ISE BALAsz-RAK6CZY
255
11. I am writing on the train, traveling through village after tiny village
towards Slovakia. Julia has asked me to look in on her neices at Schintau
- to save them, if I can, or at least to see if they're alive. I doubt they
are, but I would do anything for her.
When we were little, she was my only playmate. Not often enough;
not so often as we would have liked. Yet, I never showed her that room
where
r
hid myself Not even to Julia. I was such a serious child. But Ju–
lia . .. Julia was gay, charming, pretty. I can picture her in a wine velvet
frock with a green sash. And a broad-brimmed hat with cherries. She had
perfect skin and rosy lips. No wonder Bela found her irresistible.
Oh Julia!
As we passed through the stations, the little beds of red and white
begonias spell out the old slogan, "Nem, nem, soha!" [No, no, never!]*
And the phrase repeats itself to the rhythm of the wheels until I want to
scream. Julia crochets or does her petit point. She knows how to quiet
her mind.
Schintau station . The Jews are gone. Through the half-open doors
of the little synagogue
r
can see two peasants playing cards.
Going home again . For the first time in years, I have the sudden im–
pulse to see the house and make a detour. Those glorious rococo gates
still stand, even if the gilt is gone and the iron is decaying. The arms are
there, too, and that improbable motto:
Vehimur in Altum
-
We are
borne into the deep.
r
have never understood it.
It
is an exceedingly
strange house,
r
realize. The facade is pure Palladian (based on the
Mocenigo designs, some pedant told me). But behind its measured stone
is a deeply irrational structure, modified many times. The public rooms
are all correctly classical : intelligent double cubes and ovals, paneled and
pilastered . nut beyond them the place is an impenetrable maze: staircases
leading nowhere; walled-up doorways; grand Vitruvian entrances tun–
neling into low medieval vaults. Time turns back on itself, loops and
knots itself into unimaginable tangles. Outside, the English park has
thrived, but the parterres exist only in outline - like the foundations of
an
ancient villa unearthed by archaeologists. And the boxwood maze is a
field of stumps.
Of course,
r
found my inevitable way towards that room. There
ought to be a rule, as firm as a commandment: "Thou shalt not," etc.
Because it had become just a room, a room full of things. Then,
suddenly, an image cracked into place. I pushed aside a chest and an old
torchiere to reach that place, that loose board in the paneling. The
*The answer to the question, "Can it remain like this?" refers to the immense losses of Hungarian
territory
following the Treaty of Versallies.
