Replacement Girl

by Ann Beaglehole

  ‘Kati was pregnant and hungry. It was very hard to get food. One day she saw a truck with German soldiers. She asked them for a lift to Buda, where she got a whole bag of carrots. On the way back she flagged down another truck with German soldiers to get back with the carrots. “Jewish scum stole my bicycle,” she told the soldier, looking at him with her wide blue eyes.

  ‘Once she pretended to faint in the long bread queue, and the Arrow Cross boy got her two loaves of bread, not just one.

  ‘She was so scared that she was going to lose the child.

  ‘During the siege of Budapest there was constant bombardment and everybody moved to the cellar. It was early morning on 16 January when the first Russian soldiers came. They fought house by house. It took a month until they occupied the whole of Budapest.

  ‘When the shooting stopped, we climbed out of the cellar. The street was full of bodies and bits of bodies. Dead people and dead horses. Kati was most upset about the wounded horses. There was one we saw, standing, blood pouring from its stomach. It looked up at us, pleading for mercy.

  ‘We went back to the apartment, which didn’t have any windows. The furniture had been used for firewood.

  ‘Kati found a job in an office.

  ‘One day, Gyuri came back. We almost didn’t recognise him. How could we? He used to be a small plump man with a fresh, cheerful face. We watched a figure plod along the street from the apartment window. He stopped at the entrance. He wore rags and tattered boots, his body was shrunken, his face hollow. Could it be Gyuri?

  ‘Every day we waited for Imre to arrive.’

  When my grandmother stops talking, we go to Zsuzsi’s house. But her father swoops on us before we get inside her room. He tells us about the day the Arrow Cross burst into his apartment and took away his wife and child.

  ‘The child was only five years old but he understood. The night before he had whispered to me the question, When were the soldiers coming? When I asked why he was whispering, he said that we had to be very quiet because if the men heard us they would kill us. The next morning the men arrived. I barricaded the door, and was shot and left for dead.’

  I pretend to listen but try hard to think of something else. Zsuzsi’s shoulder twitches when her father talks about his murdered son.

  ‘So, shall I tell you the difference between necking, petting and heavy petting?’ Zsuzsi says when her father finally lets us alone.

  ‘I know what the difference is. Why do you always think you know more than I do?’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Zsuzsi shrugs her shoulders. Already they no longer look as though she is carrying the enormous weight of a moment ago. How does Zsuzsi do it? How does she manage to rid herself of the past so easily? Having succeeded in getting Michael Cohen to ask her out, she is applying a good layer of eye shadow in preparation for their date.

  ‘My eyes are my best feature,’ she says, adding eyeliner. ‘But I’d better not put on too much or he’ll think me the wrong type of girl.’

  Michael is picking Zsuzsi up from the dairy round the corner. He is not allowed to see the ‘decrepit hovel’ where she lives.

  ‘Too vulgar for Michael,’ she says firmly, discarding the black strapless top for the underneath part of the maroon twin set.

  ‘Can I try that on?’ I am eyeing the strapless top.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she says, ‘you haven’t even got breasts yet.’

  Zsuzsi, whose own breasts are fully developed, says such catty things. But I admire the way she knows what she wants to do with her life. She will get a rich husband so that she never again has to live in a hovel.

  ‘I want mine to be an ordinary New Zealand man – someone who lectures at varsity, or maybe a scientist with a big family that gets together for Sunday mutton roast and Christmas turkey He doesn’t have to be rich. Do you want yours to be a Jew?’

  ‘No, of course he doesn’t have to be Jewish, but I’m not ruling out anyone.’

  Michael Cohen is rich and Jewish.

  ‘He’s got pimples.’

  ‘I don’t mind a few pimples. No one’s perfect.’

  What can I do to make William ask me out, I think, as Zsuzsi drives off in Michael’s car.

  ‘Oh, good God, why have you deserted me?’ Moaning noises come from my grandmother.

  ‘That bitch, you bitch,’ shouts my father.

