Rabbi Emil Kronheim stumbled off the bus. His legs were stiff from the long journey; it was beastly cold and now it had started to snow again. The rabbi asked where he could find the women’s rehab hospital, drew his coat around him and set out.
Within a few days Miklós had the opportunity to prove how qualified he was for his elected post.
They were all sitting in the shabby dining room. The ten Hungarians, the Greeks, the Poles and the Romanians. The only sound was the angry beating of spoons as they struck the table in perfect time until Erik, the hefty superintendent, bustled in.
‘What’s the trouble, gentlemen?’ he asked, afraid he wouldn’t be heard above the din. Everybody stopped clanging. My father picked up a fork and rose to his feet.
Just imagine, darling Lili, how grand I’ve become! I’ve been elected representative of our group. It’s not much work, but I get paid 75 kronor a month.
Miklós pierced a piece of potato on the prong of his fork and held it up. ‘This potato is rotten.’
Erik looked around in embarrassment. Then, since everyone was staring at him and he wanted to live up to his role as superintendent, he sauntered over to my father and put his nose to the potato. ‘It smells of fish. What’s the problem?’ he said, trying not to make a face.
Miklós held the potato aloft as if it were an item of evidence.
‘It’s rotten. We had our suspicions about the potatoes yesterday, but today they are definitely off.’
A Greek kid, who kept his knitted hat on, even at night, stood up. ‘I’ll write to the International Red Cross!’ he shouted in Greek.
‘Pipe down, Theo,’ Miklós admonished him. ‘I’ll deal with this.’ He looked at Erik and politely pointed to a chair beside him. ‘Sit with us.’
Erik hesitated.
‘I’d like you to taste it,’ said Miklós, drawing the chair back for him.
Erik sat down tentatively on the edge of the chair. Harry was already bringing him a plate and a knife and fork. My father eased the potato from his fork into the middle of the empty plate.
‘Bon appétit,’ Miklós said.
Erik looked around in dismay. There was no mercy. He bit into the potato. Miklós sat down beside him, studying him as he chewed and swallowed.
The superintendent tried to make a joke of it. ‘It tastes a bit like shark. But I like shark. It’s really quite nice.’
‘Is that so? Well, if it’s quite nice, have some more,’ said Miklós with a deadpan expression as he stabbed another potato and put it on Erik’s plate.
Erik knew he had to tackle this potato too. It was more difficult to get down, but somehow he managed it.
‘Believe me, there’s nothing wrong with it. Nothing on earth.’
‘Nothing? Well, go on, have some more.’
Miklós sped up. He kept stabbing potatoes and piling them onto Erik’s plate. The men were on their feet by this time, crowding around him.
My darling one and only Lili, just imagine, the superintendent turned pale, but he led from the front and right to the end he heroically maintained they were edible.
Erik reckoned his best bet would be to get through this circus as quickly as possible. So he wolfed the potatoes down. ‘Quite edible. Not bad at all. Good, in fact.’
But now he was feeling sick. Drinking between every mouthful, he bravely finished off the mound of potatoes. Then he lurched to his feet, clutching the edge of the table to stop himself falling.
Miklós grabbed his shoulders and tried to support him. ‘As you very well know, every last potato peel is paid for by the United Nations. I would be obliged if you did not treat us inmates as beggars, expecting us to show our gratitude for every last boiled potato.’
The men started clapping. This is what they were expecting of my father, this tone. This was what he was being paid for.
Erik belched, clutching his stomach. ‘You misunderstand the situation,’ he spluttered, and then collapsed with stomach pains so severe he had to dig his nails into the floor to stop himself crying out.
Sixteen
ONE HUNDRED and sixty girls ate lunch together in the Berga canteen, where all the tables had been pushed together to form three long rows. Two kitchen maids served the food, along with three patients elected each week to help. It took an hour and a half to serve everyone.
