A wheezing sound is heard. They all turn. Tadeusz is lying on the floor, apparently struggling for breath. Hans leans over him.
‘Let’s take him to the hospital immediately,’ says Ferenc.
‘The hospital’s been burned down, I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘Let’s call János.’
‘All the telephone lines have been cut.’
‘I’ll go and look for him,’ Ferenc suggests.
‘It’s dangerous. Wait!’
But Ferenc won’t wait, and still holding his violin he goes to the door in his slippers, beside himself, weeping.
‘Put on your shoes! And leave your violin behind!’
Ferenc quickly puts on his shoes but goes out with the violin clutched to his chest. A moment later he returns out of breath, puts his violin down by the door and sets off again, coat inside out and beret pulled down over his eyes.
51
Dr János Szabó comes but all he can do is confirm that Tadeusz has died, from internal haemorrhage.
‘We should have taken him to hospital two days ago.’
‘The hospital’s been burned down, Hans.’
‘Even so, we should have taken him. Tried everything possible.’
‘How can we not have realised how ill he was?’
‘He said he was all right.’
‘You mean he hid what he was feeling so as not to scare us?’
Dr Szabó maintains that the bullet, instead of staying in one place, started moving about and burst a vein, and that it was this that killed him.
Hans blames him for not having said how dangerous the wound was. But Dr Szabó spreads his arms.
‘Without the right instruments I couldn’t tell. Sometimes bullets stop where they are and stay fixed in the flesh. But obviously this one had no intention of keeping still and moved about until it touched a vital spot. But without instruments there was nothing I could do.’
With his long, delicate fingers Dr Szabó combs the dead man’s hair, closes his eyes and crosses his arms on his chest.
At the same moment a burst of artillery shatters all the windows on the side facing the road. A very near miss. The violence of the blow bursts a pipe in two places. Water begins to spurt in both kitchen and bathroom. Hans runs to stop the kitchen leak while Ferenc wraps rags round the hole in the bathroom. He asks Amara for more and more rags, my God, we’re being inundated here! Big tears roll down his cheeks and he makes no attempt to wipe them away. Horvath follows, barefoot, trying to help. Amara searches everywhere for rags, string, laces, anything to stop the water gushing over the floor.
‘Find the master tap, you fools!’ shouts Hans.
‘I know there is one, I know it, but I can’t remember where it is,’ says Ferenc, going round in circles. ‘It was Tadeusz who looked after these things.’
Now the friends start searching for the mains lever, even going as far as the landing. But no master tap can be found. In the meantime the floor has become slippery, and in some places the water has risen several centimetres. They need more rags, but where can they find any? Amara takes some of Tadeusz’s clothes to block the pipes. Ferenc tears them from her hands.
‘Not these!’ he says angrily, lifting his nose in the air.
But a little later, with the water round his ankles, he changes his mind and takes Tadeusz’s clothes to the burst pipe.
‘He won’t be needing them again, anyway,’ he says, giving Amara a wry smile.
The broken windows let in the cold but disturbing noises too: the cries of a child looking for its mother. The crackle of machine guns from round the corner, the incessant sound of the caterpillar treads of the tanks as they continue to tour the city even though it is now two days since the fateful 4 November. The old Orion transmits peremptory commands. ‘Hand in your weapons!’ ‘Go back to work!’ cries the arrogant voice of the new authority but no one hands in any weapons or goes back to work. The general strike has begun, and the aim is for it to continue as long as possible. In the Wilkowsky home they have at last managed to find the master tap and and stop the water. But now they have nothing to drink or wash with. Tadeusz lies on his bed with arms crossed and a serene expression on his face; eyes are closed as if he is sleeping. The big bloodstain on his side has been covered by a folded sheet. Ferenc has dressed him in a fine navy jumper and new trousers.
Dr János Szabó says that now his duty is done and he must go. Ferenc stops him, crying that he can’t go until the ceremonies have been completed. They all stand by the bed. Hans is the only one who can’t keep still, moving his hands constantly to keep himself under control. Now he is wrestling with two candle-ends he wants to light and place on the wooden headboard. The hot wax runs over his fingers but he ignores it, focusing all his attention on trying to make the candles stick to the edge of the wood and not fall. Then he mumbles that they need a flower, but where to find one when the whole city is carpeted in snow. Ferenc lifts his violin to his shoulder and strikes up Fauré’s Elégie. Soft music whose undulating motion slowly penetrates every mind. Amara sees Tadeusz alive again: his tireless cheerfulness, his need to bring everyone pleasure, his fine intelligent forehead, his strong arms. She remembers his voice, a little hoarse from smoking, his nicotine-stained fingers, his ash-grey eyes, his courage and his restlessness.
It would be nice if you and Hans could stay here with me, he had said to Amara one day. And she had been thinking he was fed up with them! I’d like it if you stayed in this house. The horror will pass, good days will return; I’ll do the cooking, you know I like cooking. And he had kissed her on the mouth. Not a sensual kiss, but it had surprised her all the same. A kiss to make her feel she had become one of them, perhaps even a member of the family.
At last Hans stops fiddling with the candles. He strokes his father’s pale brow, then speaks in a low, emotional voice.
‘Tadeusz was a just man. I don’t know if he was a good father: he always treated me more like a friend than a son and it may be that sons need a father more than a friend. But he did it from generosity, from a feeling for democracy. He believed in people being equals. It was the same with his wife, my mother: he was more interested in being her companion than her husband. The Nazis cut short this illusion which otherwise might have lasted very much longer. He was a splendid musician, even if his timings and rhythms were never in step with those of his contemporaries. As an orchestral conductor he missed more than one opportunity. But I rate highly a man who attached more importance to his pride than his ambition. I’m glad chance brought me to Budapest at this terrible devastating time. I was determined to come and see him even though I knew he was in fine shape. Perhaps it was a presentiment. And these days have given me the chance to know a different father, courageous and daring. I’m happy I was able to share with him the last days of his life, fighting a common enemy. Just as he once hated the Nazism that killed his wife, so now he could not accept Stalinism, which has taken away his own life. I’m so proud I was able to stand at his side in this last battle for freedom. Goodbye, Father. Be careful when you reach paradise because that too is bound to be divided into two hostile camps. The cold war isn’t over. Beware of stray shots. I shall always love you.’