III
NO END IN SIGHT TO THE TEEMING RAINS. THE PASTURES lie deep under water. On higher ground the mud is ankle-deep, in places knee-high. Just when all hope of summer seems gone, it bursts of a sudden upon the land, swelling the corn and nourishing the plants. As the sodden terrain dries out, the crusting mud crumbles to a yellowish dust that covers every surface, fills every crack. As if afraid to be left behind, the corn ripens fast to a rich golden hue. Natterjack toads and gorged grasshoppers inform their kind that they have had their fill. The sudden wave of heat cuts a swath through the stock; the bloated bodies of sheep and swine putresce in the acrid air.
The windows of the county assembly stand wide open. Both within and without, the dog days of June have brought everything to a standstill. The languorous members were not even inclined to indulge in the amorous trifling that was a regular feature of life in this building at other times. The exchanges were fueled by little more than a general exasperation at having to rot here in the chamber. They were debating the proposals from the county administrator, alispán Sándor Vajda, regarding the repeal of legislation passed in the course of the reign of His Majesty Joseph II. The alispán blinked in disappointment at the complete absence of the noisy glee that might have been expected to welcome this topic. What a contrast with the clamorous reception accorded these laws when originally promulgated! It was the monarch himself who had now withdrawn them from his deathbed. A cause for celebration, one might think, for the repeal of the Habsburg legislation imposed upon us means we can return to our ancestral ways. The alispán’s proposals began with a preamble in convoluted language that urged us to take the action that all the other counties had taken already. He went on to list the decisions that had to be taken by means of a vote of the members of the assembly.
To the high lords of the estates and others with privileged status the laws entitling them to the exercise of the power of life or death over evildoers under the terms of the ius gladii: be it known that this power is again restored to them, likewise the right to hold their manorial court, in accordance with the exercise of their rights and privileges of old.
The numbers painted by order upon the walls of houses shall everywhere be removed, likewise there shall be dug up the signs that mark and note the number and name of every village, and the measuring sticks inserted in every field in the land.
Furthermore, to ensure that those manipulators of the measurements of the land, meaning thereby those of foreign nationality and not of the nobility, shall no longer be able to enforce payment of taxes, nor in any other wise mislead the people, such manipulators of the land are hereby given notice to leave this noble county within the eight days next, whereafter if they should be found therein, those suitable for the purpose shall be obliged to enlist in the army, while those unsuitable shall be expelled forthwith from the territory of the noble county.
In all the business of the noble county and in all correspondence the German language that has been imposed upon it shall cease to be in use but in its stead the Latin tongue, neglected of late years but formerly in traditional use, shall be reinstated.
In the schools known as normal schools the syllabus lately instituted shall be abolished and the youth of the noble county shall be taught not in the German language, but in the former Hungarian tongue that was established of old.
The assembly was slow to stir, with only a few rumbles of “Vivat!” There were hardly any objections and voting took place in virtual silence. Only the abolition of the house numbers managed to raise some whoops of approval. István Stern added his voice to the chorus with a degree of reluctance, the words of his former father-in-law still ringing in his ears: “High time His Majesty Joseph II set about cleaning these Augean stables we call Hungary.” In any case, the turret had received the number “111,” which warmed István Stern’s heart. Thrice a first, and a palindrome to boot.
The section decrying the manipulators was greeted with thunderous applause. Everyone hated the arrogant officials imported from outside by the powers that be and with little or no Hungarian, who hammered shoddy little stakes into the ground, resolving at a blow decades-old boundary disputes, and demarcated the boundaries of fields, meadows, and even the manors without so much as a by-your-leave. Even with these István Stern had no quarrel—the boundaries of his lands had already been marked off with stakes which, after mooting a few measurements here and there, the three assessors decided to confirm. The abandonment of the German tongue received an even greater ovation from the assembly. A number of the older nobles proceeded to make mock of the way German had come to dominate in every sphere, and one, Ádám Geleji Katona, even demonstrated how his guard dog now barked in German.
Speaker Sándor Vajda had trouble keeping order in the boisterous assembly as he declared the proposals approved in toto. He ordered a break for luncheon, which provoked some booing, as the members had no intention of spending the afternoon in the house and every determination to dine on the more substantial fare awaiting them at home.
“What work is there left to be done?” queried Ádám Geleji Katona.
The alispán read out the agenda. Mihály Baróti, a teacher of Latin at the town school, petitions for relief from his taxes, as he is unable to survive on his salary. The chief constable’s report on the current state of the legal dispute between the lessee of the abbey and the county. Pál Hamburger’s petition, claiming that the Emperor in Vienna had personally allowed him to freely carry on the trade or calling of tapster. A review and possible adjustment of the tithe. A number of appeals from prisoners in the county jail. And so on and so forth.
Amid mutterings the members reluctantly agreed to send word home that they should not be expected for lunch. In groups of various sizes they ambled over to the Fényes taprooms on the far side of the square. István Stern preferred to rest his bones on one of the blue benches in the courtyard of the council building. What weather! I’m melting, he thought, wiping his face, crab-red in the heat. In recent years he had found it harder to take his breath. He loosened his collar.
One of the town attendants turned into the courtyard, carrying folded papers in a wooden basket, and dropped them on the ground.
“What’s he up to?” wondered István Stern—he could see that these were official documents. By the time he realized what was happening, the man had put another pile on top of the first. He wondered whether to shout at him; by then the third batch had arrived. The attendant was bringing them from the archive. “I say!”
“At your command, sir,” said the man.
“What might be your business with those papers?”
“They have to be burned.”
“What?”
“The alispán’s orders, sir.”
“That cannot be true!”
“It certainly is!” came the words of Sándor Vajda, leaning out of a window.
“Why do they have to be burned?”
“These are the papers relating to the original orders of His Majesty Joseph II.”
“Books and papers should never be thrown in the fire … you never know when they might be needed.”
“Get along with you! Just carry on, János!” Sándor Vajda reassured the attendant, who had stopped in his tracks.
“Don’t!” István Stern hurried over and prevented the man from emptying his basket again.
“István, why poke your nose into this?”
“Books and papers should never be thrown in the fire,” he repeated obdurately. To the man he commanded: “Pick them up!”
