Louisa Page 21

  At meal time, Boaz said to her, “Come here and eat this bread; dip the morsel in the vinegar.” She sat beside the reapers and ate the parched corn and was satisfied.

  When Ruth rose to glean, Boaz said to his young men, “Let her glean even among the sheaves. Also pull out some for her on purpose and leave it.”

  Ruth gleaned in the field until evening and beat out what she gleaned and took it to Naomi. When Naomi saw what she had gleaned and heard what had happened, she told her to stay in the field of Boaz until the end of the barley harvest and the wheat harvest and not to stray to any other field.

  One day, Naomi said to Ruth, “Daughter, shall I not seek rest for you? Tonight, Boaz winnows barley on the threshing floor. Wash yourself and go and do not make yourself known to him until he is done eating and drinking. When he lies down, go and uncover his feet and lay yourself there. He will tell you what to do.”

  Ruth went to the threshing floor and did everything her mother-in-law had told her. When Boaz had eaten and drunk and his heart was merry, he went to lie down on a heap of corn; and she came softly and uncovered his feet, and lay herself down. At midnight, Boaz was startled, and he turned over and saw a woman at his feet.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  She said, “I am Ruth, your handmaiden. Spread your skirt over me, because you are a near kinsman.”

  He said, “Blessed is the Lord, daughter. You have chosen an old man. But do not fear. I will do everything you say. Everyone knows that you are a virtuous woman. There is a kinsman nearer than I. Stay the night and in the morning I will see if this man will do the kinsman’s part. If he is not willing, I will be a kinsman to you. But lie down until morning.”

  She lay at his feet until morning, and she rose before they could tell each other apart. He said, “It will not be known that a woman came to the threshing floor. Take six measures of barley to your mother-in-law. Do not go to her empty-handed.”

  When Ruth returned, Naomi asked, “Who are you, daughter?”

  Ruth told Naomi all Boaz had done to her, and showed her the six measures of barley, and Naomi said, “Sit still, daughter, until you know what will happen. The man will settle the matter today.”

  Boaz went to the gate and sat there. The near kinsman Boaz had spoken of came by, and Boaz said to him, “Sit down. Naomi, who has come from Moab, is selling land which belonged to our brother Elimelech. Buy it before witnesses. If you will redeem it, redeem it, but if you will not, I am after you.”

  The kinsman said, “I will redeem it.”

  “Then,” Boaz said, “when you redeem the land you have also redeemed Ruth, the Moabite, the wife of the dead, to raise up the dead on your own inheritance.”

  The kinsman said, “I can not redeem it, for the Moabite is from a cursed people, and I will destroy my own inheritance. Take my right of redemption on yourself.”

  It was the custom then in Israel concerning redeeming and exchanging that a man will draw off his shoe and give it to his neighbor. So the kinsman said to Boaz, “Redeem it yourself,” and he drew off his shoe. Boaz said to witnesses, “See that I have bought all that was Elimelech’s from the hand of Naomi. Also, Ruth the Moabite I have taken to be my wife, to raise up the dead upon my inheritance, that the name of the dead will not be cut off from his brothers and from the gate of his house.”

  Those who watched said, “We are witnesses. The Lord make her like Leah and Rachel.”

  So Boaz took Ruth, and she became his wife. The Lord made her conceive, and she bore a son. The women said to Naomi, “Blessed is the Lord, who has not left you this day without a near kinsman. Let the child’s name be famous in Israel. He will be a restorer of life, and a comfort of your old age, for your daughter-in-law, who is better to you than seven sons, has borne him.

  Naomi took the child and laid him on her breast and nursed him. The women said, “A son is born to Naomi,” and they named him Obed. He is the father of Jesse, who is the father of David, King of Israel, from whose line will come the Messiah, may it be in our lifetimes.

  I RECEIVED A LETTER from Dori Csengery. It was typed and in Hungarian, with the accent marks penciled in. It began: Kedves Nora, I got your address from Doctor Nami Levin, and hope I am not forward in writing to you after our meeting last week. I fear you caught me by surprise. I knew you were in the country and suspected we would hear from you before summer, but did not think it would be under those circumstances.

