The Invisible Bridge (65 page)

"Why was he stripped of rank?"

"Because he'd misplaced his foreskin," Barna said.

The room broke out in laugher, but the general frowned at his dinner plate. Barna didn't seem to notice that either. "Now he's come to us with an important request," he went on. "Why don't you step forward and state your business, Levi?"

Andras took a step forward. He refused to be cowed by Barna, though his pulse pounded deafeningly in his temples. He held the telegram in his clenched hand. "Request permission for special family leave, sir," he said.

"What's so urgent?" Barna said. "Does your wife need a fuck?"

More laughter from the men.

"You can be sure that problem will take care of itself," Barna said. "It always does."

"With your permission, sir," Andras began again, his voice tight with rage.

"What's that in your hand, Levi? Adjutant, bring me that piece of paper."

The adjutant approached Andras and took the telegram from his hand. Andras had never felt such profound humiliation or fury. He stood no more than eight feet from Barna; in another moment he might have his hands around the major's throat. The thought was some consolation as he watched Barna scan the telegram. Barna raised his eyebrows in bemused surprise.

"What do you know?" he said to the assembled men. "Mrs. Levi just had a kid.

Levi is a father."

Applause from the men, along with whistles and cheers.

"But the baby's very sick.
Come home at once
. That sounds bad."

Andras fought the impulse to run at Barna. He bit his lip and fixed his eyes again on the floor. What he did not want was to be shot.

"Well, there's no use giving you a special leave now, is there?" Barna said. "If the boy's really that sick, you can just go home when he's dead."

A dense silence filled Andras's ears like the rushing of a train. Barna looked around the room, his hands on the table; the men seemed to understand that he wanted them to laugh again, and there was a swell of uncomfortable laughter.

"You're dismissed, Levi," Barna said. "I'd like to enjoy my coffee now."

Before anyone could move, the elderly general brought his hand down against the table. "This is a disgrace," he said, getting to his feet, his voice graveled with anger. He turned a thick-browed scowl on Barna.
"You
are a disgrace."

Barna gave a crooked smile, as if this were all part of the joke.

"Don't you smirk at me, Major," the general said. "Apologize to this serviceman at once."

Barna hesitated a moment, then nodded at the guard who'd brought Andras in.

"Remove that clod of dirt from my sight."

"Did you mishear me?" the general said. "I ordered you to apologize."

Barna's eyes darted from Andras to the general to the officers at their tables.

"We're done with this, sir," he said, in an undertone that Andras was close enough to hear.

"You're not done, Major," the general said. "Get down off this platform and apologize to that man."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard what I said."

The men sat in silence, watching. Barna stood still for a long time, seeming to wage an inner battle; his color changed from red to purple to white. The general stood beside him with his arms crossed over his chest. There was no way for him to disobey.

The elder man held unquestionable military superiority. Barna stepped down off the dais and marched toward Andras. He paused in front of him, and, with a medicine-swallowing grimace, extended a hand. Andras sent the general a look of gratitude and took Barna's hand. But no sooner had his own hand touched Barna's than Barna spat in his face and slapped him with the hand Andras had touched. Without another word, the major made his way through the rows of tables and went out into the night. Andras drew a sleeve across his face, numb with pain.

The general remained at the center of the dais, looking down upon the officers on their benches. Everything had come to a standstill: The servicemen who waited on the officers had paused at the edges of the room with dirty plates in their hands; the cook had ceased to bang the pots in the kitchen; the officers were silent, their tin forks and spoons laid beside their plates.

"The Royal Hungarian Army is dishonored by what has happened here," the general said. "When I entered the army, my first commanding officer was a Jew. He was a brave man who lost his life at Lemberg in the service of his country. Whatever Hungary is now, it's not the country he died to defend." He picked up the crumpled telegram form and handed it down to Andras. Then he threw his napkin onto the table and commanded the young guard to bring Andras to his quarters at once.

