by Debbie Rix
József slipped effortlessly into the family. He shared domestic chores, and they enjoyed noisy meals together, discussing politics and history. He particularly enjoyed George’s social evenings when university colleagues came to supper and their drawing room was filled with intelligent conversation. Rachael was intensely proud of József: his empathy with everyone and his skills in debate. He had a keen intelligence and a maturity that belied his years. Rachael only occasionally ventured an opinion. She lacked the confidence to be truly part of the conversation, preferring her role as hostess, relishing the hubbub, laughter and argument, like the owner of a popular restaurant.
One night, after a successful evening, the guests had gone home and she and József lay peacefully in bed. He was reading through some notes ahead of the following day’s lecture and she was trying to concentrate on a novel she had borrowed earlier that day from the library. But her mind kept wandering to a subject she had wanted to broach with József for some time. Finally she laid her book down on the bedside table.
‘Would you ever like to have a child?’
‘Of course,’ he said, casually, not really listening.
‘Really? That’s good.’
‘Why?’ He removed his glasses and laid them on top of his notes. ‘Are you pregnant?’
‘No!’ she laughed. ‘At least I don’t think so. I just meant… if it happened, would you be happy?’
He relaxed visibly and pulled her towards him.
‘Darling – of course I would be happy. But you know this is a difficult world in which to bring a child. Our country is not our country anymore… times are hard.’
Rachael had experienced the queues in the market; she had observed the fear on people’s faces when the police were inspecting their papers, but beyond that, she had little understanding of the political upheaval in her country.
‘But there is never a good time is there?’ she asked. ‘Even in the war, people had children…’
Over the following weeks, Rachael became aware of her husband’s growing disillusionment with both his studies and their country. She often found him together with her father, hunched around the radio in the drawing room, listening intently to Voice of America as it urged the people of Eastern Europe to rise up against their communist overlords. George was excited, obsessed with the opportunities opening up before them.
‘Listen… this is the voice of democratic freedom. The time will come, József, you will see, when we will overthrow our undemocratic communist government.’
Unknown to Rachael, József was becoming increasingly involved with a group of radical students who were determined to reinstate a former liberal prime minister – Imre Nagy. A demonstration was planned for later that day. Thousands of students planned to march through Budapest towards the Parliament building. On that morning, as József shaved in the little basin in their bedroom, he declared himself bored by archaeology.
‘I should be studying politics,’ he said. ‘That is what matters now.’
‘Don’t you enjoy archaeology?’ Rachael asked, innocently. ‘I always think it sounds so fascinating. When my father talks about people from the past – the Romans, or the Phoenicians – their lives sound so glamorous.’
‘You think so…? That shows how little you know. There was glamour, certainly, if you were at the top of the pile; but less so further down. Do you know what archaeology has taught me?’
Rachael knelt on the bed, looking up, eagerly, at her husband.
‘That since the beginning of time, life has always been a struggle for most people. There is so much in this world that is unjust, Rachael. While I am studying the buildings and bones of our ancestors, people are suffering around me – now. I should be doing something for them, not thinking about people who died long ago.’
With two men to feed every day, Rachael had settled into a routine. She would often make soup for lunch, and that morning in October, as the maple tree in the back yard turned from yellow to orange, was no different. After tidying the sitting room, she wandered through to the kitchen and turned up the heat under the soup until it was bubbling merrily. She took three bowls from the shelf and placed them in the oven to warm. She cut the bread she had bought that morning – three slices, buttered carefully. She laid the bread in the centre of the table and arranged the water glasses.
Standing at the old stone sink, she filled a jug with water. The pipes rattled, the tap wheezed; the water spluttered into the crystal jug. Normally these everyday sounds of domesticity were drowned out by the chatter between her husband and father as they flew through the door of the kitchen, bringing their noise and scents from the outside world.
‘We only have twenty minutes… Rachael darling. Is lunch ready?’ her husband would call out to her.
Then there would be the sound of chairs being pulled away from the table, the thud of boots on the floor and the clatter of spoons against china, as the men hurriedly ate their soup.
But today there was silence.
It was nearing one o’clock when Rachael finally heard the key in the lock. She put the jug of water onto the table and went through to the sitting room. Her father was staring out of the window.
‘Papa?’ she walked over to him and slid her arm around his waist, feeling the familiar rough tweed of his jacket against her naked forearm.
‘Where’s József… is he coming later?’
George turned his face to hers and she saw tears cascading down his cheeks.
‘Papa!’ She was alarmed now. ‘What has happened?’
‘Sit down, sweetheart…’
‘I don’t want to sit down. What’s happened? Where’s József… is he ill? Tell me!’
‘He’s been shot.’
Rachael collapsed onto a chair by the window.
‘Shot…’ she repeated, but the word made no sense. She stood up again, her voice calm and decisive. ‘Then I must go to him. Which hospital is he in?’
‘Rachael… no… you don’t understand.’
The terrible story of what had taken place that day – the march József had led down the street towards the Parliament building – seeped out slowly, as day darkened into night. As the turnip soup boiled, and then burned dry, George sat on the sofa in the drawing room trying to explain what had happened.
