The trolley halted at the corner near Éva’s home, a crowd of people already on board. She ascended the metal steps, holding to the cold rail with one hand and the handle of her large, cumbersome bass clarinet case with the other.
Once in the car, she banged her way down the aisle. A broadly built middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache clinging to one of the straps stopped her. “Would you like me to hold that for you, madam?”
She tipped the case so it was vertical and clutched it. “Nem, köszönöm. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? I’m happy to help.”
“It’s the only instrument I have. I don’t want it to get damaged or to fall if the trolley makes a sudden stop.”
“Very well.”
Éva placed her instrument against the window and plopped onto the seat beside it. Though the tram was almost full, it was best that she sit alone for this trip and not have anyone asking too many questions.
Before long, the trolley clanged down the street. Éva had told Zofia she had to take her instrument to her father to be repaired. With any luck, she would return home before Zofia did and asked Apu questions.
And before she raised any suspicions with Patrik. Imagine him saying she couldn’t come here. She loved that he watched out for her, was protective of her, took care of her. She trusted him and relied on him. Couldn’t he see, though, how important this was to her?
For two weeks she’d saved her bread coupons, enough to buy several loaves. Loaves now tucked inside her instrument case. She leaned against it and closed her eyes. Could anyone else smell the yeasty goodness contained within?
The ride didn’t last long. Before she knew it, they’d arrived at Kistarcsa. This time, she didn’t need to ask for directions.
The barbed-wire fence enclosed hundreds of people, maybe thousands, their eyes vacant. More than just Jews from Kistarcsa. The Germans must have brought them from other villages.
How had it come to this? Just months ago, these people had been living life. Loving. Laughing.
Now? Every vibrant fiber of their being had been sucked from them. Even their clothes were dark and hung lifeless on their scrawny bodies.
As she drew near, she gagged at the stench of body odor, feces, and decaying flesh. Yet her fellow countrymen turned a blind eye to what has happening. They had done so for years.
What good would her little loaves do for this mass of people?
Five loaves. If Jesus could use such a small amount of bread to feed five thousand men, then He could use what she brought to help someone. Even one person.
Remaining some distance from the fence, she ambled the length of it, searching for the brown-haired girl in the dark maroon coat. No sign of her.
Éva spun around and made her way in the opposite direction. Wait, that was her. The cherub’s not-quite-as-round face lit up when she spotted Éva, and she waved in recognition.
Checking to make sure no guards were watching, Éva slunk toward the girl.
“You came back.” They spoke to each other through the fence, barbed wire separating them, the blood of one condemning her to remain inside, the blood of the other allowing her to live her life.
“I made a promise, and I always keep my promises.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the case from my bass clarinet. It’s much bigger than my B-flat clarinet, the one I usually play.”
“Why did you bring that?”
Éva leaned in closer, so the child would hear her quiet answer. “Because I have a special surprise inside.”
“I love surprises.” The young girl’s eyes widened, and her loud response drew attention from the other prisoners.
Éva glanced at the guard. He stared in the opposite direction. That was a relief. “Shh, you must be very quiet to get it.”
She nodded.
Éva opened the case and drew out the bread. The child gasped. “Is that all for me?”
“I hope you’ll be generous and share with your family, at least.”
A woman not much older than Éva herself stepped up, her brown tweed coat hanging on her thin frame, her cheekbones jutting from her narrow face. “Who are you?”
“My name is Éva. Is this your daughter?”
“What do you want with us?”
“To help you.”
The woman studied the bread in Éva’s case. “You think that pittance of an offering is going to do us any good?” She spit on the ground.
Éva’s shoulders slumped. Of course, it had been silly of her to think she could do some good here. Jesus may have multiplied the loaves, but he was the Son of God. She was nothing more than a music teacher. “I wish it could be more, but it’s all I can come by right now. I’ll return as often as I can with as much as I can. Even if I help just you and your daughter, it’s worth it.”
The woman smacked her lips. “It does look good.”
“And no worms, Anya.”
Worms? They ate infested food? “I promise to do what I can for you.”
“And she always keeps her promises.”
“By the way, do you know Ersebet? She was a pupil of mine, and I understand she’s a prisoner here.”
“I knew the Székelys.”
“Knew them?”
“They left on the transport yesterday or the day before. I forget which.”
