After they finished their coffee, Andras and Mátyás went out for a walk together in the mild September night. From Nefelejcs utca it was only a few blocks to the city park, where gold floodlights illuminated the Vajdahunyad Castle. The paths were full of pedestrians even at that hour; in the shadowy recesses of the castle walls they could see men and women moving against each other in imperfect privacy. Mátyás’s high spirits had quieted now that the two of them were alone. He crossed his arms over his chest as if he were cold in the warm breeze. His time in the Munkaszolgálat seemed to have sharpened him somehow; the planes of his face had become harder and more distinct. His high forehead and prominent cheekbones, so much like their mother’s, had begun to lend him a gravity that seemed at odds with his prankster wit.
“My brothers have beautiful wives,” he said. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous.”
“Well, I’d be rather disappointed if you weren’t.”
“You’re truly going to be a father?”
“So it seems.”
He let out a low whistle. “Excited?”
“Terrified.”
“Nonsense. You’ll be wonderful. And Klara’s been through it once before.”
“Her child wasn’t born during a war,” Andras said.
“No, but she didn’t have a husband then, either.”
“She didn’t seem so much the worse for it. She got work. She raised her daughter. Elisabet might have been a more pleasant girl if she’d had a different sort of family-a brother or sister to play with, and a father to stop her from being so unkind to her mother. But she turned out all right, after all. I’m not much use as a husband. So far I’ve been nothing but a weight around Klara’s neck.”
“You were drafted,” Mátyás said. “You had to serve. It’s not as though you had any choice.”
“I haven’t finished my studies. I can’t come home and start working as an architect.”
“Then you’ll go back to school.”
“If I can get into school. And then there’s the time and expense.”
“What you need,” Mátyás said, “is some well-paid work that doesn’t take all your time. Why not go into business with me?”
“What, as a tap dancer? Do you imagine us as a performing team? The Amazing Lévi Brothers?”
“No, you dolt. We’ll be a team of window-trimmers. The work will go twice as fast with two of us doing it. I’ll be the stylist. You’ll be my slave. We’ll get double the clients.”
“I don’t know if I could take orders from you,” Andras said. “You’d break my back.”
“What’ll you do for money, then? Sit on a street corner and make caricatures?”
“I’ve been thinking,” Andras said. “My old friend Mendel Horovitz worked at the Budapest Evening Courier before he went into the labor service. He says they’re always looking for layout artists and illustrators. And the pay’s not bad.”
“Akh. But then you’d just be someone else’s slave.”
“If I’ve got to be someone’s slave, I might as well do it in a field where I’ve got experience.”
“What experience?”
“Well, there was my old job at Past and Future. And then there are the newspapers Mendel and I have been making, the ones I wrote you about. I would have brought you a copy if I’d known I was going to see you.”
“I understand,” Mátyás said. “Window-trimming isn’t fancy enough work for you. Not after your Paris education.” He was teasing, but his expression betrayed a flicker of pique. Andras remembered the fierce letters Mátyás had written from Debrecen while Andras was in Paris-the ones in which Mátyás had claimed his own share of an education. Then the war had begun, and Mátyás had been stuck in Hungary, working first at window-trimming and then in the Munkaszolgálat. Andras was ashamed to realize that he did feel as if he should have moved beyond a job like window-trimming, which carried a flavor of commercial servitude. It was the wild luck of his last months in Paris that had made him feel that way, the kindness of his professors and his mentors that had led him to expect something different. But that was behind him now. He needed to earn money. In a few months he would be a father.
“Forgive me,” Andras said. “I didn’t mean to suggest your work wasn’t an art. It’s a higher art than newspaper illustration, that’s for certain.”
Mátyás’s look seemed to soften, and he put a hand on his brother’s arm. “That’s all right,” he said. “I might think myself too fine for window-trimming, too, if Le Corbusier and Auguste Perret had been my drinking companions.”
“We were never drinking companions,” Andras said.
