by Magda Szabo
The next day the north wind sprang up.
Gina had thought that she could never again be surprised by anything the weather might do. She knew what it was like to be out at sea, she had even been on a ship during a storm, she had paced the shores of the Atlantic in driving rain, experienced the furnace that was Sicily and stood on the edge of a glacier; but in Árkod she was to encounter something quite new: the wind of the Great Plain. In later years, whenever she dreamed of the fortress and the city the wind would always be present, moving restlessly among human figures obscurely glimpsed in the haze.
The noise it made was tremendous. Coming from the north, it brought a chill that cut to the bone. The radiators lining the corridors pumped out their heat in vain; it poured round the edges of closed windows and the girls shivered in its breath; they heard it night and day, howling without a moment’s pause. It went on for nearly a week. At supper on the Thursday before the service the church bell ringer appeared, asked the director for permission to speak and delivered a message from the Chaplain. The next day they were to dress up warmly. An hour earlier, as the church was being cleaned, the wind had smashed one of the windows. Mr. Mráz had been sent for, but his men were unable to do anything before the morning, and by then the temperature in the church would have plummeted. The wind was quite exceptional. Even snow would have been better.
And he added a personal detail, to add spice to the news. The gales had been so fierce that they had gathered dust from the Great Plain and the surrounding farmland and blown it into the city. It was still swirling about in the streets, and it was unclear whether the cantor would be in a fit state to play the organ: he could barely see out of one of his eyes. It was blood-red and inflamed by the dust, and he was wheezing with catarrh from whatever it was that had been blown in his face.
There was little interest in the state of the cantor’s eye. The girls had other concerns now. And there was something else that they were starting to talk about in hushed tones in their rest period, something none of the teachers ever mentioned. The gale had liberated something more elemental, a sense of foreboding that they were too young to put into words. The older Aradi sat staring straight ahead, ignoring the open book on her lap. She was thinking of what it must be like at the front, where her Fido would be tending to the wounds of some poor soldier, and she was wondering if the same icy wind was raging over there.
They could still hear it when they went to bed. It sent them to sleep earlier than usual, and the next morning they did not, for once, have to be constantly chivvied to get up. Szabó’s eavesdropped news had worked its effect. Their faces were lit up by the prospect of their encounter with the outside world, the world they only ever became part of during their afternoon walks, and the hope of seeing something really interesting. It was to be a day like no other in the school year.
In the Sokoray Atala, and generally in Budapest, the last Sunday in November and the arrival of December had never been thought of or talked about as particularly special, either at home or at Auntie Mimó’s. But here in the Matula the mood seemed to change from one day to the next, as you might reset a heating system. Like Christmas itself, St. Nicholas seemed to be taking forever to come. It was inconceivable to Gina that her father would not find a way to be with her, even if the great project he and his colleagues were engaged in was moving into a critical phase. She was sure he would think of something that would take him to a neutral venue, perhaps on a visit to friends, or he might even stay in the school itself. People from outside had been known to take advantage of its hospitality.
As she was doing her hair before setting off for the service Gina thought about something else that Szabó had heard: people from the garrison would be present. She often thought of the soldiers stationed in Árkod: their uniforms always brought her father and Feri to mind, and with them the incredibly brave, faceless person based there who was working in the same cause as the General. She never doubted for a moment that even if he were the leader of the civil defense he must be a soldier.
That day the blue crocodile glided down the streets with a disciplined elegance it had never managed before. There was one particularly exciting moment on the way, when they caught sight of the Cock-a-doodle-doos in the distance, going to their own service, held not of course in the great white church but in a smaller one built of red brick and altogether less distinguished. They spotted the Matula in their turn, and the teachers of both schools were given strong cause for satisfaction: the moment they caught sight of each other, both the state-educated girls on their way to the red-brick building and their counterparts from the Academy marching to the white one struck out for the honor of their schools, and the standard of their performance reached a level such as no orders or instructions could ever have achieved. Both Aradi and the distant leader of the Cock-a-doodle-doos strove to carry their banners with a self-confident swagger that cried out to be filmed.
A large crowd had gathered outside the church. Gina had never before seen so many people in Árkod, or such a large congregation, and she noted with delight that it did indeed include members of the garrison. Although it was forbidden to stare at them, she took regular glances both at the officers and the women with them, reflecting in wonderment how long it had been since she had seen anyone who was so well dressed. The Matula staff wore a regulation gown during lessons, and when they did appear in their own clothes, for example at mealtimes, they all, with the notable exception of Miss Gigus, opted for decidedly old-fashioned styles, as if to convey that what was important lay within and no manner of garment or display of ephemeral glamour could make up for that. Gina studied these meticulously turned-out city women, with their beautifully coiffed hair just visible under their hats, and marveled too at the men: they were all so like the ones she had been used to seeing in her former life. It was the first time she had been to one of these special services and now she was experiencing for herself the truly high regard in which the school was held. As representatives of the ancient foundation it was they who led the procession in: it was only when they had passed through the main entrance, with the school standard and the director at their head, and had been followed in by the civic leaders, that the townsfolk and people who had no connection with the Matula were allowed in.