The man was young but already balding, with an enormous Adam’s apple, which now slid down his neck and disappeared below the collar of his embroidered shirt. He looked at the alispán questioningly. Sándor Vajda came out into the courtyard, took the basket and emptied the documents, followed by the contents of his smoking pipe, straight onto the heap. The dry sheets immediately caught fire. Enraged, István Stern tried to stamp out the fire and kick the documents away. The alispán took him by the arm and dragged him off: “Come now, don’t make such a fool of yourself, Stern!”
Stern pulled himself free and again tried to put the fire out, but most of the sheets were now well and truly ablaze, giving off acrid fumes.
“Books and papers should never be thrown in the fire!” István Stern roared for a third time, kicking clear of the embers the few sheets that could still be saved.
The Smorakh family had moved from Lemberg to Prague and then again to Vienna in the hope of improving their lot. They reached the imperial capital just as Queen Maria Theresa was giving expression to her convictions about their kind in a phrase that was to be widely repeated throughout her lands: “The Jews are worse than the bubonic plague.”
Though she made this declaration in German, they understood it perfectly; there had always been at least three languages spoken in the family. The Queen’s was no empty phrase: with strictly enforced edicts she banned Jews from Vienna and Prague. The Smorakhs reached Posonium, the Queen’s Pressburg and the Hungarians’ Pozsony, on the back of a cart, in the hope of establishing themselves in the furniture business there, but they were not granted the necessary permit by the council. They loaded up again and went south, as Aaron Smorakh, the head of the family at the time, put it: “On the highway of hardships.” Their wanderings around the heart of Europe, punctuated by frequent stops, lasted some eight years. During these they suffered many hardships and disasters, of which the most painful was the death of Elisha, Aaron Smorakh’s wife, mourned by her husband, her mother, her three daughters Helga, Eszter, and Éva, and her two sons Jacob and Joseph. In these eight miserable years Aaron Smorakh tried desperately to keep the family together by making what he could by trading. Asked what was his occupation, he would say with a crestfallen smile: “I buy and I sell!”
It was the autumn of their eighth year when they came to Hegyhát. The lord of the manor here in the Tokay region was looking for someone to take over his village general store, following the death of the previous leaseholder, Ármin Kertész, who had ingested poisonous toadstools. The contract was held by the Smorakh family in great respect and a gilt frame, which in the stone house they subsequently built for themselves had pride of place above the mantelpiece. Every member of the family knew its words by heart, like a poem.
On the sixteenth day of January in the year of our Lord 1759 the general store of the lord of the manor in Hegyhát is hereby leased to the Jew Aaron Smorakh in accordance with the points of the contract agreed as stated hereunder.
Firstly, the said Jew will stock in the general store all kinds of goods, iron and other necessities, to ensure that as and when the lord of the manor desires to purchase tools, equipment, or other goods for husbandry, they will not be wanting in the general store, and also so that the poor should not be obliged to walk long distances for every small thing.
Secondly, it will be permitted to the said Jew to trade in and sell salt, tobacco, candles, pipes, and other such small necessities.
Thirdly, if the lord of the manor himself or his officers or servants have need of some particular item and that item is wanting in his general store, the said Jew will be bound to obtain it and offer it for sale at a price that is meet. Fourthly, under the terms of this contract the Jew shall pay the sum of one hundred Rhenish florins by way of rent every year, and shall according to custom pay it in two parts, one part every six months. Fifthly, the said Jew shall be obliged to keep to the terms of this contract to the letter and if he should be disinclined so to do, it will be permitted to his lordship in person to take such steps concerning the general store as he deems necessary. Provided only that the terms of the contract are duly observed in peace, and that he behaves as behooves an honorable man, his lordship will provide him with due care and protection and will not permit any party to harass him unjustly. This contract will have force for a period of two years and if in the second year the Jew should be minded to extend it or surrender it to his lordship, he will be required to give three months’ notice thereof.
Stamped and dated in the year of our Lord stated above, on the day of the month and in the place there stated.
Bertalan T. Vámbéry
Aaron Smorakh was thirty-two years of age when he signed this contract, his hair already white, his face furrowed and worn. He knew that for their rapid change of fortune his family owed particular thanks to two powerful men who wished them well, namely Bertalan T. Vámbéry and His Majesty King Joseph II, who only a year after his intolerant mother’s death ordered that the Jews were to have the status of a “tolerated minority,” as they were “in this wise more useful to the state.” Aaron Smorakh even adopted as his own the favorite saying of the only uncrowned king of Hungary: “Es geht, wenn man’s nimmt!” “It goes—if you take it.”
His Majesty Joseph II had ten years earlier, while still co-ruler with Maria Theresa, determined that the Jews choose “proper” surnames. To this end they were to appear in the offices established with the aim of noting down the date of birth or death of every single subject of the Empire. Since the official language was German, it was expected that the Jews would choose German names. As a dutiful citizen, Aaron Smorakh duly rode into the town of Eger to find a new name for his family. His first act was to place two jeroboams across the ink-spattered desk (the family had by then obtained permission to cultivate a vineyard on a share-cropping basis), and then he asked the bespectacled official: “Wie heissen Sie, Herr … ?”
“Wilhelm Stern,” came the reply from the surprised official.
Aaron Smorakh drew himself up to his full height and announced solemnly: “Dann wird Stern unser Name sein.”
“Sind Sie sicher?”
“Ja, ja.”
“Also, Stern?”
“Gut.”
Aaron Stern jiggled and jolted his way home to Hegyhát, with the deed poll in his saddlebag. Up went the new shop sign without any more ado: Stern and Son. Jacob, his firstborn, was already his right hand in the store.
Éva, now of marriageable age, these days often busied herself with her trousseau, assisted by two servant girls. Aaron Stern had laid by a crate of special, sparkling wine from the region of Champagne for the wedding feast. She had a dozen or more suitors vying for her hand in the next few years, but found none to her liking. By her age her older sisters had long tied the knot. Aaron Stern was more and more concerned: “You are certain? Not this one either?”
Éva would give a nod. She trusted that her father would have as much patience as she to wait for The One.
