Fever at Dawn

by Fever at Dawn (retail) (epub)

  ‘I read you parts, Miklós. There is women’s hospital in Ädelfors, a rehabilitation centre for four hundred inmates. Well, about fifty girls were transferred to different hospital with stricter regime. What you think reason?’ he asked, brandishing the letter.

  Miklós shrugged. Lindholm didn’t wait for the answer.

  ‘Their loose life. I read it to you. Listen. “The girls received men in their bedrooms and in clearings in the nearby forest.”’

  No one had anything to say.

  After a while the tiny Márta asked, ‘Were they Hungarian girls?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  But Miklós knew the answer. ‘They were spoilt upper-class girls!’ he announced triumphantly.

  Márta put down her fork in alarm. ‘What’s that supposed to mean, Miklós?’

  My father was at last on familiar ground. He intended to enjoy himself. The dusty world of the past had been blown away by the fresh wind of socialism.

  ‘Women like that adhere to a certain type of morality. They smoke, wear nylon stockings and chatter away about superficial things. While from the depths not a word.’ Miklós couldn’t resist quoting the poetry of Attila József.

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ said Dr Lindholm. ‘All I know, opportunity makes a thief.’

  But Miklós was not so easily deterred. ‘There’s only one way to cure those bourgeois morals.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘By building a new world! From the foundations.’

  From that point on, the supper was overwhelmed by my father’s rousing manifesto in praise of the redeeming trinity of liberté, égalité, fraternité. He didn’t even notice that they had polished off the dessert.

  After midnight Dr Lindholm’s car swung into the entrance of the hospital. Miklós clambered out and waved goodbye. He was buoyant, full of hope that he would soon be off to Eksjö. As soon as he got back to his barracks, he lit a candle, crouched down at his bed and excitedly condensed his world-saving ideology into a four-page letter.

  It will make me happy if you write and tell me what you think about all this. I’m especially interested because you are middle class, and probably look at this question from the point of view of the bourgeoisie.

  Four

  IN THE third week of October, Dr Svensson allowed Lili to get up. She forlornly roamed the tiled corridors of the hospital. The acrid smell of disinfectant mingled with the stench of gutted fish. The women’s section was on the third floor, but otherwise the place seemed to be full of surly Swedish soldiers.

  Lili was about to spend her first Sunday with the Björkmans. Two months earlier, at Smålandsstenar, each of the Hungarian girls had been introduced to a Swedish family who would help them find their feet. Sven Björkman ran a small stationery shop. He and his family were practising Catholics.

  Lili wasn’t assigned to the Björkmans by chance. It was five months since her ‘betrayal’. In May, just after the war ended, when she regained consciousness in a hospital in the town of Belsen after being rescued from the concentration camp, she immediately renounced her Jewish faith. The truth is that she chose Catholicism quite randomly. But it meant that later, thanks to the thoroughness and the sensitivity of the Swedish authorities, the Björkman family was chosen to support her.

  Björkman, his wife and their two sons made the long drive to Eksjö at dawn the next Sunday. They waited for Lili at the hospital entrance, hugged her joyfully on seeing her again, and then took her straight to mass in Smålandsstenar.

  The Björkman family sat in the third pew of the simple but spacious church. And the convalescent Hungarian girl, Lili Reich, sat with them. Their radiant faces turned towards the pulpit. Lili understood only a few words of Swedish so the sermon washed over her with the same solemnity as the organ fugue that followed it. Then she, too, kneeled in the line before the young priest with the piercing blue eyes, so he could place a wafer on her tongue.

  Dear Miklós,

  I’d like to ask you not to hurry so much next time you write, but rather to think over what you’re writing and to whom. Our relationship isn’t that close. Mind what you say to me! Yes, I’m a typical bourgeois girl. And if, among four hundred girls, ‘about fifty’ fit your description of them, why should you be surprised?

  That same Sunday morning Miklós and Harry were sitting in front of a few scones and glasses of soda water in the Avesta canteen. They should have been celebrating the fact that they had the place to themselves, but Miklós was in such a bad mood that he didn’t even notice.

