IN THE DRIVEWAY in front of the house Adam and Herr Angyal had layered twigs, branches, and logs. Adam had borrowed Michael’s lighter and started the fire with a rag drenched in alcohol. The Angyals and their guests were seated in chairs around the fire.
“For him it’s a victory, even though he can’t stand Gyula Horn, but it’s almost as important as the funeral for Imre Nagy this past June,” Pepi translated.
“In fifty-six he was nineteen years old, he was part of it,” Frau Angyal said. “He was involved in it all.”
“And he’s really never been back to Budapest since?” Katja asked.
“No. We were at the airport twice. But now, now we’ll definitely make the trip, he has to make the trip now.”
“No matter where you go in Budapest you can see bullet holes in almost every building. Or they’ve been plastered over,” Pepi said.
“To the heroes of fifty-six,” Michael said, raising his glass and nodding to Herr Angyal.
“If I lived here,” said Adam, who had impaled a potato on a stick and was holding it in the fire, “wild horses couldn’t drag me to Budapest.”
“You shouldn’t say that, Adam. For him Budapest was everything—friends, family, girls, cafés, theaters, movies, the baths. To give up all that—Budapest was the most wonderful city in the world.”
“I admire Papa for his resolve. He wanted to go to university, but he decided it was best to give that up too.”
“Why didn’t he go to the West? That would have been possible, wouldn’t it?” Katja asked.
“Nobody understands that, sorry to say. And that may sound strange coming from his wife, since when all is said and done I wouldn’t have met András otherwise. I wonder if he would even have turned his head for a woman like me in Budapest.”
“Oh, Mama, you two would have found each other anywhere. Don’t say things like that.”
“In Budapest there were women, very different women.”
“Papa’s best friend was so badly wounded that they had to amputate both legs. He put a bullet through his head then. That’s why my name is Jozefa, Josephine,” Pepi said.
“The depth of his resolve has always frightened me. I had never seen anything like it. I was seventeen when Pepi came. And what did he learn here? How to snap his fingers and drink wine, that’s what he learned.”
“Papa just remarked that they were betrayed on all sides, betrayed by everyone.”
Herr Angyal went on speaking. His voice sounded brittle, as if at any moment he would have to clear his throat.
“They thought the Americans would help them at least. They didn’t even send guns. A young friend of his—who had attended boarding school in Switzerland, nothing but diplomats’ kids—he knew right away that no one would risk helping the Hungarians.”
Herr Angyal got up and on unsteady legs disappeared behind the house.
“Stay here, Mama, let him.”
“He’s so difficult sometimes. We shouldn’t have started with this.”
“He started talking about it. And don’t make such a face, he’s hardly drunk anything.”
“You must excuse us, please, we never talk about this.… My husband still believes that Europe’s freedom will be decided by us Hungarians.”
“Those aren’t Papa’s words, they come from Lajos Kossuth.”
“How does that poem go?” Frau Angyal asked, “ ‘Abandoned the Magyar … abandoned …’ ”
“ ‘Abandoned, and alone, forsaken by craven nations, the Magyar.’ Papa was even a member of the Petőfi Club.”
“What kind of club?” Katja asked.
Everyone turned around to look at Herr Angyal. Pressing something to his chest with his left hand, in his right he held a newspaper, which he gave Evelyn. Staring from the front page of a Time magazine dated January 1957 was a rather intellectual-looking young man, his head slightly lowered, in his hands a short rifle, fingers more patting the barrel than gripping it. Underneath it read, “Hungarian Freedom Fighter.” In the upper-right-hand corner, as if on a banner, was written, “Man of the Year.”
Herr Angyal stopped. He spread open a piece of cloth and held it before him with both hands. One corner had been singed.
“A flag?” Michael asked.
“Papa rescued it. If they’d caught him with it—”
“What if I tell you now—” and Frau Angyal waved for Pepi to be silent. “About the search, an official search of the house.”
“What? Neither of you has ever said anything about that!”
“You had only been born. He was in the cellar, oh my, when I think about it, but they didn’t open the cellar hatch, just running back and forth, back and forth. He had set fire to the flag, it did not burn. He had poured alcohol over it, but they were gone by then. I washed and washed the flag, but the smell never left, nothing I could do. It stinks for twenty years now.”
“And if they had found him with it?”
“Prison, at least.”
“He wanted to burn it in order to save it,” Adam said.
“What do you mean by that?” Michael asked.
“Well yes, better to burn it than for it to fall into the wrong hands. There can be no greater proof of love.”
“What is it?” Evelyn asked. “What are those rivers?”
“Our Kossuth coat of arms,” Frau Angyal whispered. “Four rivers and three mountains.” She turned to her husband with an even softer whisper. He didn’t so much as glance at her. When Pepi gently prodded him, he responded with a few brusque words. And his glasses slipped from his forehead to his nose.
“Papa wants to raise the flag, someday he wants to raise it high for everyone to see.”
“And who should see it here, please? The neighbors? He is drunk, once again drunk.”
“My father was born in thirty-three,” Adam said. “In 1945 they were too young to get involved in any of it but old enough to realize what was happening. None of them went to the West, and none of them joined the Party. No one understood that either.”
Herr Angyal folded up the flag, held it in both hands, and then kissed it. He sat down in his chair, the flag in his lap, pushed his glasses back up on his forehead, and bent down to pick up his glass.
“It seems clearer and clearer to me now,” Adam said. “They weren’t about to be taken in by anybody. They kept their distance from all of it—if they had some character.” He fingered his potato and tried to peel away the black skin.
“Maybe I don’t understand, because it sounds so sad, hopeless, as if life were over right from the start. A person had to have tried at least,” Katja said.
“What do you want to try? What are you supposed to want?” Adam asked.
After a pause, with everyone looking at her, Katja said, “Well, to be happy, to go someplace where things function, where you can live reasonably. I would keep on trying, over and over, or I’d throw myself out the window.”
“It’s not always a matter of either-or,” Adam said without lifting his eyes from his potato. “You can’t say that this is nothing here. And besides, it’s enough that people like András or my parents didn’t sell themselves, couldn’t be corrupted. That’s worth knowing and thinking about.”
“A real philosopher, our Adam,” Frau Angyal said.
“I’m not criticizing that, Adam, really I’m not. Who am I?” Katja said. “It’s just a feeling that that’s exactly what I don’t want. I never wanted to get out as much as I do now, at this moment. I’d love to just pick up and leave this instant.”
“For you it’s sure to be the right thing,” Pepi said.
“At least it’s a good thing for Katja,” Adam said.
“Papa, let’s hear that snap, please!” Pepi repeated her request in Hungarian. Frau Angyal shook her head. Suddenly Herr Angyal raised his hand—a report so dry and loud it was as if his fingers were made of wood.
“Again,” Pepi cried, tucking her head between her shoulders. But Herr Angyal was already bending down for his wineglass. “Gute Reise,” he said in German to wish them well on their way, and toasted first Evelyn, then Katja. Except for Adam—who was tossing his hot potato from one hand to the other—they all raised their glasses. Evelyn’s was empty again by now. But she set it to her lips anyway, and swallowed.