The Photograph: A gripping love story with a heartbreaking twist

by Debbie Rix

  ‘Well,’ the consultant said, sighing slightly, ‘there are techniques we can try, if things don’t work out naturally.’

  ‘IVF…’ Sophie said, hopefully.

  ‘Yes… that. But it’s not a golden bullet… I’m sure your husband, being a doctor himself, would have discussed that with you?’ He looked over at Hamish, who nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie. ‘I know there’s no guarantee.’

  ‘Look, I really advise you to just relax – if you can. I’m sure things will work out. And if, in a year or so, nothing has happened, come back to see me and we’ll see what we can do.’

  On their journey home, Hamish sat next to the window in the grubby overground train carriage and read the evening paper. He loathed public transport and chose to lose himself in any kind of reading matter. Sophie, on the other hand, was often content to study the people around her. But that late afternoon, it seemed that every other passenger was a female brandishing her fertility.

  The woman sitting opposite was talking to her nanny on the phone.

  ‘I’m nearly home,’ she said, ‘can you give them tea and I’ll do their bath as soon as I get there.’

  A small boy, strapped into his pushchair, had been wedged between a pair of grumpy commuters, who were clearly irritated by this contraption banging against their calves as the train lurched round corners.

  Further along the carriage, a heavily pregnant woman struggled through the crowded train, hoping for a seat. An older woman on the other side of the carriage stood up for her.

  It seemed to Sophie there were reminders of her inadequacy everywhere she looked.

  ‘I think we should go for it,’ she said to Hamish as they walked hand in hand down their street.

  ‘What?’ he asked, knowing precisely what she meant.

  ‘You know… the IVF.’

  ‘Darling…’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ she interrupted him. ‘There are no guarantees, if we can’t get it on the NHS, then it will be expensive, blah, blah… I know. But I want to try – please.’

  ‘It’s not just that,’ he said as they walked up the narrow brick path to their front door. ‘I’m a doctor, Sophie. I understand what it will involve – making love to order, blood tests, hormonal injections – the inevitable highs and lows, have you any idea what kind of Pandora’s box you’re opening up?’

  He unlocked the door, throwing the paper onto the hall table with his keys, and headed for the kitchen. He took a beer out of the fridge, prising the top open, swigging the beer back with relief.

  ‘Hamish… it’s four-thirty in the afternoon!’ Sophie nodded towards the beer.

  ‘I know, but I’m not at work for once. I think I’m entitled to one beer for heaven’s sake.’

  He went through to the sitting room and flicked on the television, slumping down in front of a mindless quiz show.

  Sophie stood in the kitchen, staring at their well-designed London garden – an anniversary present from Hamish the previous year. They could have had two rounds of IVF at the smart private clinic for what it had cost. The small patch of green lawn was intersected by Yorkstone slabs laid at a trendy diagonal, leading the eye to the summer house painted a fashionable shade somewhere between grey and green. The tiny vegetable patch in the far corner was planted with an artistic display of early salad leaves. In her imagination, Sophie saw a child on a swing on the lawn, a little trampoline in the corner by the summer house. The terrace covered with the detritus of colourful plastic toys. But in reality, there was no swing, no trampoline. There was just a neat new arrangement of elegant architectural plants and a perfect lawn.

  She opened the fridge, took out a bottle of white wine, poured herself a large glass and began to cry.

  Chapter Two

  Budapest

  23 October 1956

  The handles of Rachael’s straw shopping baskets chafed, digging into the soft flesh of her fingers. She stopped on the first-floor landing of her building outside the apartment of her neighbour, Mrs Kovacs, and leant her shopping bags up against the wall. She spat onto the red weals developing on her palms and rubbed them together.

  The door of the apartment, scuffed with age, opened a tiny crack.

  ‘Who’s there?’ asked a querulous voice.

  ‘It’s only me, Mrs Kovacs – Rachael from upstairs. My shopping was heavy… I just stopped for a moment…’

  The disembodied voice grunted and the door slammed shut.

  These were difficult times in Budapest and people were increasingly nervous. You never knew who was listening, or what people might be saying about you to the authorities. Food was short, but that was nothing new. It had been the same since the war. Rachael could not remember a time when she didn’t have to queue at the market for meagre rations – a small portion of sausage, or an onion. But today her baskets were filled, almost to overflowing, with turnips. She had arrived at the market on Hold Street just after half past six that morning. If she went any later, most of the stalls would have run out of the basic staples – bread, vegetables and so on. Waiting patiently for her ration of dark rye bread, she’d overheard a couple of women in the queue ahead of her.

  ‘Janos has just had a big delivery of turnips,’ whispered one woman to her friend. ‘He has a cousin in the countryside – they arrived last night apparently.’ Rachael didn’t particularly like turnips, and neither did her husband, nor her father; but food was scarce, the air was turning chilly, and a good hot turnip soup would be welcome.

  By the time she’d reached Janos’s stall there was already a long line of women snaking through the market. She feared there would be nothing left when she arrived at the front of the queue, but she smiled charmingly at the old man as he filled her bags to the brim.

