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‘Don’t forget, tomorrow we’ll be discussing Berlin and why exactly the city is divided between the communists and the imperialists. Don’t be late.’ The school bell had rung, signalling the end of the morning’s last lesson before lunch. Outside the sun was shining and I looked forward to a sandwich in the park opposite the school. Unusually Tibor was getting ready to leave along with his classmates. As the children packed their satchels, I deliberated whether to call him over. The temptation was too much. ‘Tibor, could I have a word, please?’ He nodded, lit a cigarette, waving his classmates off as they dispersed, then came to see me.
‘I just wondered whether you’d heard how your parents were getting on?’
‘I don’t know; the authorities don’t send me progress reports.’
‘Oh, yes. Silly question. And erm, how’s life with your uncle?’
‘All right.’ He puffed on his cigarette. ‘Look, Miss, I’m running late. I want to get to the library before lunch.’
‘Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to...’
But before he had a chance to go, there was a knock on the glass of the classroom door and in came two men in long coats. ‘Miss Horvath?’ asked the taller of the two. I nodded. Tibor stepped back towards the classroom window. ‘Your headmaster told us you would be here. My name is Beke, Zoltan Beke, and this is my assistant, Fischer.’ I nodded to the shorter man, Fischer, but received no response. The one called Beke continued. ‘We’re looking for one of your students, a lad by the name of...’ He checked the piece of paper he was holding. ‘Tibor Barat.’
‘What?’ muttered Tibor.
Beke turned to face him. ‘Tibor Barat? Is that you?’
‘Y-yes,’ said Tibor quietly. I noticed he was holding the cigarette behind his back.
‘Well, that saves us a lot of chasing round,’ said Beke to me with a chortle.
‘Yes,’ I said, mirroring his little laugh.
Returning his attention to Tibor, Beke adopted a serious tone. ‘Tibor Barat, your parents have been formally arrested as propagandists for the imperialists, charged with the intention of undermining, wherever possible, the proletariat ethics of the Party.’
‘My parents have what?’
‘You, as their offspring, are, by default, also deemed an enemy of the people.’
‘A what? No.’ Standing in front of the window, the trail of smoke behind him was caught by the beams of sun giving the impression that Tibor was on fire.
‘You shall come...’ Beke seemed momentarily nonplussed by the ethereal vision of the boy. ‘You shall come with us, please, for further questioning under the Party’s constraining orders.’
This young boy on the verge of manhood seemed to shrink in front of my eyes. How vulnerable he looked, reverting back to the boy he really was, the puzzled expression, the terrible realisation that he’d played an adult game and lost. He looked at me, imploring me to intervene.
‘You’re not arresting him, are you?’ I asked, unable to disguise the tremble in my voice.
‘We said nothing about arrest, comrade, he is too young for arrest; we are merely putting him, at his uncle’s request, under constraint. What is all that smoke? Come on, son, let’s go.’ The AVO man gripped Tibor by his left elbow and shoved him towards the door, the second AVO taking his place on the boy’s right.
As he was being led away, Tibor glanced at me over his shoulder. I had to try again, to save the poor boy. ‘If his uncle doesn’t want him, I...’
‘Yes, comrade?’
‘I’ll take him in.’
The shorter AVO, Fischer, approached me at speed, a menacing look in his eye that immediately made me regret my rashness. ‘A word in private, if you will, comrade,’ he said, now taking me by the arm and impelling me to one side. ‘A quiet word of advice. I wouldn’t associate yourself if I were you. The whole family’s for the chop. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep well away.’
‘But what’s going to happen to him? He’s only fifteen.’
‘Orphanage.’
‘No...’
‘Yes. Now, leave it.’ He marched back to Tibor and, together with his colleague, led the frightened boy away. This time Tibor didn’t turn round. On the floor, near the window, half a cigarette still alight, the smoke dancing in the sunbeams.
*
‘So, you’re a footballer?’
‘Yes, is it so strange?’
Valentin and I were sitting on a shaded bench in City Park. ‘Perhaps not strange but certainly unusual – I don’t think I’ve ever met a football player before.’
