“Smart. Well, you better leave now before Gerő tries to get in touch.”
We both knew Antal’s phone could have been ringing right then. I wondered what it would cost him—or his children and grandchildren—if he wasn’t there to answer it.
“I’ll be back,” Antal said, coughing into his hands, still shaking from what I knew was the fear we all shared.
“Wait.” I pulled out a tattered piece of paper, wincing as the cuts in my hand protested the sudden movement. “Take this with you. A student gave it to me yesterday. It’s a coded list of meeting points and times for the march. You have to get this on air too.”
Antal nodded as I slid the paper into his coat pocket, making sure to secure the meticulously crafted plans of the brave, hopeful students. They probably didn’t even realize that at this moment, Soviet troops were almost certainly readying their tanks at a base nearby.
DORA TURJÁN
Budapest, Hungary—January 16, 1965
ESZTER.
Her mom’s name stared at Dora in dizzying multitudes, splayed across the walls of the alley hundreds of times. It dripped over knots of curse words and lewd sketches. It zigzagged across faded propaganda that told Freedom Fighters they’d better tremble in their sleep. It bore down on Dora with a crushing might as she tried to walk faster, frustrated she took this shortcut in the first place. She reminded herself there was no way these names referred to her mom. Some kid named Eszter—or maybe the girl’s boyfriend—had defaced the alley.
Ever since her mom was taken away nine years ago, Dora had trained her mind to think about anything but Eszter. Anytime someone called out her mom’s name, Dora plodded on, refusing to look up. At work, when she spotted Eszter on a letter, she read all the words around it before filing the paper away. At home, her dad, Ivan, wouldn’t dare mention his wife’s name.
As she walked through the alley though, the sheer number of Eszters laid siege to Dora’s defenses. Lifting her head just a little, she saw a version of her mom’s name that looked familiar. It had the same style as how she’d drawn as a kid, the “E” capped with big dots, the “z” larger than its neighboring letters. Dora was always so proud of those drawings. When she brought one home from school, she’d clutch it high over her waist and study the ground, intent on avoiding any puddles. When she presented it to her mom, Eszter would act surprised and say thank you in the voice she typically reserved for babies. Later, Dora would find the drawing in her mom’s bathroom, spotted with eyeshadow and powder, its edges curling up from the water Eszter had just used to wash her face.
Dora stepped closer to the graffiti. She slipped off her gloves one finger at a time, reluctant to expose her skin to the biting cold but unable to stop the predetermined trajectory of her hand. She traced the gritty edges of her mom’s name, her fingers lingering on the “z” as she savored its dramatic angles.
Dora knew she shouldn’t indulge in memories of Eszter. She shouldn’t think about that one time Ivan was held up at work, and Eszter found a bar of chocolate as big as Dora’s head in one of their kitchen cabinets, too awkwardly shaped to hold anything but things meant to be forgotten. After Dora and Eszter ate the whole chocolate bar, they got into their pajamas and jumped on Eszter’s bed. Dora remembered feeling so delighted that she asked her mom if they could do it again next weekend. Eszter just got that far-off look in her eyes, the one where she seemed to slip into some alternate reality where she wasn’t Dora’s mom.
For a long time, Dora remembered her childhood as marked by a persistent melancholy. She realized as an adult, though, it wasn’t sadness that characterized her past, but a constant sense of waiting. Dora thought the day would come when Eszter would want to spend time with her. Dora just had to grow up more. She would be patient. Except, sometimes she would go out looking for Eszter, who would leave unannounced for hours on end. Dora pretended she was just playing hide-and-seek, searching in neighborhood parks, abandoned factories, and train stations for Eszter. Dora never once found Eszter, who would usually come back long after Dora had given up and fallen asleep. If Dora convinced herself she had only lost another round of the game, she could get up and live another day to try again.
Dora heard children playing on the far side of the alley, rousing her from her stupor. Her fingers began to ache, a sign they would soon go numb in winter’s grip. There was no need to stay there, or ever come back. An alley full of graffiti would never give her the mom she had always wanted. Dora burrowed her chin into her coat and walked to the restaurant.
“You made it,” Ivan said, wiping his clammy forehead with his napkin. Her dad sweated constantly, a relic of his formerly plump self. He had lost more than eighty pounds since the revolution.
“Sorry, I got caught up in something.” Dora smoothed out her hair, its thin brown strands succumbing to the static of her winter cap.
The restaurant, its tablecloths as white as her dad’s pale forehead, boasted a clientele of middle-aged bureaucrats who, hunched over their plates in near-silence, seemed resigned to the bland sauces and overcooked chicken before them.
“Are you okay?” Ivan scanned Dora’s face.
“What do you mean?”
“I can tell you look… shook up.”
“Oh, it’s just the cold. The walk was longer than I expected.” Dora tried not to give herself away. Sometimes her expressions lagged far behind, loitering in the past. She was frustrated she paid any attention to Eszter this afternoon, a small relapse that would linger for days, maybe weeks.
“Look, I know it’s easy to get… well, distracted, by things.” Ivan alluded to what they would never discuss. “Just remember that you’re doing great.”
“Thank you.” Dora shifted the conversation to something they could easily talk about. “Work is going well.”
“How many letters did you get through today?”
“One hundred already.”
At twenty-six, Dora had a secure job with the government, monitoring and censoring people’s mail.
“That’s enormous.” Ivan smiled, a rare occurrence.
“What about you? Any new policies I need to know about?”
Ivan leaned across the table toward his daughter. “Actually, that’s why I asked you here today. I have some exciting news for you.”
Dora raised her eyebrows, inviting him to continue, as the waiter delivered two plates of paprikás csirke—apparently Ivan had ordered for her, like she was a little girl. She wished he would stop that.
“Your department is about to get a very important assignment,” Ivan began, but paused to watch Dora.
She examined her chicken, now settled under shiny pockets of fat. Ever since the revolution, eating felt like a chore. Dora found herself fighting nausea before she took her first bite of food, though she managed to finish most of her meals. Ivan had developed the habit of staring at her in the moments when she was mustering the strength to eat.
Ivan waited until Dora lifted the first piece of chicken to her mouth. “This assignment requires us to make some changes. And they have to do with you.”
Dora’s stomach lurched. She hated change and how it toyed with her, like a cat pawing at a perfectly wound ball of yarn. It always seemed like a fun game at first, until, string by string, she became unraveled.
But before Ivan could continue, a barrage of radio static interrupted him. It pierced through the restaurant, surrounding them in a strident din. The shrill static churned Dora’s thoughts, thwarting their usual, linear pattern.