Popadić threw on his coat and hat and thus appeared in impeccable civilian attire before Nándor Varga as the custodian let the policeman in. He bowed, raised his hat, introduced himself in fluent if somewhat rough Hungarian — which Hungarians from the mother country, in Varga’s case at least, smiled upon as the attempt by a savage to acquire the rudiments of civilization — and begged Varga’s kind permission to present some documents of a rather confidential nature that might facilitate the delicate operation Varga and his men were about to perform. The lieutenant gave an impassive nod and agreed to leave his men in the corridor and enter the custodian’s parlor. There Popadić took the following documents from his pocket and one by one handed them to the lieutenant: a letter from the commander of the gendarmerie authorizing the publication of Naše novine under his, Popadić’s editorship; a pass granting Popadić free movement throughout the occupied southern territory; and finally — what really won Varga over — membership cards for two closed societies: the Catholic Circle and the Association of Christian Merchants. Taking advantage of the impression he saw he had made, Popadić requested permission to say a few words about the Mercury’s residents. They were all, he was firmly convinced, the most loyal and devoted of citizens; he was willing to vouch for each of them personally. The lieutenant smiled, raised his fine eyebrows, handed him back the papers, and coolly invited him, if he so desired, to accompany the patrol and make certain it did its work correctly. Thus Popadić became a participant in the raid (which, as some wicked tongues later had it, made him a traitor), though in the unconventional role of protector.
Before each door, Popadić managed to find something positive to whisper to the lieutenant about the tenants, in the vein of the human-interest story, which he had long ceased to write but which his optimistic nature continued to inspire. Then he would retire to the far end of the corridor or terrace so as not to disturb the men in the performance of their duty or to overstep the bounds of decorum. He reentered the conversation only if a problem arose: a document wanting, an inappropriate answer because of inadequate linguistic knowledge. Blam — who answered the doorbell, deathly pale, together with a wide-eyed, incredulous Janja — Popadić described to the lieutenant as the offspring of an honest family he had known well before the war, “one of those young Jews able to adapt: witness his choice of a Christian spouse.” When they came to the third floor, Popadić unlocked the door to his own apartment and urged the lieutenant — though by then they were not only colleagues but, he hoped, friends as well — to go ahead, to do his duty. The lieutenant thanked him, walked into the entrance hall, gave it a perfunctory glance, and came out with a smile, saying that unfortunately he hadn’t time for a proper visit, but once his tiresome obligations were over, he would definitely give him a ring. (He was in fact true to his word.) Popadić bowed and moved on with him. After seeing the lieutenant and his men to the main door, which the custodian, crossing himself, locked after them, Popadić returned to his apartment, where he found his sweetheart perched on the edge of the bathtub in her coat and scarf, pressing her black patent-leather handbag to her breast.
Chapter Twelve
LILI EHRLICH SENT a number of letters to Blam after the war, but since she addressed them to Vojvoda Šupljikac Square, where other people were living by that time, and because she wrote the name of the addressee in its German form, Blahm (the letters were in German), none of them were delivered; they all went back to the sender marked Unknown/Inconnu.
The following are Lili’s letters, in translation:
Tivoli near Rome, 1 November 1944
I am writing this letter, darling, in the hope it will reach you, which will mean that you have come out of these awful years alive. How could it be otherwise? You’ll let me know at once that my intuition hasn’t deceived me. You will, won’t you?
I can’t believe that it’s over, that I can move about, breathe freely, that I’m no longer threatened with death or persecution. We’ve had an exceptionally beautiful autumn here. It’s not the slightest bit cold. The leaves in the many parks are just beginning to turn. Papa and I walk for hours through the hills surrounding the town. Yes, I need motion and freedom: we spent the last four months in a camp. We didn’t have too bad a time of it, but barbed wire everywhere you looked — that I will never forget. Now we have private accommodations, but Papa still brings home food from the camp, where he gives English lessons. You know how capable he is. He gets so much food, we can give some to our landlords, an elderly couple that might otherwise starve to death. Try to picture them: he a retired professor of literature who has been totally blind for eight years, she reading him his favorite authors, Dante and Tasso, every night by the oil lamp (we have no electricity). I often sit and listen, and though I don’t understand a thing, I enjoy the melody of the marvelous language.
Write back the minute you receive this, darling, and pack your belongings. I don’t know whether you were wrong not to come with us four years ago. Maybe you were spared many of the trials we’ve gone through, but don’t think twice now. We’re free here, and I await you with open arms. I long for you as I never have before, though I’ve done nothing else these four years. I will never, can never forget the days we spent together, and although we were on the run, Papa and I, and in danger, those were the most beautiful days of my life, and all thanks to you, darling, to your warm eyes, your quiet smile, your restless hands. I long to have you by my side, I long to touch you, hold you. Come!
I don’t even ask if the others are alive and well. Uncle Vilim. Aunt Blanka. Estera (who is no longer a little girl, I’m sure). I’m selfish, I know. I think only of you. I love you so much.
Come, come at once! Or at least let me hear from you! Send a telegram if you can!
Hugs and kisses from your impatient
Lili
Tivoli near Rome, 26 December 1944
Dearest,
I can’t tell you how crushed I am: the letter I sent you two months ago came back the day before yesterday. What can that mean? That you’re out of town? That you’ve been deported and haven’t returned? That you’ve moved? I don’t dare think of all the awful things likely to keep me from finding you. I will simply keep looking tirelessly, undaunted, until I succeed. I’ve been told I can send this letter via the Red Cross and that the American forces are helping people to locate lost relatives. You can be sure I will try everything. But if you receive my letter first (because things may have changed in the meantime), let me hear from you at once.
Yours,
Lili
Biel, 23 March 1946
Dear Mirko,
It’s been raining for days, and I sit here in despair. Perhaps I have no right to despair, perhaps I’ll suddenly find some trace of you, but when, I wonder, when? I keep thinking of the past, the irretrievable past. I think of my dear mother, who died so young and full of life. I think of you, who filled my life with love for one brief interval and whom I left behind. Why did I leave you? Why must I leave everyone I love? Why does my hunger for life, for survival, keep me from happiness, which, brief as it may be, is possibly worth more than the life now facing me?