  Once inside the flat, she unloaded the turnips and her other groceries into the old pine larder. A slab of grey marble sat atop the centre shelf – a cool place to store cheese, butter or a piece of cold meat. The shelves above were lined with decorated paper, its lacy frieze spilling over the edges, like a petticoat glimpsed beneath a dress. Rachael’s mother had always insisted on this lining paper and she continued the tradition. Jars of home-made jam and pickle stood in neat rows, while the cupboards below contained vegetables and tinned food, arranged meticulously in baskets of varying sizes.

  The cupboard loaded up to her satisfaction, Rachael set about cleaning the kitchen. She ran a washcloth under the wheezing tap and squeezed it out into an old stained stone sink. From here she had a view of the alley at the back of the house. A tall maple tree grew optimistically out of the bare ground, its branches brushing against the kitchen window. At this time of year, its leaves were evolving from green through yellow and orange. By November they would be scarlet. The tree was one of the joys of autumn for Rachael.

  She wiped the surface of the old pine kitchen table free of crumbs – the remnants of their simple breakfast – and retrieved some of the turnips from the larder. She chopped them into small pieces, placing them into a pan of water. József, her husband, and George would be home for lunch soon and she was determined to have a warm meal ready for them.

  As the soup simmered on the old gas stove, Rachael tidied the sitting room. She plumped the old velvet cushions on the sofa. She polished the silver-framed photographs of her father, mother and grandparents that were displayed so proudly on top of the walnut boudoir grand piano. The piano had belonged originally to her great-grandparents and the apartment had been in the family for generations – her own father had lived there all his life. It stood on the second floor of an old building on Henszlmann Imre Street and had large bay windows overlooking the park opposite. To live so close to a green space was a luxury and gave the apartment the air of a grand country house – or so Rachael liked to imagine. It was considered one of the most graceful of all the flats in that particular building – with its spacious rooms, high ceilings and elegant proportions. And yet it was conveniently near the centre of town, and just a sh
ort walk to the university where her father taught archaeology.

  George fretted, from to time, that the spacious apartment might be taken away from them. The communist government had begun to insist that larger houses and flats were split up and shared between families to accommodate the growing influx of workers into the cities. But Rachael was blissfully unaware of these concerns, and as she rubbed beeswax polish onto the piano’s surface, her eye fell on a group of children playing in the park. It reminded her of the happy times she had spent with her mother, Irma.

  With dark hair and unusual pale green eyes – colouring that Rachael had inherited – Irma had been considered a beauty. She had married George when she was just seventeen. Already a young university lecturer, George was fiercely intelligent, gregarious and energetic. Irma adored him, and he, in turn, was quite devoted to her. She threw herself into domesticity, caring not just for her husband and daughter, but also for both his parents right up until their death. Progressing swiftly up the academic ladder, George became a Professor of Archaeology at Budapest University. He was at the centre of a group of intellectuals who met regularly at the Laszlo’s apartment to discuss philosophy, politics and history. They despised the Stalinist regime under which they lived and whilst George had some sympathy with socialist principles, he abhorred totalitarianism. This desire for democracy forced him to live constantly in a state of vigilance; for his political views were considered both dangerous and revolutionary.

  This was the world Rachael had been born into. Her mother was a discreet presence in the background, supporting her husband and caring for her family. But the war and its aftermath had taken its toll. She was anxious about George, fearful that he would be arrested for his radical views. She was worried too for their Jewish friends, more of whom were being rounded up and, in some cases, sent out of Budapest. There were rumours of camps where people were being imprisoned, or worse. It seemed unimaginable.

  The deprivations of war, the rationing, the bombings and destruction of much of her beloved capital city wore Irma down, and one day, while Rachael was at school, her mother collapsed in the street. A neighbour found her lying on the pavement near the park, her shopping spilled across the road. With a group of passers-by, he managed to carry her into the apartment building and up the stairs. When Rachael arrived home, her father was waiting to give her the news.

  ‘The doctor has been here. Your mother has had a stroke. I must warn you, Rachael; he is not hopeful.’

  Together they sat beside her bed for three days and nights, until one morning Irma opened her pale green eyes, made a curious guttural sound in her throat and died.

  From that day on Rachael never went back to school. Although only sixteen, she was determined to take care of her father, obsessed with the idea that she had to stay at home in order to keep him safe. The idea of her going out to school each day, living a life separate from his, became impossible. What if he too died while she was out? She would be left, abandoned, an orphan.

  George was concerned for her.

  ‘You should go back to school, Rachael – you are too young to give up your education.’

  ‘No, Papa – who would look after you? And if anything happened to you… how would I live? How could I go on?’

  Her position seemed quite logical to her.

  ‘You staying here won’t keep me safe,’ he argued. ‘And besides, you’re a clever girl – you could go to university, become a professional. Aren’t you lonely here all day, alone?’

  ‘No…’ she had replied honestly. ‘I like it. I love this apartment, I love you…’

  It was true that she didn’t really miss her friends. She missed her mother, certainly, which was why she tried to continue to run the house exactly as her mother had done. In some ways it made her feel that her mother was still there, living with them. As she scrubbed the kitchen, or polished the piano, or stirred pickle on the gas stove, she thought of her mother and liked to imagine that Irma was in the room next door. As for love, Rachael remained quite childlike, and was content to admire handsome men from afar. She read the newspaper each day and was delighted if she found an article about a film star, or a famous sportsman. Ervin Zador who played water polo for his country was a particular favourite. Tall, dark-haired and muscular, she cut photographs of him out of the paper and hid them beneath her pillow.