Emil Kronheim was escorted into the canteen by the unsmiling woman in charge—the director. The rabbi had grown accustomed to the bleak, military atmosphere of these places, but they still disheartened him. He had requested a room adjacent to the canteen be made available for him.
Judit Gold was sitting with Lili and Sára a long way from the door, but it was as if she sensed a change in the atmosphere. She couldn’t say why she did it, but she glanced at the door just as it opened—and there was the rabbi. Judit turned pale and started to sweat. She willed herself to focus on her spoon as it dipped into the red soup.
The director came over and stopped right beside them. Judit almost buried her head in her soup bowl.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ she whispered in a confidential tone.
Judit looked up. She found it strange that no one could hear her heart beating.
‘Me?’ asked Lili, getting to her feet.
‘Rabbi Kronheim from Stockholm. He’d like to speak to you.’
‘A rabbi? From Stockholm? Now?’
‘He’s in a hurry. He’s got to catch the two o’clock train.’
Lili looked over the heads to the doorway where Emil Kronheim was standing. He gave her a friendly nod.
There was a small room next to the canteen, linked to it by a serving window. If Judit sat up straight, she could see into this room, and she couldn’t resist peeking from time to time. She saw the two of them introduce themselves and sit at a table. Judit was trembling. She put her spoon down. She was sure the rabbi wouldn’t betray her, but her remorse gnawed at her.
The rabbi had put his pocket watch on the table in the small room. He was relying on its quiet tick to create the right atmosphere. They had been listening to it for a while now—Lili had no intention of breaking the silence.
When Rabbi Kronheim felt that the tick-tock effect had been achieved, he leaned forward and looked into Lili’s eyes. ‘You have lost God.’
The pocket watch ticked away. Lili didn’t ask how this stranger had the ability to see into her mind, but his powers of intuition didn’t surprise her. ‘No, God has lost me.’
‘It’s beneath you to split hairs on such a question.’
Lili was fiddling with the crocheted tablecloth. ‘But what makes you think that about me?’
‘It’s not important at the moment. I just know.’ The rabbi shifted his weight, making the chair creak. ‘Have you got a cross, too?’
Lili blushed. How did he know? She felt in her pocket for the envelope where she kept the cross. Since she had come to Berga she had worn it only once, when she went to the director to beg for the visit. It hadn’t helped. ‘Yes. Yes, I do. It was a gift. Do you object?’
‘Well, I’m not exactly thrilled,’ he said sadly.
The pocket watch continued to tick.
‘Look here, Lili, we are all filled with doubts. Big ones and lesser ones. But that doesn’t mean we have to turn our backs.’
Lili thumped the table. The watch bounced like a rubber ball. ‘Were you there? Did you come with us?’ Lili was whispering, but her fist was clenched and her body was rigid. ‘Were you there with us in the cattle wagon?’
The rabbi pointed to the others in the canteen beyond the window. ‘I won’t insult you by saying it was a test. I wouldn’t dare tell you that, after all you’ve been through. God has lost you—all right. Or rather, it’s not all right—I too have an issue with him about that. I’m angry. I don’t forgive, either. How could he have done this to us? To you! To them!’
He put his watch away. It had served its purpose. He got to his feet and knocked his chair over. Taking no notice, he started pacing. It was four steps
from wall to wall. He strode up and down, passionately waving his arms around.
‘No, there can be no forgiveness for that. I, Rabbi Emil Kronheim, am telling you this. But…but! Millions of your brethren perished. Millions were murdered, like animals in a slaughterhouse. No, even animals are treated better than our fellow Jews were. But, for crying out loud, those millions aren’t even cold in their graves yet! We haven’t even finished the prayers for them. And you would leave us already? You would turn your back? Don’t be fair to God; he doesn’t deserve it. Be fair to the millions. You have no right to abandon them.’