“Don’t try to go in for humility now.”
“Oh, all right. We were great friends. We drank together constantly.” He fell silent, thinking of his real friends, the ones who were scattered across the Western Hemisphere now. Those men were his brothers too. But there hadn’t been word from Ben Yakov after that conciliatory telegram, nor from Polaner since he’d joined the Foreign Legion. Andras wondered what had happened to the photograph that had been taken when he and Polaner had won the Prix du Amphithéâtre. It seemed strange to think it might still exist somewhere, a record of a vanished life.
“You look grim, brother,” Mátyás said. “Do we need to get some wine into you?”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Andras said.
So they went to a café overlooking the artificial lake, the one that became a skating rink in winter, and they sat at a table outside and ordered Tokaji. The war had made wine expensive, but Mátyás insisted upon the indulgence and further insisted upon paying, since he didn’t have a wife or future child to support. He promised to let Andras pay the next time, once he’d landed a job at a newspaper, though of course neither of them knew when that might happen, or even when they might next be home together.
“Now, who’s this Serafina?” Andras asked, looking at his brother through the amber lens of his glass of Tokaji. “And when will we meet her?”
“She’s a seamstress at a dress shop on Váci utca.”
“And?”
“And, I met her when I was working on a window. She was wearing a white dress embroidered with cherries. I made her take it off so I could put it in the window display.”
“You made her take her dress off?”
“Do you see why it might be an attractive job?”
“Did she go back to her sewing machine naked?”
“No. Sadly, the dressmaker had something else for her to put on.”
“Now, that’s a shame.”
“Yes. I’ve felt the sting of it ever since. That’s why I decided to pursue her. I wanted to see what I missed when she stepped behind the changing-room curtain.”
“You must have seen enough to make it seem worth the pursuit.”
“Plenty. She’s what I like. Just a shade taller than me. Black hair cut into a neat little cap. And a mole on her cheek like a spot of brown ink.”
“Well, I can’t wait to make her acquaintance.”
Again, the glint of mirth faded out of Mátyás’s eyes; the faint shadows beneath them seemed to deepen as he looked down into his glass of wine. “I’m going to follow my company tomorrow,” he said. “We’re off to the big party.”
“What big party?”
“Belgorod, in Russia. The front lines.”
A terrible clang in Andras’s chest, as though the bell of his ribcage had been struck with an iron hammer. “Oh, Mátyás. No.”
“Yes,” Mátyás said. He looked up and grinned, but his expression was one of fear. “So you see, it’s a good thing we ran into each other.”
“Can’t you get a transfer? Have you tried?”
“Money’s the only way, and I’ve only got enough for small bribes.”
“How much would it cost?”
“Oh, I don’t know. At this point, hundreds. Maybe thousands.”
Andras thought again of György Hász in his villa on Benczúr utca, where he was most likely sitting by the fire in a cashm
ere robe and reading one of the financial papers. He wanted to take Hász and turn him upside down, shake him until gold coins rained out of him as if from a broken bank. He could think of no reason why that man’s son should have a painting studio and a stretch of leisure-filled months ahead, while Mátyás Lévi, son of Lucky Béla of Konyár, had to go to the Eastern Front and take his chances in the minefields. He, Andras, would be a fool, worse than a fool, if he allowed his pride to keep him from applying to György for help. This wasn’t a matter of whether or not Andras could support Klara and their child; Mátyás’s life was at stake.
“I’ll pay a visit to Hász,” Andras said. “They’ve got to have a chest of kroner hidden somewhere, or something they can sell.”
Mátyás nodded. “I don’t suppose József Hász has to go to the front lines.”
“No, indeed. József Hász has got himself a nice atelier in Buda.”
“How timely,” Mátyás said. “The destruction of the Western world should make an interesting subject.”
“Yes. Although, strange to say, I haven’t felt the urge to visit him and check the progress of his work.”
“That is strange.”
