Written in the Blood Read online

  Now a set of doors opened in the left-hand wall and three maids came through, the first carrying a liquid-filled bowl and the others following with squares of linen.

  ‘Ah, here we go,’ the doctor said, pleased. ‘We must wash off the germs from the road.’ He dipped his hands in the bowl and stirred them around, drying them on a towel he took from a maid. ‘Chlorinated lime water,’ he said. ‘Kills the microorganisms. Very important for modern hygiene. I’ve made an extensive study. Follow me, I’ll show you to where the others stay. ’

  András had established the children’s quarters along the first floor of the south wing of Tansik House. Another man met them there. Dark hair, pale eyes, sombre suit.

  ‘This is Trusov, Izsák, without whom we would all be cast adrift. I’ll leave you in his care. We dine at seven. I join you when my work allows. Trusov, did Master Balázs’s belongings arrive?’

  ‘In his room, Doctor.’

  ‘Splendid. Well, Izsák, I’ll leave you now. Welcome to Tansik House.’ Smiling, he walked away, footsteps echoing along the hall.

  Trusov appraised him. ‘Balázs, is it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Follow me.’

  Trusov led him down the hall and opened a door on the left. They entered a large, bright room. Its walls were painted a lemon yellow, the floorboards varnished a rich brown. The fireplace was stacked with kindling.

  In one corner stood a single metal-framed bed. A wardrobe, a washstand with jug and bowl, a writing desk and an empty bookshelf completed the room’s furniture.

  Moving to the window, Izsák looked out on formal gardens culminating in a circular pool, at the centre of which rose a limestone statue of a figure on horseback. Beyond that, he saw the dark windows of the north wing.

  ‘There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall, plumbed for hot water,’ Trusov said. ‘Your bath day is Wednesday. The maid brings hot water to your room every morning at six. Let her know if you run out of soap.’

  ‘The doctor,’ Izsák said. ‘He’s very keen on cleanliness.’

  Trusov frowned. ‘He’s a little eccentric. But he’s an outstanding man.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘You’ll get used to him.’ The man strode to the wardrobe and threw open the doors. Izsák’s clothes hung inside. Arranged on the bottom shelf was his paltry collection of belongings from Szilárd’s house: the small suitcase, the box of metal soldiers, the silver hand mirror.

  Trusov picked up the mirror, turning it over in his hands. ‘You realise this is very valuable.’

  ‘It was my mother’s.’

  The man glanced down at him. ‘Then I’d hate for you to lose it. The children here are generally honest, but sometimes things go missing. I’ll look after it for you. Just in case.’ He nodded, the decision made. ‘You can see it whenever you want.’

  ‘Thank you. Do you live here too?’

  ‘I have an apartment at the end of the hall. Very satisfactory. Well, I’ll leave you to settle in.’ Tucking the mirror into his pocket, Trusov left the room.

  Izsák moved to the bed and sat down. He stared at the empty bookshelf, at the cupboard with its single box of soldiers and its suitcase, and told himself not to cry. The tears came anyway.

  Two days since he’d watched his father die. Two months since Jakab had raped the girl in Buda and disappeared. Two months since he’d seen Jani. Now one of his brothers hunted the other, and Izsák knew that only one would ever return from that encounter. Perhaps neither. Nothing waited for them in Budapest except their spineless younger brother, and who would want to return for that?

  All those days he had asked himself the question: What will happen to me? And now he was looking at the answer. A silent room in a stranger’s house; an empty bookshelf; a place to wash and be clean.

  A tear rolled off his nose and struck the back of his hand.

  Perhaps if you’d focused on something other than your own selfish needs, this wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps if you’d been braver, more decisive, perhaps if you hadn’t cowered in the Citadella, quaking with fear until it was too late to save—

  ‘Hello.’

  With a cry, Izsák shot up off the bed. A scrubbed face was peering around the door frame, and he saw that it belonged to a girl perhaps a year or so older than himself. She was, at once, both intimidatingly beautiful and hopelessly frail, her limbs like birch sticks connected by lumpen elbows and knees. Her face, framed by tresses of hair as dark and glossy as licorice, looked older than it should, forced somehow, as if she had decided to make herself a woman despite her lack of years.

  She smiled, a hesitant experiment, and when he wiped his face of tears she slid into the room and climbed onto the bed.

  ‘I’m Etienne,’ the girl said. ‘You’re new.’

  Nodding, he sat back down.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Izsák.’

  ‘Family?’

  He shook his head, sensing it was wiser to keep his history to himself for now.