  One evening, George returned home with a young man named Andras. He was good looking, and appeared earnest and intelligent, Rachael thought. The two men sat in the drawing room and talked, and as Rachael wandered in and out with drinks, it seemed obvious that Andras was keen to impress his professor. He looked delighted when George pressed him to remain and share their supper.

  As they sat around the kitchen table, George made continual excuses to leave Rachael alone with his student protégé. But the young pair struggled to make conversation. In spite of his good looks, Rachael found nothing in Andras to excite her. And she got the impression that her domestic existence bored him. When the boy had gone, George quizzed Rachael.

  ‘Did you like Andras? I think he is very intelligent.’

  ‘He was all right. Why?’

  ‘Nothing…’ said George, lighting his pipe.

  ‘Papa… I know what you are up to… You think I will fall for him because he is handsome… marry him, maybe. Is that it?’

  ‘Well, you have to marry someone. I worry… What if something happens to me? You will be alone. You need a husband. And if you won’t go to school and meet someone, I shall bring them to you.’

  ‘Oh, Papa… that poor young man. He had no idea what you were planning. He thought you brought him here because you admired him or were interested in his ideas. And all he got was an introduction to your boring daughter…’

  ‘He should have been grateful,’ said George. ‘And you are not boring. You are the most intelligent, beautiful daughter any father ever had.’

  ‘Well… I don’t think Andras thought so,’ said Rachael, laughing. ‘Besides, I didn’t like him much either.’

  Over the following years, a trickle of potential young admirers were invited to the Laszlo’s apartment. Rachael was always polite, and the young men clearly confused as to why they were there – momentarily seduced by the idea that their professor had singled them out for special treatment. But one evening, George returned with a young man named József Kelemen. He was a student of archaeology, a couple of years older than Rachael. He was not particularly tall, had dark blond curly hair, wore small tortoiseshell glasses and an engaging grin.

  Rachael blushed when the young man first came into the drawing room. Her father, always observant, was encouraged. József was precisely the sort of young man he hoped his beloved daughter might marry one day – intellectual and quick-witted with an interest in student politics.

  After supper József helped Rachael with the washing-up. George had left them to themselves, going to the drawing room to play the piano.

  ‘Your father plays very well,’ said József, taking a crystal glass from Rachael, and drying it carefully with the tea towel.

  ‘He does. He does everything well – or hadn’t you noticed?’ She laughed, handing him another glass.

  ‘He’s taught me so much,’ said József. ‘I feel privileged to have a teacher like him.’

  ‘He’s a brilliant man. But you don’t have to be so polite. He can be impossible too.’

  The washing-up finished, Rachael lingered over the sink, wanting their conversation to continue, but unsure how to proceed.

  ‘Why are you not at the university yourself?’ asked József. He was intrigued by Rachael; she was beautiful, certainly – with her long dark hair tucked behind her neat ears, and her large doe-like eyes. But there was something else – a gentleness and sensitivity that he found appealing.

  ‘I… I feel I’m needed here. My mother died a few years ago, and my father needs someone to look after him. He’s very busy.’

  ‘But what about your own education? Your own life?’r />
  ‘I’m quite happy,’ said Rachael. ‘I read a lot, and I play the piano – not as well as my father, but tolerably. I look after the house – I shop for food, and so on. Not that there is much food to buy these days. Maybe one day I will go to university. But now… my father needs me here.’

  When József had gone, she realised she had never opened up so easily to anyone before. Her instinct was always to be reticent, to hold back. In part, it was the world they lived in, where half-truths and lies were advisable to avoid being noticed by the authorities.

  Over the following days, Rachael found herself daydreaming about József. One morning, as she laid a plate of toast with home-made damson jam in front of her father, she asked if he might bring the young man to supper again.

  ‘So you like this one?’ her father said, delightedly.

  ‘I do,’ said Rachael, smiling. ‘I find myself… interested in him. He was kind, and thoughtful and he made me laugh…’

  Their courtship was swift and they married in April 1956. She was just twenty, he was twenty-two. George took the couple to the Astoria Hotel for dinner to celebrate. He ordered champagne – a rare treat, and a new experience for Rachael. She delighted in the bubbles that bounced against her nose, the sweetness, mixed with tartness – like a perfect apple, picked fresh from the orchard.

  They ate paprikàs – a rich stew flavoured with paprika, sprinkled with little dumplings; for dessert there were crêpes stuffed with ground walnuts, flambéed in brandy at the table and served with a rich chocolate sauce. The waiter made rather a show of his culinary skills – holding the pan over the little gas burner, pouring in the alcohol with great aplomb before igniting it. Rachael, who had never seen such flamboyance before, stared open-mouthed as the concoction was laid in front of her.

  She could still taste the chocolate as she and her new husband walked back to the apartment building that night to start their new life together.