I went to the Kozma utca cemetery once again. I headed for father, but spotting the Wall of the Martyrs – or whatever it’s called, I wish I knew, the Martyrs’ Memorial? – anyway, I felt the urge to go up to it real close, to take another look at the wall of the dead, and so changed my mind about dad. Nicht für dem kind. I had just started writing again at the time, and besides, "it wouldn’t hurt to have a look" or whatever, "to seize it up," what I mean is, "I want to see, so there!", "and from close up, too," I thought, what I mean is, I thought at the time
so I sort of sneaked up to it
      and sat down to the left of this whatever it is
      it was nothing like what I’d remembered
      much smaller and not as tall
      shocking
      ghastly
      an abomination
      or whatever, in short, I felt ashamed, but then here, in this cemetery, this filthy shame comes on schedule, it engulfs and dazes you, what can I do, nothing, each time I try to disassociate myself from it, if it's all right to say a thing like that, but it's not, and so I sat down, the sky over me, big white pieces as if whoever it is had his eyes on me, I pressed my knees together, what am I doing, a light breeze blowing, tickling my armpits, a pleasant little breeze around ten-thirty of a Sunday morning, and me staring like a cow at the names of the hundreds of thousands that had been done in, there, on the wall, then forcing myself to be calm, I pulled out my small notebook with the stiff red binding, it contains my so-called literary scribbles, and I also took out my pen again, from my pocket, because earlier that morning I had already jotted down the words from some of the tombstones near the entrance, for instance, the following, the minute I was inside: The common resting place of the soldiers and defense forces who fought in the freedom fights of 1848-49. O glorious Eternal Centuries, before the dust of Jewish heroes, before this eloquent grave, halt! Crown their brow with laurels and say onto them, as long as the Earth lasts their Nation shall stand prosperous and liberated!, and also: Here lies the quintessence of womanhood róza magyar née Pulitzer died Dec. 25th 1912 in the 90th year of a fruitful life may peace be to her ashes, not to mention: ede schweitzer esq., lieutenant general 1844-1920, but also these
yes these, these
whoever they are, sent to their death in cattle cars
damn it
in other words, in other words
these names
these Jewish names I started copying, too
these Hungarian Jewish names
what is meant by Hungarian anyhow
and Jewish
Jewish odium
and what is meant by these names
      and as in the caressing sunshine the hero of our story, this objective observer, gleaned from among the drastically incomplete list of half a million dead the Jewish names that pleased him most, he thought he heard voices.
      I look up.
      Granny and Junior.
      Granny must be between seventy and eighty if a day, her body emaciated. The tactful would call it fragile. But she’s sweating profusely nonetheless. She might be ill. The gilt band of her wrist watch is cracked in several places, and her cotton summer dress, too, is badly faded. In one hand she is clutching a long necked bottle filled partway with water, in the other, a straggling bouquet of wild flowers. Junior is supporting her partly by the elbow, partly by her underarm.
      Junior, whom we call Junior out of a sense of good form (and cowardice) is a stocky man in his middle age. He looks like a dog with a long and narrow head, but stunted. The type fed on sponge cake soaked in rum. Whatever hair he’s got is smoothed in a curve over his skull. His eyes are brown, brownish-black, oily-melancholy. His benevolent eyes are perpetually looking into space. He is wearing a pair of soft moccasins.
      Granny: – Hello everybody. Well, here I am!
      I try to catch her eyes, to see where she is looking through the wall, but it’s impossible. Yet I’m not sitting far. But the names are lined up too close together. Besides, there are too many of them. Granny stoops over and places the long-necked bottle at the base of the wall, scratching at the marble with the bottom of the bottle as if it were soil and she was trying to make a little dent for her makeshift vase, to prevent it from toppling over when the autumn winds come, or whatever. And in the meantime, she casually but firmly calls over her shoulder – to her son? – Let go of me!
      Junior lets go of Granny’s elbow, gives the objective observer an abstracted look, for the fraction of a second looking each other in the eye, time enough for them to realize, alas, that they know each other, a couple of years previous to this Junior having mustered enough courage to request the hero of our story to visit him, whereupon he offered him for sale, at an admittedly modest price, to be sure, two or three thousand unsold and unsaleable copies of his latest, infamous book, "there’s enough in the cellar to fill a sizeable bathtub, sir, believe me, they’re crowding us out," he repeated in his office not once with a sad smile of apology, making the author an offer he could not refuse, but never mind, anyway, this time the hero of our story, the objective observer, got off without having to acknowledge Junior's presence, who quick as lightning wrenched his eyes away, having focused them with infinite loving care on Granny's bony backside jotting out as she busies herself arranging her bouquet of flowers.
      What a relief. I don’t even have to bother standing up.
      I pretend I’m writing.
      -- No water, Granny sighs. – Why is there no water? Wouldn’t you think there'd be water, at least.