  It seems unnecessary to tell you that we are all delighted that you are alive and here with us in Israel. You have an open invitation to visit us at Gan Leah. Why not come on Shavuot? Our celebrations are well known in our part of the Galilee. Your cousin spoke of you often, and your letters were sometimes read out loud to our great amusement. Sometimes, we would open them before they even reached your cousin. On a more personal note, because I have no children of my own, I found myself transfixed by the adventures of Gabor. Please convey to him my warmest greetings.

  You should know that our resources are limited. We can offer you friendship, but little more. We also cannot help you find your cousin. He was here not so very long ago, during the War of Independence, and had just heard of the death of his mother and sister. He was greatly changed. Naturally, I asked how I could keep in touch with him, and he said that he had no address, and also no desire to keep in touch with me. I believe in my heart that he feels himself responsible for everything, and would forgive everyone but himself.

  I put the letter down, and took a walk. It was the hottest part of the day, when anyone with any sense had found shelter. The perspiration burned off my skin and made my scalp feel like a cap.

  So now I had my invitation, but I didn’t have my cousin. What did I want with that cousin anyway? What did I think he’d give me? In the years since his last letter, he might have become someone I wouldn’t even recognize. What had he given me anyway but a cigarette and a half, a beeswax candle, a lot of letters, and a photograph?

  Dori Csengery was in that photograph, her hair thick as a lion’s mane, her face so sun-struck it looked half-erased. She’d sat on that spool of chicken wire with her thick legs bare and her elastic shorts wrinkled up through the thigh, her grin square, her hands pressed to her knees. On one side knelt Nathan Sobel, and on the other Bela. Nathan laid one hand on the half-open gate of the new chicken coop, maybe to steady himself. Bela kept both hands on his thighs, so stable that he might have slept in the position the way a cow sleeps standing up, but his head was cocked a little towards Dori, which spoiled the symmetry.

  I stood in that same sunlight now, the endless, drowning sunlight of the country now called Israel. I couldn’t have known that back in 1944 when Louisa lived on Prater Street and rose from the couch with the blanket draped from her shoulders, confronting me with it like an accusation.

  “You’re going to leave me! You’re going to the Holy Land!”

  I’d said, “Dear, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “But look at all that sunshine,” she’d said. “Here it’s so dark and horrible. All I do is make you unhappy.” Then a spasm of pain came on her so abruptly that she doubled over, and I helped her onto the couch and pressed the flat of my hand to her stomach, which was hot to the touch. I might have helped her to the bedroom that she shared with Gabor, but she was afraid to be behind a closed door, where she couldn’t see or hear me. When I tried to put her there, she would struggle and knock over the bottles on the end-table; all sorts of brown oils and medicines would stain the bed.

  The photograph got lost. I lost it when I left Prater Street for the Yellow Star house in June of 1944. Over twenty years of accumulated letters and photographs, I left behind. There were reasons. I had no time to sit and sort through box after box, winnowing it to a something I could carry. I also had a premonition that the house would be bombed; already the Americans had blasted the rooftops off some blocks of flats two doors away. I didn’t want to linger. No, I took only the lamb’s-wool coat and what I could stuff into the pockets
of that coat; my identification, a comb, a lighter, and a few packs of cigarettes.

  For some time, I stood in the middle of that flat, sweating in that coat with the lumpy pockets. A tram passed and rang its bell, and the sound reverberated through the window in a way that made no sense; it wasn’t as though the flat was empty. I closed that window. I checked the gas. I did everything I would have done if I’d been leaving for an afternoon with the intention of returning. Janos’s yellow scarf was still strung across the coatrack, and I took a moment to even the ends, so it wouldn’t fall.

  I felt through the lining and tangled my fingers in a mass of keys before I located the one that locked the door. My God, what possessed me to lock the door? I had nothing worth taking.

  8

  ON CHRISTMAS OF 1943, my son, Gabor, approached the Rose Hill residence of Louisa Bauer. It is possible to understand why he’d accepted her invitation. She had looked pretty that day, and perhaps he’d felt a tug of conscience. Yet why did he actually go? That is still beyond understanding.

