Triptych

by Margit Liesche

  “You have brought me something?”

  Gustav is beside me. He palms the photo.

  “Er, yes. Zsófi made me…asked me to deliver this.” I slide the box onto the table. I hesitate but a second. “That photo—” I nod to his hand. “I saw similar images in Life magazine, when I was a girl. Is that an original? How did you come across it?”

  A blank stare. “I really cannot say. I need to finish packing this last piece,” he says. “The curator is waiting. May I offer you a lift back to the store?”

  I trail him to the work area, talking to his back. “What do you mean? I really cannot say. You can’t or you won’t say?”

  Gustav stops and I pause beside him.

  He says nothing. Still, I get the message. It’s none of my business.

  He opens a drawer in the table, slips the parchment sleeve inside.

  On top of the table, a large sepia-toned photo is centered on a precut sheet of brown butcher paper. Gustav lifts the ends and begins folding the sections over the glass. I catch a glimpse of the portrait before the ends close over it.

  “Wait, please. Can I see?”

  Gustav’s shoulders relax. He smiles. “Persze, of course.”

  The paper parts to reveal an arresting young woman with pale eyes. Her nose is long and narrow; her lips slightly parted as if she is about to say something. Her white peasant blouse with full sleeves and lacy low neckline stands out against the muted background. A velvet choker holds an elaborately forged confection of swirled gold at her neck. A ring-laden hand positioned on the skirt of her dark dirndl is also distinctive. The overall effect is subtle. Simple. Striking.

  “Exquisite.” It’s all I can say.

  “An honest photograph.”

  “Yes. And exquisite,” I repeat.

  Other photos in various sizes—commercial shots of brides and grooms, frail elderly couples, smiling babies—stand propped against the wall along the rear of the work table.

  Gustav notices my gaze. “My bread and butter.” He rips a line of masking tape and nods to the framed object he is sealing. “My heart work.”

  “Your heart work is about to have a gallery show. One of many, according to Zsófi. You should be proud.”

  Gustav shrugs. “A small space in the German cultural center down the street.”

  “But the show is exclusively your work, right?” I venture. “Portraits?”

  Gustav nods. “Awhile now, I have been taking shots in the neighborhoods. Mainly it is the festivals that interest me. I go, see the costumes, search out interesting faces. Early on, I begin to understand the clothing symbolizes a connectedness to social identity, culture. We are all jeans and Gap these days.” He looks down at his faded jeans and black t-shirt, laughs. “But the ethnic costumes, well, besides symbols of the richness of heritage, they are markers of otherness. Good to preserve.”

  “And this woman’s heritage?” I ask referring to the freshly sealed photo.

  “Italian. Other representations that will be on display in the showing capture more elaborate costumes, but I am also interested in the faces.”

  I nod appreciatively, recalling the Italian woman’s eyes.

  Gustav is staring at me. “You have a good face.”

  “Like my mother’s?”

  The pads of his fingers feel like soft leather against my skin as he cups my chin, angling my head in the light. A Cheshire grin. “Maybe. She was a beautiful woman.”

  An awkward moment of silence follows. “You are very beautiful,” he whispers.

  His fingertips feel suddenly on fire. They fall away. Had he felt the rush of heat as well?

  I inch sideways.

  “Chicago is such a rich ethnic mosaic,” he says, smoothing the brown paper wrapping. “I decided I will identify as many cultures as possible, then find faces representative for each. Faces with character. Next, I needed to convince the people to pose in their native finery, let me take their photograph.”

  I smile vaguely. Something in me is definitely shifting. Not just because of what he’d said or what I’d felt in his touch. We hold a common interest. How could I not warm to that? Why hadn’t Zsófi mentioned this?

  “The immigrant women I work with almost always have a traditional costume they’ve brought with them from the old country,” I say. “It’s like having a security blanket, comfort as they navigate the ups and downs of migration. Even after the familiar gets packed away, it’s still somewhere close by, in a trunk, a closet, attic. Which makes what you’re doing with your photographs all the more brilliant—” The enthusiasm in my voice builds. “You’re archiving a link before these heritages are discarded. Or, looking at it another way, before the materials disintegrate.”

  Gustav runs his fingers through his already mussed hair. “Yes, maybe.”

  He heaves the package off the table, crossing the room to where another wrapped bundle waits along the wall beside the French doors. “I’d like to know more about your work,” he says grasping the other parcel. “Perhaps you would want to be my guest for the opening night party?”

  A date? Was he asking me for a date?

  My insecurity over how to reply is conveniently diverted by a dramatic textile abstract in a black wooden frame.

  “Gustav, this is amazing.” I move to stand before the art work.

  Inside, a figure seems trapped, upside down, in a delicate black net. The net is made of linen threads knotted and formed using a lace-making technique, then stretched taut from the sides of the frame. The white wall surface introduces contrast but also makes the threads appear to float in space.

  Next to me, Gustav holds a wrapped bundle in each hand, waiting, ready to go.

  “Did you make this?”

  “Yes.”

  Well, well. A master photographer, Jell-O King and textile artist.

