Ervin Lázár

Four Stories

 

...

The Knotweed

It wasn't long before they were surrounded by a curious crowd. The dreams were gone from the women's eyes, while the children cast curious glances at them from behind their mothers' skirts. In the middle of the crowd stood a frightened old couple, a man and a woman. Bits of straw were stuck to their clothes and hair, and they were each holding a small cloth bundle. Mrs. Szotyori could not take her eyes from the knots of the tablecloths, for some insubstantial childhood memory pained her heart.
"They deserve what's coming to them is all I have to say," Gyula Hujber announced.
"Hold your tongue," András Priger said turning on him, though he knew perfectly well that Hujber wasn't thinking of the two old people but of Hungarian Swabians in general. Except now it wasn't a question of Swabians in general, but of this here couple, Konrád Pámer and his wife, Lizi Hoffman. András Priger found them in the hay when he went to the stables at dawn.
"Who might you be?"
"We hail from Györköny," Konrád Pámer offered. His wife attempted a smile, but her tight, narrow lips managed only a grimace.
Seeing that they were frightened, András Priger tried to reassure them.
"I've seen you around the Dorog fair," he offered.
"You see?" Lizi answered, this time with a gold toothed smile, for she could hope again.
"They caught up with you, too?" András Priger asked.
Konrád Pámer nodded, but dared not speak for fear his voice might tremble.
The night before, István Hatala had paid them an unexpected visit. He plopped down in a chair and let his huge fist fall on the table. Lizi saw the tabletop cave in under its weight. For a while he remained silent, for he did not know how to begin what he had come to say. They didn't offer him any food or drink, and before long forgot about his presence.
"We're surrounding the village tonight," István Hatala blurted out. "You're all being sent back to Germany. The wagons are waiting for you at the Nagydorog station."
Lizi's gaze sought out the cupboard, then the old Singer sewing machine. "What about the house?"
"Only what you're wearing, plus anything you can carry in one hand," István Hatala said.
A long silence followed. Hatala removed his fist from the table and hung his head.
"I'm on guard duty out by the wine-presses," he offered quietly.
Later, they made their way toward the press houses over the back roads, under cover of the heavy vegetation. They hadn't made any decisions yet, except that they would flee. The idea of Rácpácegres first came to them on the dirt road to Bikács.
Rácpácegres was in the back of God's own throne. No one would think of looking for them there. They made a detour around Bikács, crossed the wooden bridge over the Sárvíz, then crossed the island and waded through the waters of the Sió. The wet, plaintive night hovered over them like a shroud, unaccustomed sounds and smells assailed their senses, and from time to time, they shivered with fright.
As they walked along the road to Ráadás, they thought they saw something stirring behind a bush.
"I think there's somebody there," Lizi said.
They stood still for a while, but nothing moved.
"You're imagining things," Konrád Pámer whispered.
They continued on their way. They were just a stone's throw from the Great Corner, and before long reached the houses of Rácpácegres looming uncertainly under cover of the night sky. Since they didn't want to disturb anyone at that late hour, they agreed to spend what was left of the night in a stable. Strange as it may seem, the dogs did not bark at them.
And now, they were standing surrounded by the people of Rácpácegres.
But why did that man say that they deserved what was coming to them?
"There's empty rooms in the Lower House," Mrs. Szotyori said quickly, as if afraid of being overheard. "Even two."
"All right, follow me," András Priger said, and started for the Lower House by the end of the village.
"But the responsibility is yours," Gyula Hujber warned.
András Priger felt a sudden surge of anger. His upper lips trembled under his thinning moustache, but he kept mum.
"You could get into trouble because of us," Lizi said as they walked on with Priger.
"Leave that to me," Priger shot back abruptly as he continued to march in front like a soldier, his wide-legged boots flapping against his shin.
The room hadn't been lived in for some time. The earthen floor had turned to dust, spiders that nobody had disturbed in a long while sat crouching in the blackened cobwebs, while the bit of weak light that filtered in through the dirty window just made the place look even more forlorn.
