by Magda Szabo
With the Christmas dinner Sister Erzsébet surpassed herself. Gina laid and then cleared the table, and Torma acted as waitress. The director left soon afterwards, taking his niece with him. She went off with a gloomy face, to spend the start of her holiday in his apartment: the entire evening would be taken up listening to his endless comments about what this or that relative (none of whom she had ever met) was like, until he had exhausted his limited reserves of affection. The other teachers stayed on, Kalmár sitting close beside Susanna and Kőnig trying to entertain Miss Gigus, clearly without much success. She kept glancing at her watch, then suddenly excused herself and said she was going to the night-duty room because she was expecting an inter-city telephone call. Everyone stared after her in wonder: her face was lit by something that was certainly not very Matula. Kőnig suggested they play a few games and called Gina over to join them. She had been musing on her misfortunes next to the Christmas tree and envying Torma. At least a relative had spoken to her that evening and she had not been left there standing around on her own. But Sister Erzsébet shook her head. Games were for New Year’s Eve, not Christmas Eve; they would have plenty to amuse themselves with then. The director always gave permission for any staff who were not on night duty to go to Mitsi Horn’s: it was very jolly there and very good fun, even if they didn’t stay until midnight. They went there on the last day of the old year, as soon as the afternoon service finished, and stayed there until ten, which was quite long enough to have a really good time.
Gina’s memories of Mitsi Horn were still raw, Erzsébet bored her, she could hardly bear to look at Kőnig, and Kalmár was sitting beside Susanna explaining something of apparently great importance. There was no point in hanging about where she was totally superfluous. She asked permission to go back to her room and read. To her surprise Susanna also stood up and said that she too was tired and needed to rest, if not actually go to bed. That put a sudden end to what little was left of the festive mood, and now that the prefect was leaving, everyone else got to their feet and prepared to follow her. Kőnig muttered something about having to be somewhere else, Kalmár seemed suddenly upset and anxious, and Erzsébet suppressed a yawn. Kőnig was the first to disappear, in the direction of the teachers’ quarters; Erzsébet set off towards the porter’s lodge, saying she wanted to have a word with the porter and see how their party was going, then she too was going to bed. Gina followed a short way behind Kalmár and Susanna. The class tutor was trying to speak as softly as he could while avoiding the suggestion of whispering, which was forbidden in the Matula, but Gina could tell that he had said something to Susanna to which the answer was a decided “no,” whereupon he bade the two of them goodnight and went off to the staff common room. He’ll be spending his Christmas Eve in there on his own, Gina thought. He’ll be listening to the radio or the gramophone. He must have had something very particular to say to her—probably asking if he could go back to her room with her. But she obviously isn’t the least bit interested in him, and anyway, she would never receive a man in there. This Kalmár must be very much in love to be so utterly blind.
So now it was just herself and Susanna making their way down the corridor. The prefect had put on leather-soled shoes like Gina’s for the occasion and they clattered loudly on the hard floor. Going back to her temporary abode Gina had the feeling she sometimes had at home, when the fire was put out and the heat seemed to drain from the walls. She was oppressed by a consciousness of living in a world of strangers, subject to rules that constantly disrupted the rhythm of her life, and where everything that belonged to her, everything that was part of her, seemed far away. In truth she had felt close to none of them that evening: she was an orphan, just like Torma. As she walked along beside Susanna her head drooped, then came up sharply as Susanna let out a cry. It was a very small cry—she always expressed her joy and her distress with equal restraint—and it was a cry of surprise. Gina looked for the cause and discovered what it was. Suspended from the handle of Susanna’s door was a small packet. Gina had been given these jewelry boxes so many times, both by her father and Auntie Mimó, that the familiar shape declared itself at once through the shiny paper.
“Oh my God,” Susanna gasped and instantly blushed at the word one should never take in vain. “Someone’s paid me a secret visit.”