‘Why didn’t he tell me he was going to march this morning? I might have stopped him,’ said Rachael, agitatedly pacing the room.
‘He didn’t want to worry you…’
Rachael swung round and glared at George – her face riven with despair, disappointment and fury.
‘Well he was right, wasn’t he? I would have been worried. I would have forbidden it.’ She dissolved into tears and sat down abruptly next to her father, burying her head in his chest.
He said nothing. He could think of nothing to say.
‘But I don’t understand…’ she said at last. ‘Why did they shoot at students? They were just marching…’
‘There has been a clampdown. The authorities are determined to destroy the movement in this country amongst the young – against Soviet domination, against communism. You know… we’ve talked about it endlessly.’
But Rachael could not remember any discussion of a march, or any demonstration. Her father and husband often discussed politics, but they discussed so many things in an abstract way. But it was just talk, surely… No one was supposed to act, to get hurt. Is that what József had meant that morning – about doing more to help? And now what help could he be to anyone – lying dead on the street.
‘Are you involved too?’
‘Yes… I am.’ George turned away.
‘How? Tell me, Papa!’ Rachael almost screamed. ‘You have to tell me…’
‘It was I who introduced József to the group. I encouraged him. I knew they were marching on Parliament today. He was to lead a group of militants. It was a demonstration, that’s all… We discussed it this morning on the way to the university. I’m so sorry, Rachael; truly, I’m so sorry. I
f I had said nothing to József, if I had not encouraged him, and talked instead of ancient Rome, you might still have a husband.’
The acrid smell of burnt soup filtered through Rachael’s grief. She pulled herself up from the sofa and stumbled through to the kitchen. The room was illuminated only by the blue flame of the gas stove. She turned it off, grabbed the red-hot pan with a cloth and threw it in the sink. As she turned on the tap, steam hissed and ballooned up from the black encrusted pan.
When she returned to the sitting room, her father put his arms around her, kissing her head, inhaling the scent of her hair.
‘I’m sorry, Rachael. I’m so sorry….’
Forcing its way through her grief came another emotion… shame. While she had been living in a little bubble in her graceful apartment – polishing her piano, fretting over the shopping – in the real world, people – young and old – had been having important conversations, believing in something so much, they were prepared to die for it.
‘Why did neither of you tell me… how important it was?’
The drawing room was dark. Neither Rachael nor her father had turned on the light. Neither had eaten or drunk anything. The plate of bread and butter stood untouched on the kitchen table. Rachael had stopped crying; it was as if she could feel nothing – no emotion of any kind – just a pain behind her eyes. They heard a knocking on the door downstairs. George lifted his finger to his lips, suddenly alert.
‘Stay quiet…’ he whispered.
He stood to one side of the bay window, his body concealed by the heavy damask curtains, and peered outside. One solitary light on the other side of the road illuminated the street below. Three men, dressed in dark overcoats and homburg hats, stood at their door.
‘Rachael…’ he said in a low voice, moving away from the window, back into the room. ‘I want you to do something for me. Go to your bedroom and gather what you need for a few days and put it into a bag. Bring your papers and passport. I will do the same. And don’t turn on the light.’
Rachael looked up at her father in confusion. ‘Why? Where are we going?’
‘We must get out… now. The authorities are outside. They have come – perhaps for you, certainly for me.’
‘What is happening, Papa?’
‘Please… Rachael, we have very little time. Just do as I ask.’
The police were guarding the main door of their apartment building on Henszlmann Imre Street. But there was a back entrance that led onto a narrow lane. Peering out of the kitchen window in the half-light, Rachael could see that the lane was empty.
Carrying their small suitcases, George closed the apartment door silently behind him. He led his daughter stealthily down the dark staircase. On the first-floor landing, they saw Mrs Kovacs’ door opening; she was clearly alert to the slightest noise on the stairs. George pulled his daughter against the wall, so they were invisible to the old woman inside.
‘Who’s there?’ Mrs Kovacs called out.
George put his finger to his mouth and shook his head at Rachael. She said nothing. When the door had slammed shut, they ran as quietly as they could down the last flight of stairs and along the narrow hall. The back door was rarely opened, so the lock was stiff. George fought with the key in the dark, but eventually it yielded and they were outside, their hearts pumping. They walked quickly down the narrow alleyway and onto the main street. They arrived at the train station breathless, but slowed to a walk as they crossed the concourse. Uniformed policemen were patrolling, checking people’s papers.
‘Papa, I’m frightened,’ whispered Rachael, clutching George’s arm.
‘We are just two people – an old man and his daughter – going on a little trip… stay calm.’
At the ticket office, they bought two tickets for the first train leaving Hungary that evening; it was heading for Austria.
George stopped at a news kiosk and bought a newspaper, affecting an air of relaxation. Then, picking up their suitcases, he guided Rachael casually to their train.
‘Papa…’ said Rachael, ‘why are we going to Austria?’
‘Because they are a neutral country,’ explained George, handing their luggage to the guard. ‘We will be safe there.’
‘Are we not coming back… to the apartment? To our home?’
‘Not for a while, darling… not for a while.’
