Other Earths Read online

  “I could have been brave too,” said Csilla.

  “I’m sure he knew that,” said Mrs. Mad’r. “But like the king of Hungary, he loved his daughter too much to put her in danger. And like Erzs’bet, you’re going to have to make a choice.”

  When Erzs’bet could not sleep, M’rta would stroke her hair and tell her about the Daughters of the Moon or how Saint Istv’n rode the White Stag. She was stroking her hair now. “Do you see why I brought you here, Erszike?”

  Although she could hear the forest around her, the rustling and scurrying, and the crackles of the dying fire, she felt the stones of the Wartburg pressing against her, so that she could not breathe.

  “To escape the landgravine?” But she knew, as she said it, that it was not the reason.

  Cec’lia took her hand and looked at the spot where the thorn had pierced, which had already stopped bleeding. “To give you a choice.”

  M’rta stroked her hair again, but now it offered no reassurance. “You could help the T̈nd’r, Erzsike. If you stayed at the Wartburg . . .”

  She had not noticed when the piping had stopped. S’ndor lay by the fire with his mouth open, snoring slightly. He had taken the baby from his daughter, and it lay beside him, wrapped in his ragged coat. Green curls tumbled over the baby’s eyes. Its thumb was in its mouth, and it made a sucking sound in its dreams.

  Erzs’bet looked down at the mark on her finger. Then she said to Cec’lia, “M’rta and I have to get back before dawn. Will you distribute the money?”

  “There’s more,” said Csilla, because Mrs. Mad’r had stopped.

  “Is there?” said Mrs. Mad’r. “You see, I don’t know the rest. We know our stories only in fragments. But your grandmother knew more of those fragments than anyone.”

  “Yes,” said Csilla. “You’re missing the most important part.”

  The chapel was filled with the thump of boots sewn from embroidered leather, the shush of sleeves edged with ermine.

  I am a cloud, thought Erzs’bet. I am a mist, creeping across the room. I am invisible, like air . . .

  “Elizabeth!” said the landgravine. “Father Conrad, this is the Princess Elizabeth.” The pearls in the landgravine’s hair glowed in the light that came through the stained glass window, turning her left cheek a delicate blue. “Elizabeth, surely you know enough to kiss the Inquisitor’s hand?”

  It happened, as Erzs’bet knew it must, when she bent to kiss the wrinkled fingers, dirty under the nails and wearing an iron ring engraved with a cross. Out they tumbled, the rolls that she had stolen from breakfast, stolen for the woman who waited in a corner of the scullery, anxiously holding a child whose head was wrapped in a ragged scarf. How carefully she had wrapped them in her skirt, how carefully she had held her skirt so they would not fall out. And now they lay on the chapel floor, where boots stepped aside and skirts drew back to avoid them. What good was it being at the Wartburg, when all she could do to help the T̈nd’r was steal rolls? Lenke, the scullery girl, could do more than she could.

  “Bread?” said the landgravine. “Why do you need bread?” She watched the rolls rolling, as though she had never seen bread before.

  Erzs’bet felt as though she could not breathe. What should she answer?

  “Speak, child,” said Father Conrad. “Speak as truthfully as our Lord taught us.” He smiled, a smile that he might have thought was kind. But his eyes glittered like steel.

  What had M’rta whispered, lying beside her at night when she could not sleep? The T̈nd’r could call the blossom from its bud, the rabbit from its burrow, the fox from its den. They could smell the storm coming while the sky was still blue. She was one of the T̈nd’r, but none of these skills would help her now. What good did it do her, having the blood of the Moon?

  Then suddenly she heard it: soft, insistent. The cooing of doves in the courtyard. Usually they stayed in their cote beside the kitchen, where they were kept for their eggs, and for pie.

  “Come,” whispered Erzs’bet. “Come to me.” It was not much, it was probably less than nothing, but it was what she could do. Because she was one of the T̈nd’r.

  “What was that, Elizabeth?” asked the landgravine.

  “Speak up, child. Father Conrad can’t hear you.”

  Then a rush of wings, and the doves, so many of them, white and brown and gray and speckled, were stepping over the chapel floor—pecking, pecking, until the very last crumb was gone.