But a ray of hope was already approaching in the hefty person of Mrs. Szotyori, who was coming along the lorry tracks armed with a battered washbowl, a paintbrush for whitewashing, a broom and an assortment of rags. The triumph of the recent exchange she had with her husband still gleamed in her eye. "Must you stick your nose into everything?" he had growled, and as if she hadn't heard, in one ear and out the other, she just said to him, "Go get me some yellow earth!"
Mrs. Szotyori and Lizi set about cleaning the room. They whitewashed the walls and spread mud on the floor, and the fresh smell of the lime merged with the incorporeal yet full-bodied smell of the moisture-rich mud. They polished the top of the cooking stove with iron dust until it shone, and they drew lines in the wet earthen floor with the tips of their fingers, which obediently turned a deep yellow by the time they finished. The whole world smelled of cleanliness and hope. Maybe they could even smell it in Györköny.
"May the Lord rain toads upon your heads," Lizi said.
Mrs. Szotyori looked at her in round-eyed amazement.
"What did you say?"
Lizi could hear the harsh thud of the household things landing on the loading trucks, the frightened cackle of the hens locked into the coops, the sharp cries of Kati Hufftlesz piercing the general din. She could see Gyuri Szeip's family standing like pillars of salt among the horse-drawn carriages, their wheels creaking for lack of grease, and the three children standing in front of Gyuri Szeip's wife, with little Zsuzsi's face opalescent under a heavy black shawl. "What are you banging for? The door's not locked. I didn't lock the door so you wouldn't have to break it down. So stop banging."
But no. This smell of cleanliness couldn't have reached as far as Györköny.
"May the Lord rain toads upon your heads," Lizi said once again.
They passed their midday meal with the Prigers.
When they walked back to their lodging, the kindling wood in the cooking stove had been started up. Someone had stuck two or three armfuls of chopped wood through the shoot. In the middle of the room stood two old chairs. Konrád Pámer shook them by their backrests and ascertained that they hardly needed any fixing to make two sturdy, reliable chairs.
"Okay, Lizi, you can sit down now."
Annoyed with the sudden onrush of sentimentality that had taken hold of her, with the back of her hand she tried to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. She'd need the tears for other times, she knew.
The Jósvais brought a sack they'd stuffed with the remains of the manorial haystack. The Gazdags found a rickety bed in the attic. The sideboard joints were loose, but Jancsi Jósvai wedged them and nailed them secure just like an expert until the bed was as hale as if it were almost new. They had no idea who'd brought the blankets, but when they finished fixing the bed, they found two neatly folded horse blankets on one of the chairs. Mrs. Butös lent them her kerosene lamp, which she reserved for special occasions and kept as decoration on top of the wardrobe. She was very proud of that lamp, and no wonder, for it had a brass stand, and its shade was fashioned out of milk glass. "Don't sit in the dark. But when you find yourselves another, I'd like it back," she told them.
But they didn't burn the lamp very long because they were very tired. They lay on the freshly stuffed straw mat under the rough horse blankets, their sides touching.
Lizi felt a sense of awkwardness, and a sense of expectation, too, a profound warmth toward her husband, like when she was a young bride and slept in the same bed with Konrád Pámer for the first time. She took his hand, and that is how they slumbered off, holding hands.
A nervous scratching at the window. Dazed with sleep, Lizi opens her eyes. For a moment she doesn't know where she is. The walls are bright in the early morning half-light. The smell of whitewash permeates the room. The scratching at the window turns into knocking.
"Pámer! Pámer!" someone calls in stifled tones.
Of course! They're in Rácpácegres, and Szotyori is standing outside by the window.
"Quick! They're coming! The soldiers are coming!"
Lizi runs back to the bed and grabs the bundle they'd brought with them the day before. Then she lets it drop and settles on the side of the bed.
Szotyori leans in through the window.
"Hurry up! You hear?"
"We're not going," Lizi says. Then she adds, "Thank you all the same."