  ‘I’ve ruined it,’ he muttered.

  Harry waved him down. ‘Of course you haven’t. She’ll calm down.’

  ‘Never. I’ve got a feeling.’

  ‘Then you can write to someone else.’

  Miklós looked up, shocked. ‘There isn’t anyone else. It’s either her or I die.’ How could Harry be so insensitive?

  Harry burst out laughing. ‘Words, just words?’

  Miklós dipped his finger in the glass of water and wrote ‘LILI’ on the wooden table. ‘This’ll dry up too,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Send her one of your poems!’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘I don’t like sorrowful Jews,’ said Harry, getting up. ‘I’ll find you something sweet. I’ll bribe someone or steal something for you. But wipe that glum look off your face.’

  Harry crossed the dreary hall to the swing door and entered the kitchen. There was no one there either. He opened cupboards until he found a jar of honey buried deep in one of them.

  He hurried back in triumph. ‘No spoon. You’ll have to dip your finger in, like this.’

  My father was staring at the table. The stem of the second ‘L’ was still visible.

  ‘Right.’ Harry sucked his finger. ‘Have you got paper and a pencil? I’ll dictate.’

  ‘What?’ asked Miklós, looking up at last.

  ‘A letter. To her. Are you ready?’ He dipped his finger in the honey.

  Puzzled, Miklós took some paper and a pencil out of his pocket. Harry’s cheerfulness had managed to strike a tiny crack in the armour of his despair.

  ‘Dear Lili,’ Harry dictated, licking his finger, ‘I have to tell you that I despise and deride those stupid women who are ashamed to talk about such things—’

  Miklós slammed down his pencil. ‘This is lunacy! You want me to send this to Lili?’

  ‘You’ve been writing to each other for a month now. It’s high time you became more intimate with her. I’m an outsider, I can gauge things better.’

  The following Sunday, after Sven Björkman had said grace, and the two Björkman boys had more or less settled down, Mrs Björkman began ladling out the soup with her usual precision.

  ‘Where have you hidden your crucifix, Lili?’ Björkman asked, without so much as a glance at Lili.

  Either he spoke little German or he wanted to test Lili’s knowledge of Swedish. When she looked at him blankly, he repeated the question, in Swedish, and pointed to the crucifix round his own neck.

  Lili blushed. She fished the little silver cross out of her pocket and put it round her neck.

  ‘Why did you take it off?’ he asked, looking at her pleasantly. ‘We gave it to you for you to wear. Always.’

  The reproach was clear. The meal passed without further conversation.

  The tone and content of your last letter were rather strange but you seem like a kind man, so I’ll answer this one too. On the other hand, I’m not sure that a ‘bourgeois’ girl like me is the right friend for you. This time I think you went too far.

  It was dawn. Miklós felt for the thermometer in the drawer of his bedside table, and with his eyes still shut he stuck it in his mouth. Then he counted to 130. He opened his eyes for a split second: there was no need for him to study the delicate markings in detail. The fever, as stealthy as a thief, crept up, stole his confidence, and then vanished in the half-light of dawn. He put the thermometer in the drawer again, turned over and went back to sleep.


  When he got up at eight o’clock his temperature was normal.

  Dear Lili,

  What a fool I am! I’m sorry. Why do I bother you with all my stupid thoughts? I send you a warm handshake.

  Miklós

  P.S.: Is that still allowed?

  It took two days for a letter to arrive by Swedish mail train. When Miklós’s apology arrived, Lili and Sára were huddled on Lili’s bed.

  ‘“P.S. Is that still allowed?”’

  ‘Now you should forgive him,’ said Sára after some thought.

  ‘I already have.’

  Lili scrambled across the bed and took an envelope from her bedside table.

  ‘I purposely left it open,’ she said as she searched for the bit she wanted to show Sára. ‘Here it is: “Yes, Miklós, you really are a fool! But if you behave yourself we can be friends again.”’ She gave Sára a jubilant look.

  ‘Men!’ said Sára, smiling.