  “Surely these are the birds of God.”

  Erzs’bet turned to see who had spoken. There was a boy standing beside her. He was tall and thin and slightly stooped, as though ashamed of his height. His eyebrows rose to a peak in the middle, which gave him a look of perpetual curiosity. Like the landgrave’s, she thought, and, suddenly realizing who he was, looked down again at the floor, where the doves were still searching for more bread. She noticed that his boots were covered with mud.

  “You don’t remember me, Princess. Or if you do, I’m sorry for it. I seem to remember that I was a particularly unpleasant boy.”

  “Ludwig! I thought you weren’t arriving until—well, later.” The landgravine did not look particularly pleased to see her son.

  “I left the university as soon as I heard that my father was ill. But I find that I have arrived only in time to pray by his body.” He looked toward the chancel, where the landgrave lay beneath his crimson pall, in a cloud of incense. Erzs’bet saw that although he seemed calm, his eyes were red, as though he had been weeping. He turned back to the landgravine. “Surely the princess meant this bread for the poor. The landgrave himself would have done no less. The Word of God traveled as a dove to announce our Savior. Isn’t that right, Father Conrad? I think these birds rebuke us for our impiety. Here, Princess. Give this to those who need it.”

  The purse jingled as he dropped it into her hands, sending the doves flying upward, while velvet sleeves fluttered to protect faces. They flew around the beams of the chapel, then out through the door and up into the blue of the sky. She clutched the purse carefully and watched as Ludwig walked up the steps to the chancel, then knelt beside the landgrave’s body, with his head in his hands. She thought, He is not like Herman, and perhaps in time I could like him, just a little.

  “So she married Ludwig,” said Csilla, “and they lived happily until he died in the Crusades. Then she went into a convent, where she lived for the rest of her life. And the people said she could perform miracles, like curing the sick. So they called her a saint.”

  “Is that the end?” asked Mrs. Mad’r. “I’m glad you told it to me. It’s not like in the official history books, is it?”

  “It never is,” said Csilla.

  “And you know all of your grandmother’s stories, like this, so complete?”

  “Of course,” said Csilla, wondering why Mrs. Mad’r should doubt her.

  “Csilla,” said Mrs. Mad’r, “I want to tell you a story that I know you have not heard. But first we must have some dinner, and then we must take a walk into the forest. Do you think that you’re strong enough? It’s not too far.”

  “I’m all right,” said Csilla, although as she sat up, she felt the nausea again. But she was going to be brave, like her father.

  Mrs. Mad’r wrapped a shawl around Csilla’s shoulders. “This dress used to be Susanna Martin’s. That’s Mrs. Martin’s daughter. You look a little like her—it was her passport we used to get you on the airplane in Vienna. It’s going to be colder in the forest. Are you ready, Csilla?”

  “Yes,” said Csilla, although she did not know what she was supposed to be ready for.

  They walked down the back steps and through what had once been a garden. It was dilapidated now. Weeds grew in the flower beds, and the pond was covered with scum. But some ancient peach trees still stood to mark where an orchard had once been. Soon the garden gave way to rhododendrons and mountain laurels, and then an oak forest, and they were walking along a path littered with oak leaves. Sunlight came down through the bran
ches above, and the shadows of the trees stretched eastward. The sun was beginning to set. The forest was silent, except for the occasional call of a bird or the rustle of a squirrel in the treetops.

  “I wonder if Erzs’bet’s forest was like this,” said Csilla.

  “Older,” said Mrs. Mad’r. “This forest was cut seventy years ago for lumber. These are young trees. No, this reminds me of another forest.” She walked on for a moment in silence. Leaves crackled under her shoes, and a twig broke with a loud snap. Then she continued, “Once, there was a girl named Margit.”

  Margit’s Story

  Margit wondered how long they had been sitting in the barn, surrounded by the smell of hay and horses. She thought there was only one horse in the barn—she could hear it stamping in a corner and occasionally banging its bucket against the far wall. But the sky was clouded, and moonlight came only occasionally through the barn door, which anyway was only half open. Judit would not allow them to open it further.

  “I’m hungry,” said Deb’ra.

  “Hush,” said Judit. “We have to stay quiet. Anyway, you ate the last sandwich hours ago.”