Transports. Her breath hitched. “Headed where?”
“The whispers are that the trains go to Auschwitz.”
Nem, not Ersebet. All her talent gone to waste because of what? The blood that flowed through her veins. None of this was fair. God in heaven, don’t You care about Your people anymore?
“You there, what are you doing?” A guard yelled in perfect Hungarian from the tower on the corner closest to them.
Her heart rate kicked up to a nice allegro tempo. “I have to go. I’ll return soon.”
Éva backed up a half dozen big steps, and even though her hands shook, with all her might she chucked the bread over the rounded loops of barbed wire at the top of the fence. Then she closed her case and, not bothering to latch it, tucked it under her arm, and sprinted for the tram, praying all the while that no one followed.
The bell in the music studio announced Patrik’s entrance. Gorgeous, velvety, deep notes floated from one of the lesson rooms. He stopped for a moment, drinking in the flowing, rolling melody of the clarinet. Éva was talented, no doubt, and the sound her father’s clarinets produced was unrivaled. The piano, probably played by Zofia, provided a beautiful accompaniment.
He strolled toward the room and stood in the doorway, the music washing over him. When the piece ended, Éva peered up at him from the sheet music and smiled. “Hello. We didn’t hear you come in.”
“Hello yourself. I was enjoying the performance.” A residual tension hung in the air like a morning mist. Patrik hadn’t seen Éva since the night she had announced she’d gone to Kistarcsa to search for Ersebet. She hadn’t come out of her room until he was ready to leave that evening. Even then, her hug was wooden, her kiss nothing more than a peck.
“I’m sorry for being sore at you.” She turned her mouth into a frown.
He maneuvered into the small room, the piano almost filling it, and wriggled to her side. “I am too.”
“We shouldn’t be disagreeing so soon before the wedding. Not ever, really. It was wrong of me to run to my room and pout like a child.”
“I understand. We’re all on edge. So much is happening in our lives and in our world.”
She snuggled against him. “So you understand why I had to go to Kistarcsa?”
He stepped away. “Please tell me you didn’t go back. How can I keep you safe if you don’t stay put?”
“I did go.” She stared at the black-and-white tile floor and bit her lip. “You were right. Trains are leaving there, emptying the camp. Ersebet and her family were among those who left.”
The news was what he feared, what he had tried to deny. If he didn’t believe it was true, even though deep inside he knew it was, then it couldn’t be happening. But it was. Not thinking about the atrocities didn’t make them go away. Somehow, someway, he had to convince his sisters to leave. Before it was too late. Before the Nazis emptied the ghetto they occupied.
Why wouldn’t Éva listen to him? Was she bent on getting herself killed? “I told you not to.”
“You said yourself we shouldn’t argue, so let’s not.”
She spun around, her back to him, but he turned her to face him. He drew her close, so close her heart beat against his, pounding a rhythm that would find its way into his next composition.
She fisted her hands and beat on his chest. “It was awful. So much suffering. Why, why do humans commit such unspeakable crimes against innocent people?”
“Because they are evil. One day they will receive justice.”
“How long will that take?”
If only he had an answer. “God knows. Don’t you see? I couldn’t bear it if one of them hurt you in any way.” They had already hurt too many he loved.
She clung to him for a long while. “I want to help. I’m going back.”
Just a few weeks remained until their wedding. Perhaps then she would forget about Kistarcsa. He kissed her sweet, warm cheek.
“That’s enough, you two.” Zofia rose from the piano bench. “I’ve sat here long enough and let you have a moment. You’re off early today, Patrik.”
He released Éva. “I couldn’t concentrate. Not when I’m about to marry this beautiful woman.”
“Always the charmer.” Éva giggled.
“Ah, young love.” Zofia shook her head. “Why don’t you head home? I’m sure you must have plenty of wedding details to discuss. I’ll lock up and be along in a few minutes.”
“We’ll wait for you.” With Germans patrolling the streets, keeping watch for Jews to harass and arrest, it wasn’t safe for Zofia to be out by herself, especially this late in the day. Patrik wouldn’t forgive himself if anything happened to Zofia either.
“Nonsense. You don’t want me tagging along. I remember how it was just before Ernő and I were married. We wanted no one else but each other.” She winked at Patrik.
