“There is something else,” Ivan started in that self-important tone, the one Dora knew her dad expected her to mirror. “We want you to work exclusively on these letters, as Joszef’s second in command.”
“Joszef?”
“Yes. This is a huge opportunity for you.”
Dora resisted the urge to immediately decline the opportunity. Though she would finally get the recognition she deserved, the thought of sending Mike, or others, to jail tainted the moment. She believed in the party, and its goals, but she didn’t want to actually go after her letter writers.
“That’s such a big role, and I would want to do it right. But, I already have so much to do. What about Tamás?”
“We thought about that, but it wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“There are some English letters in this collection. And no one knows the language like you.”
Ivan was right. Dora was the resident expert on English. She had studied the language in her free time in hopes of getting a promotion. She never thought she’d be terrified of it when the time finally came.
“Here, you can take a peek at what you’d be dealing with.” Ivan slid over a tan envelope, heavy with papers inside.
“Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.” Dora’s shoulders fell, though she tried to give Ivan a thin smile, hoping he would interpret her apprehension as nerves more than anything else.
“I know you’ll give it your serious consideration, angyalkám.”
Dora cringed when she heard the endearing namesake, my angel. Ivan used to call her that, and other love names, when she was little. He had stopped when she’d sprouted breasts and grew as tall as her mom. But, when Eszter was taken away after the revolution, Ivan began using the pet names again. They were like porcelain dolls yanked out of a dusty attic. Though brought back into the light, they seemed forever relegated to the dingy, lonely space from which they came.
“I better get back to work.” Ivan kissed Dora on the forehead. “Good luck with these. We’re counting on you.”
Before Dora could say goodbye, Ivan hurried out of the restaurant.
She hadn’t seen her dad that eager in awhile. He usually exuded a stern confidence, supported by the conviction that people would do as he said. The last time she saw Ivan that persistent was a year before the revolution, when he was pleading with Eszter to stay loyal to the party.
Dora had come home early from school that day, expecting to be alone, when she noticed the walls faintly emitting her parents’ voices, which rose and fell at varying decibels. At age sixteen, Dora could detect a fight in an instant, even if it sounded like a mere whisper. She crept through the hallway, toward the voices. As she approached her parents’ bedroom, the voices grew louder. Dora knew if her mom and dad had retreated to their room, this was a bad fight. She pressed her ear against their door, convincing herself she was ready for whatever she might hear.
Her dad said, “You can’t do this, Eszter. Writing a secret newspaper? I can’t believe it.”
Eszter shot back, “I don’t care. I have to. I can’t be silent anymore. The conditions at the factory are insufferable.”
“You don’t understand. If they find out, they will arrest you. And me.”
“No one is ever going to find out. I’m being careful.”
“Careful? It won’t take long for them to figure out who wrote this. This isn’t being careful. They’re killing people for this kind of stuff.”
“I’m fighting for something bigger than myself.”
“This isn’t just about you or your movement anymore,” Ivan said. “Apparently, she’s not even a consideration for you. If we’re gone, Dora could be sent to an orphanage. Or… worse.”
“Dora will be fine. You know she always is.”
Eszter’s tone changed, flattening until it sounded almost casual. It made Dora want to cry. She wanted to hear some concern—or would even settle for anger—in Eszter’s voice.
“Dora would not be fine,” Ivan barked, with all the anger and fire Eszter lacked. “Stop pretending it would be okay.”
“You’re the one who’s pretending. You’re living in a fantasy world supporting this party. You’re going to pay for that one day.”
“You’ve gone too far, Eszter. You’re the one who is going to regret it.”
Dora knew she should run to her room, but she still held out hope she could detect one, even minuscule, hint of love from her mom.
“Just promise me one thing,” Ivan said.
“What?”
“You will stop involving Boldiszar in your schemes. You know he’s only twenty-one. He’s too young, and he’ll get caught up in this lethal crap.”
Boldiszar? Did Dora hear that correctly? What was he doing with Eszter? She wanted to stay, but knew her parents’ fighting patterns all too well. Once her dad started bargaining, Eszter would see the opening and agree to his terms, though she rarely kept her word. Before Dora got caught eavesdropping, she tiptoed swiftly to her room.
Dora curled up in her bed, clutching her knees to her chest, and cried. Her mom loved herself more than anyone else, and the constant reminders of that sickened Dora. She wanted Eszter to get caught. She deserved it. Someone needed to punish her for the pain she caused them. But Boldiszar didn’t deserve to be punished. Dora couldn’t afford to lose someone who actually loved her. Couldn’t her mom recognize that? Eszter should have never started messing with Boldiszar or even with this dissident stuff in the first place. There were real consequences, yet somehow she didn’t see them, or maybe she just didn’t care.
Dora wanted to fix it all, but she didn’t know how. The best she could do was promise herself one thing: She would never be like her, like Eszter. She would care about other people. She would practice caution. She would follow the rules.
As Dora got up from the table, she remembered that long-ago promise. The new position Ivan offered her would be one more way for Dora to become anything other than Eszter.
Back at her office, Dora opened the envelope her dad gave her. She sifted through the letters, which clung together as if protesting the unrightful disturbance. Some were handwritten and others were typed. She came upon one, scribbled in a messy collage of sentences. It was Mike’s. She dislodged it, took a deep breath, and began to read.
MIKE A KORVINKÖZBŐL
Budapest, Hungary—January 14, 1965
Dear Uncle Lanci,
It was so glorious when you played “Surfin’ Bird” for me the night previous. So sweet, I am resigned to even put it into words here, though I will try with my groovy English dictionary to convey all the meaning to you. You envision, when I heard “Surfin Bird,” it was better than even losing my virginity. Let me explain.
It all commenced yesterday, when I had a great surprise from a beautiful woman entering my shop. This woman, you envision, is the most pristine woman imaginable. When she asked to get her radiator worked on, I said we should work on a bit more than that. Okay, okay, I refrained though. I interpreted she would not have minded so much. Anyway, I played Mr. Nice Man and started to fix her car.
But, something disturbed me as I labored. Her radio was turned down. The height of its volume could reach but a wee whisper. I amended that problem right up front as best I could (they are shit speakers), and guess what came out? Radio Budapest! Just the name makes me grow bumps on my arm. Does it do that to you? I just couldn’t stand the government’s radio blaring from those minimal speakers, and if her maximal breasts listened to this, it would just make me mad.