“In seriousness, though, I’m not sure Hász the Elder has ready cash. I think it’s all they can do to keep that house on Benczúr utca and maintain Madame’s furs and their opera box. They had to sell their car to get József exempted from his second call-up.”
“At least they still have the opera box,” Mátyás said. “Music can be such a comfort when other people are dying.” He winked at Andras, then raised his glass and drained it.
The next day, after Andras had seen his brother off at Nyugati Station, he went to call on György Hász at home. He knew Hász came home every day to have lunch with his wife and mother, and that afterward he liked to spend half an hour with the newspaper before he went back to his office. Even in uncertain times he was a man of regular habits. In defiance of the change in his professional circumstances, he had retained the gentlemanly schedule of his days as the bank’s director; his services were too valuable for the new bank president to prevent him from taking that liberty. As Andras had expected, he found his brother-in-law in the library of the house on Benczúr utca, his reading glasses on, the newspaper butterflied in his hands. When the manservant announced Andras’s arrival, Hász dropped the paper and got to his feet.
“Is everything well with Klara?” he said.
“Everything’s fine,” Andras said. “We’re both fine.”
Hász’s brow relaxed and he gave a sharp sigh. “Forgive me,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. I didn’t know you were home.”
“I’ve had a few days’ furlough. I’m going back tomorrow.”
“Please sit down,” Hász said. To the man who had conducted Andras in, he said, “Tell Kati to bring us tea.” The man went out silently, and György Hász gave Andras a slow, careful perusal. Andras had chosen to wear his Munkaszolgálat uniform that day, with its green M on the breast pocket and its mended places where Major Barna had torn off his marks of rank. Hász glanced at Andras’s uniform, then put a hand to his own tie, blue silk with a narrow ivory stripe. “Well,” he said. “You’ve got only three more months of service, by my calculation.”
“That’s right,” Andras said. “And then the baby will be born.”
“And you’re well? You seem well.”
“As well as can be expected.”
Hász nodded and sat back in his chair, crossing his fingers over his vest. In addition to the blue silk tie he was wearing an Italian poplin shirt and a suit of dark gray wool. His hands were the soft hands of a man who had always worked indoors, his fingernails pink and smooth. But he looked at Andras with such genuine and unguarded concern that it was impossible to resent him entirely. When the tea arrived, he prepared Andras’s cup himself and handed it across the table.
“How can I help you?” he said. “What brought you here?”
“My brother Mátyás has been deployed to the Eastern Front,” Andras said. “His company left this afternoon to meet the rest of their battalion in Debrecen, and from there they’ll go to Belgorod.”
Hász put down his cup and looked at Andras. “Belgorod,” he said. “The minefields.”
“Yes. They’ll be clearing the way for the Hungarian Army.”
“But what can I do?” Hász said. “How can I help him?”
“I know you’ve done a great deal for us already,” Andras said. “You’ve looked out for Klara while I’ve been away. That’s the best service you could have rendered me. Believe me, I would never ask for anything more if I didn’t believe it was a matter of life and death. But I wonder if it might be possible to do for Mátyás something like what you’ve done for József. If not exempt him entirely, at least get him transferred to another company. One that’s not likely to be so close to the action. He’s got eleven months left.”
György Hász raised an eyebrow, then sat back in his chair. “You’d like me to buy his freedom,” he said.
“At least his freedom from working on the front lines.”
“I understand.” He steepled his hands and looked at Andras across the desk.
“I know the price isn’t the same for everyone,” Andras said. He set his cup in the saucer and gave it a careful turn. “I imagine it would be a great deal less for my brother than it was for your son. I have the name of Mátyás’s battalion commander. If we could arrange for a certain sum to be transferred to him through an independent agent-a lawyer of your acquaintance, say-we might accomplish it all without revealing to the authorities the connection between your family and mine. That is to say, without compromising Klara’s security. I’m certain we could buy my brother’s freedom at what would seem to you a negligible sum.”