  Four bicycles were kept in the entrance to Avesta, so patients could ride from the forest to the town. Now that the weather had turned cold and even the midday sunshine didn’t melt the snow on the fir trees, Miklós and Harry had to rug up to prevent their ears and hands from freezing on the hour-long ride.

  Even so, it took a long time, as they sat waiting at the post office, for the feeling to return to their fingers, though they tried to keep them warm under their thighs.

  Miklós was anxious. From where they sat he could see the glass doors of the three telephone booths, which at that moment were all occupied. He was beside himself. It was his turn next.

  After what seemed forever one of the booths became vacant. At the counter, an operator lifted the receiver to her ear. She looked at Miklós, said something into the phone and waved at him. He stood up and staggered into the vacant booth.

  Judit Gold dashed up the stairs at full speed, practically knocking over the nurses and doctors hurrying in the opposite direction. Lili and Sára were reading in the open window of the ward. Judit stormed through the door. ‘Lili! Lili!’ she shouted. ‘You’ve got a phone call!’

  Lili gaped at her, not understanding.

  ‘Hurry! Miklós is on the phone!’

  Lili turned red and leapt off the windowsill. She flew downstairs to the basement, where a telephone room had been set up for patients. A nurse was on her way out of the room, and she looked at Lili in surprise. Lili saw the receiver lying on the table. She made herself slow down. She touched the receiver gingerly, and cautiously lifted it to her ear. ‘It’s me.’

  In the post office Miklós gave a small cough, but his voice still came out an octave higher than its usual baritone. ‘You sound exactly the way I imagined you would,’ he managed to say. ‘How mystical!’

  ‘I’m out of breath. I ran. There’s just one telephone, in the main building, and we…’

  Miklós started to babble. ‘Catch your breath. I’ll do the talking, all right? Remember I told you how you can already send cables home? I’m calling because—just imagine—now we can send airmail letters too, via London or Prague. At last you can find your mother! Isn’t it great! I thought I’d call and tell you right away.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  Lili was clutching the receiver so tightly that her fingers had turned white. ‘Mama…I don’t know…I don’t know her address…She had to leave our old flat and move to the ghetto… and now I don’t know where she is living.’

  Miklós’s voice recovered its silky tone. ‘Oh, I’m a fool. Of course you don’t! But we can place a notice in a newspaper. We’ll send her a message through Világosság. Everyone reads that. I’ve got a bit of money saved up. I’ll arrange it.’

  Lili was surprised. There was no way he could afford to do that on five kronor a week.

  ‘How have you been able to save any money?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you, my darling? Oh, sorry, have I gone too far? I’m sorry, Lili.’

  Lili blushed furiously. Now her temperature had shot up. ‘I wish I could see you.’

  The post office felt like a palace to Miklós. Thrilled, he punched the air with his fist, signalling to Harry through the glass. ‘Well, it’s like this, what if I had a Cuban uncle…but that’s a long story, I’ll put it in a letter.’

  No one spoke for a while. They pressed the receivers tightly to their ears.

  ‘How are you?’ Lili started up again. ‘Your health, I mean.’

  ‘Me? I’m fine. All my tests are negative. There was a tiny spot on my left lung. Some fluid. A touch of pleurisy. But not serious. I’m more or less in the middle of my treatment. And you?’

  ‘I’m fine, too. Nothing hurts. I have to take iron tablets.’

  ‘Have you got a temperature?’ Miklós asked.

  ‘Very slight. A kidney infection. Nothing to worry about. I’ve got a good appetite. I’m so looking forward to seeing you… seeing you both,’ said Lili.

  ‘Yes. I’m working on it. But in the meantime I’ve written you a poem.’

  ‘Me?’ Lili blushed again.

  Miklós closed his eyes. ‘Shall I recite it?’

  ‘You know it by heart?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He had to think quickly. The truth was that he had already written six poems for Lili, to Lili. Now he had to choose one. ‘The title is “Lili”. You still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Miklós leaned against the booth wall. He kept his eyes closed.

