Army, and tried to learn what had become of us. ey had no
information about our family, but in exchange for a free concert, they
offered to help her get home to Košice. “When I played, two hundred
Russians attended, and then I was brought home on top of a train.
ey watched over me when we stopped and slept.” When she
opened the door to our old apartment, everything was in disarray, our
furniture and possessions looted. e rooms had been used as a stable
and the Ęoors were covered in horse manure. While we were learning
to eat, walk, write our names in Wels, Klara began playing concerts for
money and scrubbing the floors.
And now we’ve come. When our rashes are healed, we take turns
leaving the apartment. ere is only one good pair of shoes among the
three of us. When it’s my turn to wear the shoes, I walk slowly on the
sidewalk, back and forth, still too weak to go far. A neighbor
recognizes me. “I’m surprised to see you made it,” he says. “You were
always such a skinny little kid.” I could feel triumph. Against all odds,
a happy ending! But I feel guilt. Why me? Why did I make it? ere is
no explanation. It’s a fluke. Or a mistake.
* * *People can be sorted two ways: survived; didn’t. e latter are not
here to tell their tale. e portrait of our mother’s mother still hangs
on the wall. Her dark hair is parted down the middle and pulled back
in a tight bun. A few curly strands feather across her smooth forehead.
She doesn’t smile in the picture, but her eyes are more sincere than
severe. She watches us, knowing and no-nonsense. Magda talks to her
portrait as our mother used to do. Sometimes she asks for help.
Sometimes she mutters and rants. “ose Nazi bastards ... e
fucking nyilas ...” e piano that lived against the wall under her
portrait is gone. e piano was so present in our daily lives that it was
almost invisible, like breath. Now its absence dominates the room.