Finding home, p.26
Finding Home, page 26
CHAPTER 34
Yossel was humming along to Mozart’s cheerful “Turkish March” on the BBC while doing the breakfast dishes. It had been over a week since the synagogue violence. Things were peaceful and the baker had returned to his optimistic outlook. He glanced out the small window over the sink. People were lining up and down the street, laughing and cheering as if a parade were about to begin. Oskar put down the butcher’s knives he was sharpening and the two men poked their heads out the front door. The crowd started to sing “Himnusz,” the Hungarian national anthem.
“Isten, aldd meg a magyart
Jo kedvvel, boseggel,
Nyujts feleje vedo kart,
Ha kuzd ellenseggel . . .”
(O God, bless the nation of Hungary
With your grace and bounty
Extend over it your guarding arm
During strife with its enemies . . .)
Oskar glanced around nervously. “This feels damned familiar.” He shouted to a man marching by with a small boy perched on his shoulders waving a little flag. “Hey! What’s going on?”
The man responded gleefully. “The Germans are being deported!” He continued with bouncy steps down the road toward the train station.
“What Germans is he talking about?” Yossel asked Oskar.
Oskar scratched his head. “I don’t know. Maybe they found some soldiers in the woods who didn’t know the war was over. It happens.”
The men looked past the crowd to see Corporal Zoldy leading a small, downcast group of men, women, and children as they hauled their luggage down the street. Yossel recognized some of them as customers from the bakery. He saw Eva’s friend, the blond boy Andras, accompanied by his parents. Corporal Miklos walked along the side of the street. The baker swallowed hard and called out to the young policeman.
“Excuse me, Corporal! What’s happening?”
Corporal Miklos stopped and turned to Yossel with a stricken look. “The government is deporting ethnic Germans, anyone of German ancestry. They are confiscating their homes and businesses. We are taking them to the train.” He shrugged helplessly and moved on.
“Not again!” Yossel cried out, his heart beginning to pound wildly.
A man standing in front of Yossel spun around angrily. “Shut up or you can join them.” He resumed enjoying the pageant. “Traitors! Hungary for pure Hungarians!”
Oskar spit on the ground. “Good, let them go.” He laughed and shouted over the crowd. “Kick them out!”
The butcher’s words were a punch in Yossel’s gut. He put his hands on his stomach protectively and turned to Oskar. “How quickly you’ve become a good Hungarian again.”
Oskar’s face showed a mixture of anger and glee. “What do I care about them? Their cousins murdered every Jew they could. Good riddance.”
Yossel sighed. “Collective punishment? Guilty because of their ancestry? Who knows that better than we do?” He watched as the dozen or so confused and frightened families were herded past. His eyes moistened. He mumbled sadly. “Are we the bystanders now?”
“At least they’re turning their hate on somebody else for a while.” Oskar whistled the “Himnusz” as he watched the spectacle. “Hey!” he blurted out. “Isn’t that Krauss, your boss?”
Yossel scanned the marchers and found the limping man, still wearing his flour-caked apron. He broke through the crowd to get Krauss’s attention. The man saw Yossel and waved dejectedly. He kept walking.
“Yossel! I’ve deeded you the bakery! It’s under the cash register!” He pulled his crying young son along as they passed. “It was never really mine, was it? Good luck with it, Yossel! Quick, give me some pengos to make it legal!”
Yossel ran up to Krauss and tried to thrust the bills in his hand. A shove from a scowling Sergeant Ritook pushed Krauss out of Yossel’s reach. The pengos sailed in the wind through the street, chased by delighted little boys waving flags.
A woman in the crowd pointed to Yossel. “Look at that Jew, always trying to make money off someone’s misfortune. Shame on you!” Derisive laughter rolled through the crowd. Yossel stood frozen as the citizens of Laszlo swallowed up Krauss and his son and continued toward the train station. Oskar walked over and put his hand on the baker’s shoulder.