She met István Sternovszky in the burgh of Debreczen, whither she had gone with her father to buy supplies. A harvest ball was being held in the grand hall of the hotel. Aaron Stern was so pleased with the advantageous terms on which he had secured his purchases that he surprised his daughter with an evening gown decorated around the neck with the most delicate Brussels lace. The event was patronized chiefly by the nobility of the area, the only outsiders apart from the Sterns being the debonair Sternovszky boys, magnets for the fan-shielded eyes of every girl’s mother. István and János stood a head taller than the mass. Their glances kept returning to Éva, whose coal-black curls bounced and fluttered like dark little birds around her ivory shoulders. They both put themselves down on Éva’s dance card. Though they spent the same amount of time in the girl’s company, it was clear from the outset that István’s intentions were of the utmost seriousness. The Sternovszky boys were on a two-month tour of the kingdom, thanks to their uncle’s generosity. A few days later István abandoned the tour to ride to Hegyhát to see Éva again, leaving his younger brother in the hostel at Csaroda. Unable to see her, amid the utmost secrecy he sent her three brief letters. He received but one reply: “The road to me leads through my father.” The higher the wall, the harder it is to conquer, thought István Sternovszky, his ardor only further inflamed by the delicate pearly script of her dear hand.
Éva forbore to inform him that she had told her father: István Sternovszky is the one. Aaron Stern flew into a rage, his white hair billowing as he stormed: “Have you taken leave of your senses? The Sternovszkys of all people … Does that man have any idea who we are?”
“He does, rest assured, father dear.”
“Do you think his family will let him take a Jewish girl to the altar? How on earth could anyone imagine that?”
“Let that be his business.”
For more than a week István Sternovszky delayed making the announcement. His mother had a weak heart; he knew that if he now said his piece, it might be the end of her. Borbála no longer resembled the girl she had once been: in recent years she had put on a great deal of weight, so much so that she was now out of breath after taking just a few steps, wheezing as if she had run halfway round the town. The doctor had put her on a strict diet that she only pretended to keep. Sometimes she would even slip out in the dead of night to feast on something from the larder.
When István Sternovszky finally steeled himself to speak to his mother, Borbála was lying in the deckchair, her feet raised off the floor, digesting her modest breakfast, which consisted merely of a bacon omelette, a jug of cream, two green peppers, a cup of Turkish coffee, and a few prunes that did not really form part of the meal but were taken, rather, for the benefit of her digestion. Hearing that her son wished to speak to her, she closed her eyes in weary anticipation of news of further debts amassed by István at the card table. “How much this time?”
Her son’s attempt to explain that this was about something else, that he wanted to marry, made simply no sense to Borbála. “Who is this Éva?”
“The girl I want to marry.”
“You?”
“Yes, Mother, me, not the Pope!”
“But you are still a child.”
“I’m in my twenty-third year.”
“Yes, but even so … just like that? From one day to the next?”
István Sternovszky patiently explained that such things always happen from one day to the next, and sought his mother’s blessing on the union. He did not receive it. Borbála insisted first of all on knowing who this girl was, where she came from, what was known of her family, and how much dowry came with her. István Sternovszky considered the dialogue increasingly irrelevant. “I had hoped you would rejoice at the news.”
“Rejoice at what? That you have been ensnared by a grasping woman?”
“I am the one who is ensnaring her!” he spluttered, gritting his teeth, knowing that the worst—Éva’s origins—was yet to come. He began a dozen times to say that his betrothed was Jewish, but the words stuck in his throat. For him the word “Jew” was a sharp knife twisted in his spine, though he himself knew only one Jew, old Kochán, the village grocer, who would give credit to anyone who asked. But he had no doubt that the darkest of evil fates dogged Éva’s ancestors and all her family, which he must perforce share if he really were to marry the girl.
“But why this Éva, of whom we know virtually nothing?”
“Because she is my twin, born to other parents.”
“Why would you want to marry her if she is already your twin?”
“Mother, I beg you!”
It did not take long for Borbála to unearth the location and origins of the Stern family. She declared, tearing at her hair, that she would not under any circumstances acquire them as kin. By then István Sternovszky had made several visits to Hegyhát and had decided beyond a shadow of doubt that he could not find happiness except by the side of Éva Stern. He regarded it as a sign from heaven that the beginning of his surname was the same as that of Éva’s. The situation at home had deteriorated to such an extent that he and Borbála were no longer on speaking terms and communicated only via his brother. “Tell him, János, that dinner will be served shortly!”
István Sternovszky saw that things could not go on like this. One night, when the turret’s inhabitants were fast asleep, he and his servant, the lanky Jóska, quietly carried down the two chests and six large leather bags in which he had packed all of his belongings. Into his calfskin satchel he placed everything that he wanted to preserve in case of disaster—as much money as he could, a few family mementoes, and above all his father’s and grandfather’s folio, to which he gave the title The Book of Fathers. He considered that this was certainly his property.
Below the oxcart waited, with his dapple-gray, as he had ordered. He sat Jóska up by the driver, and they set off into an ominous night. By dawn next day they had reached Hegyhát and lodged themselves in the guest cottage that stood in the garden of the house, amid the raspberry bushes. Her husband-to-be could hardly take rooms at the hostel, for all to see. He unpacked, sent the cart back, and sent Jóska to fetch pen and paper. As soon as these were brought, he opened The Book of Fathers and in it inscribed these words:
The course of my life has taken a new turn. Leaving behind the parental home, the famed five-pointed turret, perhaps for ever, in order to find here, in the hilly country, a wife and happiness. Though I am not without fears, I am bold enough to put them to one side, as I believe the Almighty guards my steps. Omnis dies, omnis hora, quam nihil simus ostendit.
Aaron Stern sent word to Borbála, assuring her that her son was hale and hearty. “I am humbly at your disposal!” he added at the foot of the letter. The reply was addressed not to him but to István Sternovszky. “Return at once or I shall disinherit you!” Whereupon he replied: “Let your will be done!” and stayed. Chaperoned by Aaron Stern, he was able briefly to meet Éva every evening. They exchanged awkward, hesitant words. Once Éva spoke of her mother, whom she had lost at an early age. István Sternovszky nodded: “Yes … tuberculosis.”
The girl’s jaw fell. “Have you been making inquiries about our family?”
“Suffice it to say that I know.”
Or Aaron Stern would reminisce about their long years on the road and the difficult times in Vienna and Prague.
“On the highway of hardships,” added István Sternovszky.
“Where did you hear that?”
“I … well … you won’t believe this … but sometimes I can see into the past.”
