Gratitude by Joseph Kertes

isn’t.”
    Zoli realized he was still holding Rozsi’s hand. He blushed and let it go. He looked down at the table in front of her.
    He turned to Paul. “I have something to tell you,” he said, barely audibly.
    “Sit down,” Paul suggested. “We’ll have coffee.”
    Zoli stayed on his feet. “I have to tell you alone. Please excuse us, ma’am—Rozsi.”
    “Go ahead,” Rozsi said, and she stood. Zoli’s blush deepened. Paul thought that a very warm species of ice beat away in the younger man’s heart.
    Zoli led Paul away to the door and then, unexpectedly, outside.
    Their waitress, who’d been hovering, returned, and Rozsi ordered another espresso but nothing else. The woman replaced her pad and pencil inside the pocket of her white apron. She wore the same apron and black silk dress and white open-toed shoes as all the waitresses at Gerbeaud.
    The café occupied the middle of an old cobblestone square as if it were sitting in the middle of another century, when the booming Austro-Hungarian Empire, presided over by the Habsburgs, looked west to Paris and north to Berlin and London for inspiration. The square was filled with strolling people, carrying parcels and flowers. For the first time, Rozsi noticed that the café’s heavy green curtains were parted like those in a theatre, the bright light from outside slicing between them and casting dramatic shadows over the patrons’ faces.
    She felt awkward, felt a yearning she couldn’t account for, a restlessness, having to do with spring, she thought at first, but maybe the times they lived in, or the friend of Paul’s she’d just met. What would Paul do now? What would they all do? Too much was happening too quickly.
    Outside, Zoli told Paul that he’d heard from Istvan’s friend Miklos Radnoti. “I had a wire this morning. Radnoti’s trying to get back here, but he says your father and brother may be in some kind of trouble.”
    “I tried to call my father,” Paul said.
    “The Germans have arrived in our country,” Zoli said. “The invasion has begun.”
    Paul swallowed hard. “I’ll have to get to them in Szeged.”
    “I don’t think that’s smart,” Zoli said. “If they’re in trouble, you can be of little help to them by yourself.”
    “We have quite a few friends in Szeged.”
    “Your friends are in trouble, too. You’re better off lobbying from here.”
    “I’ll start on it right away from my office.” His gaze fell on Zoltan. Paul was a head taller than the younger man. “Zoli, please don’t tell my sister anything, but do me the favour of taking her home.”
    “The favour?” Zoli asked. “You’re doing me a favour, entrusting her to me. Does she—I mean, does she have anyone?”
    Paul looked at his friend. “No, no one she likes.”
    “I’d be happy to—walk her home, I mean. Don’t worry, please.”
    “I should say goodbye, so she won’t be alarmed.”
    “Don’t,” Zoli said. “She’ll ask you too many questions. I’ll just tell her you were called away to your office on a legal matter. It’ll be all right, I promise.”
    Paul thought of what Raoul Wallenberg had said. They could turn Hungarians into Swedes. He asked Zoli, “If papers were to be drawn up for people, could you take the photographs?”
    “Quite easily. I have access to a studio. Just say when.”
    “I’ll call you,” Paul said. “Thank you for looking after my sister.”

    A FEW MINUTES LATER , Rozsi and Zoli were walking across the cobblestone square on their way to the Becks’ townhouse. He watched the sunlight in her eyes. He asked if she minded stopping at his place first. “My father is developing a photograph, and I need to pick it up and take it to the paper for tomorrow’s edition.”
    Rozsi said, “You go on ahead. Don’t let me slow you down. I can make it home on my own.” She felt uneasy about her brother’s sudden departure and wanted to get home quickly.
    “It’s not urgent,” Zoli said. “Your safety is more