Marcelle would have been well pleased with Gina. She took her leave at once and went off down the last of the corridors, leaving the prefect to deal with her Christmas surprise alone. Who it had come from, and what it might contain, was clearly a greater mystery to her than it was to Gina. She had pictured Kalmár’s engagement ring adorning the prefect’s busy hand so many times that the moment she was back in her room she forgot her unhappiness and her longing for home and wrote, on the two middle pages of her exercise book, the ones you could tear out: The engagement of Mr. Péter Kalmár and Miss Susanna Molnár. It was such a shame Torma wasn’t with her. They could have talked about it at length, then sneaked over to eavesdrop outside Susanna’s room. She found she could not bear to be on her own a minute longer. She went back to the teachers’ residence and stood outside the barred gate waiting for the director to grow weary of family life. But Torma did not appear, and there was no sign of Susanna. The only sound came from the staff lounge, where the strains of “Stille Nacht” were playing quietly on the radio. Her sense of excitement and curiosity drained away, and she lost interest in both Susanna and Kalmár. It was Christmas Eve, the others were all getting on with their own lives, their private joys and griefs, while she floundered around, abandoned, alone and desperately missing her father. If only she could hear his voice! She was as lonely and bereft as only an adult could be, beyond tears, enveloped in a sadness like that of old age.
Hearing someone approaching from the direction of the night-duty room she spun round. Miss Gigus must have finished her conversation on the telephone because she was on her way to the staff quarters. She could have been any one of Auntie Mimó’s friends, a slim, attractive, dark-haired young woman smiling a secret, happy smile. She had spoken with a man, Gina was sure. Miss Gigus was going to get married. Only spinsters and bachelors were allowed to live in the wings for the teachers and the deaconesses, so she would be moving out in the new year and going to live in town . . . and all this had come about because she had spoken to someone on the telephone that evening. Did the operators have any idea how much happiness they spread?
The moment it struck her the thought became an impulse. The duty room, the room with the inter-city telephone line, was standing there empty. Susanna would be contemplating her engagement ring, Erzsébet had gone to bed, Kőnig was probably no longer in the building, Kalmár was waiting in the lounge to hear what the prefect thought of his gift and the director was playing at family life. No one was anywhere near. She stepped inside.
Her fingers were trembling with excitement, and she had difficulty finding the light switch. Next to the telephone there was a board bearing the most important numbers: Emergency Services, Police, Fire Brigade, Inter-City, Telegrams. She dialed the central post office and asked for a connection between the Matula Academy and Budapest 557 599, then sat down beside the receiver and prepared for the call. My dear father, she said in her head, in a sort of prayer, I know it’ll be you who picks the receiver up. The staff will be having the evening off, and you’ll take this yourself. I promise you I won’t chatter away. I won’t say anything. I won’t even speak, or give my name, or say who I am. I just want to hear you breathe, and clear your throat, and say “hello.” As soon as you do that I’ll put the receiver down. The silence at this end will make it seem like a wrong number. It’s Christmas Eve. I know you’ll understand.
She waited. The minutes ticked by. She heard footsteps coming down the corridor, then falling silent just outside the door. Oh my God, she thought in terror, there’s two of them out there. They came from opposite directions. Please let them go away; they mustn’t start talking here. What if one of them wants to use the telephone? That w
ould be just my luck.
One of the pair spoke. She could hear every word.
“Was it from you?” Susanna asked.
“Was what?” Kőnig asked.
There was no reply. If she had not been so agitated and so focused on what she was waiting for she might have taken more in, but she had been thrown into total disarray by their stopping to talk where they had, and she felt utterly ashamed of what the prefect had just done. She would have expected rather more from her: how could she ever imagine that Kőnig—Kőnig, who she must have realized had been avoiding her ever since the harvest-gathering and the Bishop’s visit—would have given her such a present?
Silence. What on earth were they doing now? Susanna had still not answered his question. Surely she wasn’t still showing him what was in the box?
