small knot by the river turns its eyes to the distant shapes on the plain, bobbing back and forth, as industrious as ants. Sari shades her eyes again, and leans forward, intrigued.
‘What?’ Anna asks.
‘Look. You see the men?’ Anna nods. ‘Look at the one on the right. See what he’s standing next to?’ Anna squints, but shakes her head. She can’t make it out, though she sees it’s far greater in size than any of the men.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a cart, and I think it’s full of – it looks like wood. They’re building something.’
Sari starts slightly as there’s a movement on the very edge of her vision. ‘And there’s another one!’ she says, barely able to keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘Another two – three carts, and more men. Whatever they’re doing, it’s something big .’
By nightfall, the flush of activity has died down, but the lazy, circular movement of a guard proves Sari right: prisoners.
The Gazdag property has been empty since the start of the war. When Ferenc, his father and brother went away to fight, the herds went to Ferenc’s uncle, who has some land not far away, as well as a lame leg and a water-tight excuse not to join the army, and Márta, once it became clear that the war was to be more protracted than the brief skirmish predicted, had gone to stay with her sister in Budapest. The property had been empty for nearly a year and a half; some of the more daring boys (too young to fight, so desperate to prove their worth in other ways) had broken in after a few months, to see if there was anything left there that could be of use to the rest of the village, but they found next to nothing in the vast, empty rooms and no one had bothered going near the house since.
And then the prisoners arrived, and now Ferenc’s family house is a hub of activity, the epicentre out of which gossip now swirls. There is initial speculation that the army has appropriated the property without permission, and a clutch of villagers stalk off in high dudgeon to talk to the officers in charge, only to slink back in embarrassment, having had a contract, clearly signed by the Gazdag family, brandished at them like an amulet by a boy barely old enough to grow a beard. It’s clear, then, that Ferenc’s mother is not planning to come back to the village for some time, if ever, and Sari wonders whether Ferenc knows. His attachment to the village is so strong and visceral that it seems strange that his family can forsake it so easily.
It’s nearly a week by the time word starts moving from house to house that they should get to the church because there’s going to be an official announcement of what’s been going on. Sari catches Lujza’s eye on the way there, and Lujza yawns theatrically, obviously expecting no surprises. Still, she looks bright-eyed and excitable: the fact that the change is being acknowledged makes it all the more real.
The war has taken its toll on Father István; he’s much thinner and sallower than he was before, and nobody’s quite sure why. In reality, Father István’s decline has little to do with physical hardship. He had assumed that when the war started and the men of the village left, those women who were left behind would need him all the more. For the first few months, he was right; people flocked to the church, including many of those who had excused themselves from regular worship on the grounds of age or illness. Father István had delivered what he knew to be magnificent and moving sermons and more than once he’d been triumphant to hear hollow sobbing from some corner of the church. However, after some time his words seemed to fall on stoney ground, and the faces before him moved from rapt attention to blankness, to rank unconcern. By January his flock was back to pre-war proportions. They would rather go to Judit Fekete with their problems, subjecting themselves to any manner of pagan practices that send a shiver down his spine. Disappointment
‘What?’ Anna asks.
‘Look. You see the men?’ Anna nods. ‘Look at the one on the right. See what he’s standing next to?’ Anna squints, but shakes her head. She can’t make it out, though she sees it’s far greater in size than any of the men.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a cart, and I think it’s full of – it looks like wood. They’re building something.’
Sari starts slightly as there’s a movement on the very edge of her vision. ‘And there’s another one!’ she says, barely able to keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘Another two – three carts, and more men. Whatever they’re doing, it’s something big .’
By nightfall, the flush of activity has died down, but the lazy, circular movement of a guard proves Sari right: prisoners.
The Gazdag property has been empty since the start of the war. When Ferenc, his father and brother went away to fight, the herds went to Ferenc’s uncle, who has some land not far away, as well as a lame leg and a water-tight excuse not to join the army, and Márta, once it became clear that the war was to be more protracted than the brief skirmish predicted, had gone to stay with her sister in Budapest. The property had been empty for nearly a year and a half; some of the more daring boys (too young to fight, so desperate to prove their worth in other ways) had broken in after a few months, to see if there was anything left there that could be of use to the rest of the village, but they found next to nothing in the vast, empty rooms and no one had bothered going near the house since.
And then the prisoners arrived, and now Ferenc’s family house is a hub of activity, the epicentre out of which gossip now swirls. There is initial speculation that the army has appropriated the property without permission, and a clutch of villagers stalk off in high dudgeon to talk to the officers in charge, only to slink back in embarrassment, having had a contract, clearly signed by the Gazdag family, brandished at them like an amulet by a boy barely old enough to grow a beard. It’s clear, then, that Ferenc’s mother is not planning to come back to the village for some time, if ever, and Sari wonders whether Ferenc knows. His attachment to the village is so strong and visceral that it seems strange that his family can forsake it so easily.
It’s nearly a week by the time word starts moving from house to house that they should get to the church because there’s going to be an official announcement of what’s been going on. Sari catches Lujza’s eye on the way there, and Lujza yawns theatrically, obviously expecting no surprises. Still, she looks bright-eyed and excitable: the fact that the change is being acknowledged makes it all the more real.
The war has taken its toll on Father István; he’s much thinner and sallower than he was before, and nobody’s quite sure why. In reality, Father István’s decline has little to do with physical hardship. He had assumed that when the war started and the men of the village left, those women who were left behind would need him all the more. For the first few months, he was right; people flocked to the church, including many of those who had excused themselves from regular worship on the grounds of age or illness. Father István had delivered what he knew to be magnificent and moving sermons and more than once he’d been triumphant to hear hollow sobbing from some corner of the church. However, after some time his words seemed to fall on stoney ground, and the faces before him moved from rapt attention to blankness, to rank unconcern. By January his flock was back to pre-war proportions. They would rather go to Judit Fekete with their problems, subjecting themselves to any manner of pagan practices that send a shiver down his spine. Disappointment
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