The Choice

“Don’t you want to see my surprise?” He pulls the door open again.
And there are my sister Klara, and Csicsi, and a suitcase, and her
violin.
“Any seats free in here?” Csicsi asks.
“Little one!” Klara says, as she pulls me to her chest.
Béla wants to tell how he evaded the police search in Prešov, and
Csicsi wants to recount how they discovered one another here in
Košice, but I am superstitious. It seems like counting chickens before
they’ve hatched. In myths, nothing good comes from gloating. You
have to let the gods maintain the image of their singular power. I
haven’t even told Béla yet about the ring, about how I got him out of
jail. He hasn’t asked.
e train is moving again. Marianne falls back asleep with her head
on Béla’s lap. Csicsi and Klara whisper their plans: Vienna is the
perfect place to await their visas for Australia, the time is right to leave
Europe, to join Imre in Sydney. I can’t let myself picture Vienna yet. I
hold my breath at every station. Spišska Nová Ves. Poprad-Tatry.
Liptovský Mikuláš. Žilina. ree more stops before Vienna. Trenčín
yields no catastrophe. No crisis at Trnava. We’re almost there. At
Bratislava, the border crossing, the place of our honeymoon, the stop
drags on. Marianne wakes up, feeling the stillness.
“Sleep, baby, sleep,” Béla says.
“Hush,” I say. “Hush.”
On the platform, in the dark, we see a dozen Slovakian soldiers
walking toward the train. ey spread out, approaching the cars in
pairs. Soon they will be knocking on our door. ey will ask for our
identiĕcation. If they don’t recognize Béla’s face, they will see his
name on his passport. It is too late to hide.
“I’ll be back,” Csicsi says. He pushes out into the aisle, we hear his
voice, the conductor’s, we see him step down onto the platform just as
the soldiers reach the door. I will never know what Csicsi says to them.