She was. This was clear because he laughed and said, “An engagement ring? Me? I gave this to you, Susanna?”
This was pure torture. Here she was, witness to an exchange that would never have been allowed to take place in the presence of a pupil, but in circumstances that made it impossible for her to exult in. She knew she should have turned her attention elsewhere and not stayed there eavesdropping so avidly; she should have been praying to be left alone to wait for her telephone call, and for them to take themselves off.
The Deaconess had still not replied. Gina could imagine her face turning red with shame and embarrassment, and it served her right. Kőnig, that cowardly sentimentalist, now showed he could also be brutal and rejecting. Hadn’t she learned that lesson when she followed him on the train?
“The only woman I could ever marry is Mitsi Horn,” he told her. “Sadly, she isn’t interested. I’m off to see her right now; we’re going to light her Christmas Eve fire. Go to the staff lounge, Sister, and comfort Péter Kalmár. He’s the one who had this ring made for you: I saw him going into the jeweler’s. You should be impressed that he found enough gold to make a ring.”
Something was murmured, so softly that she failed to catch it, but she gathered what it was from his reply. “No, I’m not in the least put out. I’m not even sorry about the misunderstanding. It’s given me the chance to say something to you. Let me be, Susanna. Don’t keep running after me and being so very kind to me. I’m not worth bothering about, so there’s no point.”
No answer was possible to that, or rather not in words. There came only the clatter of Susanna’s receding shoes. As full as her heart was with her own concerns and problems, Gina turned white with rage. The wretch! The nonentity! The clodhopper! How dare he talk to Susanna like that! And what could he possibly have been thinking—that anyone would ever want to marry him? What a disgrace! She listened again. The silence seemed to go on forever. Was he still there behind the door? “Please let him go away,” she murmured. Her heart was beating wildly. “Let him go to the bosom of his chosen one, Mitsi Horn, and may we never set eyes on him again!”
At long last he set off down the corridor. Why he had stayed there so long continued to puzzle her. Was he trying to gather his thoughts, or summon up the strength to take himself off? At that moment the telephone burst into life, and her heart jumped. The noise was even more strident than she had expected, and she picked up the receiver in terror.
“Matula?” a voice inquired. “Is that the Matula Academy? I have your connection to Budapest. Please speak now.”
The line started to buzz, and there was a loud ticking noise. She had no idea when he had entered the room because the door was closed behind him and she was completely engrossed in the call. She became aware of him only as he lifted the receiver out of her hands and replaced it on its cradle. Years later, when the two of them recalled that episode, he told her that, though she might not believe it, she had screamed at him as if he were attacking her.
“Ahem,” he coughed. “What’s all this about? Go back to your room like a good girl, Vitay.”
She began to wrestle with him, like someone in a frenzy. She was strong, and she surprised him. He had not expected her to resist, least of all because he was holding a bunch of flowers in his left hand. Even in that surreal moment she spotted the white violets peeping out from the silky wrapping paper and fell on them in a rage, tore them from his hand and hurled them to the floor. He stooped to pick them up, and she immediately grabbed the receiver again: it was now ringing non-stop, as if trying to make out what was going on. Kőnig threw the flowers down to free both hands, then seized her with his right and the receiver with the left. Then, as calmly and naturally as to someone present in the room, he spoke into it: “Would you kindly terminate this call. No one here wishes to speak to anyone.” Only when it had gone completely silent did he release the girl.
Neither of them had noticed, but Susanna had also responded to Gina’s screams and was now in the room. She took Gina outside at once. Gina allowed herself to be led away without a word of protest. Her hatred of Kőnig was so powerful it propped her up like a walking stick. He trotted along beside them explaining to Susanna that poor little Vitay had apparently wanted to telephone Budapest, but the pupils were not allowed to make such calls, it was a school rule. Susanna took her back to her room, sat down beside her and took her hand. She immediately began to calm down, and soon she was able to feel something other than her own rage. She was thinking how very cold Susanna’s fingers were.