      She’s shaking an ochre yellow watering can, of plastic, in her withered hand. She has also put, I see, a glass for brushing teeth and a small plastic bucket down on the artificial marble. They are also filled with flowers, tiny flowers of the field. She might have picked them herself. And she’s about to shuffle towards the gravel path, to the well, I guess, when Junior grabs for her. – I’ll get it, Mother. You stay right here.
      Good as his word, Junior takes the watering can and heads for the cemetery gate. Granny and I are now alone at the left end of the L-shaped colonnade, under the last part of the drastically incomplete list of those deported to Auschwitz and Birkenau. She does not notice me, not for a minute. Not me, not anything else, for that matter, not even the season of the year, perhaps. She is looking at the wall, standing before it, shifting her feet, mumbling and grumbling as she repeatedly wets her lips with the tip of her tongue.
      -- What a mess. Good thing I’m here. I’m going to put things in order, dearies, just hold out!
      Her rolling-pin legs nudge the trash – visible only to her eyes – away from the wall and towards the steps.
      In another minute I see she's on the ground, down on all fours, hanging her head, emitting deep, sing-song sounds. For all I know, she may be sobbing. Maybe I should go up to her. But I don't feel like it. Yes, she’s weeping, and playing choo-choo train, sort of sliding back and forth. Her glasses tumble to the ground ... When Junior returns, she’s squatting. Huddled on her heels like a little girl on the playground, she slides her finger down the marble wall, trying to make out the names. For some reason, Junior stands between me and the sight of his mother, or whoever. He heaves her up. Granny still doesn't notice any of this, nor do I, but when Junior attempts to fling her over his shoulder to deposit her in the safe haven of the camel-skin back seat of the Ford Mustang which stands yawning in the shade, I hear Granny start up, her voice surprisingly strong: – And what about the others? Lilián and her family... The anniversary! Junior, the yahrzeit candles! Seemingly preoccupied and absorbed in his notebook, the objective observer nods soberly, as if to no one in particular, while – what choice has he got? – Junior walks with Granny to the next wall, to the other names, one by one, methodically, leaving out no one ...
      At last, they disappear from the scene. But not me! He's full of life, he veritably bursts into bloom in this cemetery, strolling the length of the unsightly atrium, his notebook pressed against his bulging belly, a humming in his ears. The mercury in the thermometer is rising, the air is all a-tremble... Teri Darvas, Vera Altmann, Panni Fürst, Tomika Burg. All the dead are present and accounted for.
      That’s how it is.
      Women with blankets wrapped around their waist. "The Girls." The bridge champion of the Hotel Gellért’s terrace. Has no shoes. Her daughter’s name Évike. The other two possibly her protégées ... "What filthy imagination a writer has!" I see other things too. Put it down to my lousy mood. "Still, let's see you talk your way out of this one ..." They surround me and I see in their eyes that I don’t understand anything yet. Or any more? What you see is what you get, and you get what you pay for! Standing in back of the railroad station, they're holding each other's hand; but they’re guffawing, too, right here in the cemetery, behind my back.
      "The guy’s got no taste. That’s his problem."
      "A typical man." A shame it’s so indistinct. Shapeless. Vibrating all around me, trembling, jam-packed, or whatever, but you can’t spy on them, they don’t like it. Who?
      "Just too sensitive. Hyperesthetic. High strung. What do you expect?"
      "One begged his way back."
      "Which means he can do whatever he wants?"
      I would like the earth to swallow me. I would like the piece of flooring, stone or soil I’m standing on to be a bit of square cut all around, pre-cut with a razor-sharp knife, the floorboard of an elevator that begins to sink abruptly, whoosh!, the basement, minus the first floor, minus the second, if only the earth would gulp me down, the deeper than deep gulf ... But none of this is for real, of course, just nerves, the hero of our story reflects, gushing, at the base of the death lists etched into the withered imitation marble, this I wouldn't know how to write about, what's more, this mustn’t be written about, he's chirping in a high, piping voice, their voices wouldn’t be easy to intone, it is, to be exact, forbidden or whatever ,though I'm not sure, they came running towards me from the back of the station as if they had been expecting me, except it wasn't me, what I mean is, I'm just making this up, of course, and he’s skipping about, sweating and flushed, the sweat veritably steaming, evaporating, as the names pile up in his notebook on the shadowless square, the noontime the color of amber, the sunshine brilliant, Hungarian, plenty of food for thought, but hush! He’s chicken. It would mean desecrating names. He doesn't dare write down what he's thinking. That’s how things stand. Of course, it’s only inner hearing! Comes to the cemetery with a notebook, God only knows why, jotting down names, a wheel missing, poor man! Why are the dead after my hide? They’re not after my hide. Probably just trying to enlighten me.
      The light, it pains the blind. The girls on the other side of the wall of mist. Their blankets flung into a heap. The shorter one formerly wearing a skirt they used to call English checkered, let out at the sides, over it a blue top, the other an ugly green coat. "Fascinating. I can actually see their dresses now. But not their faces!" The third is no longer a girl, she's been married for years, but where is her husband, her husband? It was me. Between her legs, grabbing her two knees with his hands, Tomika Burg, rocking back and forth.
