Dear Milos, I was late for my shift today. Let me tell you about it. . . . Dear Milos, Dora is really impossible! You wouldn’t believe what she did this morning. . . .
She confined herself to describing the small events in her life. And she imagined what the two of them would do when they were together again later, but she could never manage to write that down.
She waited for Bart to come and tell her when he had more news, as he had promised he would. He didn’t come. She reassured herself by remembering what he had said on the riverbank: he knew something was going on but he wasn’t allowed to talk about it. One day Milena told her that Bart had been to what she called “meetings,” but she couldn’t talk about them either.
An afternoon came when Helen had suddenly had enough of her sad, somnolent state; she was tired of staying shut up indoors. She put on her thickest sweater and her brightly colored cap, wrapped herself in her coat, and went out. No trams were running; she supposed the cold had damaged their engines. She was alone on the deserted sidewalks, and it felt like walking through a ghost town. When she came to the former Opera House, she stopped and cautiously climbed the steps, which were gleaming with black ice. It was hard to imagine Dora, years earlier, climbing the same steps arm in arm with Eva-Maria Bach, both of them cheerful and happy. Then she saw the poster on the locked door covered with obscene graffiti. She didn’t have time to look away. The words leaped to her eyes: The Winter Fights . . . Arenas . . . Reservations at . . .
The very realistic picture on the poster showed two black swords under the red beam of a floodlight, one raised in triumph and dripping with blood, the other broken, lying in the sand, the sword of the defeated man.
She lived through the next few days in a state of anxiety and nausea. She felt she was falling ill and confided in Dora one evening. In spite of the cold that stung their cheeks, the two of them were walking along the banks of the river, making sure that no one overheard them.
“But who goes to see these horrible spectacles, Dora? Do you know?”
“Practically all the Phalangist leaders, Helen. Anyone who seems to disapprove is considered squeamish, and people suspect he might turn traitor sometime.”
“That wouldn’t be enough to fill all the tiers of seats, though! And apparently the arena always has a full house.”
“You’re right. A lot of people go.”
“But why?”
“I suppose we have to believe they just enjoy it. And I imagine they also go to the arena to be seen there, so that the authorities will think well of them, as part of the family. Boys get dragged along by their fathers. They have to prove themselves capable of watching such things without being physically sick. Basically it’s a kind of initiation, like rites of passage in primitive tribes. When they’ve watched a fight, they think they’re men.”
“Men? More like barbarians,” murmured Helen. “It’s so depressing.”
“Yes. Yet they’re our human brothers — in theory . I sometimes wonder whether I don’t prefer animals.”
“Do you think something could still happen to prevent the fights? They’re in two weeks’ time. That seems like no time at all to me. I’m so frightened for Milos. I can’t sleep at night.”
“I don’t know, Helen. We have to go on hoping in spite of all the darkness around us. I remember how the worst happened within only a few days fifteen years ago. So I tell myself that something good could happen quickly too. Even though that could never bring back our dead.”
“Do you believe in God, Dora?”
“I began to have doubts before it happened, but I’ve lost all faith since they crushed my hand and set the dogs on Eva. Still I wouldn’t want to put other people off believing. You asked me a question; I told you the answer, that’s all.”
“But then what gives you the strength to be . . . well, the way you are?”
“The way I am?”
“Yes. You’re always smiling, you comfort people, you’re amusing . . .”
“No one needs strength for that. Or anyway, no more strength than it takes to be sad or cruel, right? I don’t know. It must be my own way of resisting. But it’s yours too. We’re like each other, you know. Not brilliant but dependable!” She broke into laughter and pressed Helen’s arm. “Well, there it is — not everyone can be a Milena!”
“Do you think Milena’s as gifted as her mother?”
“It’s a different kind of gift. Her voice isn’t as strong as Eva’s. Not so full, you might say. But she’s more at ease in the higher registers. And she can find nuances that make you think you’re hearing a melody for the first time when you’ve known it for years and years. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. It always is the first time with her.”
“Exactly. And then she has . . . well, grace, and I don’t know how to explain that. It’s something beyond technique. Perhaps the quality of her soul — it’s very mysterious. But anyway, I can tell you that Milena is going to be an exceptional singer. If nothing gets in her way.”
Two sturdy militiamen, fur collars turned up behind their shaven heads, passed slowly in the opposite direction, gave them a baleful glance, and disappeared into the night.
“If no fat pigs get in her way,” said Helen in a low voice.
Ten days later, when Helen came into the restaurant for her evening shift, she was surprised not to see Dora there. She asked more than ten people where she was, but none of them knew. A platform had been put up against the back wall, and a piece of furniture of some kind stood on it, concealed by a blue cloth.
“What’s that?”
“No idea.”
No one seemed to know anything this evening.
Helen set to work, made vaguely uneasy by her friend’s absence. The customers arrived as usual from seven onward, muffled up in winter coats and scarves. Within a few minutes the two rooms of the restaurant were full of noise. Helen had come to enjoy the daily ballet performed by the girls in blue aprons, the understanding between them, the challenge — also a daily event — of standing up to a tidal wave of hungry customers, serving tables, clearing away, cleaning up, and restoring the restaurant to its original state of peace and calm.
She told herself that no doubt she could do something else with her life, but while she was waiting, she owed it to Mr. Jahn to do the job he had given her as well as she could. What would have become of her without him? Without Dr. Josef, without Mitten? All of them, she guessed, were links in a secret chain. She wondered how many of the workers sitting at these tables shared the same burning desire for freedom to return, so that everyone could talk freely again, and sing, and the Opera House could be reopened. In three months at the restaurant Helen had never heard a single word of discontent. A deafening silence reigned. But perhaps if someone dared to speak that first word, then everyone would rise up and they would all open their hearts.
She had just brought the dessert course to one of the tables, a tray of small bowls of fruit in syrup, when she heard the tinkling sound behind her. She turned to look. Mr. Jahn was standing on a chair, looking uncomfortable. His paunch swelled inelegantly under his buttoned waistcoat. He was trying to get silence by tapping the rim of a glass with a spoon.
“Please, my friends! Silence, please!”
It was rare for Mr. Jahn to assert himself. There must be some serious reason, and curiosity showed on all faces.
“Listen to me, please, friends.”
Before he started speaking, Helen had time to notice a dozen men standing close to the entrance, arms crossed over their chests. Their long heads, short necks, and massive torsos left her in no doubt: they must be horse-men. She had never seen any before and was impressed by their tremendous physical presence.