  ‘I’m leaving you all, you are both full of hate.’ My mother smashes crockery to make her point and runs into the bedroom to pack. Again.

  ‘Please calm down, I’m going to call Dr Steiner, to give you something that will help you,’ says my grandmother.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ yells my mother. ‘You and Gyuri are the ones who need treatment. You are driving me into the grave with your behaviour.’

  I block my ears with my fingers. All I want is for the noise to stop.

  My mother runs from the house. I hear her start up the car, then my father shouting, ‘Don’t do this, to drive in your state of nerves is suicide.’

  My grandmother is out on the street too, sobbing loudly.

  The lights come on at the Webbs and someone – please don’t let it be William – is peering out from behind the curtains.

  Make them shut up, only make them shut up.

  The car door slams and my mother drives away.

  The car is a new weapon. Is she going to crash it to teach them a lesson?

  My father and grandmother continue to wail and shout, but at least they are inside the house. They pace the room, looking anxiously out of the window at the empty place by the side of the road where the car is usually parked. I go into my room and turn on the hit parade to drown them out.

  At last the car is back. My mother, stony faced, marches past my grandmother and father. She marches into my room, declaring, ‘I have come back only because of my little girl.’

  I try to turn up the music but she clutches me.

  ‘You are all I have to live for.’ Weeping, pulling me closer: ‘You see what I have to put up with! What should I do? You are a clever girl, Eva. Tell me, what would you do in my place?’

  I answer something in English to annoy her, and escape from my room to the bathroom, putting all my weight against the door to stop anyone coming in. After a while, I hear their voices in the sitting room. Peacemaking, tearful voices. It is safe to go back to my room.

  My mother is the first in the family to get a driver’s licence, but soon my father too is able to drive. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, in the maroon Hillman Minx, he drives my mother, grandmother and me to Oriental Bay where, with the other families in the circle, we stroll along the Parade between the Te Aro Baths and the band rotunda. It is New Year’s Eve, our fourth in New Zealand. The adults talk non-stop.

  ‘Ah, usually on New Year’s, we would all go to the Gellért for a good soak, followed by bean soup at the restaurant next door, what was it called?’ says my mother.

  ‘We would always celebrate at the Zserbo,’ says Paul Szép. ‘Ah, the beautiful women in their furs and emeralds.’

  ‘Ah, to walk through the glass doors of Zserbo and be greeted by the pungent smell of coffee,’ says Klára.

  ‘And vanilla,’ says Sándor.

  ‘Ah, what would I give for a dobos torte with a good coffee,’ says my grandmother.

  ‘Ah, the smell of fresh rétes,’ says my mother.

  I will scream if I hear one more word about the coffee houses on Váci utca.

  The day after the fight was a Sunday and I am ready with excuses to avoid the outing to the Parade.

  ‘Please, I can’t come with you.’

  ‘Why not?’ from my grandmother.

  ‘I have too much homework, thank you, and Mary wants me to go swimming.’

  ‘You’re coming with us,’ from my father.

  ‘Please, I can’t come. Thank you for asking me.’

  ‘Look how English our little girl is becoming, full of pleases and thank yous. Look how stiff, proper and polite she is, never giving away her
feelings,’ from my mother.

  ‘Look at her, she is ashamed of us bloody foreigners, she does not want to be seen with us,’ from my father.

  It’s true. I love being at school or with Mary or at the Webbs’. Their house smells of freshly baked scones and sponge cake with raspberry jam. People are outside in the garden doing useful things with tools, or going to the hardware and buying useful things for the house and garden, not sitting round inside arguing and telling each other how they feel about everything in loud voices reeking with emotion.

  I especially can’t stand the anti-New Zealand tirades; when I have to stay home, I go to my room to escape them: ‘The light switch here turns on a different way; the doors open back to front; traffic goes by in the wrong direction.’ ‘At Christmas it is hot; at Yom Kippur it is cold.’ ‘Spring, lovely Spring, where is it?’ ‘Where are the falling leaves of autumn?’ ‘The sun when it shines is too bright; fruit and vegetables lack flavour; the butchers’ shops stink; the butter is salted. As for the bread, the less said the better.’

