sofa.

  “Well, how to begin. I know this is a difficult time for you. Let me start by saying that I hadn’t seen your father in quite some time, and the state of his affairs was unknown to me.”

  “Unknown?”

  “You see, as I mentioned to you on the phone, your father in recent months acquired a great deal of debt. Don’t ask me how—as I said, he’d stopped consulting me long ago, since our interests became… unaligned. But the sad news of the matter is that there is a long line of investors who have been left uncompensated. And now, with all this uncertainty, this chaos, they are more eager than ever to mitigate their losses. I hate to have to speak so frankly, but it appears that the Sopron estate will have to be sold. If you can agree to that, at least you’ll be able to hold on to the Budapest home. I can make certain of that.”

  Eva took a long sip of her drink, held the whiskey inside her mouth before letting it slide down her throat. “I’m a bit confused. How can this be? My father had plenty of money. And why Sopron, anyway? If assets must be liquidated, why not the Budapest home instead? Surely it’s worth just as much.”

  “It is indeed. Although it appears that is the one asset that the debtors cannot go after, as technically, it belonged to your mother. It was hers before the marriage, as you probably already know. But Sopron, unfortunately… well, I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do to salvage it.”

  Eva set her glass down and lowered her head, stared at the crimson motif of the Persian rug. She loved that villa with all her heart, and once she would have fought the idea tooth and nail. But during the past year, the truth was she hadn’t even had the courage to walk up to the gates. It reminded her too much of Aleandro and their night on that bench, when everything had started, when she knew with every fiber of her being that she was falling in love. Dora’s home was different, it had always belonged to her, but at the villa there would always be Aleandro.

  “All right,” she agreed. “I will sign whatever you need me to sign. I assume it’s the reason you called me here.”

  There was a solemn nod. “It will take me several days to draft the documents and initiate the sale. Can I count on the fact that you will be here to sign them?”

  “Yes. I cannot stay long, but I will wait.”

  “Thank you, Eva. Thank you for being so understanding. To be honest, I expected a different reaction.”

  She shrugged, caught in her thoughts. “These are strange times. It doesn’t seem that anyone wants to fight for anything anymore. Why should I? With all the horror out there, with all the injustices committed around us, this seems a small loss, doesn’t it?”

  There was unquestionably surprise in his lingering gray gaze. “There are injustices everywhere in our world today.”

  “Yes. And we all choose to ignore them, do we not? A place such as this”—she swept her arm out to indicate the room and all in it—“I assume is a nice place to shut it all out. Much like my own home over on Andrássy. A grand piano, books to get lost in. We are all guilty of it.” She felt raw saying it, bolstered by the drink, unable to keep at bay the memory of a different injustice, so easily brought to the surface, like dying embers stoked into a full flame.

  She was startled by the hearty laugh. “How different you are from your father. Even when you were a little girl, I knew this about you. I don’t know if you remember me, but I used to visit your home when you were little. Back when your mother was still alive. She was different, too, had different… ideas. If anything, it is her that you remind me of.”

  “My mother…” Eva bit her lip, feeling the sting of tears. “My mother would have fought for change.”

  “And you, Eva, is that what you want?”

  There was a long silence. “Mr. Georgy, once I thought that becoming a nurse was the only way in which I could apply myself, make myself useful in this world. But now… now, I think, perhaps there are other ways. Much, you see, has changed in my life as well.”

  “It is possible, you know. To bring about change. Although helping in a time like this… it is not for the faint of heart. There are people, Eva, many people who do care. People who are willing to help. If one should really desire it, that is.”

  No further words were needed as they held each other’s eyes in understanding.

  “I’m your gal,” Eva said, feeling a smile rise up through her chest like a butterfly and land on her lips. “At least while I’m in Budapest. Just let me know what you’d like me to do.”

  * * *

  For the next three days, Eva passed the afternoon hours at a small café on Vadász utca in the fifth district, not far from Saint Stephen’s Basilica and her own home on Andrássy, sipping black coffee at a barstool facing the window. Waiting. Watching attentively the building across the street with its long rows of windows. Before the war, it had been a glass-manufacturing factory and was now simply known as the Glass House.

  She checked her watch. Three fifteen. The usual signal never came past three o’clock sharp, and she was seized that afternoon with a slight panic. Sometimes whole blocks would be quartered off without any warning just minutes after five, and even someone like her, with her typical Aryan looks and perfect papers, would be subject to inspection by the German guards.

  To her relief, the signal came a moment later—two quick bursts of light in the basement window, followed by a third flicker. She reached inside her purse, extracted a five-pengö note to place on the counter, then wrapped her coat tightly around herself. The interval between the flickering of lights and the opening of the door was precisely five minutes. Long enough for her to pay for her coffee and make it across. Not long enough to draw the attention of any patrolling guards who might be passing by when the package appeared on the landing.

  The place she was to make her delivery, scribbled on a card and tucked inside a fold of the newspaper wrapping, was never the same. The first time, it was just an abandoned school building with shattered windows, where she placed the bundle inside the gymnasium und
er a row of bleachers. The day after—judging by the array of machinery rusting in the courtyard—it was a factory of sorts, where she left the parcel behind the reception desk in a vacant office. On her way home, there had been a second stop at a theater house across from one of the yellow-star houses, where she’d been instructed to place the package underneath a chair in a middle row.

  She had no way of knowing exactly what they contained. Mr. Georgy had insisted that it was for her protection, but she’d heard that in the bowels of the safe house on Vadász, which sheltered hundreds of families from the brutality of the Nazi Arrow Cross, documents were being churned on a makeshift press day and night—counterfeit marriage certificates, fake identity papers, protective international passports, which symbolized, for the few Jews in Budapest, the difference between life and death. It mattered, of course, that what she carried so serenely across town put her own life at stake, that she might indeed, as Dora had said, orphan her daughter. Yet this was her one chance to vindicate herself in a small measure from the damages of her past. Within a couple of days, hours, she would slip quietly back into her mundane existence, but for now, she could help save just one life—one life, when so many others had been lost.

  This afternoon she would make her final delivery. Earlier that morning she’d signed the papers, and there was no reason to delay her return to Sopron. Things were growing more dire by the day, and there was a good chance that the trains would soon stop running altogether. She’d spoken to Dora on the phone every night but knew that she was going out of her mind with worry. It was time to go back before the noose tightened around the capital. Word was that the Russian army was just about two dozen kilometers from the old town, and she couldn’t risk being trapped here away from Dora and their home, away from her baby.

  As she crossed the Széchenyi Bridge, the west bank unfolded as something from a Habsburg-era fairy tale, pristine still, proud in unabashed elegance despite the cloud of smoke looming over the Pest sector on the other side of the river. Near one of the lion statues, she brushed by a group of German soldiers who, leaning on the railing, were basking in the view of the Danube, which glowed red in the setting sun. One of them stepped in her path and clicked his heels, saluting her, while his companions laughed.