Katalin Street

by Magda Szabo

  Sooner or later one of us would find the missing article and they would be able to leave. From the way they walked off together, side by side, it was obvious that none of what had just happened was of the slightest importance. The storm had blown over. In fact, my father might have been rather less happy if he’d had his way. That would have left only Blanka to correct and admonish. He would have had nothing more serious or challenging to do than break the will of a child.

  On that particular evening he was hunting for a button to go on his shirt. He had searched in every place he could think of, walking back and forth by the light of the bedside lamp. He knew there would be no point looking in the drawer of the worktable—there was only writing paper in there, and a little cup with a broken handle that was waiting to be mended. I sat up in bed and watched him, but he didn’t notice me and carried on moving around the room. I couldn’t see my mother’s face, just her bare shoulders and her back. Even in sleep she was a figure of beauty and repose. I knew very little about sexual matters, but even at that age I sensed that they were able to give each other some deep happiness during the night that was far more intense and fundamental than the bitter squabbles of the day. Blanka was sound asleep, and I could see very little of her face.

  I have no idea why, but at that moment I felt a love and pity for him that I had never felt before or have indeed since, even now that I know the difficult situation in which he lives and what it means to him to have lost his sight. Perhaps it was the night, and the silence, that helped me understand how deeply lonely he was, and how heavy the thoughts that weighed on his drooping head.

  When he started rummaging again in the drawers that he had already been through, it broke my heart. I knew how hard he worked, how exhausted he must be. So at last I whispered, “It’s in the kitchen, in the bowl on top of the kitchen scales.” He put down the shirt he had been holding, looked at me, nodded once or twice, but said nothing, obviously not wanting to wake the others. There was no praise for the help I had given him. Instead he put his hands together and placed his head against them, telling me to go back to sleep. I didn’t. I waited for him to come back. I was now afraid that Rose might have found the buttons lying around and moved them somewhere else, so he would have gone downstairs for nothing. But no, when he came back he was holding the little display card they were fixed on. He found a needle and thread, and started to sew.

  Without saying a word I got out of bed, went over to him, and took the shirt and the needle out of his hand. He stood beside me and watched as I worked. I was still very small then, but very skillful and every bit as orderly, precise, and methodical as he was. The light from the bedside lamp cast shadows on the wall and they followed the tiny movements of my hand. All was silence, apart from the barely audible breathing of my mother and Blanka. He stood there as I worked. In my hand gleamed the immaculate shirt that had been put ready for the morning in the drawer—with a button missing halfway down the front.

  When I had finished, he whispered his thanks and left the room. I went back to my bed and snuggled down, feeling suddenly very tired. It didn’t surprise me that he had gone back to his study. He often stayed up late, writing articles for professional journals or poems for special occasions, and sometimes letters. What did surprise me was finding him standing beside my bed again. I looked up at him anxiously, a sick feeling in my stomach. Perhaps my work hadn’t been up to standard? Every failure distressed me: I couldn’t bear imperfection in the most trivial things. All thought of sleep had vanished.

  There was a slip of paper in his hand. I had no idea what he wanted. Perhaps he wanted to give me a kiss and go to bed at last. But he made no move; he just stood there holding the paper. In the light of the bedside lamp it took on the same surreal gleam as the shirt. It occurred to me that perhaps, for some strange reason, he wanted me to see what he had written on it, to read the letter or whatever it was on the slip of paper. I reached out and his fingers let it fall on the bedcover. When I saw what it was the blood rushed to my face.

  As the headmaster of the school we attended, he was the one who had introduced the practice of giving out gold and black cards of commendation or blame. We collected these cards and handed them in at the end of the year. Our teachers then counted them up, and those who had the greatest number of golds were given a special prize. At speech day the winners were brought up onto the podium in the middle of the school courtyard to stand beside my father and be rewarded with a book. Parents could also ask for a gold or black card for a pupil whose behavior at home had been either exceptionally good or the reverse, and they regularly made requests for the former, to acknowledge the domestic accomplishments of their daughters. In our house there was certainly no shortage of opportunities to do this. Even as a young child I regularly did more than enough, taking full adult responsibility for my mother or for Blanka. But my father was anxious to preserve his impartiality. He had often asked for black cards for Blanka but never a gold one for me.