  “How do you know it was hours?” asked Margit. “Can you see your watch?” It was so dark in the barn that she could barely see Judit’s face, or Deb’ra’s, scowling as though she were about to cry, or Magda’s, silly Magda’s, blowing spit bubbles that shimmered in the faint light. With her handkerchief, which smelled like cheese from the sandwiches, she wiped the trail of spit that ran down Magda’s chin. Thank goodness D’nes had fallen asleep on the straw. For a moment the moon escaped from the clouds, and she saw that he was sucking his thumb. Well, let him.

  She felt a hand on her arm, and then Judit was pulling her away, saying, “Stay there, Deb’ra, and take care of Magda.”

  “Listen,” said Judit. “We have to have a plan. Once Deb’ra gets really hungry, she won’t care how much noise she makes. She’s been that way since she was a baby. And what about D’nes when he wakes up? At least Magda will stay quiet as long as we tell her. But we need food too, Margit. I don’t know how far it is to the border, but when Father took us to Arad last year, it was more than an hour by train. We can’t walk if we’re hungry.”

  “Can we ask the farmer for food? We could tell him we were on a trip with our parents and got lost. They’d have to feed us, wouldn’t they?”

  “They wouldn’t have to do anything, not if they saw these on our clothes.” Even in the darkness, Margit could see the yellow stars sewn on Judit’s and Deb’ra’s dresses. “Why should they treat us any better than the people in Szeged?”

  Margit understood the bitterness in Judit’s voice. The Lengyels had lived in one of the largest houses in Szeged. Next year, Judit was supposed to graduate from high school. She had been planning to study art in Budapest, and eventually in Paris. Margit had never understood why Judit had helped her that day in the schoolyard, when P’ter Nagy and his friend Tam’s had pushed her down on the pavement, shouting, “Hello, T̈nd’r! Let’s see if she has scales under her clothes.” She was two years younger than Judit, and her family lived in a small house on Boszork’ny street. Had lived, she corrected herself. But after Judit had pummeled the boys with her school bag, shouting, “Stop it, you idiots!” they had become friends.

  “I don’t want to take care of Magda anymore,” said Deb’ra. “I want to come talk with you.” Her voice rose. “You never let me do anything!”

  “Shut up, or I’ll make you!” said Judit. “Do you know what will happen if anyone finds out we’re here?”

  Deb’ra started to cry. “I’m going to tell Papa that you were mean to me!”

  “Oh, don’t, D’bora,” said Margit, but Judit said, “Let her. It’s more quiet than when she talks. Now, we have to get these things off our clothes. We should be able to cut them off with the pocket knife.”

  “But won’t we get in trouble?” There had been so many ways to get in trouble, recently. First, they could not listen to the radio. Then, they could not ride in motor cars, and Mama had to walk all day to visit Aunt Ilona in the country. Then they could not play in the park, or watch movies at the cinema, and finally Margit had to stay home from school. Papa stayed home too, because he could not work at the newspaper. And finally all of them, all of the T̈nd’r in Szeged, even those who had brown hair and went to the Catholic church, had to move into the part of the city where Judit’s family had moved after the police took the big house on Gutenberg Street for their headquarters. Mr. Lengyel had asked them to move in, although there were already three families sharing the house. The police had marked down who was living there: Jews, Bolsheviks, T̈nd’r.

  “Do you think we could be in any more trouble than we’re already in? We ran away from the police, Margit. If anyone finds out who we are, we’ll probably go to jail.”

  The horse whinnied in the corner, and D’nes turned on the straw. Moonlight broke through the clouds again, and Margit saw with relief that Deb’ra had fallen asleep beside him. Magda was rocking back and forth, crooning quietly to herself.

  “We could explain that we ran only because Papa told us to. It was so quick, with the police knocking on the door, and Papa telling Aunt Ilona to take us into the alley. We didn’t know what we were doing. If we tell them that we just want to be with our parents—”

  “You idiot.” Judit’s words felt like a slap. “Don’t you understand that’s what your father was trying to prevent? The police were coming to take them away. They were coming to take everyone away. They’ve already done that in other towns. My father heard from the Rabbi.”

