I thought things would become clearer in the morning. That one could choose between darkness and opening the window with its blue-paper shades. The stairwell is lit by a dim electric bulb. Jolán Bors is at the front door; she has brought two pairs of warm socks. One of these I pull on over the socks I am already wearing, the other pair I shall hand over to Vera.
That was when you sent the third letter, Mother says. Jolán said you were all right; she was always seeking to put my mind at rest.
Where did I lay hands on these small folding letter cards? I wrote on both sections inside, numbering the pages. They are hard to read, with one line slipping into another.
Did I go back to the room and write it there?
Maybe I sat down on the top of the stairs and wrote on my knees.
The pencil was almost certainly what was still left of the stub from Mihály Munkácsy Street; the point must have been totally blunt by then.
Jolán Bors stands behind me on the landing and waits until I have finished the letter.
Mother tells me that they asked Dr Temesváry where we might go if we could not go to the hospital yet, and the head physician may have said that the children in the Nagyfuvaros Street home had not been sent to the ghetto yet.
Mother gets up from the brazilwood easy chair and takes her medicine for the evening. Stay, she entreats, but says nothing more. I say nothing more and just take a seat in one of the armchairs, which used to be Grandfather’s. Mother feels comfortable among old furniture, so do I, and I am sitting in one of Grandfather’s chairs as, thirty-five years later, I write that Mother, having handed over the third of my letters, entreats me to stay.
Dearest Mother and Father,
We are well. Don’t worry about us. We still don’t know exactly but it looks likely we can stay here. If we cannot go to you tomorrow or the day after, then we shall stay or else go to another Red Cross home. If we have to leave after the 22nd but before the 31st (I don’t think it will come to that), will we be able to go to your place? I am hoping that the police don’t show up suddenly and so we get a chance to sneak off again. It would be good if Jolán comes here every day; I can then send a letter every day. Ask her to drop in on you straight after here, so she can bring your letter the next day!! She should bring any grub that she can!!! If you can, send a cap, gloves, shirt, underpants with her and for Vera stockings and any underwear that’s available. Of course, only send them once it is certain that we can stay here until at least 31 December. Write to say whether you will be staying there. If so, until when? If we were to go there, where could you put us up? How long could we stay at your place? Perhaps by tomorrow we shall have something sure to report on, so Jolán should come. It is maybe not too late if we only find out tomorrow that we have to leave by the day after! If it is at all possible, we would go after it is dark!! (That’s because of the police raids on Teleki Square.) If that’s impossible, of course, we shall go in daylight; in any event speak to all the doormen, so that if we should turn up looking for you they let us in without any trouble. It could be that all the preparations are pointless because we can stay here. Send things only if it is sure that we can remain here, because we have very little room to store anything!
Don’t worry! Look after yourselves! Hoping to see you soon and until then all my love.
PS. We would like to get away from here. Is it possible with papers to rent a room? It’s not very nice here, but if there is nothing else we’ll put up with it, of course.
The standard lamp in the third room is on. The green lampshade gives the impression of everything being in an underwater world. I have covered one of the couches with a striped prayer shawl.
Jolán Bors comes in behind me. I dare not say to her that it would be better if she stayed outside. I want to find Vera. As I enter the rabbi’s wife raises her hand in a warding-off gesture with the look of someone preparing for the door to be burst open, but then she spots Jolán Bors behind me. Jolán is wearing a headscarf; so is she. They are the same height and both have black headscarves. I tell her that I have written a letter to my parents, and I would like Vera to sign it as well. Vera comes forward from the corner and asks Jolán Bors if she knows where her mummy is. Jolán does not answer. I hand the pencil stub over, and Vera signs the letter under my name.
We go through the rooms with Jolán. Before we step out into the outside corridor we are joined by the man in the raincoat who plucked a tune for us on the violin the evening before. I would have liked to ask him what tune it was that he played and to say that I could play the piano accordion a little and that it was one of the tunes I had learned, but I don’t dare ask because I can see he is in a hurry. We let him go ahead with Jolán Bors. He stops on the corridor; he has the white stick now. He puts on a pair of dark glasses.
Jolán Bors unexpectedly gives me a kiss. It is something she would not have dared to do before as it would have been odd to give the boss’s son a kiss, although admittedly they did not call my father boss in the workshop: he said they should address him as Mr Béla. Her face has a strange odour — not unpleasant, mind you, more like it had been sprinkled with flour.
Jolán Bors proceeds down the outside corridor and reaches the man with the dark glasses and the white stick who is carrying his violin under one arm. The man waits and puts his free arm round her, and they proceed in that fashion.
One of the boys says news has come through that people who live in homes will not be taken into the ghetto. I can’t find my bed companion of the previous night and don’t feel like discussing this with the others. One broad-shouldered lad in a pullover and peaked cap comes over to me. Are you the new kid? What’s it to you? I say in reply. He whispers in my ear that they’re shooting a line, you’ll see, they’re coming to get us.
I go out on to the corridor. Beanpole is slumped against the railings smoking a cigarette butt. He asks if I want a drag; I decline. The sleet which fell last night has frozen to the banisters in long icicles. The sky is invisible, being covered by black clouds, so it’s barely lighter than inside in the rooms. The windowpanes are broken. My duffel coat appeals to Beanpole. It’s not mine to give, I say. What do you mean not yours? I tell him the story of how the coats were swapped. I can’t imagine how he is still managing to get a puff out of the dog-end which has already burned down to his fingernails. Had Soproni bought it? It could be, I say, but maybe they managed to extract the bullet. You did well out of the swap, he says, this one’s a lot warmer.
I seek out the rabbi. I’m told he’s down in the basement with the sick. I go down there but can’t find him. I wait for him on the landings. It’s a way of passing the time, and it’s better there than in the rooms or the cellar. The rabbi comes that evening with a basket on his arm. We go upstairs together. He has brought bread and carrots. Can I help with serving it out? We go into the room where his wife is with Vera. Green light again, as if mould were covering the walls, the furniture, the wife’s headscarf, Vera’s face and the rabbi’s hat.