Aaron Stern bombarded him with questions about their history and every answer proved absolutely right. As if the young man had had them investigated by the secret police. Aaron Stern scratched his head. “Would you mind if I took you to see our Rabbi?”
“Not in the least.”
Rabbi Ben Loew had arrived from Prague a year and a half earlier. His destination was Odessa, but he had not taken the most direct route. He lodged for a few nights at the Sonntag hostel, in the bend of the stream. He asked after his co-religionists in somewhat broken Hungarian—with soft h’s behind his t-sounds. He was pointed in the direction of Hegyhát. There the first house he knocked at happened to be the Sterns’. He was made to feel very much at home and asked to stay for the meal. The Rabbi, however, wanted to see only the local house of Jewish prayer and was much astonished to learn from Aaron Stern that there was not one in this neck of the woods.
“No-o? Then where do our people gather for Shabbos?”
“Well … here, in the garden.” Aaron Stern was reluctant to admit that they did not gather at all. The Jews here are just glad they have a hole in their arse and can work hard; they have no wish to antagonize the nobility by building a synagogue.
Rabbi Ben Loew could read between his lines. “I tell you there is synagogue here. Today.”
“How do you mean?”
“We shall build one, all of us together. Just meet me all of you this afternoon, by the bank of the stream.”
The Sterns alerted their friends and acquaintances. As they reached the site, Rabbi Ben Loew was already stripping the eight acacias he had felled with a handsaw and tying their ends together. The eight-cornered shape thus obtained had then to be covered with wattle and daub. Only above the ark of the covenant did they hammer together a roof when—as Rabbi Ben Loew’s generous gift—the ark was unloaded from his cart and put in its place. Later the members of the community raised the building a little higher and added a layer of thatch.
The service that first night was somewhat protracted, as the congregation’s grasp of the Hebrew language and ritual was rather uncertain. Rabbi Ben Loew was tense and tore at his beard: “Not ever I have seen such a thing! You are not knowing anything!”
“Don’t screech! Teach!” hissed Aaron Stern.
And so it came to pass that the Rabbi stayed longer than planned on the banks of the Hegyhát stream, where his congregation soon built him a house so that he would always remain there. News of his wisdom spread rapidly, and Jews from far afield came to him for advice, for teaching, or even simply to touch the fringes of his caftan, which was widely thought to ensure a life of plenty. It became the custom for couples about to wed to make his house their first port of call before the wedding ceremony. The nobility of the county tried more than once to have the synagogue closed down and to withdraw the right of assembly, but the Rabbi managed to frustrate their plans every time, by persuasion or guile or courage. Nor was it a disadvantage that one of the two landowners in the area, Baroness Sigray, took the Jews under her wing: “What harm does it do to anyone if the Jews praise their god? Especially if they make such excellent wine!”
Rabbi Ben Loew was able to continue to preach his faith unmolested.
Aaron Stern knew that he would not find it easy to gain access to the Rabbi’s person; the queue wound its way from the garden all the way down to the willows on the bank. Aaron Stern had helped to build the Rabbi’s house and knew the layout well: he led István Sternovszky directly to the back door. He made as if he were heading for the tiny servant hut but at the last minute veered right into the kitchen of the big house. István Sternovszky followed him hesitantly. In the kitchen the Rabbi’s Polish servant Igor was making coffee on the stove. He shook his head, but motioned with his eyes that Aaron Stern should go ahead. Inside the Rabbi had just completed a session with his visitor, a small, plump, doddery old fellow.
“I don’t understand either,” whispered Aaron Stern. “It’s Yiddish.”
István Sternovszky nodded; in his excitement he had not even noticed that they were speaking another tongue. As soon as the old man bowed and left, Rabbi Ben Loew offered them a seat. Turning his face towards Aaron Stern, he asked: “And what can I do for you?”
“Rabbi, this young man can see into the caverns of the past; he knows things that he cannot have learned from us, either in whole or in part. I would be glad to know what you think of him.”
Rabbi Ben Loew looked István Sternovszky up and down with great thoroughness. Finally he said: “Is it as Mr. Stern said?”
“In essence, yes.”
“Well then, tell me how I came to live in this part of the world.”
“I would not know. I can only see the past of those who are close to me.”
Rabbi Ben Loew looked even more closely at the young man. István Sternovszky stood his ground unblinkingly. The Rabbi gave a nod. “That’s fair enough. And are the Sterns close enough to you?”
“As close as can be, almost.”
“Would you be aware of a contract that they might hold particularly dear?”
István Sternovszky nodded and began to recite: “On the sixteenth day of January in the year of our Lord 1759 the general store of the lord of the manor in Hegyhát is hereby leased to the Jew Aaron Smorakh in accordance with the points of the contract agreed as stated hereunder—”
“Stimmt! Word-perfect!” said Aaron Stern.
“Right.” This interpellation disturbed Rabbi Ben Loew. He placed a hand on Aaron Stern’s shoulder. “It does not matter if there are those who know more than you do about your past. There is no cause for concern. You may believe this fine young man. But do not shout it from the rooftops that he has such extraordinary powers.” With these words and a determined shake of their hands he bade them farewell. They were outside the house when he called after them: “Next time you have a question for me, use the main entrance and wait your turn.”
“Yes, Rabbi,” said Aaron Stern bowing low from the waist. Arm in arm with István Sternovszky they walked home. “A real wonder rabbi,” he said in a low voice.
It was thus decided that István Sternovszky could marry into the family. But the negotiations concerning which house of God was to be the venue took a great deal longer. Aaron Stern insisted on the synagogue, but István Sternovszky was Calvinist and wished to employ the rites of his faith; moreover, he intended that his future offspring also be brought up in that faith and therefore sought from his intended as part of their nuptial vows the usual reversalis to this effect. While Éva was inclined to sign a reversalis, her father threatened to disinherit her if she did.
“Now that truly is excellent,” István Sternovszky exclaimed. “This wedding will mean that both families disown us.” He had not seen or heard from his mother and younger brother since he had taken himself off to Hegyhát.
They might have argued for years if the Calvinist minister of Tokay had not declared that not for all the gold in the Erzgebirge would he marry a Jewish girl to such a fine upstanding Christian as István Sternovszky.