Szotyori's head disappears from the window. They take their time getting into their clothes. Konrád Pámer would like to hurry, but he dare not. He knows that Lizi would not like it. He buttons up his coat, but then he can't hold himself back any more and hurriedly gathers the few items they'd brought from home and stuffs them inside the one open bundle.
"Don't," Lizi says. Then, feeling that she has been too abrupt, she adds, "Kuni, don't."
They hear the rattle of a carriage and the reverberating sound of hoofs as the horses come to a stop in front of the house.
"Konrád Pámer, come on out!"
Lizi takes her husband by the hand. When they reach the threshold, they stop. In front of the house, a peasant cart, a shamefaced peasant on top, holding the reins of two obedient horses. Two soldier-types in shoddy uniforms are standing by the side of the cart. One is wearing civilian trousers. The one standing closer to them has a machine gun with a drum of ammunition slung over his shoulder. The other has a long infantry rifle with a bayonet. Duri Bederik is standing on top of the cart, his legs wide apart. Further back, at a respectful distance, stand the people of Rácpácegres, grownups and children alike.
"Who do you think you are," Duri Bederik asks as he continues to stand with his legs spread authoritatively, "what makes you think you're above the law?"
The two old people continue to stand in the kitchen door.
"You should be ashamed of yourselves," Mrs. Szotyori yells at the soldiers.
"What harm have these two old people done you? Duri Bederik, may you rot in hell! It must've been you that betrayed them!"
"Hold your tongue, Mrs. Szotyori, if you know what's good for you," Duri Bederik snorts, "Be glad I don't have the lot of you thrown in jail for complicity.
Who let these people move in here anyway?"
András Priger is about to take a step forward, but Gyula Hujber beats him to it.
"It was me. And what are you going to do about it?"
The crowd reacts. Shrill women's cries and deep men's grumbles fill the air.
The soldier with the machine gun tightens his grip on it and turns to face the people of the village. Duri Bederik, who realizes he'd better not strain the situation to the breaking point, turns on the two old people instead.
"Well, what about it? I haven't got all day."
Silence. Konrád Pámer and Lizi do not move.
"You breathed Magyar air long enough. Now go back to your own kind in your beloved Germany!"
Lizi takes a step forward and opens her mouth. Her gold tooth flashes as she speaks.
"So maybe you're a Magyar? You're a piece of shit, that's what you are, not a Magyar!" Actually, she says it like this, "Zo may be you're Madjar? You're piece of schitt, eez vat you are, not Madjar!"
"Komm Konrád," she says to her husband, and they walk away. They walk past the horses, skirt the pig sty whose sides are held up with corn stalks and whose roof is covered with straw, and are almost by the steep mound of the lorry tracks overgrown with weed when Duri Bederik springs into action.
"Stop!" he shouts.
"Stop!" the soldier with the gun repeats, as with a metallic click he pulls back the safety catch.
Konrád Pámer and Lizi stop and turn to face Duri Bederik.
"Come back here!"
The two old people do not budge. The wild mallow that grows in abundance in these parts, the foxglove, the henbane and knotweed, reach up to their knees. Ever so gently, Lizi takes her husband's elbow and helps him sit down, then helps him lie on his back, and then he disappears from sight in the lush growth of weed. Lizi smoothes the folds of her skirt and lies down by her husband's side. They are gone from view. The lush weeds do not stir.
The silence is like crystal. The soft breeze stops blowing, the leaves on the trees are still, the clouds stop rolling in the sky.
"All right, that's enough. Come out of there," Duri Bederik orders, sounding as if he had a lump in his throat. But by then the people know what can be known.
"Bring them here," Duri Bederik orders the man with the machine gun.
His steps faltering, the soldier goes to the scene of the crime, his feet rooted to the ground.
"There's nobody here."
Duri Bederik screams at him.
"What do you mean there's nobody there?"
But his voice is distorted with fear.
The people begin converging on the man with the machine gun. They want to see for themselves that there is nothing in the weeds. Even the frightened peasant climbs off the wooden seat of his cart to have a closer look. Only Duri Bederik does not move. Petrified, he continues standing on top of the cart.
