The Book of Fathers (3 page)

“If we have to stay here tomorrow, we shall all starve!” said Gáspár Dobruk.

“As long as we’re alive, there is hope!” countered Grandpa Czuczor. “Let us share out everything, like a family, until the danger has passed.”

They took stock. The only folk to express any unease were old Mrs. Miszlivetz and her daughter, who had brought six round loaves, two skins of butter, a rib of salted pork, and several bottles of wine. Grandpa Czuczor rounded on them: “You have no lamp of your own, yet you benefit from the light we share … if you begrudge us these victuals, get you hence! But if you stay, accept your fate as Christians! And let us now remember those we have lost!”

At this, the women’s wails rose up in chorus. The wife (or more likely now, the widow) of Bálint Borzaváry Daróczy let out such a high-pitched shriek that there was concern that it might be heard outside. She kept bashing her head into the cavern wall until Grandpa Czuczor and Gáspár Dobruk wrapped her in a horse blanket and tied her up. Kornél watched all this almost with interest. He was still not
afraid, although he suspected that the old world had come to a complete and definitive end, the world in which he had sat in the evenings, with a full belly and contented by the crackling fire, listening to the stories of his grandfather. He was sorry that they did not have with them paper, quills, and ink, so that he might practice his newly acquired skills of writing.

His grandfather, too, was turning round in his head what he might have written in the folio by way of summing up the events of these chaotic days.

I understand not the purpose of our Lord in visiting these blows upon us; how great can be our sins that we deserve the destruction and loss of our homes and land? We must, nonetheless, we
must
believe in His almighty power, for we have sunk so low that hence the road cannot but lead upwards
. Nemo ante mortem beatus.

Farkas Balassi had erred in assuming that the village was still the property of István Rigómezei Lukovits, who was thought to have made his fortune in Italy. Lukovits had in fact moved to Vienna months before, together with all his assets. It was the rumor of Italian treasure that led Farkas Balassi’s freebooters to keep combing through the village of Kos; they would not settle for scraps and trash as booty.

At the fork at the top of the village, where the high road winds up the hill and the low road leads into the valley towards Varasd and beyond, to Szeben, a green kerchief of fine silk lay in a puddle. It was Jóska Telegdi, the quartermaster, who noticed it. Dismounting, he picked it up and sniffed it: a woman’s fragrance tickled his nose. With some reluctance he trailed his hand in the muddy water in case there was anything else there. His fingers came upon a hard, egg-shaped object. He rubbed it clean. It was a decorated egg, made of some kind of metal. His initial joy dissipated when he bit into it and found it was not gold. He turned it
around and around in his hands, tapping it here and pressing it there, until the top suddenly snapped open. It was a delicate timepiece that showed the day, month, and even the year. It had stopped. Perhaps water had seeped into it? Looking at it closely, he saw that it showed the ninth day of October and the year 1683, a little after twelve o’clock. His face darkened as the date sank in: it was that of the Battle of Párkány, where his father had lost his life. He tried winding up the mechanism and shaking the metal egg, but it would not come to life. Could it have been lying here ever since 1683? Impossible—no trace of rust. But whoever had dropped it could have lost other items as well. So he cut off a couple of branches from the nearby bushes, fashioned them into a rough broom, and began to splash the water off the road’s surface. He found nothing more.

On their second night in the Cavern, Zsuzsánna’s skin broke out in blisters, and maggots began to plague her flesh. At one point, when the boulder was trundled aside to allow in some fresh air, she skipped out with a thick towel and a cake of soap. She went down to the stream intending to bathe and to wash her underclothes, thinking she would have plenty of time to return before the boulder was rolled back. Clouds crept over the heavens, neither moon nor stars illumined the sky. In the dark she grew afraid, since she could neither be seen, nor could she see much herself. Hardly had she removed her clothes when all the devils of hell pounced on her body; her limbs were seized by powerful hands that dragged her up to the grassy clearing, by which time she realized that these were vicious men, and she knew what they were after. Her mouth was sealed tight so that she could not cry out; indeed, it would have been of little use to do so. Searing pain rent her body as the first of the men pitched into her. The others then each took their turn. She bore it, limp and faint, her arms stretched like the arms of our Lord Christ nailed to the cross, reciting in
her head such prayers as she could recall, in pain and waiting for her suffering to end. When they had all relieved themselves and let go her arms, something even more vicious struck her body, like a bolt of lightning, quite taking her breath away.