  And now there was this letter in my hand, addressed to my teacher:

  Dear Sir,

  My daughter Irén has sacrificed her sleep to perform a task with special diligence and care. Please consider her for a gold commendation.

  Respectfully yours,

  Abel Elekes, Parent

  We looked at each other—he with that little half smile, the one I so seldom saw, softening his craggy features, and I, completely unsmiling, suddenly very upset and close to tears. Every year since I had been at the school I had stood beside him on the podium and he had shaken my hand. At the end of every year I had listened to the applause and savored the sweet taste of success as he presented me with a book. But that particular year my hopes had been dashed. I had missed a whole quarter due to scarlet fever and had struggled to make up what I had missed. My marks were all outstanding, but for three months I had been out of school and had no opportunity to gather cards. The letter brought with it all the pain of an old wound opening: that he should only now, for the very first time, be prepared to help me in this way, despite the fact that I had always been so attentive and good, and that I was forever tidying up after my mother and Blanka. He should have been asking for gold cards for me every day. Rose wasn’t up to the job of keeping the house tidy, and if it weren’t for me the place would have been in total chaos. Sometimes, when my father was in an even grimmer mood than usual and she was frightened by his silences, my mother would tell outright lies, claiming that it was Blanka, not she, who had done whatever it was. Blanka would take the blame, submit to the chastisement that followed, and be rewarded later with an apple, a piece of chocolate, or a ribbon for her hair. It was a game they played. I was the only one who was straightforward and honest.

  “Are you happy?” he whispered, and once again that little half smile lit up his face. “You’ve been such a good girl tonight.” I made no reply. He took that as a “yes,” and switched off the light so that I wouldn’t see him getting undressed. I was still awake when I heard his breathing become regular and I knew he had fallen asleep. My little Kinga has the same ability to nod off quickly and easily.

  I was unhappy as only a child can be. The letter was still on the chair beside my bed, where I had laid out my carefully brushed clothes and fresh underwear for the morning. I fumbled around for the piece of paper and brushed it off onto the floor.

  The next day I handed it in to my teacher. I was given a gold card in exchange and dropped it in the bag where I kept the others. Every student had the identical bag, made by their mothers according to a prescribed pattern: mine had been made by my father when I was still in a junior class. Blanka, who very occasionally, when she was bored, liked to imitate me, saw the bag in my hand and took out her own. She had five gold cards. Lord knows how she had come by them—she never collected that many in a whole year. Now I thought a bit more kindly toward my father than I had the night before: what torments he must have put himself through to get her—on five separate occasions—to the level where she could perform s
o well! Or perhaps he had finally managed to explain to her that she should pull herself together, and they were for exemplary conduct.

  She laid her cards out in a pattern. She was thrilled with them, and counted them again and again, unable to believe that there should be so many. Anger and bitterness swept over me, and something happened that very rarely did between us—I shouted at her: why was she trying to annoy me, showing off with her crummy little cards? She knew absolutely nothing, her work was useless, and I wasn’t going to be first in my class this year despite all my hard work just because I hadn’t been able to collect all the cards I needed.

  She made no reply—she was used to being scolded. She just picked her things up and took herself off. I saw little of her for the rest of the day. She went to the Helds and stayed there, even when we called over the fence for her to come home. My mother went to get her and slapped her bottom, and once again she cried. She was grumpy all that evening. Then, without any warning, she was bright and happy again. She became her usual silly and boisterous self, and surprised me by sidling up to me and giving me a kiss. I pushed her arm away—I just couldn’t bear to be near her that evening, however hard she tried to placate me. Deep inside I knew she was not to blame for my anger toward her. We had another squabble shortly afterwards. It was as if the devil had got into her. She kept trying to grab my school satchel, and that always made me nervous. Like my father, I always kept my belongings spotlessly clean and tidy, and I couldn’t bear anyone fiddling about with them. I pulled her away from my bag, she took fright and screamed yet again, and our father demanded to know what was the matter with us and what was the explanation of all this noise.