From the canteen, Judit Gold could see Kronheim storming around the room and shouting. She felt lucky to be where she was. Here, she had only to put up with the hum of the dining room, the clatter of spoons, the quiet chatter of the girls. She had, however, lost her appetite. She was nauseated even by the thought of the risotto growing cold in her bowl.
Darling Miklós,
Today a rabbi came from Stockholm and gave me a little moral sermon about our conversion. How on earth did he hear about that? Could your bishop have told him?
This part of the letter prodded my father into urgent action. He decided to take a short cut with regard to the complicated matter of their conversion. He looked up the phone number of the nearest parish. The less significant the parish, he reckoned, the less fuss there would be. A country priest would surely be easier to convince than a bishop from the capital.
He discussed everything on the telephone and a few days later caught a bus from Högbo to the nearby village of Gävle.
In Gävle he found the friendly, simple wooden church that he was secretly hoping for. The light flooded in through the windows above the gallery. The priest was over eighty and his head shook constantly. Miklós had gone to the public library in Högbo the day before and buried himself in canon law in preparation for the meeting. It was well worth the effort. When he brought up the term Congregationes religiosae and explained how he and Lili were Jews who wanted to be married in his church, the old man’s eyes shone with tears.
‘How do you know about things like that?’
Miklós didn’t respond; he went on in a rather self-important way. ‘The main thing is that, instead of taking a solemn vow, my fiancée and I would only take a simple vow to bind us to the Catholic faith.’
The priest’s hands were shaking too. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. ‘I’m very touched by your fervour.’
Miklós was in full swing, and he began to quote, line by line, the relevant passages from the ecclesiastical literature. ‘Do correct me if I’m wrong, Father, but as I understand it the simple vow is one-sided. It binds the party that takes the vow—that is, me and my fiancée—to the Church, but it doesn’t bind the Church to us. On the other hand the solemn vow would be mutual, meaning that it couldn’t be broken by either party.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘We are serious about conversion, Father.’
The old man gathered his strength, got to his feet and began striding towards the sacristy. Miklós could hardly keep up with him. The priest took out an enormous leather-bound book and dipped his pen in the ink. Miklós was fascinated that the ink was green.
‘You’ve convinced me. I have no doubts regarding the seriousness of your intentions. I’d like to write down your particulars. You should let me know when your fiancée can travel here from Berga. Once we have the date I will arrange for your baptism right away. I’ll say one thing, Miklós, in all my time as a priest I’ve never come across such touching enthusiasm.’
Miklós and Lili now wrote to each other even more often. Sometimes they sent two letters in one day. On New Year’s Eve, Miklós went up to his room. He didn’t want to get drunk with the men in the boarding-house dining room downstairs. He lay on his bed, put Lili’s photo on his chest and swore he would stay alive. He kept repeating this until he fell asleep. Towards dawn Harry and the others staggered in. They found my father lying on his back fully dressed, with tears trickling down his cheeks in his sleep and Lili’s photo peeping out from under his hand.
Darling Lili,
Damn the Via Svecia! I ordered the notice, sending in the exact wording, and they go and publish it with a shocking mistake. They mixed up the names! According to the notice, you asked for my hand! I hardly feel like sending it to you.
New Year’s Eve in Berga began with Lili playing the piano and Sára singing. They had practised some songs from operettas—‘Péter Hajmási’ from The Csárdás Queen was such a success they had to perform three encores. The rest of the evening was less cheerful. The three-piece band played, a lot of girls danced, and a lot cried, too. They had each been given a litre of red wine with supper.
I thought of you today at lunchtime because we had tomato sauce, and I know you love that! Oh, how I love you, my little sweetie-pie!
On New Year’s Day the men made resolutions. Ever since he’d been allowed to get out of bed, in July, Pál Jakobovits had been secreting a slice of bread into his pocket at every meal. He was aware of the stupidity of this; after all, there would always be bread here. But force of habit was stronger. On 1 January 1946, he resolved not to stuff his pocket with bread from that day on. Harry swore not to chat girls up unless he felt there was love involved. Litzman decided to emigrate to Israel. Miklós resolved to start learning Russian as soon as he got back to Hungary.