It was bitterly cold inside, colder even than she had expected, but who cared when they were part of such a magnificent gathering? In Árkod the custom was that the men and women sat in separate pews; only the form tutors broke the rule and remained with their charges. Gina knew she was supposed to be bent in prayer, but she gazed instead around the congregation, watching the officers and the townsfolk dividing off from their wives and taking their seats behind the church officials, and the ladies making their way to look for seats on the female pews. From where she was sitting she had a very clear view, one that included everyone both from the school and from outside. The Chaplain was in a separate pew with his face, as usual, buried in his hands in fervent prayer. Beside him was the assistant chaplain, a man they all knew well by sight. He was the older brother of Salm’s Samuka, and the girls often thought that the director should invite him to lead the evening prayers—though in that case they might pay less than full attention to the Word of God. Gedeon Torma knew exactly why the Chaplain and he had agreed that only he should be in charge of religious instruction, the Sunday sermon and the twice-daily prayers, and why, if he were ever unable to do so through illness, or was away on leave in the summer, his stand-in would have to be some doddering old worthy from the local seminary. Samuka’s brother was leaning forward in a mirror image of the priest, and his head too was buried in his hands, on the same level within a hair’s breadth.
The cantor started to play. The organ boomed out, but unfortunately not very accurately, and the melody kept breaking down. Word had of course spread the day before that he was having trouble with his eyes, and although years of practice should have guided his fingers the irritation in one of them made it hard for him to concentrate on the music.
But it was clear enough that the tune was “Beloved Advent, we greet you,” the seasonal hymn that announced the start of the festive season. Gina knew it well but had forgotten its number. She glanced at the board listing the day’s hymns.
There were three of them scattered round the church, one facing the pulpit, another over the entrance and one just above the gallery opposite. It had not been the practice in Budapest, as it was here, to display the various texts and psalms to be used during the service, and all three boards carried the full list. They had been concealed behind folding doors while the congregation continued to pour in; it was only when everyone was seated that the three designated church officials would leave their seats beside the organ and make their way, solemnly and with folded hands, towards the wooden steps leading up to them, and fling the covers open with a grand flourish to reveal the chosen hymns. Then, as they processed back to their seats, the congregation would have a chance to thumb through their hymn books and find the songs they were unfamiliar with. The cantor sounded the introduction, everyone rose to their feet and began to sing. Well, Gina thought, I’m certainly glad to welcome you, Advent. I have waited for you long enough. And perhaps I shall even see my father at Christmas.
The organ grew louder and the officials set off on their journey. D, G, F, E, F, E, D, A, H, G, F, G, E, D, A . . . They arrived at their respective galleries and flung the wooden covers open. All eyes, including Gina’s, were raised to see which hymn number would be first—surely one of those near the beginning, somewhere between twenty and thirty? She would probably know only the first stanza by heart and would have to look up the rest.
A wave of shame passed through her when she realized how far out she had been. She had reckoned she knew her way around the canticles well enough by now—there were a great many of them and they had certainly given her enough trouble. But once again she had got it wrong. Had Hajdú known he would have sent her straight to the corner. To have confused a hymn with a psalm! It was ridiculous. But the error was logical enough, since the canticles associated with a special ceremony were usually the latter. Right, so it must be Psalm 72. But the tune was exactly the same as for “Welcome, beloved Advent.” She leafed frantically through her hymn book, as everyone else was now doing apart from the two priests, who remained slumped forward in their pews and continued to pray regardless of the confusion around them. Psalm 72 was not one she had ever learned, but luckily she knew the tune: it was the same as “On top of Mount Sion.” The cantor must have gone completely mad! Why was he still playing “Welcome, beloved Advent?” Thank heavens they hadn’t started singing that out of sheer habit! Hymn books were now open in all the pews. No one knew this psalm, and they all stared at the text, trying to make sense of it. Everyone was caught in the same dilemma.
And that was why the scandal that ensued would be talked over in such horrified tones and picked over for weeks and months to come, in religious and lay circles alike. The organist continued to boom out the opening hymn, as he had been for the last several minutes, but the entire school and everyone else was now taking instruction from the boards and had started out on a very different tune from that of “On top of Mount Sion.” The Matula girls had had a long training in sacred music, and even after the congregation had fallen silent in stupefaction they continued to belt out the first, with all the attention to timing and volume that Hajdú would have wished.
Endow the King with your justice, oh Lord, and his Son with your righteousness, that he may direct his great army with wisdom and rule justly over your suffering people.