  Finally, all was quiet. My mother was standing in front of the mirror trying on a shawl. Her hair was piled up on top of her head and fixed with a large comb, and she was wondering how she would look as a flamenco dancer. Blanka gazed at her in rapture. I suspect my father and I were both somewhat embarrassed.

  The next day we handed in our commendation cards. I had no expectation of the outcome: I knew I wouldn’t come first. When, during the final lesson of the day, my name was finally called out, I was filled with delirious joy, rather like the drunkenness that adults experience. For a moment I thought they had taken pity on me. They must have said in the staff common room that it didn’t matter how many gold cards Irén Elekes had collected she had always been at the top of her class, so let her do it again; she should be there without the cards. I went up to the teacher’s chair, my ears ringing. “What a way to keep your things!” the teacher smiled. “Dear oh dear, Irén.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. He could see that I had no idea what he meant, and he shook his head. He emptied the contents of the bag out in front of me and they immediately fell into two piles, as if arranged by invisible hands. One lot lay smooth and shining on the table, the other was grease-stained, smeared with chocolate and ink, and torn. Five moldy gold cards were jumbled up with my immaculate commendations. “You seem to have made a mistake and brought your sister’s as well,” the teacher added. “You must never mess about with these cards.” And he swept them up together and returned them to me.

  That year Klári Kálmán came first, as she had the most gold cards. The lesson dragged on: never in my life had one lasted so long. At break I was the first to leave. I went straight to Blanka’s classroom. My little sister was standing in the corner, with her back to the door. She was being kept in, I was told by her classmates, as a punishment for misbehaving yet again: she had forgotten to bring her commendation cards.

  I went up to her. She must have sensed that someone was close behind her because she turned round. When she saw who it was, she blushed and smiled. Nobody could smile the way Blanka did.

  My father had brought me up to be self-disciplined, and even as a child it rarely happened that I lost my self-control. Some inner principle always told me what I could or couldn’t do. But now, for the very first time, my rage completely overwhelmed me. I grabbed the cards, ripped them to shreds, and hurled them in her face, at her body, at her feet.

  “Idiot!” I yelled. “What do you think my bag is? A dump for your toys? For you to hide your dirty rubbish in? Don’t you think I’ve enough to cope with right now?”

  She made no reply. She didn’t lower her gaze. She looked straight at me, the tears welling up in her eyes: a look of sorrow and reproach. I had to knot my fingers together to stop my hands shaking. I had suddenly realized what she had been hoping to achieve when she stuffed her own cards into my bag. Unobservant as ever, she hadn’t noticed that the pupil’s name and class and its specific purpose were all printed on each card and that there was simply no way that I could have won first prize with the help of her wretched little commendations.

  We stood face-to-face. I had no idea what to say next. Her classmates were making a terrific din, and one of them ran out to find their teacher. I heard her shouting down the corridor that the older Elekes girl was yelling and using bad language.

  Now I was the one who sensed that there was someone standing behind me. Blanka’s eyes told me who it was. I didn’t have to turn round. I already knew, but not what would come next.

  “What happened?” my father asked. “What’s going on here?”

  “I cheated,” Blanka replied. And without a second thought she turned her back to us and knelt down facing the corner, the way she did in church during mass. In our school, being made to kneel was the worst punishment of all. Father did not ask her to explain, nor did he ask me. He took me by the shoulder, forced me down to the floor among the torn-up commendation cards, and stood behind us for a few minutes. Then I heard him shut the door behind him. Never before, in all my life, had I had to be punished. I wept so hard in my shame that I could no longer see either the wall or Blanka. But I felt her there, because after a while she leaned over and kissed me.

