“This isn’t a place to be in the winter,” he grumbled as he punctured the hard, frigid dirt.
“I was just leaving.” Dora stood up, her legs a little wobbly from sitting on the cold, stone bench.
The man stopped digging and fixed his gaze on Dora. “Hey, I recognize you.”
Dora’s heart quickened. “I don’t think we know each other.”
“You are a Turján. You look just like her,” the man said, stepping closer to Dora.
“Excuse me, but who are you?”
“I’m Bence. I was a Freedom Fighter.”
Dora had never been confronted by one of her mom’s counterparts before. She never even fantasized about that happening. But this Bence seemed so intrigued by Dora that she wondered what kind of impact Eszter had on his life.
“Did you work at the paper with her?”
“No, we met her the first day of the revolution,” Bence said. “I’ll never forget it.”
“What happened?”
“She escorted one of our comrades to American troops.”
“There were no American troops.”
“Exactly.”
After the revolution, Dora remembered people blaming the Americans for instilling false hope in the Freedom Fighters by suggesting the U.S. would come charging in and save them from the Soviets. Dora thought that sounded like a cruel trap, and now it upset her even more to hear her mom fell victim to it as well.
“What happened when she escorted your comrade to this so-called aid?”
“You’re her daughter and you don’t know?” Bence snorted, piercing the dirt again, which had started to give way.
Dora, embarrassed, studied the ground as Bence unearthed its dark, tender interior.
“If you don’t know, I’m not going to be the one to tell you.”
“I’ll find out through my own means.” Dora stepped over the fresh mound of dirt. “Have a nice day.”
“Wait, there is something you should know.”
“What?”
“I heard they’re having a hearing for her.”
“I’m already aware of that.”
“But, I heard it’s today, and I don’t know who I’m digging this grave for. I’d like to think it’s not for her.”
Dora stopped. Her mouth went dry. How many shocks to her life could she handle before she became delusional like her mom? The hearing couldn’t be today. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t have a plan. She wasn’t even close to having a plan. And how much longer after the trial would Eszter be sentenced? Would it be right away? Dora reminded herself to focus on her actions, on taking the first step. Nothing more.
“What time is the trial? Where?”
“In two hours. At the ministry.”
“I’ll go now.” She shook Bence’s calloused and grimy hand. “Thank you.”
Bence squeezed Dora’s hand back. “If you get a chance to talk to her, tell her Boldiszar’s comrades know it was a mistake.”
Dora froze. She was almost certain she imagined his name. “Whose comrades?”
“Boldiszar. He was our commander. He died in that trap too. Such a shame, they really believed so much in Radio Free Europe.”
“I knew him. I knew Boldiszar,” Dora gasped. She wanted to fall to the ground and never get up again. She wanted to blend into the dirt and weeds and graves because this was too much information. This would finish her.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I can’t… I have to go. I can’t stay.” Dora rushed out of the cemetery, dodging the decrepit headstones, not even bothering to close the gate on the way out. She wished more than anything she could run to Boldiszar, but she would never be able to do that. She next thought of Ferenc, but she couldn’t go to him, either. Marta would get too excited by the drama. Her dad would see right through her. Dora didn’t know what to do or to whom to turn.
If her mom led Boldiszar to the trap that killed him, then Eszter was, in some way, responsible for Boldiszar’s death, even if it was a mistake. And how did Eszter survive this trap? Surely Boldiszar was stronger and faster. It should have been Eszter who didn’t get away. Dora had to know the answers, because knowing was the only option now. No longer could she ignore her mom’s past or sit at unmarked graves and wonder what happened to Boldiszar. The information was out there. It existed, muddled and volatile, in a cold basement, underneath the ministry. It resided in Eszter, and Dora needed her now more than ever. She had to get to Eszter’s trial, and now.
ESZTER TURJÁN
February 18, 1965
IT SMELLS. EVERYTHING SMELLS in this room. It was smelling before I arrived. The worst illnesses come from within and eat without until we become them, like we always suspected we would. Under my nails lies the scum of nine years, and it crawls into my throat, and I want to throw up. Never once did they bathe me, but can I tell them that? Sitting in squalor, shitting too, my body infested my mind; my mind infested my body. To let me back out in this country is not freedom. I’d rather endure an eternity of punishment than receive the exoneration of a government that deserves to never be forgiven.
The bureaucrats are here in my courtroom. When they see me, they realize what it feels like, for a second, to be trapped. It washes over their eyes and then out. They look so bored and proud, as if mediocrity was some medal they could wear across their chests. Everything they do, I watch. “Beware,” my cat eyes warn, and when they look away, I know I’ve scared them.
They said this isn’t my trial. It’s just my pre-trial, but I do not believe them because I never believe them. Do not believe them. They think they wield the ultimate truth. But they carry the lies deep inside. I see them. I feel them. They are numb, but I am not, except my hand is, because I am sitting on it. It has been hurt ever since my rat tore through it, so I hide it to increase my chances here. The judge wears a simple suit—brown tweed. It seems there are two judges, a woman too.
Antal is here. His pink face is now ashen, preparing for his impending cremation because he will die soon, I know. I mouth to him that I know what he did. I know he betrayed me to the Soviets. He is still a little worker bee in the government’s hive. He cannot look at me, but I stare at him forever. I stare until his soul becomes riddled with my eyes. I’m not strong enough for revenge. I wonder if he can tell.
He gets up to leave, and that confirms my theory that he betrayed me, and he betrayed Boldiszar. And, if he had really been on our side, he wouldn’t have kept working for the regime all these years. He would have done what Laszlo did, become a émigré. It was him. I always knew it, but now I know it for sure. I have no strength. I have no strength to follow him, but I’ve killed him in my mind anyway.
I’m scanning the audience. My breath stops. Everything stops. I can’t believe I did not recognize her at first. Sitting there is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, even though I’ve seen her so many times. An angel. Have I died? “Dora,” my lips follow the once-familiar pattern of my daughter’s name, tongue instinctively curling up for the “D,” lips narrowing for the hard “orrrr,” and then releasing at the soft “a.” I say her name over and over again inside. It feels so wonderful. It feels like me. I missed her. I remember how sweet she smelled and how, when she was a baby, she used to watch me do everything and I knew she’d be so smart.
The present holds everything in its embrace, but then in the same instant, lets it go. She’s grown now. Dora, with her olive skin. It’s not fragile. I can tell it’s tough. Sometimes—no, always—too tough. Am I to blame for that? No, it must be Ivan, the one who holds the party line closer to him than his own blood. But where am I? I can barely recognize myself in Dora. She grew up to be not me. Isn’t that what I wanted? Her lips are beautiful and pink. Mine are thin, raw specimens, and I touch them to make sure they are still there. Her hair is straight and mine is gray, knotted, and I can feel it falling out.