Yossel pulled at his hair in lamentation. He wiped his eyes and nose with his sleeve. “I prayed so hard to get the bakery back, but I never asked God to punish poor Krauss and his little boy.”
“Guess God still has a sense of irony,” Oskar said flatly. He slapped Yossel’s back. “Let me help you with the dishes. Then we should go to the bakery and make sure it’s safe.” He led the miserable baker back toward the hotel. “Hey, maybe I can work with you. I need the job and you need the help.”
Yossel and Oskar walked in silence through the town square. A few small Hungarian flags rolled past, urged along by intermittent gusts of wind. A broken suitcase spilled its meager contents where the Jewish headstones had been. Few of the people they passed offered a smile or a hint of greeting. One couple crossed the street as they approached as if to avoid something contagious. The men stopped in front of the synagogue to pay silent respect. The wind moaned a lonely plea for remembrance through the shattered stained glass and the cavernous interior. Oskar peered deep inside the deserted building and cried out when he saw the empty Ark.
“The bastards! They stole the Torah!” He searched the street for the culprit, his hands clenching and opening repeatedly.
Yossel tried to calm the butcher. “We can’t be sure what happened. Maybe the police took it for safekeeping. Maybe Naftali buried it again.” He watched as Oskar’s internal volcanic rage bubbled toward the surface.
“It’s gone.” Oskar stroked the scarred synagogue door. “Everything Jewish in Laszlo is gone except us.”
“We’ve got the bakery now. At least we can support ourselves, even if only until we figure out what to do next.” Yossel retrieved the keys to the bakery from his pocket and jingled them in his hand as they continued down the road.
The baker was surprised by the large padlock and chain that prevented him from putting his key in the door. He wondered aloud if Krauss had put it on when he closed up for the deportation, to protect the shop from looters. Oskar called Yossel over to the large shop window. An announcement from the town was posted, obscuring the view of the empty wooden pastry rack inside.
Confiscated by Town of Laszlo Pursuant to Order of Sale
Contact Town Clerk for Bidding Details
Oskar growled and punched the window. It bowed and vibrated, but didn’t break. “That’s it. We need to leave this town right away. I feel like I’m being strangled.”
“Let me talk to the town clerk. We can figure out a way to make this work.” Yossel forced the words past his heavy heart. “There are still good people in Laszlo.”
“Why don’t you wake up, Yossel? They don’t care. We are dead to them.”
“Because, Oskar, like the Torah commands, I choose life.”
The butcher bit his hand in frustration. “You didn’t choose life. Some SS guard chose life for you, just as easily as he could’ve chosen death. If you’re gonna be grateful to God for anything, be grateful He stayed the hand of the beast when it came for you and let a lot of better Jews die. Neither of us might be so lucky the next time.”
“Wait, explain that again.” Yossel was exasperated as he tried to follow the town clerk. “You are going to file paperwork to give me my own bakery back because the government has ordered German property to be seized and distributed to Jews who lost property? Why such a legal maze? It’s my bakery. Just take the lock off the door and look the other way.”
“I can’t do that!”
Oskar was looking out the office window, playing with the blinds. His voice was numb. “You did it when we were deported to the death camp.”
The town clerk cast his eyes downward until he regained his composure. “It’s not that simple. We are supposed to sell it to the highest bidder. But the mayor and I have been thinking that under these special circumstances we could try to use the Jewish compensation law instead. We might be able to give it back.”
Oskar yawned. He hadn’t had his second cup of coffee yet. “He means they’re doing you a favor.”
The town clerk flinched, “We don’t do favors, sir. We are trying to find the right legal standard to see justice is done. You must know the town wants justice for our Jewish citizens.” He turned back to the baker and adjusted his tie. “Now, Yossel, I will order the compensation forms today. It is a new application. The one you filled out two weeks ago has been superseded due to the new regulations. You only need your national identity card proving your Jewish heritage and a copy of your original title.”
The baker was dumbfounded. “But Mr. Kadar, you know who I am. You’ve been giving me business licenses for twenty years. You know we lost everything in the camp. None of us has any papers at all.”