General Marton was quartered in the largest and most comfortable set of rooms at Banhida, which meant that he had a bedroom and a sitting room, if the cold and uninviting cubicle in which Andras found himself could have been called a sitting room; it contained nothing but a table with an ashtray and a pair of rough wooden chairs so narrow and straight-backed as to discourage all but the briefest sitting. Electric lights blazed. The fireplace was dark. An assistant was packing the general's things in the adjacent room. As Andras stood near the door, waiting to hear what the general would say, the general gave orders for his car to be brought around.

"I won't stay at this place another night," he told a frightened-looking secretary who hovered near his side. "My inspection of this camp is complete, as far as I'm concerned. Send word to Major Barna to tell him I've gone."

"Yes, sir," the secretary said.

"And go to the office and get this man's dossier," he said. "Be quick about it."

"Yes, sir," the secretary said, and hurried out.

The general turned to Andras. "Tell me, now," he said. "How much time is left in your army service?"

"Two weeks, sir," Andras said.

"Two weeks. And in relation to the time you've already spent in the service, do you consider two weeks to be a long time?"

"Under the circumstances, sir, it's an eternity."

"What would you say, then, to getting out of this hellhole altogether?"

"I'm not sure I understand you, sir."

"I'm going to arrange for your discharge from Banhida," the general said. "You've served here long enough. I can't guarantee you won't be called up again, particularly not with matters as uncertain as they are. But I can get you to Budapest tonight. You can ride in my car. I'm going there at once. I was sent to conduct a detailed inspection of Barna's establishment here, as he's being considered for promotion, but I've already seen as much as I care to see." He took a box of cigarettes from his breast pocket and tapped one out, then put it away again as if he didn't have the heart to smoke it. "The gall of that man," he said. "He's unfit to lead a donkey, let alone a labor battalion. It's not the Jews that are the problem, it's men like him. Who do you think got us into this mess? At war with Russia and Britain at once! What do you think will come of that?"

Andras couldn't bring himself to consider the question. There was another issue that seemed, at that moment, to be of even greater magnitude. "Do I understand you, sir?"

he asked. "Am I to leave for Budapest tonight?"

The general gave a brisk nod. "You'd better pack your things. We'll leave in half an hour."

At the barracks there was general incredulity, and then, when Andras had related the story, raucous cheering. Mendel kissed Andras on both cheeks, promising to come to the apartment on Nefelejcs utca as soon as he returned to Budapest. When the half hour had passed, everyone came out to see the black car pull up and the driver help Andras lift his duffel bag into the sloping trunk. When was the last time anyone had helped one of them, the workers, lift a heavy object? When was the last time any of them had ridden in a car? The men clustered near the barracks steps, the wind lifting the lapels of their shabby coats, and Andras felt a stab of guilt to think of leaving them. He stood before Mendel and placed a hand on his arm.

"I wish you were coming," he said.

"It's only two more weeks," Mendel said.

"What will you do about
The Biting Fly?"

Mendel smiled. "Maybe it's time to shut down the operation. The flies are all dead anyway."

"Two weeks, then," Andras said, and squeezed Mendel's shoulder.

"Good

luck,

Parisi."

"Let's go," the driver called. "The general's waiting."

Andras climbed into the front seat and shut the door. The motor roared, and they drove off to the officers' quarters. When they arrived, it became clear that there had been some further argument between Barna and the general; Barna could be seen pacing furiously inside the general's quarters as the general emerged with his traveling bag. The driver threw the general's bag into the trunk and the general slid into the backseat without a word.