“All right, reverend sir, you will not have to do any such thing!” István Sternovszky said, leaving the minister standing. He galloped back to Hegyhát. Bursting in once again through the back door on Rabbi Ben Loew, who was in the middle of his evening meal, a batiste napkin tucked under his chin, he exclaimed: “Rabbi, how can you make me a Jew?”
“This second? Or can you wait until I have taken my dinner?”
István Sternovszky was covered with embarrassment and began to back away, but the Rabbi cordially invited him to join him and share his stuffed neck of goose. By the time they had consumed the delicacy, they had agreed on how István Sternovszky might join the Jewish community of Hegyhát. For half a year he visited the Rabbi’s house three times a week to learn all that a good Jew must know. Of course, Ben Loew explained, he could not become a Jew in the eyes of the secular world, but the law was not everything.
The house on the hillside that was Aaron Stern’s gift to the young couple was readied in time for the wedding. In the garden of this building, furnished with every comfort, there was not only a pavilion suitable for concerts and other entertainments, as well as a fountain, but also a comfortable bathhouse. István Sternovszky’s eyes clouded over with tears when his father-in-law conducted them and the wedding party on a tour of their new residence—he had managed somehow to keep the building works secret from the couple. István Sternovszky could not think what he might offer in exchange. In a voice trembling with emotion he declared: “From today in your honor I shall shorten my name to Stern!”
This declaration was applauded by all the relatives present (all the Sterns, that is, since no one came from the family of the groom).
In the mornings István Stern always bade his wife farewell with the words: “Have a happy day, my darling!”
Éva planted a rose bower in the garden, and along the fence bushes of lavender. Their tickling fragrance penetrated the whole house and there was always a bunch or two in the vases on the table. István Stern put great effort into his work selling the white and red wines of his father-in-law. He managed to secure markets for them in places so far away that the Stern family had not even heard of them. He was masterly at talking the tradesmen into contracts, and when they had signed on the dotted line and drunk on it, they often remarked: “Huh! Never get involved with a Jew!” István Stern pretended not to hear such talk.
Once, as a substantial shipment was setting off for Lemberg, Aaron Stern shook his head incredulously: “How in the name of all that’s holy can this be? They hounded our people out of there and now they’ll pay a good price for our wine? It’s a crazy world we’re living in!”
István Stern was inordinately proud of the fact that the family wine business had prospered since he made himself useful in it. He wrote only one letter to his mother, most of it on this topic.
I have not, with the greatest respect, fulfilled my dear mother’s words of ill-omen, that I shall be a masterless man and will beg on bended knee to be taken back at home. With the work of my own two hands I have provided for my family. I hope that your anger will in time lessen and that you will kindly visit us. If my good fortune should hold, I expect that by then there will be three of us at least to welcome you.
After Lemberg it was the turn of palates in Tarnopol, Odessa, and Vitebsk to make the acquaintance of the Stern brand. In earlier times it had been difficult to carry wine of quality such distances, or only in barrels. István Stern had special crates made with thin wooden laths separating the twenty-four bottles and holding them secure. The crate lids had a huge S, for Stern, burned into them with an iron like those used for branding animals. To István Stern this was a glittering snake that haunted his dreams.
At the end of their first year of marriage Éva found herself with child. The birth was difficult and protracted, with the midwife as concerned for the life of the mother as for that of the child.
István Stern recorded the birth of his offspring in The Book of Fathers as elsewhere they might in the family Bible.
Our Richard was born on the seventh day of July in the year 1775, one month earlier than expected. He was very small at birth but proved to be a good child; even as an infant he cried only when racked by pain. His small body was well-proportioned and flawless, like a statue. His only weakness, perhaps, is his eyes, which were prescribed eyeglasses by Dr. Rákosfalvy as early as primary school …
Our Robert was born on the last day of the year 1777, much more easily than we had feared. My Éva is in bursting good health …
Our little Rudolf was born on the twenty-third day of March in the year 1779. Like Robert he perhaps takes more after me, at least with regard to build. My wife Éva had a particularly painful time with him. After the birth she recovered the slender figure that she had when I came to know her at the Debreczen ball. Those who do not know often take her for our sons’ older sister. I wish everyone the enormous joy that it has been my good fortune to share. Truly, my cup runneth not over only because I have not secured my mother’s forgiveness, and would dearly like to see her and my younger brother. I think of them often. I wonder if they ever miss me.
Twice István Stern rode over to the five-pointed turret, fondly imagining that he might simply knock on the door, but he shrank back each time, fearing Borbála would order him to leave. Around the turret lily-of-the-valley had burgeoned wildly. This caused him a special kind of pain.
On Friday afternoons the extended family would gather in Grandfather Aaron’s house, spending the evening and the following day together and passing Shabbos free of work, as prescribed. The three girls—all married by now—took turns to bring dinner in pans, jugs, and dishes whose number increased with the size of the tribe. The food was laid on the table and the candles were lit early in the afternoon, so that when they returned from the synagogue of Ben Loew, there would be nothing left for them to do. After dinner the grandchildren would beg Uncle Aaron to tell them about the old days. These tales had only one listener more attentive than the children, and that was István Stern. He had preserved in his memory many fragments of the past of the Stern (Smorakh) family, whose meaning fell into place only very gradually. Grandfather Aaron reveled in the telling of the tales, with frequent digressions, and returning again and again to certain details. He etched in vivid colors the Smorakh home in Lemberg, which had burned to the ground when hotheaded scoundrels threw flaming torches onto the half-tiled roof. This was a scene István Stern had seen many times, but only later was he to discover why.
The children could not understand who those scoundrels were and why their heads were hot.
“It was a pogrom,” said Aaron Stern.
“What’s a pogrom?”
“It’s when Jews are attacked for no rational reason. People can be very wicked.”
“What does rational mean?”
There was no answer to this. The room fell silent, only the crackling of the wood in the grate.
Éva grasped the shoulders of her older sons (the smallest had fallen asleep in her lap): “Don’t you worry, there will never be a pogrom here.”
After the children had gone to bed Grandfather Aaron told his sons-in-law how the family’s library of books, collected over four generations, went up in flames in Lemberg’s Haymarket. “Two of the curs threw the books out of the window, the pages sizzling as they flew; another two made a bonfire and shoveled the knowledge of the world onto it: literature, holy scripture, everything. The paper quickly caught fire; the bindings burned more slowly, giving off thick smoke, and the choking smell penetrated our clothes; we could smell it for days. Elise’s mother herded everyone behind the house and took them over to the Market Place where a cart was waiting for us … Yes, that’s how it was. I have never since felt like buying books, as my first thought is: what if the fire gets it … stupid notion.”