As if on cue, a boy of about eight kicked a ball towards us. Valentin hesitated for a moment and then rose from the bench and gently passed it back to him. The boy tried to kick it back but scuffed his pass and the ball ended up too far for Valentin to run after it without appearing overly keen. The mother called after him and the boy collected up his ball and ran back to her. Valentin sat down with a sheepish grin on his face.
The previous day we’d spent a further half an hour in the café, listening to the old man with the walrus moustache as he talked about his life. A long, adventurous tale that ended with the café’s persistent refusal to serve him, as if this last indignity surpassed all the deprivation of the Imperialist War of ’14-’18, the Nazi occupation, and the Soviet bombs. Without pausing to ask our names, he talked and assumed, I think, that the Russian and I were a couple, if not husband and wife. Finally, he thanked Valentin for the tea and cake, poked his tongue out at the waitresses, and left.
Watching the old man leave, the Russian laughed. ‘Perhaps now would be a good time to introduce myself,’ he said offering his hand across the table. ‘My name is Valentin.’
‘Eva.’
I’d been right – he was a Russian. A Muscovite. He was spending only a few days in Budapest, ‘on business.’ Yes, it was his first time in Hungary, in fact his first time out of the Soviet Union, and what a beautiful city is Budapest, and how friendly are the Hungarians. At this last point, I pulled a face, knowing it to be false. He raised an eyebrow at me, acknowledging my scepticism. And yes, he said, the people in Moscow were equally as friendly. He told me that as a boy he saw a lot of his mother’s cousin who was half-Hungarian, hence his ability to speak the language reasonably well.
I hadn’t expected him to ask to see me again. But I was desperate for a diversion – my husband had walked out on me, I’d seen Karolina taken away, and my star pupil had misguidedly denounced his parents. And in the midst of this dismal merry-go-round, Valentin had appeared with his Russian accent and his confident ways. And here we were, the following day, in the City Park, sheltering in the shade, the sky free of clouds. The park is beautiful at this time of year – the flowers in full bloom, the trees so regal, the green of the lawns so vibrant they almost look artificial.
‘Is that why you are here in Budapest – to play football?’
‘Yes. We’re playing against one of your local teams next week.’
‘Where do you play?’
‘Left midfield.’
‘No, I mean, where does the match take place?’
He laughed. The team, he said, were playing in Budapest, then they had a couple of regional games, and then, after that, they were returning to the capital for two days of sightseeing.
‘And then you go back to Moscow?’
‘And then we go back to Moscow.’
I swallowed my disappointment. That this gruffly spoken Russian, almost a stranger, had caused such a reaction caught me by surprise. Why should I feel disappointment, of course he had to return home; had I secretly hoped he’d say something different? I wondered what he’d be returning to. A girlfriend? A wife? I imagined a small, pretty Russian girl with blonde, plaited hair and painted nails, waiting for her footballer to come home. Why should he want to spend time with me, twenty-six but already so old? Neither of us spoke of our lives – our hopes, our triumphs, our struggles, but I felt he too had a story that lingered close to the surface, refusing to be buried in memory.
‘So, what’s life like in the Soviet Union?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, it’s like a ride on a bus – one man drives and the rest of us cling on for dear life.’
An elderly couple ambled passed, arms linked, both wearing long overcoats despite the warmth of the day. The man tipped his hat at us; Valentin nodded back. Again, the assumption – a young couple sitting on a park bench, enjoying the sun. Did it matter that he was returning to Moscow, that I wouldn’t see him again? No, it didn’t. I was trying to suppress my chaotic existence with something else, something superficial. I resolved not to be so silly.
‘I think I should go now.’
‘Would you care you see me play?’
‘Play? Play what?’
‘Football, of course. I could get you a ticket for the game.’
‘Are you... are you inviting me to a football match?’ I’d assumed women weren’t allowed to attend.
‘Well, I didn’t mean hide and seek.’
‘At least I would understand the rules of hide and seek. Tiddlywinks even better.’
‘Tiddle-what?’
‘You’ve not heard of... it doesn’t matter.’
‘So?’
‘I don’t know.’
He turned to face me and took my hand. ‘Seriously. I’d like you to come... please.’
‘OK, I’d like that very much.’
We smiled at each other before remembering he was still holding lightly onto my hand. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if embarrassed by this sudden show of earnestness, and his hand slipped away.