Ádám Bodor

The Smell of Prison

Responses to Zsófia Balla

(Extracts)

Part 2

 

One thing seemed clear: our time in Gherla was over. Maybe they were transferring us to another jail. But then, why the barber? There were prison barbers, one on each floor, but all they did was shave you, and at regular intervals, they gave everyone a close crop-everyone, that is, except the kapos. When the barber showed up in your cell, it was better not to object; it would not have made sense. I for one didn't want to look good for anybody, and wouldn't have noticed if, say, one of the Iron Guard toughs had made advances. It was rumoured that in order to discourage any sort of physical attachment (they couldn't very well castrate everybody), they mixed tranquilizers into our food. According to one well-informed source, sacks of bromide were stored in the kitchen, as well as other pills that dull your sex drive. I had just had my hair cut, so not even a master stylist could do anything with what was left. Still, an officer took me over to the barber, a prisoner, actually, who'd been cutting hair all along, and told him to get rid of the hairs around my neck at least, and then try to give me some sort of hairdo. The agitated officer followed us even to the showers. By then the suspicion began to build even in my skeptical mind: Maybe they were serious about letting us out. And sure enough, at the shower door, our street clothes, quickly retrieved from the storeroom, were already laid out. While we were getting ready, three or four grinning guards stood around, envious perhaps that we were about to leave this place and start a new life, while they remained behind, in prison. They were being remarkably considerate, though, seemingly ready to do our bidding, all but carrying us up the stairs to the main reception room. We had no idea what was going on; it took all we had not to burst out laughing. They asked us to sit down, pointing to comfortable leather armchairs, and to our astonishment, even brought us newspapers and magazines, in case we got bored waiting. So many smiling faces, so much understanding, attentiveness, solicitude-an absurd scene, in short. We hardly dared look at one another. The mood turned truly theatrical when Warden Goiciu, wearing all his decorations, entered the room, flinging out his arms and flashing a toothy smile. Among ourselves, we called Goiciu, with childish frankness, Comrade Wild Boar, partly because of his fang-like teeth, but also because he really was a beast. "Dear children," he intoned, "didn't I tell you that you'll soon be going home?" I already mentioned, I think, that two years earlier, Goiciu received us in the prison yard, and screaming like a madman, let us know that our dead bones would rot away within the walls of the prison under his command. We didn't feel like arguing with him now. In the meantime, the number of dignitaries grew. Followed by his entourage and wearing a gray general's uniform, the federal prosecutor, Comrade Alexa himself, arrived. He read out the presidential decree according to which our sentences had been annulled, along with all their consequences affecting civilian life, and our discharge from prison was to take effect immediately. We almost thought he was going to apologise and congratulate us on starting a conspiracy. We were practically kicked out of jail.
But at the gate, I suffered one more indignity. Before the great gate closed behind us, just to make sure, they searched us one more time, and in my pocket they found my striped prison cap-I wanted to take it with me as a souvenir. Stealing from jail? It certainly looked that way. "Hey look," a guard cried out and triumphantly held up the cap, as if to say, these were the sort of people we were letting go. How did it end up in my pocket, he wanted to know. I replied with regained self-confidence, like the free man I now was: "Somebody must have slipped it into my pocket, as a joke-perhaps a guard." He took it away, of course. And to this day I am sorry he did. With this thorn in my heart I walked through the gate.

Who or what was behind this unexpected turn of events?

It's a long story. A true Eastern European tale. My friend Zsiga Palocsay's father, Rudolf Palocsay, was originally a fireman who early on, for reasons known only to him, got disenchanted with his job. He owned a piece of land at the edge of town, on the slopes of Békás Hill, where he planted flowers and fruit trees, and in time became an avid plant breeder, no doubt acquiring some professional know-how along the way. This happened back in the thirties. His passion to improve strains bore fruit, quite literally, in the form of splendid peaches; and before long his flowers, too, appeared in the market. The enterprise took off, and Rudolf's sister, Karola Palocsay, opened a flower shop on Wesselényi Street next to the Hintz pharmacy. Not even the post-war political transformation seemed to discourage him; he continued to prosper. In fact, he was seen as a self-made man, and his lack of schooling rather impressed the proletarians now in power. In early summer, even before the end of the school year, Zsiga had huge peaches in his lunchbox, and in the winter there were shiny Jonathans and Romanian Batul apples. Sometimes he also produced empty shells from his pocket, for his father had new friends now; he went hunting with local party bigwigs and even members of the central nomenklatura. His splendid peaches ended up on the tables of the powerful and famous. In the meantime, he kept breeding his plants, his garden was soon declared a research center, he attended consultations and conferences abroad, visited Moscow, where he met the pope of crossbreeding, the great Michurin. And his rise in the world continued: he became a member of the National Assembly, and with his fireman's certificate, a member of the Academy of Sciences. If it was flowers, the name to remember was Palocsay. His gorgeous bouquets were flown to Bucharest; his gladiolas became a virtual status symbol. They were ordered for school celebrations, weddings, party functions. One year there was a big dog show in Cluj, where suspicious dogcatchers in dark suits also put in an appearance. From behind huge gladiola arrangements, they watched and waited for their chance to intervene. In 1954, the authorities felt the time had come to recognize his unquestionable achievements, and on the August 23rd national holiday, Rudolf Palocsay was to receive the highest state prize.
The man of the hour-I had a chance several times to see this for myself-was a rather strange, dour, puritanical sort. It seemed he kept his emotions for the prominent representatives of the plant world. About his personality, not even his own son, my friend Zsiga, had much good to say. Though even he admitted that in spite of his austere, strait-laced character, his father was a man of unimpeachable integrity. As soon as Rudolf learned that he was going to receive this high honour, he left for Bucharest and immediately asked for an audience with Gheorghiu-Dej, then president of the country and general secretary of the Communist Party. As an academician, a parliamentarian, and someone soon to receive the highest civilian decoration in the land, Palocsay was in a position to ask for a meeting. And as a straightforward, decent man, he had no other choice. When the two met, he quickly presented his problem. His decoration unfortunately was not timely, he said, since his only son was at present serving a prison sentence for a serious political offense. This revelation must have caused some anxious moments for the general secretary. The authorities were clearly negligent in their work, how else could it happen that in the eminent scientific worker's files there was no mention of the fact that his son was a sworn enemy of the existing social order. It is conceivable, of course, that the records kept on such a distinguished citizen had been carefully sanitised, with every incriminating reference assiduously expunged. Gheorghiu-Dej was not a particularly smart man, but he realised right away that he had to make a gesture, or rather, reciprocate Palocsay's. "It's all right, Comrade Palocsay," he told him. "We'll release your son forthwith." Unmoved, Palocsay shook his head. "It wouldn't be right to make an exception. My boy is not alone in this. You don't want to know, Comrade Secretary, how many more there are." If reports of this meeting are to be believed, and why shouldn't they be, the General Secretary withdrew at this point, for a breath of fresh air perhaps; or, feeling squeezed, he may have even placed a call to Moscow. But then he returned, his face beaming: "We'll free the whole gang. But only if you accept the prize." Good old Palocsay continued to object for a while, but in the end agreement was reached. They could notify the Prosecutor General and the Presidium. A few days later, the decree announcing their pardon was published.