  Papa and Mama taken away. “Where? Where would they take them?” Margit was crying now too, but silently, although she felt as though she were about to break apart. In a few moments, she would be lying in fragments on the barn floor.

  “I don’t know,” said Judit. “Nowhere good.” Margit felt Judit’s arms around her, and she could not help letting out a sob so loud that it made Magda jump. “Remember what happened to your Aunt Ilona.”

  Margit had been trying not to remember. She had been ahead of Judit, who had been carrying D’nes and leading Magda by the hem of her skirt. Aunt Ilona had been behind them. And then—a sound, like a loud crack. She had looked back to see Aunt Ilona lying on the stones that paved the alley, in a green puddle. Aunt Ilona had lived on a farm, and Margit remembered visiting with D’nes, feeding the chickens, eating apricots picked from the orchard, swimming in the river Tisza. But eventually Aunt Ilona had moved to Szeged, saying that the countryside had become too dangerous for T̈nd’r. She had brought Magda, a farmer’s daughter whose father had been afraid to keep her. That day, Margit had wanted to go back to where Aunt Ilona lay, but Judit had not let her. She had said, “Don’t stop, Margit. Go through the Szomorys’ garden. Hold Deb’ra’s hand, and don’t lose your school bag. It has all the food in it.

  “No,” said Judit, “we’ll do what our fathers planned. We’ll cross the border to Romania and find my uncle in Arad. As soon as it’s light enough to see, we can walk across the field and into the forest. The border is to the west, so we’ll just keep walking toward where the sun sets. It’s too bad the map and the compass were in the other bag. If only I knew how far it was!”

  “What about food?” asked Margit. She was not going to remember the green puddle. She was going to be practical, like Judit.

  “We’ll have to steal it.”

  “Hunh,” said Magda. “HunhHunhHunh!”

  “Hush, Magdi,” said Margit, but then Judit put a hand on her arm again, as though to hush her too.

  “Listen,” she said. “Do you hear it?”

  The engine of a motor car. She could hear it, faintly at first and then louder. Then suddenly a sound as though the motor car were coughing, right in front of the barn. Then silence.

  “Damn these country roads! Sergeant, you told us you could get us to the farm.”

  “Yes, sir. But, sir, the roads do get like this. When it rains, sir, and it’s b
een raining heavily—”

  “And while we sit here, stuck in mud, the children are escaping.”

  Margit felt Judit’s hand clasp hers, hard. She wanted to tell Judit that her fingers were aching, but she was too frightened to make a sound.

  “So sorry, sir. I’ll go to the farmhouse and wake the farmer. He’ll be able to tell us if he’s seen anyone.”

  “Is it time for breakfast?” asked Deb’ra. She sat up in the straw and looked around, as though expecting to see her bedroom on Gutenberg street. When she saw D’nes lying beside her and the horse champing at the edge of his bucket, she cried, “Papa!”

  A voice outside said, “Did you hear that, sir?”

  “Come on,” whispered Judit. She let go of Margit’s hand and pulled Deb’ra up from the straw. “There’s a door in the back, I saw it when we came in. We’ll have to go out that way.”

  Margit shook D’nes. “Wake up! It’s time to wake up.” He opened his eyes and looked at her the way he did when he was going to open his mouth and wail. “But you have to be very quiet, because we’re going on an adventure. We’re Imre and Fair Ilona, and we’re taking the children of the T̈nd’r to the mountains. We can’t let the Turks hear us, or they’ll capture us again. Do you understand?”

  He nodded, got to his feet, and took her hand. She held the other hand out to Magda, who was always happy to follow wherever she was led.

  The back door opened with a creak as Judit pushed it, and they emerged into the night. The moon shone over the fields, alternately veiled and unveiled by clouds. They waded through barley, which scratched Margit’s knees so that she wished she were wearing pants. They went quickly, as quickly as they could, but there was a sea of barley ahead of them and already they were faltering, because oh, how tired they were, thought Margit, dropping D’nes’ hand for a moment to scratch her itching knees. And every step seemed more difficult, pulling D’nes and Magda, both of whom lagged behind, until she felt as though she were carrying them. And D’nes was about to cry, she knew it.