  He had other options. His flatmate, Tibi, had an aunt in Varpalota and seemed to want his company; then there was the party in the Hotel Astoria, where he could play piano in the lobby and cadge glasses of champagne; his old piano student, the Giraffe, appeared on a street corner, tall and stately and stupid as ever, and he’d promised her that they would play a Christmas duet for her family. Then, of course, there was me.

  But instead, he stood a few meters away from the front stoop of the Bauer house. The dark paint on the door and shutters looked so fresh it might have been reapplied that afternoon, and though the window-boxes of geraniums had been removed, light filtered through the curtains and made the stone front less imposing. It was no surprise that all the lights were on; it was a grim afternoon, with great frozen raindrops and a steady wind. Yet in spite of the weather, it was intoxicating to walk right up to the front door, ring the bell, and be greeted by the maid.

  Eva addressed Gabor in German. “She’s expecting you, sir.” Then, as though he’d done it a thousand times before, he walked inside.

  The hallway was astounding, all brass and mahogany, the striped white-and-gold wallpaper clearly imported from Germany. It was at once restrained and opulent. No, this was no Hungarian house.

  Even the smell of dinner took him by surprise. Veal. When was the last time he’d had veal? Where had they gotten white asparagus in December? He’d been on a strict diet of macaroni for the past month and a half. If he’d had his wits about him, he could have saved Louisa and himself a lot of trouble and moved right in the day they’d met. No secrecy, no drama, nothing but veal and cognac and cigars and a mother to charm and a father to disregard completely.

  There was a mirror in the hallway, and Gabor faced it as he shrugged his coat from his shoulders and without turning, gave the maid his warmest smile. He shook the rainwater from his hair, pushed a few strands back with his fingers, and asked her, “Am I very late?”

  Eva said, “Everyone else has arrived, sir.”

  Gabor glanced towards the parlor as Eva disappeared with his coat, and through the doorway, Gabor saw Istvan Lengyel.

  Lengyel was standing in front of the fireplace, rubbing his hands together and saying to Louisa’s mother, “This is Goethe-weather. I wouldn’t be surprised if Death himself was rumbling around on horseback.”

  Lengyel settled beside Louisa’s mother on the couch and smiled with true affection. He liked the house, the fire, and Louisa’s mother’s cigarettes, which he admired as he accepted. That admiration took a moment, after which it was time for the other guest to present himself. Louisa’s mother turned to the place where Gabor had been standing. He was gone.

  “Eva!” she called. “Didn’t you say the young man just came in?”

  Eva confirmed that she had taken his coat and left him when she’d gone to fetch Louisa, but now the coat was gone and he had disappeared.

  “There must be some mistake,” said Louisa’s mother. “People don’t walk into a house and leave again. She’ll be distressed.”

  “Will she?” Lengyel asked. “Hard to imagine. A most self-possessed young woman.”

  By now, dinner was ready to be served. Louisa appeared in the doorway, looking unusually elegant in a gold velvet dress. She paused with the air of making an entrance. Then she said, “Where is he?”

  By now, Louisa’s mother had lost patience. “It’s almost nine, and there are other guests.”

  Lengyel smiled. “Perhaps he’ll telephone.”

  “He has no telephone,” Louisa said miserably. All pretense gone, she threw herself on a hard, plum-colored chair and made no sign of moving towards the dining room.

  Eventually, they began without her. The first course was a goose-liver salad. At soup, Louisa stood at the table, puffy-faced and plain. Lengyel looked delighted.

  “Well, hello, my young friend,” he said. “I was afraid you spurned me.”

  Louisa said, “I’m fine, only I’m tired. Professor, do you think you could come back tomorrow?”

  Her statement was met with embarrassed silence as it struck each of the people at the table that Louisa had asked Lengyel to leave.

  Lengyel said, “Let me just finish this excellent supper. We’ll see enough of each other next month when we’re on tour.”