  I dread them barging into my room, trying to talk to me, forcing me to talk to them. When they come in, I make my face blank; I turn into stone. Nothing will make me tell them what I am thinking. I will never show them how I am feeling.

  It’s Christmas Day, the worst day of the year. I sit at my desk, unopened book in hand, and watch the comings and goings at the Webbs’ house. There’s no sign of William but one of the other kids is out in the yard, holding a helicopter. She runs up and down the lane to get it to fly. It makes a buzzing sound and whirls round for a moment before collapsing. Squeals of glee come from the other girl as she tries out the new bike, riding it round and round in the yard. Doors slam, sounds of laughter, raised voices. Then I see William for a moment. He does not look towards my house. Mrs Webb appears and motions everyone to come inside. Through the open door, I can see their Christmas tree with its coloured lights, and little and big parcels, wrapped in blue and red crêpe paper, on the floor beside it.

  It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Christmas doesn’t matter. What’s happening now doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because soon I won’t even remember what is happening now. When I’m grown up, it will be as though all this never happened. Already I can’t remember much about what happened to me in Hungary. When kids ask me to tell them about what it was like in the revolution, I don’t know what to tell them. I know that all that matters is the future, the life I’m going to have when I’m grown up. The past is easy to forget, and I’m good at forgetting it. I get out my diary and record my resolution to forget the past and think only of the future.

  I stay in my room most of the day, not even opening my book, looking out of the window. My parents come in asking what’s the matter, saying Do I want something to eat, wanting me to go out with them to the Parade. ‘Tomi is going,’ my mother says. I don’t answer. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do on this day when everyone is celebrating. Late afternoon, when the Webbs are no longer out in their yard, I open my book at last and start to read. It’s so good. Of Human Bondage is the title. It is about all the things I’m going through myself. After that, the rest of the day flashes by and Christmas is over for another whole year.

  ‘Show him that you care,’ Rudi Farkas says. ‘Listen to me. I’m your father’s closest friend in this country.’

  ‘Talk to him, put your arms around him. Don’t be so English. He is bitter and bewildered about the coldness between you and him,’ Sándor Kunz says. ‘Listen to me. I’m your father’s oldest friend in this country.’

  ‘Tell him that you love him.’ Gábor Ranki’s voice is full of urgency. ‘Confide in him. Take his arm and go for a walk with him along the Parade.’

  Dr Steiner has just told us my father has a stomach ulcer.

  ‘You and your grandmother have caused the ulcer,’ my mother says.

  I bang shut the door of my room and write in my diary:

  Replacement children know they have great power. By their behaviour, they can relieve or increase their parents’ sufferings. If what they do is bad enough, they can make their parents ill or even kill them.

  ‘My father owned a small grocery shop,’ my father tells me as we walk up and down the Parade. ‘It was in Óbuda. We stocked a bit of this and a bit of that: flour, sugar, string, cotton – everything you might need to run a household. He died of tuberculosis when I was six years old. After that my mother and my sister looked after me while working in the shop. When my sister left to get married, it was just my mother and I. I spent lots of time playing behind the counter. I was happy. One day a man, fat and bald, came into the shop to buy salami. After that he came in most days to buy something. One day he came in wearing a dark suit and holding some flowers. He told my mother he wanted to take her out. One thing led to another, and before long she married the man who became my stepfather. All my life I have been convinced that if my real father hadn’t deserted us, my life would’ve taken a different and happier course.’

  The Webbs invite us over for tea and to watch a programme on their new television set.

  ‘I hope you eat mutton,’ Mrs Webb says.

  ‘Yes, lovely,’ says my mother.

  After the meal, we watch a film about the habits of rabbits. All I can think about is William’s hand, which is edging closer and closer to me along the back of the sofa.