  “Exquisite.”

  ***

  Budapest, 30 October 1956

  Évike could not remember when she last heard such laughter. Genuine laughter. The air was cool, the sky overcast and gray, but everywhere on the streets in Pest people were celebrating the Party’s milestone change of direction, cheering the departure of the Soviets. The jovial bursts made her feel bubbly inside as they walked; she had not felt so carefree in a long time.

  When a café owner, an acquaintance of Évike’s mother, invited them inside where it was toasty warm, her bliss skyrocketed. He had sausages on rolls, and gave her one loaded with sauerkraut. She savored bite after bite while her mother, in between nibbles of her sausage roll, sipped barack, a strong apricot brandy, and talked with the café owner.

  Returning outdoors, they navigated scarred streets, the wreckage of overturned streetcars, fallen wires, burned-out tanks, pulled up tracks, piles of cobblestones and blasted-out buildings, dampening Évike’s spirit. Could the beauty and order of the former Budapest ever be restored?

  The joy Évike had felt minutes earlier continued to deflate as she noticed the many black flags interspersed among the tricolors draped from windows. They passed yet another row of flag-covered corpses. Loved ones searching for loved ones, turning over the flags to inspect the bullet-riddled bodies. She looked away. Other people on the street seemed oblivious. They walked with purposeful stride or carried on conversations as if the bodies littering the street were an everyday occurrence.

  She was drawn to the voices of children swarming over a pile of rubble, competing to collect empty cartridge shells as souvenirs. Then a boy from her class was coming toward them with a girl of about fifteen. His sister, Évike thought. They had machine guns slung over their shoulders and hand-grenades stuffed in their belts.

  The mother recognized the boy as well. “Your weapons,” she said, stopping to talk with them. “You haven’t put them down?”

  The boy patted his gun affectionately. “From a dead Soviet soldier. Hers
as well.” He gestured to the machine gun hanging from his sister’s shoulder. “We will keep them. We earned them.” The boy glanced away. But not before Évike had seen the haunted look in her schoolmate’s eyes.

  They were within blocks of Péterfy Sándor utca Hospital, picking their way through the broken glass and rubble along Rákóczi ut, when Évike experienced an unfamiliar but thankfully pleasant spectacle. A convoy of old farm carts, laden with milk, chickens, meat, and vegetables was moving slowly through the destruction. Évike’s mother started a conversation with a peasant walking alongside his cart, holding his nag’s bridle, while his sturdy wife, in kerchief and heavy overcoat, flicked the reins, encouraging the obviously overtaxed beast.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “My wife and I came to the city with provisions for the needy. We were directed to join this caravan going to a hospital.”

  “Péterfy Sándor utca hospital,” the wife said from the seat of the cart.

  Évike stared at the elderly woman, enchanted. There was nothing special about her plain round face, yet Évike recognized beauty. It deepened as she smiled broadly at Évike, displaying a gumline absent four top teeth. Could loveliness be born of goodness?

  “Imagine,” Évike’s mother said as they began walking again. “People giving away their goods, looking after one another. New beginnings after so much sorrow, so much blood.”

  “Yes, Mother. Now if we can just find Dóra and Dórika. And Papa—” Évike’s voice caught. “I miss them so much.”

  “I know, darling,” the mother said. “And we’re nearly at the hospital. Let’s stay with the carts shall we? We’ll pretend it’s a national holiday, we’re following a parade.”

  At the intersection, the procession slowed as the carts maneuvered around a barricade to turn the corner. Évike and her mother had been strolling on the sidewalk. But now their path was obstructed by a breadline stretching for blocks ahead, as far as Évike could see. Stepping off the curb with her mother to skirt around the deep column, Évike passed old bent grandmothers carrying string bags, their heads shrouded in black kerchiefs, standing in the cold. Since so many shops had been wrecked by shellfire, supplies had been channeled into designated State shops and markets. This meant queuing for hours to buy food. Still, she noted the conversation was lively and most appeared remarkably patient and good-natured.

  An open truck bed packed with rebels waving pistols and rifles careened into the intersection. “AVO…Republic Square!” one of them shouted.

  Évike’s heart sank watching the truck weave madly around the carts, bypassing the barricade before turning the corner, heading in the opposite direction away from the caravan.

  “I am surprised that has not been settled by now,” a woman in line was saying. “I was there hours ago, at the State-run Kozert shop, where we get our meat, when there is meat to be had.” She craned her neck as if to gauge her position in the seemingly endless queue, then looked forlornly down at her bag. “Just one pork chop today. And I was in front.”

  Évike and her mother turned, listening intently as the woman—short and frail, with a sharp nose and chin—explained what had happened.

  Shortly after nine a.m. a truck had driven up to the Greater Budapest Communist Party Headquarters at the end of Köztársaság tér, Republic Square. A delivery of meat—beef, sides of bacon, sausages, was hurriedly unloaded. Seeing this, the women in line began grumbling about the disparity.

  “So you see, nothing has changed,” the woman added. She paused and looked around, suddenly aware of the audience she had drawn. She lowered her voice. “There is one way of life for Communist officials, another for the people.”