The town clerk’s face reddened. “Oh, of course, right. Well, you need to have the identity card to participate in any new government program. You can apply for one here. Just bring in your birth certificate.” He smiled benevolently. “We will waive the filing fee.”
Yossel and Oskar argued most of the way back to the hotel. Oskar wanted to pretend he was a Zionist and go to Palestine with the Fischer brothers as soon as possible. Yossel urged him to wait and see if the baker could get his shop back. They had plenty of time.
A small crowd was gathered around the front of the hotel, talking and gesturing toward the forlorn building. Yossel and Oskar approached cautiously. The crowd parted so the men could see what was so interesting. Three large green crossed arrow symbols were painted on the walls and the door, alongside angry graffiti: No Jews! and Jews out of Laszlo! Yossel stood immobilized.
Oskar grasped the baker’s arm and pulled him inside, slamming the door behind them. “So much for the good people of Laszlo.”
They both shook with fear. It was happening again. All afternoon and evening Yossel and Oskar paced the hotel lobby, unable to concentrate on anything but a menace that loomed larger as the hours passed. Neither man could sleep when darkness descended, so they kept watch together in the lobby. When Oskar’s head dipped he dreamed of Auschwitz, but all the guards looked like Ritook. Yossel stayed awake ruminating about the otherwise decent people who stood by and let these things happen. He listed the small acts of kindness he had experienced at the bakery. He refused to let these little lights of goodness be overshadowed by the darkness of the graffiti.
“I know I will get the bakery back. I know I will.” Yossel repeated the words like a sacred Hebrew chant to protect him from the infection he knew was growing and spreading throughout Laszlo in spite of his positive outlook.
“Keep dreaming, Yossel,” the butcher mumbled from his hypnogogic state. “Maybe one day I will have my own slaughterhouse and a big packing plant. I will employ hundreds of the townspeople who persecuted us. May we live and be happy.”
They took turns peering out the windows at the moon-cast shadows and straining to hear danger in the sounds of the night.
Oskar jerked awake at the clank of metal hitting the ground. He heard voices outside the window above his head. His heart pounded fiercely as he raised himself off the sofa and moved the curtain enough to peek outside. Only a few shabbily dressed men were there, but the butcher could see others approaching from up the hill. At that distance he couldn’t identify the weapons they were carrying. Oskar knew the loathing that was permeating the town had bolstered the attackers’ courage. It was broad daylight. They were finally coming to get him.
“Yossel!” he whispered harshly. “Get up! Hurry!”
The baker fell out of a chair mid-snore and blinked rapidly. He crawled beside the butcher and squinted out the window. “Oskar, what can we do?” the baker pleaded. A hard knocking at the door brought both men to their feet. They ignored the sound and grabbed the small end tables that were scattered in the lobby, huffing with fear.
“Open up, Yossel! It’s Mayor Kodaly!”
Yossel put down the end table, unlocked the door and opened it slightly. Mayor Kodaly stood there, holding a bucket and scrub brush. Behind him, a small crowd of townspeople mixed a tub of whitewash. The station master stirred the paint with his shovel. Yossel recognized Eva’s friend Hanna, who had been at the station to wish Eva well. Several of the volunteers who helped restore the synagogue were there. The mayor stepped beside the baker and put his arm on his shoulder. He addressed the gathered townspeople.
“On behalf of the town I want to apologize for this appalling act. We have come to repair the damage to the hotel and to our reputation.” He turned to Yossel with a smile. “Don’t ever doubt it. You are valued citizens of our town. You have good friends in Laszlo.”
Townspeople chatted sympathetically with Yossel and Oskar as they worked together to scrape down the painted surfaces as best they could. The green paint had seeped deep into the long ignored, pitted concrete surfaces. Yossel brought coffee and some pastries out to the group. The mayor sipped the coffee, complimented Yossel on his kiffles, got in the large red Chrysler Imperial, and left to applause and cheers. After coffee, people cheerfully painted over the green crosses and slogans. It became obvious that one coat was not enough, as the malevolence seemed to burn through the thin whitewash. The crowd began to apply a second coat. Yossel watched the volunteer painters. His heart filled with gratitude.