Hász pressed his lips together and brought his steepled hands against them, then tapped his fingers as he looked toward the fire. Andras waited for his answer as if György were a magistrate and Mátyás in the seat of judgment before him. But Mátyás was not, of course, before him; he was already on a train headed toward the Eastern Front. All at once it seemed a folly to have imagined that György Hász might have the power to stop what had already been set in motion.
“Does Klara know you came to me?” Hász asked.
“No,” Andras said. “Though she wouldn’t have discouraged me. She’s confident of your help in all matters. I’m the one whose pride generally prevents the asking.”
György Hász pushed himself up from the leather chair and went to tend the fire. The previous day’s soft heat had blown away overnight; a sharp wind rattled the casement windows. He moved the logs with the poker and a flight of sparks soared up into the heights of the fireplace. Then he replaced the tool and turned to face Andras.
“I have to apologize before I speak further,” he said. “I hope you’ll understand the decisions I’ve made.”
“Apologize for what?” Andras said. “What decisions?”
“For some time I’ve been operating under a rather heavy financial and emotional burden,” he said. “It’s entirely independent of my son’s situation, and I’m afraid it’s going to continue for some time. I can’t imagine what the end of it will be, in fact. I haven’t spoken to you about it because I knew it would be a source of worry at a time when your greatest concern was to stay alive. But I’m going to tell you now. It’s a grave thing you’ve come to ask of me, and I find it impossible to give an answer without making you understand my situation. Our situation, I should say.” He took his seat across from Andras once again and pulled his chair closer to the table. “It concerns someone dear to us both,” he said. “It’s about Klara, of course. Her troubles. What happened to her when she was a girl.”
Andras’s skin went cold all at once. “What do you mean?”
“Not long after you went into the Munkaszolgálat, a woman came forward and informed the authorities that the Claire Morgenstern who had recently entered the country was the same Klara Hász who had
fled eighteen years earlier.”
His ears rang with the shock of it. “Who?” he demanded. “What woman?”
“A certain Madame Novak, who had returned from Paris herself not long before.”
“Madame Novak,” Andras repeated. In his mind she appeared as she had that night at Marcelle Gérard’s party, quietly triumphant in her velvet gown and jasmine perfume-on the verge of effecting a twelve-hundred-kilometer separation between her husband and the woman he loved, the woman who had been his mistress for eleven years.
“So you know the situation, and why she might have done such a thing.”
“I know what happened in Paris,” Andras said. “I know why she has reason to hate Klara-or why she had reason to, in any case.”
“It seems to have been a persistent hate,” György said.
“You’re telling me that the authorities know. They know she’s here, and who she is. You’re telling me they’ve known for months.”
“I’m afraid so. They’ve compiled a great dossier on her case. They know everything about her flight from Budapest and what she’s done since then. They know she’s married to you, and they know all about your family-where your parents live, where your father works, what your brothers did before they entered the military, where they’re stationed now. There’s no chance, I’m afraid, that we could arrange an exemption for your brother at the common rate. Our families are connected, and the connection is known by those who have power in these matters. But even if we could convince your brother’s battalion commander to name a price-and that in itself is not at all certain, considering how many of those men are terrible anti-Semites-it might be impossible to produce the money. You see, I’ve had to make a financial arrangement to preserve Klara’s freedom, too. The chief magistrate in charge of her case happens to be an old acquaintance of mine-and happens, as well, to be intimate with my financial affairs, due to my removal from the bank presidency and my efforts to protest it. When the information about Klara emerged, he was the one to offer a kind of solution-or what one might call a solution, in the absence of any other source of hope. A sort of trade, as he put it to me. I would pay a certain percentage of my assets every month in perpetuity, and the Ministry of Justice would leave Klara alone. They would also see to it that the Central Alien Control Office renews her official residence permit each year. They don’t want her deported, of course, now that they’ve got her back in the country and can use her to their advantage.”
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