  “The truck with rebels that just passed—” Évike’s mother reminded her.

  “Oh, yes. A band of freedom fighters was in the area. We called their attention to what was going on with the delivery truck. Like us, they were outraged.”

  Évike’s mother nodded knowingly. “They would be doubly motivated. Some freedom fighters arrested by AVO in the final days of fighting are believed to be inside the building.”

  “In the underground cells,” someone nearby interjected softly.

  Évike’s mother had told her about the secret network of passages and prison cells beneath the Party headquarters building where hundreds of civilians and freedom fighters were being held captive. Afterwards, terrifying scenes of being imprisoned in one of the dingy, damp, dark cells, crawling with rats and spiders, had kept Évike up most of the night.

  The sharp-featured woman nodded. “Yes. And two freedom fighters decided to go inside, demand to be told why the delivery had been made. They weren’t gone long when there was an explosion. One fighter escaped but his friend did not.”

  The rebel who got out reported they were met by men they immediately recognized as AVO. They’d shed their blue uniforms and were wearing suits but apparently had not been able to pilfer civilian shoes. Their AVO boots gave them away. A furious verbal exchange was punctuated by the detonation of a hand-grenade lobbed down the nearby stairwell by an AVO man.

  The freedom fighters outside began calling for the return of their comrade. The mood turned ugly. He was not released and the insurgents began attacking the building. The AVO opened up with machine guns.

  “More and more rebels arrived,” the woman continued. “Some on foot, some in trucks. I reached the counter inside the store at the same moment a Hungarian Army tank arrived. It was obviously manned by a freedom fighter. I could drive better than that commander.

  “But he found his place. Directly in front of the building, his main gun aimed at the target.” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “The shelling began. I grabbed my pork chop. Here I am.”

  Évike’s mother was staring off in the distance as the woman finished. Évike already anticipated what she would say. Her stomach tightened hearing the words.

  “Come, darling. We must go to Republic Square. Josef will want the report.”

  “But mother, Dóra. Little Dórika…”

  Hopeless. Her mother was already walking briskly in the direction of the square. It is not far; it won’t take long. Évike ran to catch up.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chicago, 1986

  “You told me he wouldn’t be home,” I say accusingly upon my return from Gustav’s.

  Zsófi seems as surprised as I’d been. “I telephoned. He was going out. To the gallery.” Then, an expectant look, asking, “Did you make a date for the Art Institute?”

  “No.” I take small pleasure in delaying my answer. “But he did invite me to stop by the cultural center tomorrow night. A private look at his show.”

  It is enough for Zsófi. She whistled through the steady flow of customers and the unpacking and inventorying of a new shipment of books. Now, near closing time, I still hear her.

  She wouldn’t be so chirpy if she knew I’d passed up an offer to be his partner at the opening gala. When I’d hedged, he had suggested the informal advance viewing. A good compromise. No expectations or butterflies that went with a real date, plus another opportunity to exchange ideas on preserving ethnic heritages. Perhaps even question him further about the revolution photograph. Why had he been so guarded about it?

  In the café nook, after double-checking to be sure the coffee pot is unplugged, I close the window shades and switch off the café’s single light. The air feels toasty and close. Outside, it is in the nineties and sun had been beating through the café windows all the day. The shades should have been pulled earlier, but the store had been busy and I’d forgotten. Perspiration has pooled in my cleavage. Eva and I are having dinner together tonight. “Change clothes” gets added to my mental list of things to do before going out.

  As I walk back into the main part of the store, frigid air blasts from the air conditioning unit high up on the wall.

  “Zsófi, all this whistling.
Are you really so anxious to be rid of me?”

  She laughs. “Mariska and I, we are both happy you are here. It is a great help, but you are young. Single. You should not be cooped up with two old fowls like us.”

  I frown. “You mean chickens? Two old chickens?” I laugh. “Two spring chicks is more like it. And this place—” I sweep my hand through the frosty air. “This is no coop. Not to me, never. Besides, it’s only been four days.”

  Zsófi is standing in front of the Two Princesses triptych. A portion of the first panel is visible over her shoulder. I zero in on the fair-haired damsel.

  “He said my mother was beautiful.”

  “Who? Gustav?”

  I nod.

  “Do you not agree?”

  “I don’t know. I was young. She was my mother.”

  Zsófi does not reply right away. Above us, the steady hum of the air conditioner. “Your mother was a beautiful woman,” she says, her eyes trained on me. “A loyal friend with arany szivu, a heart of gold. Clever.”

  I nod. So clever, I’m having trouble interpreting the deeper meaning—if there is one—in her work.

  Zsófi gives my cheek an affectionate pat then walks to the thermostat near the end of the counter.

  “Why are you so hyped on my going out with Gustav, anyway? Why not you?”

  “We were in school together in Budapest,” she says, adjusting the dial. “I was ahead of him, in Kati’s class, when he was just starting.” Her lips press into a line, fighting back a smile. “He was in short pants. I still remember.”