Indeed, Aaron Stern’s house contained very little reading matter; his library consisted of yearbooks and almanacs. The Torah rolls that had been Rabbi Ben Loew’s gift, he kept in a locked chest.
Though regularly invited, the Rabbi was not a frequent visitor to the Sterns’ house. But he was a weekly institution at the István Stern household. The latter had never been called the Stern house: after the avenue of trees before it the house was always called the Chestnuts. The Rabbi’s preference for István Stern was all the more curious because, in the words of Grandfather Stern, “He isn’t really a Jew, we just sort of took him in.”
In fact Aaron Stern was beginning to take offense at the Rabbi, who had, when all was said and done, him, Aaron, to thank for settling there, but preferred to give his attention to a person who had also him, Aaron, to thank for settling in Hegyhát. István Stern was aware of the tension and even mentioned it to the Rabbi, who replied: “I am not in the debt of Aaron Stern, nor of any other local, just as they do not owe me anything either. We all of us owe thanks only to Him whom we cannot mention by name.”
Conversation flowed easily in the Chestnuts, at the ash table with wine bottles and peeled fruit, in the reed armchairs lined with soft lambskins. Rabbi Ben Loew told parables from the Talmud that István Stern, who still considered himself a tyro in matters of the history and traditions of his chosen people, was happy to make notes of in his head. In the company of the Rabbi he became unusually loquacious and found himself gabbling, as he had in his childhood. Often he would disrespectfully interrupt the Rabbi, of which he was much ashamed.
Not infrequently he would complain how hard it was to assimilate into their community. In the synagogue he was never sure whether he had to bow or stand and some of the Hebrew texts had never been explained to him, and he mouthed them without knowing what they meant. The long and short of it was that he still felt himself a stranger among the Jews.
“Everyone is a stranger in this world,” said the Rabbi. “Above all the Jews. The pharaohs drove them from their ancient homeland, they dispersed to all points of the compass. They are to this day not allowed to buy land in many places. If, after all that, you have asked to join them, why should they not accept you?”
“Perhaps it’s not their fault. Maybe I have no talent for something that you have to be born for.”
“And what might that be, that you have to be born for? Look around: which Jew lives a life more Jewish than you? You do not have to tell me. Many of them eat forbidden meats, for example Aaron Stern does … they fail in kashruth, mixing milky and meaty plates and cutlery, they are strangers to the synagogue. It is not a very attractive thing, being Jewish, you may be assured of that.”
Another of their recurrent topics was István Stern’s miraculous gift of memory. The Rabbi wanted to understand exactly how the past began to stream for him. Could it be induced or accelerated by any particular type of behavior? Could he influence the periods that unreeled? István Stern could not supply satisfactory answers; all he could say with any confidence was that when he was agitated or excited, the images came more frequently and in greater numbers. If he was calm, say after a good meal, he could not even remember what he previously wrote in the Book of Fathers.
Rabbi Ben Loew asked to see The Book of Fathers. He wanted to borrow it, but István Stern would not let him take it. “Begging your pardon, but I don’t want to be parted from it for a moment.”
“Understandable. May I look at it here, in your presence?”
“As long as you please.”
The more the Rabbi read, the more questions he asked. As if he were writing a history of the Sternovszky/Csillag family. István Stern readily responded to every query, thinking ruefully meanwhile that neither his dear mother nor his younger brother, nor even his good wife, had expressed so much interest in his forebears. Nor his own sons, though perhaps their interest would develop later; after all, even the oldest was just coming up to seven.
“My dear Stern, I wonder: have you ever tried to look ahead?”
“Ahead?”
“Into the future.”
István Stern stared at Rabbi Ben Loew in astonishment. After a while he said: “That perspective is the privilege of Him whom we do not call by name.”
“Let me be the judge of that, and answer my question.”
“No, I have never looked into the future.”
“You cannot or you will not?”
“I would hardly dare to try.”
“Pity. What pain and suffering you could spare yourself and all your loved ones!”
This remark set István Stern thinking. That night, after the Rabbi had departed, he stayed on the veranda as darkness fell, watching the shadows lengthen along the avenue of chestnut trees and by the three small silver firs that he had planted when each of his sons was born. The chestnut trees had grown taller than the average man (not as tall as István himself), while the firs, like organpipes, were respectively only a few inches ahead of his Richard, Robert, and Rudolf. How tall would the chestnuts be in ten years’ time? Twice this height, perhaps. And the firs? We shall see. Hopefully …
Were he able to do what the Rabbi suggested, he could find out now what awaited him—awaited them all. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat. He recalled the Gypsy who had told his fortune in Tokay. The entire family had gone by cart to the fair and everybody got a souvenir. Richard got the little monkey that a large Gypsy family was exhibiting for a fee; it was no bigger than a medium-sized hare. Aaron Stern thought it must be a baby monkey, but the Gypsies swore it was twelve years old and called it Aster. After this, only the haggling separated Richard and the frightened little creature, which had now settled on his shoulder and clung to him like a baby to the breast. Aaron Stern gave up the haggling more than once, but each time István Stern resumed it and in the end it was he who paid. He was ashamed to admit that he was taken with the little monkey perhaps even more than was his son. From that night onwards, despite his mother’s protestations, he slept with the little creature in his bed, cuddling and kissing it constantly through the day, calling it Aszti, my little Aszti.
The oldest female member of the Gypsy family, a vast rotund creature dressed in red silk from top to toe, inhabited the darkness of the tent and would read one’s fortune from one’s palm, using cards, or her glass ball. To general surprise Aaron Stern paid for all the male members of the family to have their fortunes told. István Stern was the last to reach the fortune-teller’s table, which was host to a lazy black cat curled around the iron base of the magic ball.
“What’s it made of?” asked István Stern, thinking of the mysteriously shining ball.
“Just show me your palm!” said the Gypsy, grasping his hand and drawing the palm into the pool of light under the oil-lamp suspended close to her head. For a long time she studied the various lines and grooves, touching here, prodding there. István Stern thought her stocky fingers were sticky and wanted to draw back his hand, but the fortuneteller would not let it go. “I see great fires,” she declared at length with some solemnity.
