Triptych by Margit Liesche

expectant look.
    â€œIt’s beautiful. She remembered,” I said at last. “It was my favorite fairy tale. I read it over and over as a child. But I never thought to tell her—” My voice caught. “I loved her stories the best.”
    I felt Auntie Mariska’s warmth as her lips brushed my cheek. “Now her stories are your stories.”
    And one of them is without an ending.
    ***
    Budapest, 22 October 1956
    Outside on the stoop of the apartment building, Évike shivered. It was late afternoon. In the dark corner where she waited, the freezing dampness penetrated her threadbare jacket. Her sodden skirt clung to her backside like a cold soggy bathing suit. Her teeth chattered. Where was Mother? Why didn’t she answer the buzzer? Deák téri School was a short walk, but Mother tried always to be home when she arrived, to know she has made it safely. I am here, Mother. I do not feel safe. Where are you?
    In the director’s office, Évike’s thoughts had raced. Gombóc wanted her to spill something incriminating about the Petőfi Circle…its members…her mother, but Évike was no rat. What if she could throwGombóc a different juicy bone?An easy target? A guaranteed notch in the major’s oversized AVO belt?
    It had happened so fast. The false traitor’s name and offense spilled freely from Évike’s lips, and it was over.
    â€œThis is between us,” Gombóc had warned before she left. “Or—one hundred percent sure—we will find a reason to come for your mother.”
    Now, standing on the dank concrete stoop, Évike trembled again.
    â€œHello édes gyermekem , sweet child. What are you doing out here in the dark?” The unexpected voice—a woman’s—startled Évike. The woman stepped closer. “Why, you are shivering.”
    It was a neighbor. Married, childless, a few years older than her mother. Évike had chatted with her a number of times, briefly. One in ten of all Hungarians are secret AVO informers , her mother had warned. She drew a blank on the name.
    Ã‰vike retreated deeper into the shadowy gloom. Conscious of her soiled skirt, she quivered with cold and shame, teeth chattering uncontrollably.
    The woman hesitated as if gathering her thoughts. “Ah, your dear mother must be delayed somewhere. We know she would not forget…” Her voice trailed off. Then, brightly, “Well what are we doing still standing out here?” She inserted her key into the door. “Come, let’s go inside.”
    The small dimly lit vestibule reeked of mildew, but once the door was closed the odor from her urine-soaked clothing was noticeable. The woman turned to Évike. She looked away, but too late. She’d glimpsed the woman’s expression. Not the look of revulsion she’d expected, but features soft with compassion.
    â€œ Szegény lány , poor girl.”
    Ã‰vike was numb from all she had been through that day. The tenderness in the woman’s voice, her gesture as she reached around and gathered her close, penetrated like the warmth of the sun. The woman was tall, lean but sturdy. Évike pressed her head against the woman’s slight bosom and felt safe in the tender embrace, calmed by the rhythmic beating of her heart.
    The woman’s palm was gentle, her words a quiet unintelligible murmuring, as she stroked Évike’s head, lightly brushed her cheek. Évike had been holding herself stiff for so long her limbs ached. She gave in to the comfort, surrendered to the woman’s kindness. It was in this moment that the low sounds became intelligible.
    â€œPoor darling. These dark times. Just a child…What has happened to you? What has filled you with such fear?” the woman was saying.
    Now the emotion she had so willfully denied to Gombóc burst forth. Hot tears flowed down her icy cheeks. Mucus dribbled from her nose. She sniffled, and the woman