Before Andras could grasp the idea that he was truly leaving, that he would never have to return to the sulfurous coal pits of Banhida again, the car had pulled through the gate and onto the road. All through that long dark drive, the only sounds were the purring of the engine and the susurrus of tires on snow. As the headlights cut through endless flocks of snowflakes, Andras thought again of that New Year's Day when he and Klara had gone to the Square Barye to watch the sun rise over the chilly Seine. That long-ago January morning, he would never have believed that he would someday be the father of Klara's child, that he would someday be flying through the night in a Hungarian Army limousine to see their newborn son. He remembered the Schubert piece Klara had played for him one winter evening,
Der Erlkonig
, about a father carrying his sick child on horseback through the night while the elf-king followed them, trying to get his hands on the child. He remembered the father's desperation, the son's inexorable slide toward death. He had always envisioned the chase taking place on a night like this. His hands grew cold in the heat of the car. He turned around to see what lay behind them. All he could see was the general snoring softly in the backseat, and, through the small oval of rear-window glass, a swarm of snowflakes lit up red in the taillights.

It took them an hour and a half to get to Grof Apponyi Albert Hospital. When the car pulled to a stop, the general awoke and cleared his throat. He settled his hat onto his head and straightened his decorated jacket.

"All right, now," he said. "Let's go."

"You don't mean to come inside with me, sir," Andras said.

"I mean to finish what I started. Give the driver your address and he'll leave your things with the caretaker there."

Andras gave the driver the address on Nefelejcs utca. The driver jumped out to open the door for the general, and the general waited until Andras had joined him on the curb. He turned and marched into the hospital with Andras at his side.

At the night attendant's desk, a narrow-shouldered man with an eye patch sat with his feet propped on a metal garbage can, reading a Hungarian translation of
Mein Kampf
.

When he looked up to see the general approaching, he dropped the book and got to his feet. His good eye shifted between Andras and the general; he seemed baffled by the sight of this decorated leader of the Hungarian Army in the company of a gaunt, shabby work serviceman. He stammered an inquiry as to how he might serve the general.

"This man needs to see his wife and son," the general said.

The attendant glanced away down the hall, as if it might yield some form of help or enlightenment. The hall remained empty. The attendant twisted his hands. "Visiting hours are between four and six, sir," he said.

"This man is visiting now," the general said. "His surname is Levi."

The attendant paged through a logbook on his desk. "Mrs. Levi is on the third floor," he said. "Maternity ward. But sir, I'm not supposed to let anyone upstairs. I'll be fired."

The general took a name card from a leather case. "If anyone gives you trouble, tell them to discuss the situation with me."

"Yes, sir," the attendant said, and sank back down into his chair.

The general turned to Andras with another name card. "If there's anything else I can do, send word to me."

"I don't know how to thank you," Andras said.

"Be a good father to your son," the general said, and put a hand on Andras's shoulder. "May he live to see a more enlightened age than our own." He held Andras's gaze a moment longer, then turned and made his way out into the snow. The door closed behind him with a breath of cold air.

The attendant stared after the general in amazement. "How'd you make a friend like that?" he asked Andras.

"Luck, I suppose," Andras said. "It runs in my family."

"Well, go on," said the attendant, cocking a thumb toward the stairway. "If anyone asks who let you in, it wasn't me."

Andras raced up the staircase to the third floor, then followed signs to Klara's ward. There, in the semidark of the hospital night, new mothers lay in a double row of beds with bassinets at their feet. Some of the bassinets held swaddled babies; other babies nursed, or drowsed in their mothers' arms. But where was Klara? Where was her bed, and which of these children was his son? He ran the row twice before he saw her: Klara Levi, his wife, pale and damp-haired, her mouth swollen, her eyes ringed in dark shadow, lying in a dead sleep in the glow of a green-shaded light. He crept closer, his heart hammering, to see what she held in her arms. But when he reached the bedside he saw that it was an empty blanket, nothing more. The bassinet at the foot of her bed was empty too.

The ground seemed to fall away beneath him. So he had come too late despite everything. The world held no possibility for happiness; his life and Klara's were a ruin of grief. He covered his mouth, afraid he'd cry aloud. Someone laid a cool hand on his arm; he turned to see a nurse in a white apron.

"How did you get in?" she asked, more perplexed than angry. "Is this your wife?"

"The child," he said, in a whisper. "Where is he?"

The nurse drew her eyebrows together. "Are you the father?"