“What sort of fires?”
“Blazing fires, flames as tall as a human being.”
“What is ablaze? Stubble? Logs of wood? Or a roof?”
“Snow-white, square birds tumble into the flames, burning to death.”
István Stern could extract nothing more from the Gypsy. Later he asked his father-in-law: “What can it mean?”
“Nothing good.”
“I still don’t understand it.”
Aaron Stern grimaced: “And for this I paid good money!”
István Stern imagined the scene a hundred times. He saw the snow-white birds as doves; it was his own house that had burst into flame, the wings would be trying to extinguish the fire—that’s why they dive onto it in suicidal frenzy, the smoke darkens the tapestry of the heavens. But he kept coming up against one thing: who has ever seen a rectangular dove?
One summer night, when a seasonal storm burst over the house with ear-splitting rolls of thunder and heavy rain, the past was again summoned up in István Stern’s mind and when he had again lived through what he had lived through so many times before, the Rabbi’s question occurred to him, as well as the Gypsy’s prophecy. Now, he thought, now or never! Eyes shut, he waited for the superhuman powers to launch in him the visions, this time the visions of the unknown regions of tomorrow. As his heartbeat accelerated, so it grew louder and began to shut out the roaring of the heavens. Then, then, oh, there came shreds of the first tableau, which eerily resembled the Gypsy’s prophecy: vast flames leaped from somewhere and white blotches flew about, which perhaps resembled scraps of white lawn more than birds. But he had no chance to make them out properly. He could not even be sure that what he had been vouchsafed was indeed some tiny fragment of the future and not just images of the Gypsy’s prophecy.
Rabbi Ben Loew hummed as he listened to István Stern’s account, as if he both believed it and did not. “Was that all?”
“That’s all I saw.”
“Don’t give up hope. Whoever gave you this will give you more, when the time comes.”
The profit from the vineyard that year was especially bountiful. The late summer heat had ripened the grapes to bursting and the mountain yielded a superlative nectar. Orders for István Stern’s S-branded containers came pouring in from every quarter. Aaron Stern winked happily at his son-in-law: “If it goes on like this, we might even get rich!”
With István Stern it was not only his family, but the entire Jewish community of Hegyhát that was extremely satisfied. He was a model husband, who gave his wife the respect and material security that was her due. A strict but warmhearted father, for whom his sons would give their right arm if necessary. A generous patron of the poor in the whole region. An assiduous visitor to the synagogue. At the forefront of those who observe the law and maintain the customs. Intelligent, comfortably off, yet without putting on airs. There was little evidence that he was nonetheless … in actual fact … to put it bluntly: that he joined the community of his own free will. He was equally respected by the Calvinist tenant farmers: in matters viticultural he would be the first they turned to; his word was widely respected even when the issue was the taste of the wine. Some tenant farmers would cheat by sugaring their wine or even watering it: to deal with them the Wine Protection Union of Hegyhát and Tokay was formed, with Tivadar Frank as its president, after István Stern had categorically declined this high office—whereupon he was elected deputy president, by acclamation.
Éva Stern was proud of her husband and liked to say that she was the only woman who gained her own name on marriage for a second time. She admitted to only one weakness in respect of her husband’s activities: his visits to the marital bed were not as frequent as she would have liked. This weakness she ascribed to her husband’s excessive devotion to the successful business; he often came home late and it was commonplace for him not to join the family at dinner. Éva did not even suspect that it was not always overwork that kept István Stern from the bosom of his family. Not infrequently he spent his evenings in the house of a widow of substance whom he had encountered in the course of plying his trade, since from her late husband she had inherited one of the finest model vineyards of the Tokay region. It was one of Éva’s regular pleas to her husband that they should shed the daily yoke of labor and go somewhere where they could take their ease for a while. István Stern was not minded to have his bones shaken on the way to some far-off place. But slowly the whole family came round to Éva’s view, and even Grandfather Aaron urged them to take a rest: “Off with you! Years have passed without your taking a rest from your bottles!”
A suitable opportunity arose in the form of a warm invitation from Tadeus Weissberger, a merchant from Lemberg, for István Stern, together with his whole family, to visit him in his castle. “We are but a quarter of an hour from the town, by the shores of the lake, you can swim, sail, enjoy the sun!” he said in his broken German, their common language since István Stern was not able to speak Yiddish.
There were extensive preparations before cart and carriage were filled with the five members of the Stern family, two coachmen, three footmen, a chambermaid, nine travel trunks, six bundles of clothing, three hatboxes, and the small monkey. Éva sat with her two younger sons in the direction of travel on the carriage couch; facing her sat István, Richard, and his little Aszti. There was a footman by each of the coachmen up on the coach-box; the third had to squeeze onto the cart with the chambermaid, among the trunks that they had to constantly watch out for, in case they fell on top of them. The journey took four whole days, the nights spent at unmemorable lodgings.
Tadeus Weissberger received them in the garden of the T-shaped mansion, with a huge bouquet for Madame Éva. Agnieska Weissberger, the lady of the house, did her utmost to ensure that their guests from Hungary enjoyed themselves, her solicitousness going so far as to secure suitable aliment for little Aszti from the tsar’s zoological gardens. The Weissbergers’ six daughters—the youngest still in swaddling clouts, the oldest highly marriageable—attended to the Stern boys with very similar broad smiles, which did not, however, make the boys feel entirely comfortable, since they were unable to understand their kind and generous hosts.
“At least now you will appreciate how useful it is to speak other languages!” their father pointed out, though in truth even he sometimes had to guess what his hosts had to say. He determined that on their return he and his sons would all take lessons from Rabbi Ben Loew. It was Éva who proved the best conversationalist, as she had a smattering of Yiddish from Elisa, her adored mother, who had perished at one of the stations of the highway of hardships. Her earthly remains were later finally laid to rest in the Jewish cemetery at Hegyhát, thanks to Aaron Stern.
Tadeus Weissberger arranged some kind of amusement for every night of their stay. Either musicians filled the salon with dance music, or a round of cards would be organized for István Stern. Up to this time he had known only the games that could be played with Hungarian cards; here he learned how to play the tarot, and proved exceptionally skillful at the game. After a substantial win Tadeus Weissberger would raise his glass and cry: “Mazel!”