The circle closes in. The imprint of the two bodies is clearly visible in the kneehigh weeds. At the bottom is the knotweed, and over it the broken stalks of mangold. The big-leaved weeds and the wild mallow have straightened themselves out again. But the people can see that this is where Konrád Pámer lay, and this here, this here was Lizi. The people take great care not to step on the spot where the bodies had been. Even the soldiers.
Duri Bederik is screaming with rage.
"Go find them! Search everything!"
But the soldiers ignore his orders. They jump on the cart, the peasant cracks his whip, the two horses break into a trot, and the cart heads for Sárszentlôrinc, leaving a trail of dust behind.
The people of Rácpácegres continue to stand around the pressed-down weeds as if they were standing by a fresh grave. The men remove their hats.
That night Gyula Hujber wakes with a start because he hears somebody cry.
It is a barely audible, muffled, plaintive cry, yet loud enough to keep him awake.
He shakes his wife's shoulder.
"Somebody's crying. Can you hear?"
They listen.
"Calm down," Mrs. Hujber says, "it's nothing."
But the sound will not subside. At times it filters in through the windowpane very softy, at others it has a loud urgency about it.
Gyula Hujber slips into his clothes.
In the cold autumn mist outside he pulls his coat tighter. His ears have not played him false. The cries are coming from over there! He pressed his ear against the flattened weed, and the sound comes louder now. He recognizes Lizi's thin wails and behind it, Konrád Pámer's muffled sobs. He strikes a match and sees the flower. The knotweed has brought flowers, two beautiful flowers the colour of the rainbow, no bigger than the nail on one's thumb. Gyula Hujber knows that such flowers do not exist, and yet he is not surprised. He takes out his penknife and cuts a big circle around the knotweed so he can pull it out by the roots. He takes off his hat and places the knotweed and two handfuls of soil inside it. He listens.
The weeping has stopped.
He stands up and walks away. When he reaches the Small Corner he turns left, then having passed the Big Corner, turns onto the road leading to Ráadás. Halfway to the Sió, a bush along the road seems to stir. "Come out, you lurking pig," he says under his breath as he keeps his eyes trained on the bush. But nothing stirs.
Still, for some time he keeps a strong grip on his penknife as he walks, not pocketing it until he's passed the Sió and is on the island. He crosses the wooden bridge over the Sárvíz. His tread on the boards booms in the night. He keeps a firm grip on his hat. He makes straight for Györköny along the fields. He knows that the graveyard is on this side of the village, which is a good thing. Hopefully, they won't think of guarding the graveyard. Surely, they can't be afraid of the dead, as they are of the living.
There are several large unsightly holes in the rusty wire fence around the graveyard. Gyula Hujber climbs through one, carefully pressing his hat to his chest. He finds himself among large marble tombstones. This must be the place where the wealthy citizens of Györköny are laid to rest.
"The pox on these uppity Swabians," Gyula Hujber grumbles as he makes his way among the sunken tombstones and crumbling wooden crosses to the old graveyard. He stops short by a tall boxwood and places his hat on the ground. He lowers himself on his knees, grabs his penknife, and digs a hole in the soil the size of his hat. He removes the loosened soil with his hand. He takes the knotweed from his hat, places it in the hole, and packs it round with earth. He arranges the flowers with his middle finger and shakes off the grains of dust that had settled on their petals. He gets up again. He turns his hat inside out, knocks the clods of earth out of it, then scrapes what's remained from the lining. He turns his hat the right side out, punches a crease in the middle, and lowers his arms. "Well, Auntie Lizi, you're back home again. May you both rest in peace," he says. Then he turns around, passes the tombstones of the rich, and climbs through the hole in the wire fence. After he's gone a ways, he puts his hat on his head again, and makes for Rácpácegres.

 

Ervin Lázár
(1936-2006) was a journalist and author of a number of popular children's books and books for adults. Csillagmajor, published in 1998, from which these stories are taken, is based on the author's experiences growing up in a small remote Hungarian village where the people were poor in goods, but rich in tales.