“You see, Oskar?”
“I know, I know. ‘There are good people in Laszlo.’”
Yossel smiled. “You can joke, but I think there are only a handful of really hateful people in Laszlo. There are many more good ones.”
The sound of a police siren arrested the work and conversation. Yossel and Oskar greeted Sergeant Ritook and Corporal Zoldy, explaining about the vandalism and the kindness of the townspeople. They thanked the police for coming down, but told them everything was calm.
Sergeant Ritook stepped up to examine the green crossed arrows and turned toward the crowd. The arrows emerged from his back like the wings of a harpy. He jerked a thumb at the symbols.
“This is an act of vandalism. We will find the criminals and bring them to justice.” There were shaking heads and murmurs of approval in the crowd. “But these drawings and words are evidence. Do not paint over them. Anyone caught doing so will be arrested for destruction of evidence at the scene of a crime. Am I understood? Do not paint over them. Now please disperse.”
The policemen left with their siren screaming. People gathered their brushes and buckets and trickled away from the hotel to words of praise from Yossel and sullen nods from Oskar. When everyone was gone, Oskar cursed the town loudly and retreated into the hotel. Yossel tried to summon his positive attitude. If they kept a very low profile this too would pass, and they could keep building good will in Laszlo. He stared at the wall. The whitewash had nearly dried, yet Yossel could see the shadows of the arrows and the hateful speech smoldering in anticipation below the surface.
CHAPTER 35
Eva stood nervously by the side door of the Academy on Monday morning as students came and went. She held the professor’s manuscript tightly against her chest as if it were a good luck talisman. The old man was not there last week, which made her feel uneasy. Was he ill? He was somehow a comforting presence. Without him, Eva had vacillated for several days between rushing into the Academy or waiting for some opportune moment. She couldn’t wait any longer. She focused on the door and charged in with three female students who twittered gaily as they entered. The guard seated inside the doorway glanced up briefly before returning to his morning paper.
Once inside, Eva followed the girls down a darkened hallway. They disappeared through a heavy, blood-red velvet curtain. Eva peeked through the curtain and caught her breath. The magnificent multicolored marble lobby of the concert hall lay before her. Orchestral music poured silkily from the Grand Hall. Vivid memories came to her of her father holding her hand as they walked through this very hall, he in his best black suit, she in a pretty blue dress her mother had made with lace at the neck and sleeves. A sharp laugh from one of the students in the lobby shattered the memory. Two guards shifted their positions and stared at her. Eva put a hand to her forehead, as much to shield her face from the guards as to anchor her into the present again. She quickly turned and headed up the stairwell to the second floor. Students practiced in the rooms that lined the hallway. Piano, violin, cello. Eva stopped and reveled in the music, embraced by the sounds at once cacophonous and harmonious. The vibrations of the music pounded against her chest, so much more compelling than music from a radio. She felt as if she were finally home.
A silent room whispered welcome, and Eva slowly opened the door. The parquet-floored room was empty except for a baby grand piano in front of large windows that let joyful sunlight pour in. Eva hesitated. This was not part of her plan for the day. She didn’t have permission to sit down and play this exquisite piano, but she could not stop herself. She entered the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Her feet drew her closer and closer until she touched the lid lightly. The beautiful piano hummed quietly as Eva sat carefully on the bench and put up the professor’s piano concerto. She realized that she needed this time badly. Although the piano at the brothel was good, it wasn’t professionally tuned and maintained like this one. She enjoyed giving impromptu concerts to the young Jewish women, but performing for them didn’t enhance her technique like practicing etudes and arpeggios. Nor was she practicing Professor Sandor’s piano concerto at the brothel. She was afraid of what emotions the otherworldly piece might evoke among the traumatized women.