When we daydream together, we think of everything, not only a self-serving love. We imagine a future together, working, following our vocations, in the service of mankind and society.
On the morning of New Year’s Day in Berga the Hungarian girls sang the national anthem.
My one and only darling Miklós,
When are you going to the dentist in Stockholm?
A week later Miklós caught the bus to Sandviken, about half an hour away. He sat alone. It was one of the coldest winters for years—this day it was minus twenty-one degrees Centigrade. Thick ice coated the windows. The bus looked as if it had been wrapped in tin foil. It jolted along in its silver splendour.
At home I only want to work for a left-wing newspaper and, if I can’t find anything, I’ll look around for some other occupation. I’m sick of the bourgeoisie.
On the same morning, in Berga, Lili refused to get out of bed. At about midday Sára and Judit pulled her up by force. They even dressed her, like a doll. They had found a sled somewhere, and they put Lili on it and took turns pulling her up and down the main pathway.
My darling Miklós,
I’ve never ever felt as homesick as I do now. I’d give ten years of my life to be able to fly home.
My father sat on the bus like a forgotten chocolate in a box wrapped in silver paper. He could forget the outside world. The engine hummed. It was warm inside, the lighting was magical, and the springs rocked him. He put his hand in his pocket and felt something slim and pointed.
I reached into my pocket and found a Mitzi Six carmine lipstick. I bought it the other day and forgot to send it to you. I’ll be able to give it to you in person soon. First of all we’ll check out whether it’s kiss-proof. All right?
Lili was flying along on the sled. This time Sára and Judit were pulling it together. They were determined to cheer Lili up, and hoped that whizzing around in this clear, cold weather would have the desired effect.
Your letter’s in front of me and I’ve read it about twenty times. Every time, I discover something new in it, and every moment I am madder and madder with happiness.
How I love you!!!
Last night I had a dream that I can’t get out of my mind. It was so clear. We had arrived home. Mama and Papa were at the train station to meet me. You weren’t with me. I was alone.
In her dream Lili arrived at Keleti station in Budapest. Crowds of people were waiting but there was no pushing or shoving. People stood stiffly, staring straight ahead. The only movement in the dream was the train ceremoniously puffing its way alongside the covered platform. The
smoke enveloped the crowd. Then it cleared, and in the grey light of dawn passengers began to step down from the train, carrying heavy suitcases. Those who were meeting them, several hundred, maybe several thousand, were waiting, transfixed.
Lili was wearing a red polka-dot dress and a wide-brimmed hat. She caught sight of her mother and father in the motionless crowd. She started running, but didn’t get a step nearer to them. She was trying so hard to run that her mouth became dry and she could barely breathe. But she couldn’t bridge the distance between them. It couldn’t have been more than ten metres. Lili could see her mother’s sad, lustreless eyes. Luckily, her father was laughing. He held his arms out wide to hug his little girl, but Lili couldn’t reach him.
The X-ray room in Sandviken was very small; there was space only for the apparatus. By this time Miklós considered X-rays his personal enemy. He had pressed his narrow shoulders so many times against the cold pane of glass that he felt acute loathing if he even glanced at an X-ray machine.
He closed his eyes and tried to stifle his feeling of disgust.
It wasn’t possible for Miklós to cultivate a close relationship with his new doctor, Irene Hammarström, as he had with Lindholm—though Irene was compassionate, softly spoken and delicately pretty. She always gave my father a searching look, as if she were trying to fathom his secret.
Now, she stood by the window and held the X-ray up to the light. Miklós played his usual game. He put his weight on the two back legs of the chair and pushed off. He didn’t look at her; he was steering the chair into an increasingly precarious position.
‘I can’t believe my eyes,’ gasped the doctor.
Fever at Dawn Page 14
