Dora sat next to Ivan on a tufted leather chair, pretending to read. When I rolled my eyes at Ivan, Dora caught me in the act and mouthed, “Listen to him.”
If she only knew the horror her dad’s party inflicted on people like me. I didn’t want to punish her for siding with Ivan, nor did I want to tell her the truth: that one day, if things didn’t change, her friends and—God forbid—Dora herself would be the ones targeted by her dad’s government. It would be their phone calls, remarks, habits, and routines the secret police would be monitoring. It would be them who would be tortured with whips, limb crushers, and nail presses. I wasn’t sure Dora would be able to handle it, with Ivan’s constant sheltering and brainwashing.
I never thought our family would turn out to be so divided. I always knew Ivan and I were different. I fell in love with him because he was different. He came from the country, smelling like earth and with eyes the color of the Danube. I came from the city, wearing sparkly necklaces and knowing the names of different cheeses. Ivan didn’t flood the conversation with words. He allowed me to talk about whatever I wanted, and he never missed one thing I said. He always responded with his own interpretation of my experiences, adding depth and color to my life.
Every time Ivan saw me, he brought me a different colored rose. I didn’t even know purple roses existed until Ivan slid one into the empty vase on my parents’ table one night, got down on one knee, and proposed to me. The first time we made love, Dora was conceived, and for a few years we enjoyed the illusion of family life.
When World War II happened, Ivan fled the country, to the Soviet Union, with other government officials, and I moved in with my family. When he returned, he wouldn’t stop talking about communism. I found it endearing at first, clearly not understanding what it would mean for my family.
My parents had been part of the nobility, reaching their peak at a time when only a small number of families owned a disproportionately greater amount of property compared to everyone else. Under the post-war Communist dictatorship, my parents were deemed kulaks and considered “enemies” of “socialist construction.” The government decided to liquidate them, sending families like mine to isolated villages or simply executing them altogether. Ivan, who was working for the regime at the time, participated in initiatives surrounding this extreme injustice. Because of my status as Ivan’s wife, I was protected, but my parents disappeared one afternoon, before I could even say goodbye.
Ivan tried to explain that he couldn’t stop their deportation, but I wouldn’t listen to him. I’m sure he could have done something. It would have cost him his job. But he could have. Others did.
Only a year after they were sent away, I learned both my parents died, alone, in a village I had never even heard of. After that, the only thing I cared about was reversing the damage Ivan’s government inflicted upon my family.
As Ivan sat in his chair, his back to me, I reflected on the fact that nearly a decade after my parents’ death, I was finally making headway on dismantling this repressive and abusive regime.
I walked over to Dora and slid her book out of her hands. “Come on; let’s eat.” Maybe if I lured Dora away from the study, Ivan would emerge and I could access our radio he had on lockdown. Dora started scooting herself off the chair, when Ivan handed her a different book and asked her to read him something out of it. Dora readily obeyed.
Giving up, I retreated to the kitchen and pried open the window, expecting to hear some commotion outside in the streets. I heard instead the fading murmur of a car puttering down the road.
“Why do you look more tired than normal, Eszter?” Ivan bore his eyes into my profile as he followed me into the kitchen, trying to hold my attention.
He knows, I thought. He knows what I’ve done.
Then again, he always knew. But why did he insist on testing me? I thought he had found some comfort in pretending that I had renounced my allegiance to the underground. I promised Ivan a year ago that I would, after I realized how desperate he was to move on from the whole matter. He had gotten to the point where he accepted my excuses and lies—they were better than fighting me. I continued writing for Realitás. Ivan went on burying himself in his work. And so it went, we spent our days creating worlds bent on undoing one another.
The phone rang, and Ivan’s eyes followed my hands as they brought the receiver to my ear.
“Hello,” I answered it.
“Eszter, this is Laszlo.”
At the sound of his name, I stopped breathing. Laszlo never called me at home.
Gripping the phone so tight that my knuckles turned white, I watched Ivan’s eyes snake their way up my arms to where my hands betrayed my anxiety. Ivan looked away and flipped open the newspaper, but I knew he was listening to me. I pretended it was my supervisor at the factory. Laszlo understood, but continued talking.
“Something has happened, Eszter. We need you to come down to the office immediately. It has to do with your meeting with Antal last night.”
“Oh, so it just stopped functioning? Without warning?” My voice trembled in rhythm with my legs, so shaky I had to sit.
“I can’t say much over the phone, just that your work needs you so come as soon as you can.”
“Well, listen. I can’t really be of much help over the phone, so let me come down there.”
He hung up.
“A machine stalled,” I stammered to Ivan, who scrutinized not my eyes, but my breasts and my arms, as if he could pull the truth out of my flesh. “I have to go to the factory right now. That was my boss. I am sorry, no breakfast today.”
“Eszter, please, don’t go out there.”
“Why?” I thought maybe I could glean some information from him about the demonstration, to know what I might face outside.
“You know why,” he snarled.
“Hmm, I really don’t.”
Ivan placed his palm on my shoulder, an act of self-righteousness, I assumed, to prove he could remain kind and loving, even when faced with my deviousness.
“Look, as I said earlier, it’s not safe out today. There might be a march. No, there will be one, and we don’t know how it will turn out.”
“Well, all the more reason for me to be at the factory. I’ll need to secure the machines.”
Grabbing my keys before Ivan could respond, I said, “I’ll be back soon, don’t worry!”
Dora chimed goodbye without the slightest degree of suspicion, but Ivan remained silent. It didn’t matter much to me anyway.
It could have been any morning, I convinced myself, except the streets were practically empty. Budapest still wore its fine necklace of dust and dog poop, but without the people and creatures responsible for the sidewalk’s usual adornments, the city just looked dirty and ordinary.
When I finally reached the Realitás office—and Laszlo—he seemed more shook up than I expected. Barreling toward me, he slammed the door shut so hard the ceiling trembled.
“Sorry,” Laszlo whispered. He studied my face. He touched my eyebrow, tracing his finger along my forehead until he got to my hair, which he pushed behind my ear. I leaned into him, hoping he’d let our foreheads meet, at the very least, but he pulled away immediately.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
“What’s going on?” I pretended like we didn’t just have that moment, as I had done so many times before.
He fixed his eyes on the window and then backed slowly toward his chair, pointing me to the one next to his.
He turned on the radio and pressed his fingers to my lips. “Listen.”