  When we get home, my family has nothing but complaints about the plain, wholesome English food Mrs Webb had made.

  ‘Did you ever get back the jewellery and other things you buried during the war?’ I ask, to stop my father going on any longer about the joint and the boiled cabbage and potatoes.

  ‘Listen, Eva. After the war, I went straight back to the waste ground next to our old apartment building. I was eager to search the area to recover the things my mother and I had buried. Day after day I dug and dug, but found nothing. By this time, I was married to your mother. Sadly, marrying her had also meant marrying Judit, who disapproved of me as a son-in-law from the beginning.

  ‘“Don’t stop digging, don’t stop, not yet,” she kept saying to me, believing me to be the type of man who gave up too easily, who wasn’t a fighter.

  ‘For the sake of peace, but without much hope, I kept going back to the waste ground. On the last occasion I went back, the concierge saw me and told me that I was a week too late. The story she told was that my stepfather Lali and a woman she had not met before had been seen digging a week earlier. But they had assured the concierge that they had found nothing, absolutely nothing.

  ‘There was no way for me to know if the concierge was telling the truth. Perhaps she had taken the jewellery and other things herself. Perhaps someone else had taken them and my stepfather and the woman really had found nothing.

  ‘“Don’t be upset,” I said to Kati and Judit. “What my poor mother and I buried would not be enough to make us rich or even to buy our way out of this country. And if that scum has stolen our belongings, it won’t make him rich either. It is only the photographs I am sad about.”

  ‘“What are you going to do now?” Judit asked me. “What are you going to do to get back what belongs to you?”

  ‘“Nothing,” I said to her. “There is nothing I can do or want to do. Fighting with Lali, a man who has not lost any time replacing his wife, won’t bring back my dear mother.”

  ‘“Some extra money would help Kati and you to make a start,” Judit said.

  ‘“Not another word about this, please, not another word,” I said to her.’

  Today is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Jews believe that if you truly repent when you fast on Yom Kippur, God will write your name in the Book of Life. If you do not, if you continue to do wrong, your name will be written in the Book of Death. I no longer believe in God, but this Yom Kippur I have reviewed my life and have resolved to be a better daughter and granddaughter.

  My father and I walk together to the synagogue.

  ‘What happened next – after you couldn
’t find the jewellery and photos?’

  ‘We survived. But your grandmother was right. Life under the Communists was tough and it might have been easier for your mother if I had been a different type of man. I started a small timber yard, which was then taken away from me soon after the new regime came to power after the war. So quickly did the new owner, a Party appointee, want me out of my office at the timber yard – my office was about to become his office, you see – that I barely had time to collect my overcoat from the wardrobe.

  ‘Luckily I managed to get work fairly quickly as a factory manager. Kati and I had a not-so-bad little apartment and a healthy, happy child at last. Yes, I am talking about you, Eva. This was you. Life was good for us, or at least good enough.’

  I want to ask him about the other baby, my brother, but cannot.

  ‘My job, in addition to administrative duties, involved attending numerous after-work meetings,’ my father continued. ‘They were set up to help build worker solidarity and socialist consciousness. I loathed these stupid, pointless meetings that kept me longer from my family. One evening, when I had been at the job for about a year, I had to go to a meeting to hear the boss report on his visit to Russia. I was longing to be home; it was your first birthday and Kati was cooking solet, my favourite dish. Every time the names of the Communist leaders Stalin or Rákosi were said, all the comrades at the meeting were supposed to get to their feet immediately and clap. That evening I was wearing my heavy winter coat. It was hot in the room and I took off the coat and put it in my lap. Every time the names Stalin or Rákosi were said, I had to get up and put the coat down on the chair in order to leave my hands free to clap. When I was about to stagger to my feet for about the twentieth time and put the coat down on the chair, I could not stop a smile appearing on my face or prevent myself uttering a snort of derision at the ridiculous performance forced on me and everyone else in the room. A comrade who was also a Party spy, as so many were, saw the smile.