           Or maybe not. Why this name? these names?... It's no good.
           "Oh, yes, yes, yes."
      But that's not what they called me.
      "No. But it's not what they called me either!"
      No? What then? Try and guess.
      They shot me dead. Somebody spilled the beans, and I was stood against a wall. But not in Hungary. Oh, yes, in Hungary. But not against a wall ... No. Of course not. I died of thirst.
      "You're getting warm ...
      Wanna play blind man's bluf?
      Wanna play what's my line?
      -- Who's that? Who's that?
      Under the throbbing noonday sun, a muted cry.
      -- Please. Not so loud. This happens to be a cemetery!
      -- But I am outraged. Indignant!
      -- Well, kindly desist.
      -- But I am indignant, and indignant I shall remain! You see this spot where we are standing, sir? It is my rightful resting place. I handpicked it myself! It is mine and I was supposed to be laid to rest in it. But what do you care!
      And old man, his head livid with rage, is standing at the second grave on the path adjoining the memorial. He is slight of built, his face grayish, and he is gasping for air. He is wearing a suit and is leaning on a battered walking stick. His chest is flat, his shoes too big, his nose pointed. He clucks non stop. He seems on the verge of fainting. A man with gold-rimmed glasses and a briefcase is attending him, a tall man in his middle age who looks like an administrator or engineer, a "chief cemetery engineer", what I mean is, actually, he’s afraid to look at the old man, he just nods, shuffles his feet, and averts his eyes.
      -- Yes, yes, I know. But what can we do?
      -- Don’t say that, please, not to me. Never say that again, sir, if you don’t mind! This thing here’s been settled in my favor ages ago. It’s been seen to! An exhumation has taken place, and that’s when Mrs. Salamon, she put it in the records, a crying shame she hasn't shown up today – why not, I'd like to know – but I refuse to work myself into a state, that’s not why I’m here ... This is where I want to rest, is that quite clear? So you’d better have somebody do something. Somebody better do something about it tomorrow! Clearly, a mistake has been made! See that that Mrs. Salamon looks into it, too. Then call me!
      -- We will all look into it, rest assured.
      -- My entire family is here, in a circle, you might say.
      -- Uhum.
      -- And it's not the Wall, being close to the Wall I'm after, sir! Get me? That's another matter entirely. I have a claim to this spot because of my family!
      -- Uhum.
      -- This is an outrage! You have ruined me. Undone me. You have made me unhappy. A nobody.. And why? Because of your negligence, me, a man who ... a man who ..."
      The old man waves a furious arm, striking at the ground with his walking stick, and as he does so, he almost falls on top of the engineer-type. There's no telling whether he tripped or in his bitter anger tried to strike him; in any case the chief engineer catches him and sets him graciously on his feet again. He wipes the dirt off his clothes and returns his walking stick. The old man turns around and dodders along out to the asphalt road. He is coughing pointedly, as if he were sobbing. Is he? From the distance, the administrator-type glances at me. I jerk my head away. He jerked his head away.
      "Let’s not say anything to him. He doesn’t deserve it."
      "The light, it pains the blind, ha-ha he-he!"
      "He mustn’t write anything about this."
      "He couldn’t if he tried."
      "Wouldn’t be easy to intone either, ha-ha he-he!"
      "He's scared shit. Let him be ..."
      In short, they're women. That's all I know. They may not be from the list of these names, but they are. The one I call Vera Altmann, she’s the girl with the ugly green coat. Not hers, though. Stolen. Of them all, Vera is the most important to me, don’t say that, it is not true, while the one I call Tomika Burg, the little dangling boy, is the ward of the one I call Teri Darvas, that poor unfortunate woman, his mother, shoved him in her arms. But I don't want to think about it any more. Panni Fürst, the one called Panni Fürst, she’s the prettiest girl in our house! Everybody knows. He shoots his mouth off, then shits in his pants. It’s not even her. Gap-toothed English checks. Sometimes I’d like to forget that I exist, that I’m alive. I yearn for the bottom of a well. The slime. Plunk, in the wake of the golden apples! Maybe some other time. Maybe later. I don't feel like spying on them any more. – -- --

-- – – ... but as he was heading for the narrow trail, in anticipation of his parents, he felt a renewed sense of restlessness and glanced over his shoulder, wanting to see the whole thing together as one, make sure it was all in his head, that he'd seen everything, and that's when he saw, that’s when he got it through his thick skull at long last that the outer wall of the ugly L-shape with the nine niches was a stylized chimney.
      Oh, the horror of it.
      And he put in his notebook what official Jewdom had written back then in blackened letters at the base of the chimney wall:

hate killed them - may love preserve their memory.

And when not much later he visited his grandfather's resting place – which as usual he couldn't find to begin with, and which made him laugh in his embarrassment, though that didn't help him any (it was a gypsy caretaker) – a touch of genius, his intuition made him loiter uselessly and at great length around the grave until his eye wandered to the lower part of his Grandad's forgotten marble tombstone, where letter by letter he made out the faded carving:

... may love preserve his memory.

Whereupon he staggered out of the cemetery.

Translated by Judith Sollosy
From Daybook – Napkönyv, 1994
In: The Chattahoochee Review, Fall, 2005