  THE GIRLS were being helped into their costumes by Mrs. Held, and Bálint by Mrs. Temes. The costumes were not exactly unfamiliar. The children had been rehearsing in them for several days now, and Bálint for one was perfectly capable of dressing himself, but their having to be helped was all part of the fun. Mr. Elekes paced anxiously from room to room, and although only Henriette had been nervous at the start, her agitation slowly infected the other actors too. As soon as they were in costume Mrs. Held brought out the rouge and the eyebrow pencil and began to apply it: Irén first, then Bálint. This could all be done in the one room. The boy hated having his mouth painted, and his first reaction was to wipe it straight off, which of course was forbidden, but the girls were entranced by the whole process.

  A stage had been constructed in the salon on benches brought home from the school. Mrs. Elekes, Mr. Held, and the invited audience of Rose and Margaret were waiting for the performance to begin, along with the Major, in whose honor the event had been arranged. The Major watched Mr. Elekes indulgently as he dashed across the room from time to time, urging patience and silence on the assembled company as if he were still in the classroom. There was something rather touching about his never-ending attempts to impose stability on the uncertainties of life, if only by marking and celebrating every special occasion. He had a thick, check-patterned notebook filled with speeches, poems, and plays commemorating the martyrs of Arad, noting days in the calendar dedicated to particular birds and trees, recording religious occasions and events within the family. Ever since the Helds had moved into the street everyone’s name day and birthday had been honored in the special Elekes manner in each of the three houses.

  Today it was the Major’s turn. When the tradition was first introduced, the children had merely made little speeches, or one of them would play the piano or sing. Now that they were older Mr. Elekes considered them ready for greater tasks, and sometimes they performed entire little plays. On the previous occasion it had been Mr. Held’s name day, and the play Mr. Elekes had written had been about the Good Dentist, with Henriette in a supporting role. She was the patient to whom the Good Dentist (Irén) br
ought relief, while the anxious parents (Blanka and Bálint), stood hand in hand and recited the eloquent poem that Mr. Elekes had composed in honor of the selfless healer. This time the Major, suspecting that a reference to his military connections would feature in the patriotic proceedings, had come prepared. He hated being a soldier and was ashamed that he had been forced to enter the profession, but he had long given up hope that Mr. Elekes would ever understand. The very first time he mentioned his feelings Mr. Elekes had given him a look of such horror—as if he had been told a dirty joke—that the Major quickly changed the subject. There could be little point in attacking his friend’s fundamental beliefs over something he simply could not comprehend. Indeed, if Mr. Elekes’s gentle heart were capable of such a base feeling, he might rather have envied his friend’s gallant profession, that of protecting the lives of widows and orphans.

  Others would soon forget the Major’s thirty-fifth birthday celebration, but not Bálint. And even for him the picture was incomplete. It survived in separate segments, like an orange, that kept returning at random moments later throughout his life.

  The celebration began with the ringing of a bell. The actors were ready at the back of the stage, standing behind a curtain Mrs. Temes had run up from an old sheet. First to step forward was Mr. Elekes himself, to deliver the birthday eulogy in person. It had the surprising effect of forcing the Major to lower his eyes in embarrassment. There was so much warmth and affection in the words, such an artless sincerity shining through them, that he could not fail to be touched. Hearing the speaker ask for God’s blessing upon the Major and wishing that his guardian angel might never be far from his side, Margaret and Rose crossed themselves as if they were in church, and Mr. Held turned to him and shook his hand. Mrs. Elekes meanwhile was nervously chewing sweets: she could barely wait to see her children. Mrs. Held had already taken a seat beside her, and her eyes too were trained on the curtain. She had just come from Henriette, having seen how very much prettier and more touching she looked than the two other girls, and she felt that, even though they had failed to persuade her to take a speaking part, she would have only to be seen to outshine the others.