THE VICE PRESIDENT of the Kehillah and the Israeli businessman were exchanging pleasantries at the entrance to the four-story apartment building in Holló Street, each trying to let the other enter first. Finally, Barta, a man built like a bear, jokingly told the Israeli investor, at least thirty years his junior, that for now he was still a guest here; in his usual casual style, Barta put his hand on the Israeli’s back and ushered him in.
The interpreter, Angela, who had been let go from her job at the Holocaust Museum when her boss, the director, was fired, mechanically repeated Barta’s sentences in English. Barta let her go in ahead of him as well, then called out to her:
We are entering in reverse order of our deaths. You don’t need to translate this.
Angela threw her head back in shock. It was the first time since morning that her face had shown any emotion as they visited the different real-estate sites. She had a hard time tolerating the gallows humor she frequently encountered at her new workplace.
Barta smiled innocently.
In the old-fashioned building, the ceiling of each apartment was 4.2 meters high. No elevators had been installed, even when it would have been technically possible to do so. None of the four-story buildings around the district had an elevator. They had to climb up to the top floor.
Barta was breathing heavily and complaining about his worn-out hip; Fellner, the Israeli, took the stairs easily. His agents in Budapest had already arranged the sale with the city and the Kehillah. The latter was part-owner of several buildings in the district, which it had received as compensation, and wanted to get rid of them to avoid having to renovate.
This wasn’t the first building dating back to the nineteenth century that was to be replaced by new six- or seven-story structures financed from abroad. Heritage groups protested the proposed changes to the neighborhood’s traditional look, but there wasn’t much they could do. If a building wasn’t explicitly designated as a heritage site, it didn’t matter that it contributed to the atmosphere of the district. If investors expressed an interest, there was no way of preventing its demolition. Where there was any doubt, they had the means to convince the city or other owners to sell before the heritage committee could foil or delay the transaction.
Even if they hadn’t known which apartment they were looking for, they would easily have found it by the mezuzah on the doorframe. This was the only apartment, the one assigned to the shamas, Mátyás Marnó, that bore the accoutrement of religious Jewish homes. Marnó had worked for over fifty years as a shamas, caretaker of the synagogue. When he reached retirement age, the Kehillah had awarded him the use of the apartment for his lifetime. He even got a certificate attesting to it. Marnó was somewhat slow, but no one mentioned it. Years ago they even arranged for him to obtain a high-school diploma from the Jewish community school.
Barta pointed at the apartment’s door like someone who felt at home there and rang the bell impatiently. When the shamas opened the door, instead of saying hello, Barta ushered in the Israeli and the interpreter without ceremony.
I brought over the Israeli guest, Matyi, my friend.
In spite of his tiny build and broken physique, Marnó straightened up like a soldier. He greeted them with a loud “shalom” and bowed. When Fellner extended his hand, Marnó kept shaking it, then courteously showed him in. Angela was surprised to recognize Marnó’s bent back and childish face; they had met in the museum, when the Kehillah was asked to send over some Holocaust survivors for a reception.
The apartment consisted of two connecting rooms with two large windows overlooking the synagogue. A huge, black buffet stood against the wall, its legs ending in lion’s claws. In the living room was a matching oval dining-room table surrounded by chairs, the remnants of a prewar petit bourgeois world. It was evident that the host had prepared for the occasion. He had covered the table with a white cloth and on it had set two plates, one of savory and the other of sweet snacks, along with a bottle of kosher Riesling from Verpelét and a soda-water syphon. A package of photographs bound with elastic lay beside them in a clear plastic bag.
Angela looked around with curiosity. In the other apartments they had visited, she was interested in the old furniture, but the pieces here were worthless and mass-produced. She found nothing worth looking at. On the walls hung a map of the world and a poster of a seaside sunset with the inscription “I ♥ Tel Aviv.”
Without asking permission, Barta opened the door leading to the other room and showed Fellner the bedroom, which was the same size as the living room.
It’s the same as in the other places. The usual old-fashioned structure.
Angela translated.
Please, take a seat! The host pulled the chairs away from the table. When they sat down, Marnó held up the wine bottle, but the others all shook their heads.
Some sweets? He pointed at the plate. They are kosher, he added reassuringly, but Fellner and the interpreter declined again. Barta reached for the savory snacks and popped one in his mouth.
Matyi, my friend, let’s not waste time. This gentleman is going to buy the building. You wanted to meet him, so we came here. We have already settled with the other tenants. You are the only one who hasn’t yet signed. He doesn’t have much time, so we’ll make it short.
The old shamas looked at the Israeli with reverence.
Please tell him that I have been to the Holy Land too. He turned to the interpreter, who whispered something in Fellner’s ear. The Kehillah arranged that I could participate in a tour at a discounted price.
The Israeli nodded approval.
May I ask, Marnó started again, where you are from?
The evening before, at the Carmel restaurant, the Israeli had told Angela and Barta that his grandparents were from the Romanian Regat, but on his mother’s side he was descended from the expelled Spanish Jews. He had no ties to Budapest or even to Hungary; he only wanted to build in this fashionable quarter of the capital at the suggestion of his advisors. He knew, however, that for religious Jews ancestry was important, so he repeated his parents’ story in a sentence.
Marnó’s eyes grew wide when he heard about the Sephardic origin.