  Louisa sighed. She took her seat, though her plates were taken away untouched, and by the time she’d reached the veal in cream sauce, she had sunk down in her chair until her shoulders were level with the table and the conversation was in danger of sinking even further. Herr Bauer went on and on about the marvels of the Hungarian train system. “Really, it’s a wonder of efficiency, a holdover from the great days of the Empire, and even the meanest provincial village has its little station.” The subject was clearly of interest to no one but himself. Louisa’s mother had given up on being polite and simply dragged her way through supper with thin lips. Finally, Louisa pushed back her chair.

  “This is all wasted—wasted!”

  “Louisa,” her mother said, “sit down and eat your salad.”

  “What does that have to do with anything! You’re all a lot of beasts!” She sprang from her seat and ran off blindly in the direction of the parlor. After a moment, a door slammed far away.

  Louisa’s mother rolled her eyes. “She’s been difficult these days,” she said.

  Lengyel said, “Divas shouldn’t fall in love. It’s the opera in them. Marriage or death.”

  “Love, love. She’ll have a new boyfriend next Tuesday. That’s the way life is when you’re sixteen.”

  Lengyel said, “That’s a very modern attitude.”

  “You surprise me, Professor. You sound like a suspicious old woman.” Louisa’s mother wiped her mouth, blotting a little lipstick on the napkin. “Didn’t you mention this young man once? I seem to remember—something about a composition Louisa left behind.”

  “Hungarian goulash,” said Louisa’s father. “All gypsy music.”

  Lengyel lifted the last morsel of veal from his plate and said, “Not quite. Some very interesting work being done by Hungarian composers these days. I’m sorry I missed the chance to see the young man again.”

  Soon, a cake studded with caramelized fruit was laid on the table, but nobody cut it. They could hear Louisa weeping in the practice room, and under the circumstances it was impossible to imagine moving on to coffee.

  Lengyel said, “Would you mind? If it’s a matter of music, perhaps I could be of service.”

  Both parents made a movement of protest, but they were clearly relieved as he left the table and started towards the practice room. He knew its location. He had been to the house before. The door was unlocked, and he opened it without knocking; though it was dark, he did not turn on a lamp. Still, he could see Louisa looking very young, illuminated only by the dirty-yellow secondary light of the hallway. She was crumpled on that piano bench with her face buried in the folds of her dress. He sat beside her.

  “Come, young fri
end,” he said. “This won’t do.” He touched her shoulder and she looked up at him. His voice sharpened. “You know it won’t do and you know why.”

  Louisa frowned, lifting her head just enough for Lengyel to see a new line between her eyebrows. He combed her face for more profound changes as she pushed herself upright, arranged her skirt, and looked up again. “You might as well know, he’s coming with us.”

  Lengyel asked, “Do you remember nothing?”

  “Oh, that.” Louisa looked as though something small had bitten her. She shook her head. “I don’t know where you heard that, but it isn’t true.”

  Lengyel’s knees pressed hard against Louisa’s now, and in that intimacy, he dared say, “You think that where we will be going, a Jew can be openly paraded?”

  “It isn’t true,” Louisa said again, and disconcerted by her professor’s nearness, she dropped her voice until it was a breath. “If it was true, how could he come for Christmas?”

  “Louisa,” Lengyel began, but she raised a hand to silence him.

  “And don’t the Jews mutilate themselves?”

  Lengyel jerked away from her and looked down with a white face. He struggled to keep his voice low. “It isn’t possible.”

  “But it’s the truth. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “After the new year,” Lengyel said, “you will leave Hungary, and if it’s within my power, you won’t return. You don’t know what God has given you, and you don’t know what you—” Lengyel’s throat caught. “You don’t know what you squander.”

  Louisa could only stare, uncomprehending. But one thing was clear; somewhere in Lengyel’s broken words was fear; he was afraid of her. She said, “He’ll come with us.”

  Lengyel read Louisa’s face and said, “I’ll tell your parents.”

  Louisa didn’t answer at once. Then she said, “And so? What will they do? Put me in a convent? I know things too.”

  Mysteriously, she did. Even in the gloom, Lengyel could make out the malicious glow in her eyes.