Only in the morning did Grandpa Czuczor notice that there was no trace of his daughter. He could not understand how she could have got out of the Old Cavern. It took two men all their strength to shift the boulder.

“She went in the night,” said Kornél, “when Grandpa and the other one had rolled the boulder aside!”

“Has she taken leave of her senses? And why did you not say anything?”

“I thought you had seen her go, Grandpa!”

There was nothing for it, Grandpa Czuczor thought. “I shall have to find her!” He motioned to the old peasant to help him with the boulder. The old man demurred: “Mr. Czuczor, sir, it will be dangerous in daylight!”

“This is no time to be concerned with the safety of one’s person … Come, push!” Soon Grandpa Czuczor stepped out into the light. Turning around, he addressed the depths of the cavern: “Take good care of Kornél!”

It was the last time Grandpa Czuczor would see him.

Jóska Telegdi had a dozen men stationed at various lookouts. First one, then another reported that someone was approaching on the mountain road. They saw the modestly dressed, elderly man in felt boots, armed with a saber in the Turkish style, whose matted hair and bushy beard the wind kept blowing into the shape of a turban. They waited till he came in earshot and then called out sharply, demanding his weapon. The old man would not obey and, drawing his saber, fought his assailants valiantly until, bleeding profusely, he had to yield. Still, he managed to stumble unaided to the camp, where Farkas Balassi interrogated him. Failing to secure the answers he wanted, Balassi ordered him to be
tortured. This also failed, and the old man ended his life on the rack.

One of the sharp-eyed men keeping watch noted a thin but steady wisp of smoke rising from Black Mountain. He reported this to Jóska Telegdi, who realized at once that the cliff face must have a cavern in it. He ordered a small group to go up and carefully survey the terrain, looking for any cracks in the rock face. Those in the cavern could hear their voices and the sound of their feet and held their breath, sitting stock-still.

His patience exhausted, Farkas Balassi wanted to move on. Jóska Telegdi begged permission for one last attempt. He had the smaller of their two cannons hauled over to the bend in the road and told the cannoneer to take aim at the rocks that capped the bald head of the mountain peak.

“Why in hell’s name should we fire at rocks?” asked the cannoneer.

“Because I say so!” snapped Jóska Telegdi.

They bedded down the gun carriage, cleaned out the barrel, loaded up the shot, and tamped it down. Then: “Fire!”

The first ball overshot the target. The second fell just a little short, landing in the clearing before the Old Cavern’s entrance.

“Lord help us!” screamed one of the servant girls in the Cavern. “It is not us they are aiming the ball of fire at, surely?”

The third scored a direct hit on the top of the mountain. The expanse of rock cracked in several places and crashed into the Cavern. The thunderous noise drowned out every other sound. Instinctively Kornél threw himself flat on the ground and could feel as he fell the roof of the cavern breaking up above his head, while the boulder at the cavern mouth imploded, blinding them all with light. Then everything went black.

Farkas Balassi’s men soon climbed their way up to the Cavern, now looking like an upset cauldron. Thick clouds of dust hung in the air. They clambered over the bodies of those who had died and past the little bundles of their belongings. Having examined the contents of a few of these, Farkas Balassi rounded on Jóska Telegdi: “What a waste of decent gunpowder!”

Once the soldiers had gone, silence fell. In the afternoon, heavy rain began to fall, but the clouds of dust did not settle and from down below it looked as though the mountain was smoking a pipe. Now not only the village of Kos but its hinterland, too, was deserted; even the wild animals and birds had fled. The rain splashed on the rocks and stones, diluting the congealing blood to a shade of pink. A little later the advance guard of the Kurucz arrived. They could see the clouds of smoke and dust from afar and suspected a Labancz camp on the mountain, until reconnaissance reported not a soul alive. The troops traveled on to the west.