Perhaps she needed some time alone to work on one of her pamphlets. Not that it was safe for her to do so.
Éva kissed Zofia on the cheek. “You’re right. But don’t be long. Anya is sure to have dinner ready soon.” She dismantled her clarinet and set the pieces in the case.
“I won’t be. Just one or two more things to take care of before I’m done here.”
Things Patrik knew about but Éva didn’t. “If you’re sure you’ll be fine without us.”
“I’ll be less than a block behind you. Now scoot before it gets any later.”
Patrik held out Éva’s purple wool coat for her, then from the shelf above picked a small blue hat with a brown feather jutting up.
Éva laughed. “Don’t you know me at all?”
“What?”
“Just like a man. That’s Zofia’s hat, not mine.” She grabbed her own red one and set it on an angle on her head.
Ushering Éva into the chilly Budapest twilight, Patrik spied four or five Nazi soldiers in olive drab uniforms down the street ahead of them. Men with eagle eyes. Perhaps he and Éva should wait for Zofia. If she was stopped and the Germans discovered who she was, her life would be worth nothing.
Éva touched his arm, drawing him from his thoughts. “You might as well be on the moon.”
“I’m sorry. Were you saying something?”
“Just hoping the weather warms before Saturday.”
“Igen, I hope it does.”
“Still so far away.” Éva’s voice was soft and lacked indictment.
How easily he could tell her about the enormous weight that pressed on his shoulders. To share it with her would be freeing. For him, anyway. But if he did, she would only worry and might want to join him in his high-risk mission. “I have a lot on my mind. Nervous about the wedding, I suppose.”
“What do you have to be nervous about?” She stared at him with those puppy-like eyes he couldn’t resist. Had never been able to. Never would be able to.
He focused on the bustling street in front of them. “I want to make you happy. I suppose that’s what has made me apprehensive. More than anything in the world, I don’t want to disappoint you. You are a múzsám, you know. The inspiration for the music I write.” He turned to her once more. This much was true.
“You could never disappoint me.” She pulled him to a stop and caressed his cheek, her fingers soft and warm against his skin. “I only hope I won’t let you down.”
“What could ever make you think that?”
“I am a little bossy. And I don’t know how to cook very well. And I tend to be messy. I’d rather practice my clarinet than clean the house.”
“I already know those things, and I love you anyway. Although I do wish you could cook as well as your mother.” He worked to appear serious.
She batted at him. “Such a tease you are. At least our life together won’t be boring.”
“Nem, that it will not be.”
Boring? Definitely not. Dangerous? He was going to do everything in his power to keep it from being that.
Zofia meandered around the small music studio, pushing in the piano bench in one room and tidying the music books in the racks in the store area. If Ernő’s mother wasn’t waiting for her to eat dinner, she would stay and get some writing done. More pamphlet ideas swirled in her head. So many, she couldn’t write them fast enough.
But Ernő already questioned her going out in the evening. There wouldn’t be a good enough excuse for missing the family supper tonight. She jotted a few ideas on a slip of paper and hid it underneath a loose floorboard.
Music haunted the space. Even though she was the only one here, the sounds of plinking piano keys and the warmth of clarinet tunes filled her mind.
At least it loosened the knot in her stomach, the ever-present apprehension that someone had their sights on her. Followed her. Knew all about her.
She shook her head. She couldn’t give in to these imaginations. Just because it had happened before in Poland didn’t mean it would happen again here. Still, she hadn’t slept well since the invasion. When the Germans marched across the border, the small bubble of security around her had burst.
With a sigh, she switched out the lights and locked the door. After she deposited the keys in her coat pocket, she started down the street toward the home she shared with her husband, his parents, and his sister Éva.
Like ants on a picnic blanket, Nazi soldiers teemed on the sidewalk. She huddled deeper into her coat and quickened her steps. Her skin crawled, like someone was watching her. Just like the other day. Her heartbeat soon matched the rapid tempo of her footfalls.
Up ahead, there they were, Éva and Patrik. They stood in the middle of the walk, young lovers oblivious to the world around them. If she could reach them, she might be able to breathe again.
And then someone grabbed her around the waist, pulled her tight against his solid chest, his arms bulging as he pinned her against him. The stench of stale beer on his breath choked her sob. “Good evening. If you want to live, you’ll be quiet.”