"How did you know?" he asked (And how much? he wondered).
"It's my job to know. You can pull the same trick I used when I first went to Peking. Check into the Crillon, fake a cold, then quietly slip out to the airport. It's only a
two-hour
flight. You can go and come back and no one will be the wiser." -
George was still searching for words. All he could manage was to stammer, "I-don't know what to say."
"Don't say anything," Kissinger replied, patting him on the arm. "It's the least I owe you for the years you've helped me.
As the air-force plane began its final approach to Ben
Gurion Airport, George thought, How can I tell him I don't want to go? How can I tell him that I have nothing to say to my father before he dies? -
I can't. Because it's not true. I do want to see him one last time. I have to.
Customs in Budapest was- perfunctory. Except that the officer questioning George took a long look at his red diplomatic passport before saying, "Welcome borne, - Dr. Keller."
It was a strange feeling being back in his native city. Though it was brighter-and the stores fuller-than during those dark days when he had fled, it seemed relatively unchanged. Rakoczi Street was like it always was. Here and there an ultramodern structure stood comfortably beside the old.
The terrace of the Hilton-a Hilton Hotel in Budapest!
-looked out toward the ancient spires of St. Stephen's Church. The huge Duma Intercontinental, where George was staying, was a concrete imitation of any new American hotel. He checked in quickly, washed, and changed his shirt. And braced himself for the meeting that had brought him here. Before George left Jerusalem, Kissinger had given him
complete details on where his father was receiving treatment- even the phone number.
Now, he asked himself, should I call the hospital and say
I'm here? Or should I just show up? My God, the shock of it might kill him then and there. No, it would make better sense to phone one of the doctors, announce his presence,
and solicit advice. - - -
In a matter of minutes he was speaking to Dr. Tamas Rozsa, chief of medical services at the People's Municipal Hospital. After the physician had repeated for the third time what
an honor it would be to receive a visit from him, George finally exacted precise details of Istvan Kolozsdi's condition.
"Ah, what is there to say," -Rozsa answered
philosophically. "There's so little one can do in cases such as his- "Did you give him medication?" George interrupted forcefully.
"Yes. Yes, of course. The very newest-right out of
Switzerland."
"is he in- pain?" George asked.
"He is and he isn't." -
"Can you explain that?"
"It's quite simple, Dr. Keller. If we drug him so strongly that he feels nothing at all, then he is comatose and cannot communicate. Of course, at night we help him to sleep comfortably."
"So, in other words, in order to speak he'll have to forgo some of the painkillers?"
"I'm sure your father will want it that way," said Dr.
Rozsa. "When he awakes I'll inform him that you're here, and ring you back. That should be about five this afternoon."
"Is anybody with him now?" George asked.
"Of course. Mrs. Donath practically sleeps in the hospital."
"Who's she?"
"Comrade Kolozsdi's daughter. Your sister, Dr. Keller."
"Oh," said George, as he slowly let down the receiver. And thought, I've got a second confrontation here in Budapest.
He now had several hours to kill and summoned the courage
to go out and look at the city of his birth. To revisit all the places he had known when he was Gyorgy Kolozsdi.
His first entry into Budapest was like that of a swimmer into ice-cold water. But once he was actually in it and in motion, he began to feel warm and good and exhilarated. He reveled in the sound of his mother tongue being spoken everywhere.
Oh God, he thought, it must be fifty thousand English
words ago that I felt s~ at home.
But his euphoria ended when it neared five o'clock. He returned to the hotel to wait for Dr. Rozsa's phone call. It came at about quarter to six.
He s awake now and I told him you were here," the doctor said.
"And?" -
"He wants to see you. Grab a taxi and come over right away."
George snatched his raincoat and hurried down to find a cab.
It was the evening rush hour and even the modern traffic underpass on Kossuth Lajos Street could not ease the traffic jam sufficiently. The ride seemed endless.
George walked-slowly up the hospital stairs trying to calm his beating heart.
The building was someone's idea of modern-amorphous glass and drab stone. It did not appear to be bustling like an American hospital. -
He walked up to an old, fat lady perched behind a desk and softly stated his purpose. She responded quickly, lifted the receiver, and an instant later Dr. Tamas Rozsa, a jowly little man, appeared and greeted George obsequiously.
As they marched briskly down the halls toward his father's private room ("Very rare in Socialist states, I assure you"), Dr. Rozsa gave a tedious account of how the hospital was only partially completed. And how much he envied all the medical technology the Western powers had developed.
What the hell does this guy want, thought George, a
handout? Maybe he thinks I can just tell Congress to send him a few million bucks' worth of equipment.
As they turned down a narrow, dimly lighted corridor,
George spotted the far-off silhouette of a woman sitting by herself.
His instinct told him that this should be his sister, Marika. But she was three years younger than he. The person sitting there looked positively midçlle-aged.
As they drew nearer, she glanced up at George.
The eyes, he thought. Those are my sister's eyes in an old woman's face.
"Marika?" he said tentatively. "It's me. Gyuri."
