A girl is sitting in an armchair. She is maybe three or four years older than me and has a very pretty face. She is blonde and blue-eyed. Hi there, she says. And who are you? I dare not tread further into the room and give my name: we have just come up from the cellar and are staying in the room next door. That used to be my room, she says. The blanket slips off her. Her legs are very frail and held stiffly together; she is wearing a white skirt. I ask her if she is ill. No, she is unable to walk, not ill; spinal paralysis is all, she says. Do you know what paralysis is?
I do know, as it happens. Gizi’s little girl had paralysis; she was also very pretty, but she died even before Uncle Józsi died. I do not mention this to the girl. When I told her my name she introduced herself. She is called Éva.
Her mother returns. I can see she wants to bawl me out, but the girl says he’s a decent young man. All we were doing was chatting a little, Mummy.
The warden’s wife cleans with a feather duster. She goes out then comes back in; she is constantly doing something. She is tall, like her husband, and has a long bony face and long arms. You can stay if you want. She says it without so much as looking at me. Thank you, I say, but I think I ought to lend a hand to Mother or Father. The girl waves as I leave with a gesture as sweeping as if she were on a railway platform and waving goodbye to a departing train.
Vera had put on a clean blouse after her wash, possibly her last spare blouse, and also thoroughly combed her hair. She smells of soap. The two of us are in the bathroom. I lean over towards her; she holds her face still, and I press my lips to hers. She doesn’t draw away. It feels good to hold my lips to hers, although it’s not something I particularly want to do; I was just trying it out. I had not supposed she would permit it. I get the feeling that for her it doesn’t feel good. Her lips are cold, and yet as if she did still want that she puts her arms round my neck.
We quickly go into the room.
By now I am aware that the physicist is an uncle of the warden’s wife. It was he who had made the arrangements for us to be able to move upstairs.
I go out into the outside corridor. The firing from over by Nyugati Railway Terminus is audible. Sleet is falling. I lean on the railing from which I can see the back yard of the house next door, which is exactly the same as that of our house. There is a section of the yard next to the wall that has not been concreted over, and four people are digging a grave in the mud. The pit is now deep enough. Two corpses, wrapped in sacking, are brought, presumably the ones that were carried out of the cellar at dawn. The bodies are placed carefully in the grave. There are two women and a child standing by the pit; at the back, two rows of men, ten in all, with hats on their heads.
The sound of shelling grows more intense.
The gravediggers rest on their spades.
Baritone, at one side of the pit, sings the Kaddish. He has a beautiful voice and spreads his arms so that his chest seems even more robust, and his voice is powerful enough to be audible even as the detonations are going on.
The physicist is standing next to me; I hadn’t noticed when he came out on to the balcony, but he, too, is leaning over the railing. He takes his glasses off and wipes them.
Aircraft again draw near.
Baritone repeats the Kaddish.
The members of the families are standing motionless in the sleet. When the men start filling in the grave they each throw a fistful of soil into the pit. Baritone glances up, and I wave, but it’s not me he is looking at — it’s as if his gaze were boring through the clouds.
The physicist makes a sign of the cross. Come, he says, or we’ll get soaked.
The news about the possible incineration of the ghetto got to the protected houses before I did. By the time I arrived there had already been a lot of suicides. In the house at number 35 St István Park a woman had thrown herself off the fourth floor. In other Spanish houses the men had decided to acquire arms. If I were certain that we had enough available weapons I myself would have given the order to attack. I think that the police might even fight on our side … I ran to see Ernő Vajna, the Minister of Internal Affairs, at the City Hall. Underground I found Wallenberg and Peter Zürcher of the Swiss Embassy. They had also come to ask Vajna to suspend the transfer of their protectees to the city ghetto. I asked them to let me speak first … I told him right away that further resistance made no sense and would only cause more death and the destruction of the city. I told him that an immediate capitulation would obligate the victors to show greater understanding, and that it would make it possible to put a stop to the bands sacking the city. I tried, for a long time, to make him understand that by now the war was lost and that what was happening was senseless and shameful … Vajna replied that he refused to talk about surrender. According to him the city must be defended to the last man … (From the diary of Giorgio Perlasca)
There is always someone in the bathroom. I have got used to looking away if someone is sat on the toilet, and it was worse in the brickworks where one had to squat next to others. Évie’s mother carries her in whenever she needs to use the toilet or washbasin. It’s not just her legs that are thin; she is generally very skinny. She must be very light, but I can also see how strong Aunt Klári is. She carries sacks and lifts children. When she is with Éva she talks quietly, but at other times she shouts. It’s not that she wants to, as I gather from the way that she smiles while she is shouting.
The physicist says to her that if needs be he will carry Évie to the bathroom. Don’t be silly, Laci, says Aunt Klári. You have enough to do lugging yourself around. He takes off his spectacles is the same way as when he makes notes, picks Éva up and really does carry her around with the greatest ease. He stands guard before the door in the hall while she is on the lavatory and tells me to stand in the door to our room to stop anyone else from entering.
In the main room the physicist and Aunt Klári draw up two of the chairs beside the big sideboard and sit down hand in hand; they must be very fond of each other. Meanwhile it is possible for me to grab a few minutes with Vera in Évie’s room. Previously no one else had been allowed to do so.
Mother says that Uncle Laci had been trying for a position at the university; his wife was with her parents in the village of Érd, just beyond Buda. He was unable to get to her there, but he had thought that he could reach the university, which was perhaps safer, but Aunt Klári had kept him back. She had heard her shouting at him, Laci, that’s enough of your nonsense. You’re not going one step further. Quick march into the house.
Father is allocated to the guard at the gate, so I go down with him. It is a three-man guard; they wear ICRC armbands. They take over from the previous shift, and the warden instructs them that they can only allow in those who can show they have papers from the legation. If there is a pounding on the door they had best step aside because a shot might be aimed at the gate.
I set off to look for Baritone. I want to know his name, and I may ask him for one of his revolvers after all, but I can find him nowhere.
The warden and Uncle Laci are playing chess in the bathroom, with Uncle Laci sitting on the closed toilet and the warden on the rim of the bath, the pocket chess set being on Uncle Laci’s knees.
I go downstairs again. I can hear a singing voice from the cellar.
Baritone is standing in the middle and singing, his arms spread out, his head thrown back. The flame of the lamps is quivering; the shadow of his outstretched arms can be seen on the wall. The man who was said to be amnesiac is standing next to him with one of Baritone’s arms almost brushing his face, as if he had not even noticed him, and sitting under the other arm is a young girl.