  I stepped on an icy puddle

  the rime crunched under me.

  If you touch my heart, beware,

  a single move will be

  enough to crack apart

  my secret frozen sea.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  Lili held her breath.

  He couldn’t hear her, but he could sense her presence.

  ‘Yes.’

  Miklós was frightened by something, too, or perhaps he was just hoarse. The distance made the receiver hiss, and the words of the poem sounded like breaking waves. ‘I’ll go on then,’ he said.

  So come to me gently,

  with the smiles that we lost.

  Seek out the places

  where pain has chilled to frost

  so the warmth of your caress

  melts to dew within my chest.

  Five

  THE GROUND-FLOOR meeting room, which the hospital in Eksjö had made available to the Red Cross, was tiny and embarrassingly bare. It had no window. There was just room for a desk and a bentwood chair for visitors.

  Madame Ann-Marie Arvidsson was the local Red Cross representative. She sharpened her pencil after almost every sentence she wrote. She spoke German slowly, enunciating every syllable to make it easier for Lili to understand the finer points. And she was set on explaining everything to this charming Hungarian girl. Even things that were out of her hands. Such as the risk Sweden had taken by allowing in so many sick people. Such as the fact that the International Red Cross never had enough money, because all sorts of unforeseeable expenses were always cropping up. She didn’t even get to the question of accommodation. The main thing was, like it or not, she couldn’t support this kind of private initiative.

  ‘You ought to know, Lili, I don’t agree with this type of visit even in principle.’

  Lili tried again. ‘Just a few days. What harm will that do anyone?’

  ‘It won’t do any harm. But what would be the point? To come from the other side of the country. That’s a lot of money. And once the men are here? Among three hundred patients. This is a hospital, not a hotel! Have you considered that, Lili?’

  ‘I haven’t seen them for a year and a half.’ She gave the woman an imploring look.

  Madame Arvidsson thought she saw a speck of dust on the immaculate surface of the desk. She wiped it off. ‘Let’s say I give permission. What will your relatives eat? The Red Cross has no funds for extra food.’

  ‘Something. Anything.’

  ‘You are not f
acing facts, Lili. These men are patients too. I can’t even imagine how they’ll buy the tickets for the train.’

  ‘We’ve got a Cuban relative.’

  Ann-Marie Arvidsson raised an eyebrow. She jotted down a few words, then sharpened her pencil. ‘And this relative is financing the visit, all the way from Cuba?’

  Lili looked deep into Madame Arvidsson’s eyes. ‘We’re a loving family…’

  This, at last, made Madame Arvidsson laugh. ‘I admire your determination. I’ll try to do something. But I can’t make any promises.’

  Lili got up, leaned awkwardly over the desk and gave Madame Ann-Marie Arvidsson a kiss. Then she ran out of the room, knocking over her chair on the way.

  Ann-Marie Arvidsson got up, set the chair on its legs, took out her handkerchief and wiped all trace of the kiss off her cheek.

  A few days later Rabbi Emil Kronheim climbed briskly onto a train in Stockholm. The rabbi was an ascetic figure, small and thin, in an old grey suit. His hair was like a haystack. Ever since the Swedish government had called on him to give moral support to his fellow Jews in these hard times, his name and address had been pinned on the noticeboard of every rehabilitation centre in Sweden.

  He travelled up and down the country for three weeks of each month. Sometimes he talked to people in groups. Other times he would listen to a single person for hours on end, hardly moving, giving strength with just the bat of an eyelid, until they were engulfed by the early evening twilight. He never grew tired.

  His one excess was herring. It was almost comical. He couldn’t resist pickled herring. Even on the train, reading the newspaper, while the snow-covered countryside raced past, he ate pieces of herring out of greasy paper.

  At the station in Eksjö he clambered out of his carriage. It was pouring. He hurried across the wet platform.

  According to his information there were three young Hungarian women in the hospital. A few days ago he had received a letter from one of them. A single soul is a soul. Without a moment’s hesitation he had set out on the mind-numbing journey from Stockholm.