“At the foot of that splendid bridge, Éva murmured a few words that made her chauffeur stop the car. We got out and stood looking across at the glow of Pest and down into the rippling dark water. The wind had turned a little cool, sharp against my face after the balmy air of Istanbul, and I had a sense of the vastness of Central Europe ’s plains just over the horizon. The scene before us was the kind of sight I had wanted all my life to see; I could hardly believe I was standing there looking over the lights of Budapest.
“Aunt Éva said something in a low voice, and Helen translated softly. ‘Our city will always be a great one.’ Later I remembered that line vividly. It came back to me almost two years after this, when I learned how deep Éva Orbán’s commitment to the new reform government had actually been: her two grown sons were killed in a public square by Soviet tanks during the uprising of the Hungarian students in 1956, and Éva herself fled to northern Yugoslavia, where she disappeared into villages with fifteen thousand other Hungarian refugees from the Russian puppet state. Helen wrote to her many times, insisting that she allow us to try to bring her to the United States, but Éva refused even to apply for emigration. I tried again a few years ago to find some trace of her, without success. When I lost Helen, I lost touch with Aunt Éva, too.”
Chapter 40
“Iwoke the next morning to find myself staring right up at those gilt cherubs above my hard little bed, and for a moment I couldn’t remember where I was. It was an unpleasant feeling; I found myself adrift, farther from home than I’d ever imagined, unable to remember if this was New York, Istanbul, Budapest, or some other city. I felt I’d had a nightmare just before waking. A pain in my heart reminded me forcibly of Rossi’s absence, a feeling I often experienced first thing in the morning, and I wondered if the dream had taken me to some grim place where I might have found him if I’d stayed long enough.
“I discovered Helen breakfasting in the dining room of the hotel with a Hungarian newspaper spread out in front of her-the sight of the language in print gave me a hopeless feeling, since I couldn’t extract meaning from a single word of the headlines-and she greeted me with a cheerful wave. The combination of my lost dream, those headlines, and my rapidly approaching lecture must have showed in my face, because she looked quizzically at me as I approached. ‘What a sad expression. Have you been thinking about Ottoman cruelties again?’
“‘No. Just about international conferences.’ I sat down and helped myself to her basket of rolls and a white napkin. The hotel, for all its shabbiness, seemed to specialize in immaculate napery. The rolls, accompanied by butter and strawberry jam, were excellent, and so was the coffee that appeared a few minutes later. No bitterness there.
“‘Don’t worry,’ Helen said soothingly. ‘You are going to -’
“‘Knock their socks off?’ I prompted.
“She laughed. ‘You are improving my English,’ she told me. ‘Or destroying it, maybe.’
“‘I was very struck by your aunt last night.’ I buttered another roll.
“‘I could see that you were.’
“‘Tell me, exactly how did she come here from Romania and achieve such a high position? If you don’t mind my asking.’
“Helen sipped her coffee. ‘It was an accident of destiny, I think. Her family was very poor-they were Transylvanians who lived off a small plot of land in a village that I have heard is not even there anymore. My grandparents had nine children and Éva was the third. They sent her to work when she was six years old because they needed the money and could not feed her. She worked in the villa of some wealthy Hungarians who owned all the land outside the village. There were many Hungarian landowners there between the wars-they were caught there by the changing borders after the Treaty of Trianon.’
“I nodded. ‘That was the one that rearranged the borders after the First World War?’
“‘Very good. So Éva worked for this family from the time she was quite young. She has told me they were kind to her. They let her go home on Sundays sometimes and she remained close to her own family. When she was seventeen the people she worked for decided to return to Budapest, and they took her with them. There she met a young man, a journalist and revolutionary named János Orbán. They fell in love and married, and he survived his army service in the war.’ Helen sighed. ‘So many young Hungarian men fought all over Europe in the First War, you know, and they are buried in mass graves in Poland, Russia… In any case, Orbán rose to power in the coalition government after the war, and was rewarded in our glorious revolution by a cabinet post. Then he was killed in an automobile accident, and Éva raised their sons and carried on his political career. She is an amazing woman. I have never known exactly what her personal convictions are-sometimes I have the feeling that she keeps an emotional distance from all politics, as if they are simply her profession. I think my uncle was a passionate man, a convinced follower of Leninist doctrine and an admirer of Stalin before his atrocities were known here. I cannot say if my aunt was the same, but she has built a remarkable career for herself. Her sons have had every possible privilege as a result, and she has used her power to help me, also, as I have told you.’
“I had been listening intently. ‘And how did you and your mother come here?’
“Helen sighed again. ‘My mother is twelve years younger than Éva,’ she said. ‘She was always Éva’s favorite among the little children in their family, and she was only five when Éva was taken to Budapest. Then, when my mother was nineteen and unmarried, she became pregnant. She was afraid her parents and everyone else in the village would find out-in such a traditional culture, you understand, she would have been in danger of expulsion and perhaps death from starvation. She wrote to Éva and asked for her help, and my aunt and uncle arranged her travel to Budapest. My uncle met her at the border, which was heavily guarded, and took her back to the city. I once heard my aunt say he paid an enormous bribe to the border officials. Transylvanians were hated in Hungary, especially after the Treaty. My mother told me that my uncle had won her complete devotion-not only did he rescue her from a terrible situation, but he also never let her feel the difference between their national origins. She was heartbroken when he died. He was the one who brought her safely into Hungary and gave her a new life.’
“‘And then you were born?’ I asked quietly.
“‘Then I was born, at a hospital in Budapest, and my aunt and uncle helped to raise and educate me. We lived with them until I was in high school. Éva took us into the countryside during the war and found food for all of us somehow. My mother was educated here, too, and learned Hungarian. She always refused to teach me any Romanian, although I sometimes heard her speaking it in her sleep.’ She gave me a bitter glance. ‘You see what your beloved Rossi reduced our lives to,’ she said, her mouth twisting. ‘If it had not been for my aunt and uncle, my mother might have died alone in some mountain forest and been eaten by the wolves. Both of us, actually.’
“‘I’m thankful to your aunt and uncle, too,’ I said, and then, fearing her sardonic glance, busied myself pouring more coffee from the metal pot at my elbow.
“Helen made no reply, and after a minute she pulled some papers from her purse. ‘Shall we go over the lecture once more?’”
“The morning sunshine and cool air outside were full of menace for me; all I could think about as we walked toward the university was the moment, rapidly approaching now, when I would have to deliver my lecture. I had given only one lecture before this, a joint presentation with Rossi the previous year when he had organized a conference on Dutch colonialism. Each of us had written half of the lecture; my half had been a miserable attempt to distill into twenty minutes what I thought my dissertation was going to be about before I had written a word of it; Rossi’s had been a brilliant, wide-ranging treatise on the cultural heritage of the Netherlands, the strategic might of the Dutch navy, and the nature of colonialism. Despite my general sense of inadequacy about the whole thing, I’d been flattered by his including me. I’d also been sustained throughout the experience by his compact and confident presence beside me at the podium, his friendly thump on my shoulder as I relinquished the audience to him. Today I would be on my own. The prospect was dismal, if not terrifying, and only the thought of how Rossi would have handled it steadied me a little.