The Choice

assertive is to decide for yourself. And to trust that there is enough,
that you are enough.
Oh, but I’m shaking. I leave the house with Marianne in my arms.
If I act correctly, I won’t be returning here to the Eger mansion, not
today, maybe not ever. We will be on our way, tonight, to make our
new home. I keep my voice low-key. I talk to Marianne nonstop. In
the twenty months since Marianne’s birth, besides nursing, this has
been my success as a mother: I tell my daughter everything. I narrate
what we are doing throughout the day. I name the streets and the
trees. Words are treasures that I offer her again and again. She can
speak in three languages: Hungarian, German, and Slovak. “Kvetina,”
she says, pointing at a Ęower, saying the word in Slovak. From her I
relearn what it is to be safe and curious. And in return, this is what I
can provide for her—I can’t stave off danger, but I can help her know
where she stands and what she’s worth. I keep up the monologue so
that there is no room for the voice of fear.
“Yes, a Ęower, and look at the oak, all leafed out, and there’s the
milk truck. We’ll go see the man at the police station now, it’s a big, big
building, like our house, but with long hallways inside ...” I talk as
though this is an ordinary excursion, as though I can be to her the
mother I need for myself.
e police station is intimidating. When the armed guards usher
me into the building, I almost turn away and run. Men in uniforms.
Men with guns. I can’t tolerate this expression of authority. It spins me
out, unplants me. I lose myself and my direction in the current of their
threat. But every minute I wait heightens the danger for Béla. He has
already shown that he is not a person who rolls over and complies.
And the Communists have already shown that they are intolerant of
dissent. To what lengths will they go to teach him a lesson, to extract
from him some imagined piece of information, to bend him to their
will?