Chapter Three
Herne Hill
May 2016
Sophie woke sometime in the middle of the night, still lost in a dream that even now was receding. Damp with sweat and befuddled by sleep, as Hamish snored faintly beside her, she lay half-awake in the darkened room, and struggled to recall the sequence of dream events. The narrative, such as it was, almost evaporated the moment she opened her eyes. All she was left with was the sensation of warmth and the flash of something blue and white; dolphins perhaps, leaping from turquoise water. Where was she…?
She sat up in bed and concentrated, her fingers pressing against her temples, her eyes closed to avoid distraction. In her teens she had spent a whole year writing down her dreams, anxious for some insight into her subconscious self. The moment she woke, she would reach for her notebook and scribble down the snatched glimpses of unfamiliar worlds and conversations that had no meaning, involving people she did not know. But today’s dream was different. Massaging her temples with her strong hands, she pieced the dream together. She had been sailing, sitting in the prow of a boat with her brother and her grandmother, who was recounting tales of what she called the ‘silken sea’ and of the magic ‘silk’ – woven, she said, by the water women from the beginning of time.
Had she been remembering a real conversation with her grandmother? She had no conscious recollection of this event; neither her mother nor her grandmother had ever described such a sailing trip. And yet… the dream was so vivid. Her grandmother, Rachael, had only died the previous year, and Sophie still missed her. She had fond memories of the stories Rachael had told her – tales from her own childhood, or that had been handed down through the generations.
Rachael often spoke of her father, George Laszlo. An archaeologist, born in Budapest, he had fled his home country in 1956 during the Hungarian uprising.
‘You are so like him,’ Rachael had told her many times. ‘You both have a restless sense of enquiry. He would have been so proud of you.’
Sophie climbed out of bed and felt around in the dark for her slippers. Pulling on a cardigan over her nightdress she went downstairs to the kitchen. She put the kettle onto the range and leant against it, taking comfort in its constant warmth.
Her laptop stood open on the island unit, and as she waited for the kettle to boil, she typed the words her grandmother had spoken in the dream, the only words she could now recall – ‘silken sea’ – into Google, expecting nothing. It was a meaningless phrase, after all. But surprisingly, there were several references to ‘sea silk’, which, it seemed, was a delicate woven fabric made from the silky filaments excreted by a giant clam called Pinna nobilis. Had her grandmother ever mentioned this to her when she was alive? If so, was her dream really just a memory? And if it was, what was the connection between her grandmother and this unusual and rare fabric? The questions hung – unanswered.
Sophie looked up at the clock in the kitchen. It was already three in the morning. She had an early class that day and needed to get up at seven.
Back in bed, she sipped her cup of herbal tea, before finally falling asleep listening to the gentle wheezing sound as her husband snored.
The following Sunday, Sophie and Hamish were invited to her parents’ house in Hampstead. It was her mother Angela’s birthday as well as her parents’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary and Angela had prepared a party for family and friends. Sixty guests were invited and a small marquee had been erected in the back garden, filled with tables, little gilt chairs and a long serving table to hold the large trays of food which her mother had prepared over the previous week.
As Sophie and Hamish arrived, Angela,
her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, came in from the garden holding a clipboard.
‘Oh, Sophie, good, you’re here,’ her mother said as they came into the long narrow hall of the double-fronted terraced house. ‘I’ve got to arrange the place cards… could you help me? You’re so good at who should sit where and all that.’
‘Of course, Mum.’
‘Oh, and Hamish – be a love and help Alex with the wine and beer, could you? He’s supposed to be taking it all out to the marquee and stocking it in huge ice buckets, but he keeps insisting that he can keep it all in the fridge in the basement and serve it from there. It will never work. Please organise him for me, will you?’
Angela took Sophie’s hand and dragged her along the narrow hall and out through the glass door that led down steep steps to the garden.
Hamish went down the rickety wooden stairs into the basement, where he found Alexander busy choosing wine for the party. This ill-lit space had, at one time, been a functioning kitchen and laundry room. But Angela had moved the kitchen upstairs when she took the house over and the basement was now used as a utility room and wine store. The couple had lacked the money, or perhaps the will, to waterproof or renovate it properly and when it rained heavily in the winter, the old Victorian tiles became slippery and damp. A new American fridge was propped up incongruously on brick piers to protect it from the annual winter deluge. On the walls were wide shelves made of cheap white melamine put up by Alex over twenty years earlier as a temporary measure. These were filled with boxes of unwanted tools and long-abandoned kitchen equipment, all of which were covered with a fine layer of mould. The shelves were too flimsy for the weight they were required to support and sagged alarmingly. It was a constant irritation to Angela that the basement hadn’t been made into a proper utility room, which was the cause of many a family row.
‘Ah Hamish… good to see you,’ said Alex, smiling gently at his son-in-law. ‘I’m keeping my head down in here. Angela’s in one of her “organising” modes.’ He conspiratorially handed Hamish a glass of red wine. ‘Try this – I’ve been saving it for something special. Got a couple of dozen of them stored away down here. Bought them years ago at a rather good little wine shop near Calais. Just checking they’ve not gone off.’