His long-suppressed passion for playing cards came upon István Stern like a bucket of boiling water: he was on fire from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He reveled in getting the better of the others by adopting a wooden, expressionless face. He was much less taken with the notion of winning money. Perhaps, if he had not been so carried away by the game, he might have attended to what the local men were whispering about between the deals, and if he had, he would almost certainly have understood. In the streets of Lemberg young hooligans were looting the shops and coffee houses, throwing all the goods of the Jews out into the street, daubing the walls with the vilest slogans. The cardplayers’ consensus was that it was not a good idea to make too much of these events. Such excesses by hot-headed youngsters were likely to wane as suddenly as they had waxed.
Tadeus Weissberger was in the minority. He could not understand how the gentlemen could be so sure of themselves. Once emotions have burst to the surface, no one is really safe. But to the question of what was to be done, he no more had a sensible reply than anyone else. Be prepared, then you won’t be scared—that was his motto.
“Very well then, let us be scared,” said a voice. “How does that improve matters?”
István Stern meanwhile shuffled the pack and dealt everyone a hand.
“It would be better if we packed and went home!” whispered Éva in his ear at the breakfast table the following morning.
“What’s got into you? You were the one keen to travel!”
“I didn’t imagine we would end up just where the goyim want to kill us.”
“Kill us?” spluttered István Stern, as if surfacing from under water.
Éva told him what she had heard from Agnieska. István Stern could feel his heart beating faster. Have these people gone mad? They destroy the property of others simply because they are of a different faith?
He went running off to Tadeus Weissberger. His host was in the smaller greenhouse, watering his plants. “Why did you not tell me about this before, Weissberger?” he asked in his best German.
“But we talked of nothing else all evening!”
“Should we not start packing?”
“The vandals have never bothered us in this house … on the other hand, who knows what the morrow may bring?”
István Stern found himself on the horns of a dilemma. One part of him thought it ungallant to flee like a coward, another part of him felt a strong responsibility towards his family, so … The longer he thought about it, the less he knew what to do. If only Grandfather Aaron were here, or Rabbi Ben Loew.
That afternoon, of the gentlemen invited to play cards only one, Samuel Bratkow, managed to reach the card table. His clothing was torn and, as he explained it, torches had been flung at the roof of his house and his family had fled to Tarnopol. He was heading after them and would be glad to take anyone who wished to go. Tadeus Weissberger hurriedly ordered his daughters, wife, and mother-in-law to take to the carriages. There were Weissbergers in Tarnopol who would look after them. He would follow as soon as he had taken care of the valuables. Alas, the carriage springs were dangerously overstretched and Samuel Bratkow begged their pardon for being unable to take all the ladies. Agnieska volunteered to lighten the load, as, with a little gentle prodding, did her mother. The carriage raced off, to the tearful cries of the Weissberger girls. István Stern at once offered his cart, which Tadeus Weissberger declined with the words: “We have our own carriage; in fact, we have two.”
Éva wanted to be off at once, but István Stern first had everything quickly packed up, so it was half an hour before they were embracing their hosts, commending one another to the care of the Almighty. By then the Weissbergers were also ready, and the horses harnessed to the carriages were fairly pawing the ground in their impatience. Let us go while we can, thought Éva. They climbed into the carriage. István Stern lowered the lids of his bloodshot eyes.
The pounding of hoofs, from somewhere in the distance.
Stern was sure it would be Samuel Bratkow, coming back for something he had forgotten. But it was more than two score horsemen, wearing only animal pelts and skins, reminding István Stern of the original Magyars who rode into the Carpathian basin. In the carriage little Aszti gave a sharp little shriek and everyone realized that they were on the brink of catastrophe. The riders had reached them.
István Stern jumped down onto the carriage step and drew his sword, but in vain: he was the first to be speared through the neck by a lance and thrown under the carriage. The noise around him seemed to abate, the outlines of things became hazy. Before he finally lost consciousness he saw fire engulf the entrance of the house and there, falling from the first-floor windows, were the by now familiar white birds. Only later, on his sickbed, did he understand that for a fraction of a second he had witnessed the Weissberger family’s justly famous collection of books being consumed by the flames.
Thinking that he was dead, the attackers let him be. Night had already fallen when he came to. Some local peasants provided him with shelter and care. Richard also turned up, wandering among the pine trees of the park, as was little Aszti, whose crazed screeches drove István Stern out of his wits, so that several times he took aim at the creature. Richard always protected it.
In a foreign land, without acquaintances and helping hands, lacking the language and money, István Stern was unable to discover where his wife’s and two sons’ final resting places—if they indeed had such—might be found. Grandfather Aaron lambasted him with hate-filled letters, cursing him forever for not taking proper care of his daughter and two grandsons. Had Richard not been with him, István Stern would have thrust his dagger into his heart.
The Sterns never forgave him. Disowned first by one lot, then by the other.
In the end he took himself off with Richard and little Aszti and, abandoning his property at Hegyhát, asked permission to live in the five-pointed turret. The Sternovszkys tolerated their presence but never fully accepted them. No day passed but he toyed with the idea that he would end his days of suffering in this world. So burdened was he by the weight of his conscience that he was virtually bent double. In the years that remained to him he gave few signs of being alive. He passed his time mainly playing cards. His right hand played his left; they fought battles of life and death. He was unwilling to play with anyone else.
When the Sternovszky family’s influence secured him a seat in the county assembly, he would sometimes attend the sessions, but he rarely made a speech. It was thus a surprise to all when he objected to the burning of the documents and papers relating to the abolition of the decrees of His Majesty Joseph II. It needed six people to hold him down, such was the passion this had ignited in him. He raved as he bellowed: “Papers and books must not be thrown into the fire!”
They locked him in an office in the assembly building. As soon as the key turned creakily in the lock, István Stern calmed down and his face once again wore the indifferent expression it generally had. The guards who looked in through the peephole reported this to the alispán, who ordered him to be set free.
István Stern walked home. That night he wrote in The Book of Fathers: Audi, vide, tace, si vis vivere in pace. He kept his word in the Book, and died quietly a year later. There was no surprise in the turret: they were used to the heads of families saying little or nothing as they took their leave of this world.