The first words she managed to utter were not “Forgive me, I am so sorry,” but “How I hate Mr. Kőnig!”
“A good Christian hates no one,” Susanna replied, and immediately let go of her hand. Her speech became cold and impersonal. “Pull yourself together. This is no way to behave.”
“I can’t bear it.” Gina sobbed, forgetting that it was foolish to try to explain and that it would have been far better to say nothing. “I can’t bear anything to do with the Matula.”
“But you will have to bear it, or it will be even harder for you to wait for the holiday to end. I shall have to punish you for trying to use the telephone, and for the way you behaved towards your teacher, so don’t raise your hopes, Georgina. He can do nothing for you after this. Don’t expect him to forgive you, as he has so many times before. For the rest of the holiday I shall not allow you out of school, and you will not be going to Auntie Mitsi’s on New Year’s Eve. You will remain here with the night-duty staff. You must learn to control your temper once and for all.”
“I shall hate Mitsi Horn as long as I live,” she sobbed, “and I don’t care if Mr. Kőnig forgives me or not. He needn’t bother. I will never forgive him.”
“Go to bed, Georgina. It pains me very much that this should have happened on Christmas Eve. It pains me too to have to be severe with you, but it is for your own good. I feel very sorry for you, but I have good reason to feel the same for myself.” And she stood up to leave.
The thought of being left alone even for a second was unbearable to Gina, even more than the recriminations and the punishment that awaited her. Torma was elsewhere, she had no one. If she had managed to make that telephone call then at least the punishment would not have been for nothing. But it had all been pointless, because of Kőnig. And Susanna’s words were hollow. If she really did feel sorry for her she would not be leaving her alone; she had no such feelings; all she could think of was Kőnig; she was a hypocrite. The hatred she felt for Kőnig flooded through her like a poison, and she no longer knew what she was saying.
“Why should it bother the prefect if I hate Mitsi Horn or my teacher? She has her own reasons for hating both of them, so why is she protecting him? It’s Mitsi Horn that he is in love with, not the Sister. He was taking her flowers, only I smashed them.”
Susanna froze in the doorway and looked at her. Her face was expressionless, as if she had not heard. But she had taken everything in. She nodded her head, then said very quietly, “I forgive you for that, Georgina, with all my heart. But what is coming to you in the next few weeks and days is something you will have to endure with the same degree of courage you have shown in giving offence t
o grown-ups whose lives you know absolutely nothing about.”
When Torma came in she found Gina lying in darkness. She had been struggling the whole evening to find answers to her uncle’s questions that would not make him even more irritable, and she was exhausted; finding the lights off made her look around in surprise. She turned them back on, and when she realized that Gina was still awake she set the little plaster dog down on her bedside table. Having sobbed her heart out, Gina had calmed down and was able to speak again. She greeted Torma, and told her to look under her quilt where she would find something that Father Christmas had put there for her. Torma pulled the cover back, took one look at the nightgown, knelt down beside the bed and rubbed her lovable round face in the silk. Unable to say a word, she breathed heavily and stroked the soft material. Gina looked at her the way Susanna had so recently looked at her, like a sorrowful adult contemplating a child. She would have given years of her life not to have humiliated the prefect by making it clear that she had overheard that conversation outside the door, and she wished even more that she had not succumbed to the dangerous charms of Christmas and broken the promise she had given to her father not to try to contact him. Her hopes for the rest of her holiday and for everything else could be put to one side, but there was one thing she was certain of, that she would never, ever, forgive Kőnig. Torma heard her through to the end, and was horrified. What had Gina got herself into again? But she could only agree with her about Kőnig’s barefaced cheek.
She tried the nightgown on immediately. It was a bit too long, but otherwise fitted her well. She raised the hem with a piece of string tied round the waist and sauntered around in it as if it were an evening dress. If there was one thing Gina took away from that Christmas Eve, something she could hold on to and cherish, it was the radiant joy on Torma’s face.