Kornél recovered consciousness on the third morning, feeling his body leaden and shattered in several places. He kept blacking out. In due course, as the nighttime dew fell, he sat up unsteadily. He could not move his legs, which were wedged under a heavy slab of rock. There was a starry sky above, but uncertain images flickered and faded in his mind. He could remember that something catastrophic had happened, but could not recall what it was. Where was everybody? First tentatively, then with a full-throated roar, he shouted for help. His words ricocheted off the cliffs. He tried to inch his legs out, but the stab of pain this caused in his lower body quite winded him. He spent the night shivering and sobbing helplessly. He suspected that something serious had happened to his mother and grandfather, other-wise they would have come for him. He prayed earnestly to God to accept his prayers and free his legs, but above all, to
bring the blessing of His dawn very soon; he was very afraid in the dark.

By first light, he could hear people coming along the forest road. Kornél thought that, whoever they might be, it would be better not to make any sound. Every part of his body ached. He closed his eyes. In a while he was startled to feel something hot and slimy licking his face. A furry muzzle, huge teeth, a rust-colored tongue … He gave a scream.

“Here, boy, here, Málé!” said a deep male voice. The beast obediently loped back to its master. It was a dog, one of those Hungarian ones with thick, matted fur. Kornél could see three men. One was picking up with his pike a few items of clothing that still remained, the other two were in conversation. Kornél could not make out what they were saying. After a while, he gave a groan. The men reached for their guns. Then they noticed him.

“There’s a lad here who’s still alive!” said one.

“Yes, but I’m stuck …” Kornél was moaning as he said this, and had to say it again to be understood.

“Zsiga, come over here!” they said, calling the third fellow over. It took the three of them to roll the rock off Kornél’s legs.

“Holy Mother of God!” exclaimed the one called Zsiga, seeing what was left of the lad’s legs. The poor soul would not live to see the day out. “Let’s give him something to drink!” he said, squatting down beside him and, unscrewing his brown canvas-covered flask, placed it over Kornél’s mouth. The slightly sour, watered-down wine dribbled down the boy’s face.

“What’s your name?”

“Kornél Csillag.”

“Your parents?”

Kornél told them what he could. He asked if they had seen his mother or his grandfather. He described their
appearance in great detail. The three men hemmed and hawed.

“They’ll … turn up,” Zsiga lied. “Don’t you worry any, we’ll look after you until they do. Now, would you be hungry at all?”

Kornél nodded. The most solidly built of the three, whom the others called Mikhál, took him carefully in his arms. Kornél gave a howl of pain. He realized only now that both legs were twisted the wrong way around and that the Turkish pants his mother had put on him back home had been cut to ribbons, which were now glued to his skin by his own congealed blood. Overcome by despair he began to sob, childlike, in spasms, repeatedly gulping for air. As the man carried him, he could see limbs dangling from under lumps of rock. The older of the peasants was lying at what had been the cavern entrance, his skull neatly bisected by a sharp splinter of rock, his brains spilled out.

Mikhál made a fire in the clearing, while the third fellow, Palkó, was plucking a gray bird the size of a small loaf, throwing its feathers into the fire; their burning smell irritated Kornél’s nose. He dared not ask any questions. His fingers began gingerly to explore his thighs. He detected some hard, sharp object lodged above his right knee. As he yanked it out, the pain made his heart skip a beat and he fainted again. It was evening by the time he came to.

Zsiga again made him drink a little and then fed him some meat, a mouthful at a time. “Pigeon stew. You’ll see, it’ll build you up!” though he scarcely believed his own words. Kornél put all of his little soul’s trust in this promise. When he had eaten himself full to bursting, he tried to get up, but Zsiga did not let him. “First we’ll have to bind up your wounds. Palkó is our medical orderly. He’ll sort you out.”

“And then we must talk about what we are going to do!” said Mikhál.

They had been cut off from their regiment for a day and a half since they had had their horses shot from under them. They ran for dear life from the battle, down into the valley. As night fell, they took shelter in an old winepress. That was where they acquired the stray dog that Palkó, thinking of their guard dog back home, had decided to call Málé. In the morning Zsiga set off to forage some food. He all but ran into Farkas Balassi’s irregulars. He scampered to the winepress the back way, through the yards. “Don’t know who this lot are, but if we’re sharp about it, we can get ourselves some horses!”