On the second floor one has to knock on the door as the bell is not working. The stairwell is unlit, as is the apartment that we enter. We have to pass through two rooms in both of which are six iron bedsteads with another six fitted on top of them, all empty. In the third room a woman is sitting next to a standard lamp with a green lampshade. A man in a black hat and a scruffy raincoat is standing next to her. They introduce themselves, and the man moves to shake hands. He says he runs the home, and we must obey his instructions; there are times when these will be orders, he says; that is unavoidable. There are no girls here, he says to Vera; you will sleep with my wife. It’s best you go through next door straight away. The woman drags one leg. She leads Vera away.
They asked what we are called, nothing else. The boys are downstairs in the cellar, says the man. Everyone went down when an air-raid warning is in progress. The all-clear has already been given, I say. He did not hear it. Anyway it was better if they stayed in the cellar, he says; you’ll see what I mean when they come up. He points to one of the upper beds. I clamber up. Don’t unpack your haversack, he says. Why not? Are you parents still living? Yes. His parents are no longer alive. Can we stay here? Anyone will be able to get a place here as long as he and his wife are here. And how long will you be here? That I don’t know, he says.
The boys come up from the cellar, ten or a dozen of them. They are different from the ones I was with at Munkácsy Mihály Street, although it could be that the only reason I see it that way is that there is just a single candle to light the room, so I see their shadows rather than them. One of the boys is such a beanpole that when he is standing by my bed his head was above my palliasse. Empty it, he says. Why? Shut it! Just empty it out! I lie back and try to stuff my haversack under the blanket. He reaches for it, socks me on the jaw and snatches the haversack from under the blanket. I turn round and as I do so kick his head. That was not my intention, but I don’t regret it. He falls on his back. He picks himself up and yanks me off the bed. You’re best advised to clear your bloody haversack, one of the boys says. I can’t see their faces in the dark; the candle has almost burned out. He twists one arm behind my back and pushes the haversack into my free hand. Tip it out here. His is the lower bed. I raise the haversack, turn it upside down and shake it. When all my things are on his blanket he says put them back, one item at a time. Let go of my arm, I say. He does not let it go but does loosen his grip. I pack everything back. When I reach the shell he says leave that on the bed. The head of the home brings a new candle and lights it. I reach for the shell, but the boy is quicker. That’s mine, I say. What can it do to make it so important to you? It doesn’t matter, I say. It’s up to me to say what matters and what doesn’t. It carries voices, I say. What voices? Those of my parents, my parents’ friends, including what we are saying right now. There you are, that’s exactly the sort of thing I needed. But it’s mine. I need it, he says, again reaching for my arm. I let fly at his face with an elbow. He staggers against the bed. I snatch hold of the shell and step to the side. His punch hits me on the shoulder; I put the shell down on the bed so I have both hands free to defend myself.
The head of the home left the room with the candle guttering in the draught, which allowed me to observe the boy’s face. He was as tall as I had thought and older than me, although perhaps only by a year, maybe not even that. I saw no anger on his face; I am surprised that I seem to see sadness or, rather, obstinacy. He throws a fresh punch, but that, too, seems to lack passion but is powerful none the less. I duck away, just as he ducks away from my punch. I do not leap at him as yet, although I sense that this will be the next move. I can see that he has it in mind to leap on me. Arms hold me back; him, too. I wrest myself from the hold, as does he. A stick whistles down between us, not touching either of us, rather as if a sword blade had slashed in two the few centimetres that separate us; we do not cling to each other, but now I scent his sweat more strongly, although maybe it is my own body odour. My arm is twisted behind me; his, too.
The head of the home is standing near the candle.
He shoves us in front of two men; they say nothing, neither does the head of the home.
I return to the bed and again start packing my things back into my rucksack.
One of the men picks up the stick which had whistled down between us. The stick is white. The other boys are sitting on their beds. I don’t know where the two men came from. One is wearing a raincoat, the other a frayed black winter topcoat. The head of the home says to the raincoated man that they should play something; all the gentlemen here appreciate music. One boy in the corner guffaws. The raincoated man leaves the room and comes back with a fiddle, plucking the strings. I do not climb on to the top bunk but sit on the lower one. The lanky boy takes a seat next to me.
The head of the home snuffs the candle’s flame between two moistened fingers and leaves the room. I ask Beanpole why, of all things, he needed my shell. He does not answer. I ask him how he got to the home, but he does not answer. I ought to clamber on to the top bunk and try to get some sleep.
Beanpole had been in the Kolumbusz Street home in the XIVth District. He tells me that after we have been sitting on the bed for ten minutes. That time the Kolumbusz Street home was fired on I could hear from number 76 Amerikai Road, I say. That was us, old chap, although I didn’t come from there but from Józsefváros Station. In Kolumbusz Street the camp leader was shot, the camp physician was also shot and the young and elderly were hauled off to the ghetto, whereas I was taken with the other physically fit men to the goods yard.
I ask how he managed to get away. It was dark; the Arrow Crossers and soldiers could barely see anything. They would fire off a burst every five minutes so that everyone would shit themselves, but after the fourth burst I knew when the fifth would be coming, so I had a few minutes to do a bunk.
There was a shell like it on my father’s writing desk, he says. My father was the camp doctor on Kolumbusz Street. I can give you the shell if you want, I say. Give over, he says. It’s not even mine, actually, but belongs to a friend of my father’s; I’m going to give it back. When will that be? I ask him whether he has heard anything about being sent from here to the ghetto. No, doesn’t know anything. Do you reckon the head of the home knows? The rabbi, you mean? I didn’t know he is a rabbi; it’s Friday evening, but I haven’t seen him praying. He doesn’t pray, he says. What about you? I don’t pray. But you said he’s a rabbi. I asked him, he says, and he replied that he doesn’t pray; he has looked up at the sky and saw it was empty — there’s nobody to pray to. Good, huh? Got you, I say. He used to have a long beard, he says, but he cut it off with scissors as he doesn’t own a razor. He said it was for health reasons, but I don’t reckon that was the real reason. Your father was the doctor at the Kolumbusz Street camp? Let’s get some sleep, he says. I’m freezing, I say. Take your blanket down from the upper bunk and lie down next to me, he says. You won’t freeze so much under two blankets. Who is the girl? he asks once I am lying down next to him. You saw her? I saw her. She’s a cousin. That’s crap! Cousins don’t behave that way. Well, she’s called Vera. Vera? That’s right.
I am not able to fall asleep. Nor can he. I still don’t get it, I say. What? That the rabbi doesn’t pray. He told me he doesn’t want to lie. To whom? To the Everlasting Father. I don’t understand that either. He said he doesn’t want to lie to the Everlasting Father that he places his trust in Him. I understand that even less. I don’t understand it either, though … Though what? All the same I understand it a little. What? Let’s go to sleep, he says. A person needs sleep. At least try. A person needs to eat and needs sleep. Is there any food here? No, no food. Two boys go to the Teleki Square market and nick whatever they can, and we share that out. They’re good at it; two others were caught, though, so they’ll go out instead until they get nabbed. What happens then? We’ll draw lots to see who the next couple will be. Could it be you? Sure it could, he says; it could be you, it could even be the two us together. And if the person who draws the lot doesn’t want to go? There’s no option. Try and get some shut-eye.