At first few people seemed to realize what was happening, but both the Chaplain and the elder Samuka reacted as if they had been rapped across the knuckles and pulled their heads out of their hands at almost the same moment. Lengyel, who had a sore throat and had not been singing but simply miming, reckoned that it would take stronger language than any normal person might use to describe the facial expressions of those around her. As far as Gina was concerned, the words of the Protestant psalms had always seemed peculiar, and she had been taught at the Matula not to bother her head too much about what the references to Sion or Israel, or the harps in the willow trees by the waters of Babylon, might actually mean. But however bemused they might have been by the fact that the cantor was playing something quite different from what had appeared on the boards, and by the resulting cacophony that was now rising to the heavens, the girls simply ignored what was happening around them and kept their eyes fixed on their hymn books. The psalm was completely new to them, it was one they had never learned, and they trembled at the idea that Hajdú might notice that they had gone astray. Their fortissimo and their purity of diction had reached an exemplary perfection when the church officials suddenly put down their hymn books and the director leaped to his feet, followed by the Mayor, the Commander of the garrison and the County Sheriff. The elder Samuka dashed over to the priests’ pew and began an urgent parley with the red-faced elders, while the teachers and deaconesses tried desperately to silence their charges—in vain: it was they after all who had beaten the iron discipline into the girls that forbade the raising of eyes during the recital of a psalm. Their young voices were now sounding forth the second stanza of this appalling text, loud and clear: “May Peace return to the mountains, / Justice be restored on the downs, / the villages spared all this conflict / and the Tyrant overthrown.”
The three last phrases could barely be heard. The girls had finally realized that something very odd was happening and that they should stop singing. The pews around them where the adults were sitting had already grasped the enormity of the outrage; the organ fell silent, as did the whole school. Those of the guests who had not leaped from their seats and made for the exits with fury and indignation on their faces were now sitting bolt upright in their pews. Gina, being familiar with the various military ranks, had decided which of the uniformed men present was the Chief of Police, and she was fairly sure that the two rather elegant gentlemen who had been the first to march angrily out had been the Mayor and the Lord Lieutenant. The Police Chief had dispatched a lower-ranking officer after them but remained where he was, repeatedly glancing up at the hymn board and noting down the numbers of the psalms and canticles in his notebook. The Chaplain had now taken up position in the pulpit, though his ascent had not been made with his usual processional dignity, or the famous serenity he usually exuded in his glittering silk robes: he had raced up the steps in leaps and bounds as if fired from a gun. Dispensing with the customary “Peace and Mercy be upon you,” he gabbled out words to the effect that someone had altered the list of canticles, and would the congregation kindly engage in a few moments of silent prayer while the wardens put them right. He had checked them himself the evening before and again in the morning, and on both occasions, he reassured them, they had shown the correct information.
The silence that reigned was as profound as for the Lord’s Prayer, and the whole building hummed with tension. While she waited to see what would come up on the boards next, Gina surreptitiously opened her hymn book at the list of contents page. She was interested to know what the ones displayed had been about and she marked them off with her thumbnail: Psalm 52, hymn number 239, stanzas 1–3, and the Anthem. She knew there would be no chance to look them up straight away, but later that afternoon, when they at last had some free time, all the girls would open the psalm and discover its horrifying content: “Why, oh Tyrant, do you glory in evil? Why in your hour of fortune are you puffed up with pride? The Lord will cast you down forever.” And as for canticle 239, it had obviously been given its prominent position because it was the one traditionally reserved not for a patriotic ceremony, and certainly never for a day of festivity such as the name day of the Regent, but for occasions of national mourning.
In a very short time the boards had been restored by the shaking hands of the church officials. It seemed that they should have begun with hymn 28, welcoming the beginning of Advent, and moved on to the main canticle, “Eternal God, Father
of your people, You who watch over us”—the one used on occasions of national rejoicing. But by then the girls could have been singing whatever they liked. One by one the city fathers had marched out, and the military officers with them. The first to leave, it later transpired, had gone straight to the presbytery to await the arrival of the luckless Chaplain. He, meanwhile, in a voice quite unlike his usual one, and in jumbled phrases that did more to confuse whoever might still be listening to him, tried to thread together the themes of his Advent sermon, rejoicing in the fact that our destiny lay in the hands of such a wise leader, whom may God preserve. The teachers were trying to behave as if nothing had happened, though it was obvious that Kalmár was very angry and Susanna rather frightened. Kőnig was for once not booming away at the top of his voice—perhaps because he had caught a bad cold and had a vicious cough. The director’s face was covered in red blotches. The older girls were struggling to work out what was going on: the country no longer had a king, the national leader was the Regent, and it was his wisdom that had been challenged by whoever had interfered with the boards . . . and it was also to him—on his name day!—that the pleas for a return to the rule of law and the blessings of peace had been addressed. If one understood the real message of the altered boards it was that this was a day not of rejoicing but of national mourning. How utterly disgraceful!
For her part, Gina finally began to make sense of what had taken place: Kalmár’s indignation overruled his training not to mention lay matters during a church service and he whispered in Susanna’s ear, “It’s that scoundrel once again; he can’t even respect a church service.”
