shut your fucking mouth,” he said, pushing his chair back, bumping the man behind, who fell into his food and turned intending to say something but stopped when he saw how huge and mean Görbe was. “You don’t know anything about Zella.”
I slid out of my seat and stood across the table out of reach. “You’re just like me,” I said. In that moment it dawned on me why he didn’t seek out Dr. Norris, why he didn’t want Zella to wake up. “You’re nowhere,” I said, more to myself than him.
I left the table and went into the street. Görbe tried to get at me through the crowd but I was too fast, and he followed for only a few blocks before giving up, stopping on the edge of the crosswalk outside Toys “R” Us looking after me as I paused on the stairs to the subway. “You don’t want her to wake up!” I yelled, though it’s unlikely he heard me over the honking of horns, the roar of music, the shouts of Times Square. “You want her to sleep forever so she won’t see what you’ve had to become!” But it was obvious Görbe wasn’t listening to me. His gaze had gone beyond that, beyond whatever I might have been saying, all those unhappy truths, beyond even Hungary itself, where he’d been young once, and happy, and with Zella. For that was the person she would have looked for had she awakened—the self Görbe had left behind in the effort to get her here, to the best doctors and medicine, the best chance at recovery, doing whatever he could to foot the bills even if it meant turning himself into a monster she’d never have recognized. He was invisible in the eyes of the only person he cared about. Like me, he was a zero.
But I was wrong about that. Though it wasn’t until the following year, in the bookstore with Benjamin, that I realized it. I had thought that Görbe, like me, was trapped in a world of failure, and we’d found each other, two men without any illusions. Except of course I was full of them, for I had at home what Görbe would never have, only I didn’t know it, didn’t treasure it enough, and I think this recognition was what he’d been expecting from me during our time in New York, as if his tough talk and violence could jolt me into awareness. Instead, I had gone to Margon to extend my affection—to show the monster he wasn’t alone in his world—only to find that I was the monster, the only one, without the slightest clue to what affection really was.
The Animals of the Budapest Zoo, 1944–1945
T WAS Sándor who finally posed the question in November of 1944, when it was clear the Red Army would take Budapest from the Arrow-Cross and the Nazis. “If there’s a siege, how are we going to protect the animals?” he asked, looking from one face to the next, totally baffled by the fact that everyone seemed far more interested in how they were going to protect themselves. “We’re going to have to work double hard,” replied Oszkár Teleki, director of the zoo, though Teleki was the first to run off that December when the Russian tanks entered the squares and boulevards, telling his secretary he was going to meet with the Red Army and insist that they respect the animals, and then asking her to pack all of the zoo’s money into a bag, just in case.
Sándor and József were the last to see Teleki leave, intercepting him near the exit and asking whether he had plans in place for the aquarium, where even now the attendants were working around the clock to keep the water from freezing by stirring it with paddles. Both men were suspicious because Teleki was wearing an overcoat belted at the waist, an elegant hat, and was carrying an ivory-handled umbrella in one hand and a suitcase bulging with money in the other, banknotes fluttering from every crack. As well, Teleki wasn’t taking the eastern exit out of the zoo—as he normally did when going home—but the western one, in the direction of Buda, of Germany, and away from the advancing Soviets.
“We should feed you to the lion,” said Sándor, to which Teleki responded by fingering his collar, looking nervous, and telling them he’d be back “really quite soon.” “You’re not going anywhere,” said József, and he grabbed hold of Teleki as he was turning from them, jerking him so hard the old man’s knees gave out and József had to hold him up above the muddy cobblestones.
József was about to do something else to him then—hit him, or pull the suitcase from his grip—but when he saw Teleki’s face—the bared teeth, the eyes darting back and forth, the desperation to escape—looking just like the animals did whenever there was an air raid, explosion of shells, the rattle of gunfire, flames shooting over the palisades, he let him go, knowing that the money would soon have as little currency as a fascist arm band. But if he’d looked a little closer he might have caught something else in Teleki’s face, the city’s future in its wrinkles and lines, a vision of what the next hundred days would be like, when Budapest’s populace would be driven to looting and stealing and scavenging and murder—and there would be much of that, down by the banks of the Danube where the Arrow-Cross executed the Jewish men, women, and children after marching them naked through the snow from the ghetto; or Széll Kálmán Square after the failure of Hungarian and German soldiers to break through the Soviet encirclement, bodies piled in doorways and cellar stairs and in other piles of bodies in an attempt to shield themselves from the rockets and snipers and tanks the Red Army had stationed along the routes they knew they would take—when the dead, whether half buried in ice, the muck of the river, or the frost that settled on them from their last laboured breaths, would speak to Sándor, and Sándor would in turn relay their message to József, the thing he was more and more obsessed with as the nights of the siege dragged on, the metamorphosis at work all around them. In the early days, when József was still alert, still sane enough to ask him what the hell he was talking about, Sándor muttered about human beings turning into “flowers and animals,” and held up Ovid, or some other book he’d stolen from the abandoned library in Teleki’s office, and whistled quietly, reading quietly, until József fell back asleep.
It got so bad that József would need that whistling to sleep, and when it stopped, late at night, and József snapped awake, more often than not he found that Sándor wasn’t there. He’d gone into the night, or disappeared, expending himself as if to prove that becoming nothing could be a transformation too. Though he was always back by morning with his dirty nails and oily face and tattered clothes and the look of someone who’d lost himself along the way.
But before all that, December turned into January. Unlike many of the other attendants, Sándor and József did not have families, and so they saw no reason to go home from the zoo except to risk dying in the streets, or being bombed out of their tiny apartments, or starving to death in the cellars that had been converted into bomb shelters. When the zebras were found slaughtered in their pens, large strips of meat carved hastily from their shoulders and flanks and bellies no doubt by starving citizens, the two men fed what was left to the lion and moved into the vacated stalls, Sándor ranting about how the zebras should still be alive and it was the looters who should have been fed to the lion.
When Márti, another of the attendants, was shot in late January as she was trying to tear up a bit of grass for the giraffe in the nearby Városliget, and somehow managed to stumble back to the zoo, she described in a sleepy voice what she had seen out there in the city. Sándor tried to get her to be quiet, to rest, pulling the blanket to her chin, but she kept speaking of the shapes of flame as a child might speak of clouds, seeing in them animals dead or dying, their souls somehow escaping the bodies trapped in the zoo, transmigrated into fire, taking revenge on the city. She said it was burning, all of it—the Western Station, the mansions along Andrássy Boulevard, the trees in the park like used matchsticks. She’d seen a street where blue flame was dancing through every pothole and crack, playing around the rim of craters, the gas mains ruptured underneath, continuing to bleed. “It was like a celebration,” said Márti, before closing her eyes and falling into a sleep neither József nor Sándor tried waking her from.
The night after she died,
