The woman calls the boys in individually; they each get a slice of bread and a carrot. I don’t know how I should address the rabbi. He tells his wife that perhaps it was a mistake to share out the carrots as well that day; they ought to have been put aside for the following day. His wife says that we were down to praying to the Everlasting with all the fasting.
The rabbi takes a prayer robe or shawl out of the cupboard and wrapped it over his head. The black stripes of the robe glitter in the light; I see the white silk as green. He takes the robe off, folds it and puts it back in the cupboard. We are not fasting out of any wish to adhere to the Teaching, he says; we are fasting because we have no option, and we do not partake of any assistance from the Everlasting. Is it always up to us to act in order that the Book of the Law is adhered to, I wonder, or is everything not the other way round? That He ought to behold us and build the Teaching in accordance with what He sees. Is everything the other way round?
Vera is paying attention.
Dearie me, she presses the palms of her hands together, that’s going too far.
The Zohar, the rabbi replies, says that all our wishes will be accomplished when the heavens are rent. The heavens were rent, and we have been left on our own. We have followed the Book of the Law, and despite that are unable to see our own shadow. Joshua consoled those wandering in the wilderness when they trembled that they could not see the shadows of their pursuers, for a man who casts no shadow is not a man, the Book of the Law says, there is no man. But can our shadows be seen in the dark, I ask myself.
Vera is crying, so, too, the woman. They embrace each other.
I ask if everyone from here is to be taken into the ghetto. He says, I don’t know, son. I’ve heard people say they will, but I’ve also heard that an extension permit is due to come out, I say. He had heard the same two bits of news. He asks if there is a place we might go to. My parents are in the Alice Weiss Hospital, and supposedly we shall not be allowed in there, though, of course, we can try if needs must. When I said that Vera came over to me. What did she think? I ask. Should we make a start? She says, It’s not up to me. I don’t have the authority — not from the Everlasting or from anyone else. You lot need to decide. Is there a chance that we won’t be taken in? Maybe there is and maybe there isn’t.
I go through the rooms tapping on the iron frames of the beds. I only check if the shell is still in my haversack. Then I go back. I tell Vera to pack it away in her small suitcase. The rabbi and his wife are sitting under the green lampshade. The woman gets up; she hugs Vera and also hugs me to her. She looks questioningly at her husband, and the rabbi also gets to his feet. He makes a deep bow before her, then steps over to Vera and places the palms of both hands on her head. He then places his palms on my head before making another deep bow to his wife.
Rifle shots can be heard from Teleki Square; from the Outer Circle it is more in the way of machine-gun bursts. I walk a few steps in front of Vera. At road junctions I wait and only signal if I see no one around. We reach Teleki Square. I feel easier in the dark streets than in the dark rooms. I don’t know if Jolán Bors has reached my parents. I don’t know if my parents have read my last letter and warned the doormen that we might be coming. I can see people hanging around the market stalls. They are not armed. One of them has just forced a wooden door. Come on, he says. It’s a bit warmer here.
We walk on. The cemetery wall is lit up by the moonlight. German army trucks hurtle next to us along the main road from the direction of Orczy Square a bit further out of town. Vera says she doesn’t mind if we hurry because it will warm up her feet. Baross Square in front of the Keleti Railway Terminus. No doubt there are patrols around the station.
From Nagyfuvaros Street it takes me twenty-four minutes to reach Baross Square via Teleki Square.
My steps of old and of now trace the same path, although it seems as if I am not standing at the mouth of the square but, as it were, on the bank of a wide river where the traces again vanish and the paths of long ago can no longer be tracked.
We needed to avoid Baross Square because of the patrols around Keleti Station, so we had to take Rottenbiller Road, going in a north-easterly direction.
What now takes me twenty-four minutes was probably twice that back then.
In the post-war subway in the square two homeless people are reclining on the ground under grubby coverlets, their heads covered by ripped sacks. A young man of about twenty is sitting on a folding chair; in front of him there is a scattering of coins in the open lid of a violin case and a few 200-forint banknotes. The moment he glimpses me he starts to play: Vivaldi. I wonder what makes him think that classics are what the old codger needs. He’s a student at the Conservatoire, he says when I ask. Some of his fellow students have pitches nearer the centre, but he likes it here and even more in the outer suburbs. He has a wavy mop of blond hair, frameless glasses, a black Adidas jacket and white Adidas trainers. His belongings are all worn, but he clearly looks after them, so he is not playing because he is broke. He asks me what I’m looking for in this neighbourhood so late in the day, so I ask him what makes him think I’m looking for something. Why does he rule out the possibility that I’m simply heading for somewhere? I don’t want to be nosy, sir, but I just had the impression you are looking for something, he smiles. I beg your pardon. If I would like he would play a request of mine.
It’s as if there were another city under this city, and it was sounds from there that I was hearing. Not just familiar sounds but unfamiliar ones as well; or, to be more precise, sounds that were once unfamiliar yet at the same time are part of me in much the way, perhaps, that everything which happens to me also belongs to others, maybe even the young man gripping his violin under his chin, in just the same way as the moments are part of me during which I was once able to avoid Baross Square, in just the same way as the many millions, or even hundreds of millions, of footprints that others have left on my traces from long ago. Stepping into the unknown I also proceed in the unknown left to me by others; the boy who was little older than fourteen knew the way and chose well, the proof of that being that I am able to be here now. That fourteen-year-old took upon his own shoulders the possibility that I would search for him in vain.
The young man plays some Schubert at my request. I earned three thousand today, he says when he finishes, but that’s exceptional; there are some days when it’s only two or three hundred. He makes it crystal clear, with a dismissive gesture of his bowing hand, that he will not accept money from me. He packs up his things. That was a good note to end on; thank you, sir, for giving me the opportunity. We shake hands.
I go further along Rottenbiller Road to Damjanich Street, crossing it midway, then on to the Körönd roundabout on Andrássy Avenue. I must have stood around for about ten minutes in the subway, which I will need to deduct from the time taken for my route from Nagyfuvaros Street in the VIIIth District to Szabolcs Street in the VIth.
I had to tell my parents what route we took; there was no way they would not have asked. I tried to read from Mother’s look what she might have retained of it all, but I don’t know when that was exactly. Probably at least quarter of a century later. She mostly does crocheting in the brazilwood easy chair; little place mats and gloves in beige thread. She’s paid buttons for them from some inner-city wide-boy. Now I come to think of it, she says, which way did you come? She lowers the crochet needles. I am afraid my silence over the matter is disappointing to her, as I can’t say which way we went after avoiding Baross Square.
When she was at Nagyfuvaros Street Jolán Bors said that if we were forced to go after all we should avoid Hősök Square.