The woman kept staring at him, her eyes like lasers.
"Marika, aren't you going to speak to me?"
-They both remained silent for a moment. At last, she responded with quiet anger. "You should not have come.. You don't belong here anymore. I told the doctors not to let you in. -~
George looked at Dr. Rozsa, who nodded. "Yes," he
affirmed, "Mrs. Donath was very much against it. It was your father who insisted."
Marika turned her face away.
"Shall we go in now?" Dr. Rozsa asked.
George nodded. For his vocal cords were paralyzed. He
stood for a moment after they entered the room, looking at the frail, white-clad form on a pile of pillows.
The old man sensed his presence and rasped out, Is that you, Gyuri?" The question was punctuated with a racking cough.
"It's me," said George, still motionless.
"Come closer to the bed. Don't be afraid. Death is not catching." -
George started forward nervously.
"I'll leave you two alone," said Dr. Rozsa, making his retreat. -
"Sit down," the patriarch commanded, motioning his bony finger at a wooden chair placed near the bed.
George silently obeyed.
He had not yet dared to look his father in the face. He
had somehow managed to avoid making visual contact. But now their gazes met and locked.
Istvan Kolozsdi still had the same stern visage, albeit emaciated and extremely pale. George stared at him and thought, This is the demon I've been afraid of all my life. Look at him. So small and frail. -
He listened as his father breathed with difficulty.
"Gyuri, do you have children?" he asked.
"No, Father."
"Then who will come and comfort you when you're lying as I
am?"
"I guess I'll get married one of these days," George
replied. And wondered, Is that why he wants to see me-to make sure I find a wife? -
There was an uneasy silence.
"How are you feeling, Father?"
"Not as good as I will when it'S all over," answered the old man, and gave a laugh that made him wince with pain.
"Listen, Gyuri," he continued, "I'm glad to have this chance to talk. Because there is something 1 want to tell you
He paused to draw strength and breath.
"On second thought," he contradicted, "I don't have to tell you. Just open that drawer." He pointed to the gray bedside table. 'Open it, Gyuri."
George leaned over to obey his father's order.
Inside he found a tangled mass of newspaper clippings in several languages. Some were yellowing, some torn.
"Look. Look at them," the old man prompted. There were articles from the world press about him. About George. There was- even-God knows how it had gotten there-a profile published last year in the International Herald Tribune. He was dumbfounded.
"What do you see?" asked the patriarch.
"I see a lot of old rubbish, Father," George answered, trying to make light of it. "What do you see?"
Making a supreme effort, the old man lifted himself onto
his elbows and leaned toward George. "I see you, Gyuri. I see your face in every paper in the world. Do you know what you have done to me?"
George had painfully anticipated this question. -
"Father, I-I-" -
"No," the old man interrupted. "You don't understand at all. You're a big shot in the world."
"On the wrong side," George said deprecatingly.
"My boy, in politics there's no wrong side. There is only the winning side. You have the makings of a master politician, Gynri. Kissinger will eventually stumble
and-you'll become the Secretary of State!"
"That's wishful thinking." George smiled, trying to retain his composure. He could hardly believe that for the first time in his life Istvan Kolozsdi had praised him.
"You're twice as smart as Kissinger," the old man insisted. "And what's more, you aren't a Jew. I'm sorry I won't be around to see the rest."
George felt tears welling in his eyes. He tried to fight them back by attempting lighthearted banter.
"I thought you were a dedicated Socialist," he said with a
smile.
The old man emitted a sandpaper laugh.
"Ah, Gyuri, there's only one philosophy that rules the world-success."
He took a long lingering look at George and said, beaming,
"Welcome home, my son."
Twenty minutes later, George Keller left his father's
room, gently closing the door. Marika was still seated there, impassive. He sat down next to her.
"Look, you have every right to be angry with me," he said nervously. "There's so much to explain. All this time I should have written-" -
"You should have done a lot of things," she said mechanically.
"I know. I know."
"Do you, Gyuri? Did you ever think what you were doing
when you abandoned us? Did you ever even try to find out how father was? Or me? Or even Aniko?" -
He suddenly grew cold. As frozen as he had been that
-wintry day so many years ago. All this time, whenever he had thought about those moments-or whenever dreams compelled him to remember-he'd felt a piercing shame. The only consolation had been that it was his private secret. But now he realized that other people knew. How?
"I tried to find her," George protested helplessly.
"You left her! You left her bleeding there to die."
"Where-where is she buried?"
"In a shabby municipal flat."
George was stunned and incredulous. "Are you saying she's alive?" -
"Barely, Gyuri. Just barely."
"What does she do?" -
"She sits," Marika answered. "That is all she is able to do."
"How can I find her?" - -"No, Gyuri, you've caused her enough pain. And I won't let you hurt her anymore." -
"Please, Marika, I have to see her. I have to. I want to help her."
She shook her head and quietly concluded the conversation.
"You should have done that eighteen years ago."
She turned her back and would not speak to him again.