Please, miss, tell Mr. Fellner that my family on my father’s side are also the descendants of Marranos. Even my name comes from there, as far as I know.
Matyi, my friend, we should get to the point. Barta leaned over to him, but Marnó only kept watching the interpreter’s mouth and the Israeli’s face, which was faintly smiling at last, something the shamas found satisfying.
He waited for some further reaction, a nod or a word that would advance the conversation and might lead to the point where he could take out his family photos. Mátyás Marnó lived by himself. He had buried his parents many years ago. He didn’t have visitors to whom he could show the photos. As he was getting ready for the guests, he remembered a sermon commemorating Moses’s birth and death he had heard in the synagogue, given by a professor who had emigrated to Israel from Kolozsvár. He quoted a famous writer whose name Marnó couldn’t remember, who said that in Eretz Israel all the Jews are brothers and sisters. At the celebratory dinner after that service, as they drank wine, ate jellied fish, challah, and the traditional chocolate loaf, he felt that he once again had a family. This time he was hoping that the visitor would be interested in the pictures.
Fellner looked at Barta, who had already sensed that this was an awkward situation. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the declaration giving up the right to stay in the apartment.
Barta took the shamas’s arm and said, Matyi, you said that you would like to meet Mr. Fellner, who wants to buy the building. We brought him here, but he is an extremely busy man and doesn’t have much time. You need to sign the paper.
He took out a pen from his shirt pocket and pushed it in front of Marnó along with the document.
Please, the shamas said, unfazed, turning to the interpreter, ask the gentleman if he was told who lived in this apartment and the neighboring one.
Angela translated, and Fellner shook his head impatiently.
If you don’t know—the shamas looked first at Barta and then at the Israeli—I will tell you. You might not know their names, but you should know that they were professors of the rabbinical seminary. They were world-renowned experts. One of them wrote a history of the Jews. Another studied the genizot. Mr. Fellner, you are from Israel, you must know what the genizot are. I am not a scholar, I haven’t read their books, but I know who they were. Did you see the plaque downstairs? By the entrance, on the wall.
Angela whispered something to the Israeli, who sighed and looked at Barta again.
Mátyás, please. Barta made an impatient gesture. We don’t have time for this. We have been over this a lot.
What are you planning to do with this building? The shamas looked back and forth at the two men.
Barta didn’t answer. He was ready to explode. They couldn’t afford such nonsense to ruin the sale. The Kehillah would be adversely affected. The Israeli would be grateful if they could strike a deal, and he had done everything he could. If only this idiot shamas would stop interfering.
What are your plans with this apartment and the building? You must have seen the plaque downstairs, haven’t you? It has the names in Hebrew of those who lived here.
Angela translated. When the Israeli didn’t answer, she said: Yes, we saw it.
So then? Marnó asked. He wouldn’t move his eyes from Fellner, as if expecting him to give the word that would clear up his worries. But the Israeli was silent.
The shamas looked at Barta.
For me it is important to live near the temple. Because of the sabbath.
We know, Matyi, my friend. We will figure something out, believe me. The vice president patted his hand. We have always found a solution before. But please, sign it. He pushed the paper even closer.
But the chief rabbi also said…
There is no more time to screw around, Matyi!
Is this building going to be demolished too? The shamas looked first at Barta, then at the Israeli and the interpreter.
Fellner finally had a straightforward question to which he could give an unequivocal answer.
And what’s going to happen to the plaque? Marnó asked.
Angela translated. The Israeli gave Barta a tired look.
Barta knew what to do. It’s going to be put on the new building too, he said.
If Israelis buy apartments in the new building, Marnó explained, it will be
important to them too.
Of course, Matyi, my friend. Barta pushed out the ball of the pen and put it between the shamas’s fingers. It’s important to them too.
In the evening, Mátyás Marnó sat alone in the hospital corridor with his head low. He had come to get some tranquillizers. That day another doctor was filling in for his psychiatrist.
Sometimes this doctor had shown up in the synagogue where the shamas used to work and would exchange a few friendly words with him. The doctor greeted him now as usual, but the temple caretaker, normally overly polite, seemed not to have heard. He sat with his back bent, staring down. With his fists in his pockets, his legs twitching, he kept on murmuring something.
The doctor knew that the old guy was not all there but had never seen him this tense in the synagogue. His condition worsened only under stress. Before calling him in, the doctor turned back for a moment. He didn’t hear it well, but it seemed the shamas was murmuring a line from a psalm, repeating it over and over again.
Translated from the Hungarian by Marietta Morry and Walter Burgess
Gábor T. Szántó is a Hungarian novelist, essayist, and screenplay writer. Born in 1966 in Budapest, he holds a degree in law and political science from Eötvös Loránd University and is editor of the Hungarian Jewish monthly Szombat. His novels, stories, and poetry have been translated into many languages. His most recent novel is Európa szimfónia (Europa Symphony).
Marietta Morry and Walter Burgess translate contemporary fiction from Hungarian. As well as Gábor T. Szántó, they have translated works by Zsófia Czakó, Péter Moesko, Anita Harag, Anna Gáspár-Singer, and András Pungor, many of which have appeared in literary magazines including Ploughshares, New England Review, Southern Review, and Stinging Fly.
Photo by Tobias Reich on Unsplash