  ‘You were crying.’

  ‘I . . . it’s just a bit new, that’s all.’

  ‘Lonely.’

  He took a long, shuddering breath. Shrugged. Then he raised his head. She returned his gaze with large, round eyes. Despite her sparsity of flesh, her skin was rosy. Chlorinated lime water, Izsák thought.

  ‘I know a cure for loneliness,‘ Etienne said. And then, as casually as if she were plucking a book from a shelf, she reached between his legs and gripped him.

  Shocked, Izsák scrabbled away from her. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘It’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘I don’t want that.’

  Etienne looked confused. ‘Do you want to touch me instead?’ she asked, taking the bottom of her dress and rolling it up past her knees.

  ‘No!’

  She tilted her head at him. ‘You prefer boys.’

  ‘Ets!’

  Izsák twisted towards the door. This time he saw three boys hovering there. As one, they slouched into the room.

  The tallest frowned at the girl on the bed. ‘Put it away, Ets. No one wants to see that this close to breakfast.’ He turned to Izsák. ‘I’m Béni.’ He pointed to the scrawnier of his two companions. ‘That’s János.’ Indicating the third boy, a fat youngster with a spool of dribble clinging to his chin, he added, ‘And that’s Pig.’

  Pig spied the box of toy soldiers in Izsák’s wardrobe and let out a squeal. ‘Bang men!’ he cried. ‘Bang men! Can I, Béni? Can I?’

  Béni raised an eyebrow. ‘Can he?’

  ‘Well, I suppose. As long as he’s careful.’

  Pig clapped his hands in delight and snatched up the box. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he tried to ease off the lid with stubby, clumsy fingers. When he couldn’t manage it, he raised his head to Béni, crestfallen.

  Sighing, Béni crouched down and opened it, sprinkling the metal soldiers into a heap. Pig clapped again, the string of drool now so long it connected him to the floor.

  Béni looked up. ‘So, new boy. What’s your name?’

  ‘His name’s Izsák,’ Etienne said. ‘And he’s my friend.’

  ‘Everyone’s your friend, Ets,’ Béni said. He turned back to Izsák. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Something must have. You’re not here as a treat. Parents dead?’

  Izsák hesitated. Then he nodded.

  ‘You’ll get used to it. And you’ll either survive here or you won’t. First thing’s to learn the rules.’

  ‘Rules?’

  ‘Keep yourself clean. The doctor’s funny about that. Microorganisms. His favourite thing.’

  ‘He told me about them.’

  ‘Course he did. Lessons on weekdays, mostly in the mornings. Stay out of the north wing, that’s where the doctor lives. Don’t let him catch you stealing from his library. He’s funny about his books, too. Oh, this is really important. If you see his daughter, don’t talk to
her.’

  ‘He has a daughter?’

  Béni nodded. ‘Same age as us, about. You’ll see her in the garden sometimes. Just stay away.’

  ‘Why?’

  The boy stared for a moment, and his eyes seemed to lose their focus. Then he glanced back down at Pig. ‘Food’s the best thing. As much as you want, as long as you brush your teeth afterwards. Stay away from Trusov if you can.’

  ‘He’s nice,’ Etienne protested.

  Béni rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah. If you like being fucked. Has he stolen anything off you yet?’

  ‘He offered to look after my mirror.’

  ‘You give it to him?’

  ‘Yes, I—’

  ‘Last time you’ll see that.’ He pointed to the soldiers. ‘We should divide those up. Easier to hide them that way.’

  Izsák wasn’t about to be made foolish twice. ‘I’ll keep them safe.’

  ‘Fair enough. Want to see the rest of the house?’

  He did. Anything, in fact, to get out of this room, so suddenly full of people. He climbed to his feet. ‘Is it just you four? Here, I mean?’

  ‘Two others at the moment. Magdolna and Rózsika. Six of us in all. There were more. But . . .’ He shrugged. Again, that strange look in his eyes. ‘Now there’s just us.’

  On the floor, Pig had lined up the toy soldiers in a row. Now he dragged his finger through their ranks, knocking them all back down. ‘Bang!’ he said. ‘Bang! Bang!’

  They ate dinner that evening in the formal dining room - steaming bowls of paprikás krumpli with sweated greens and fresh bread. Lunch, Béni explained to him, was the big culinary event of the day, but they ate well at breakfast and dinner too. Izsák saw Magdolna and Rózsika, two sisters who bowed their heads and ate in silence. When the doctor failed to join them, Béni explained that András Benedek’s presence at table was a rarity.

  That night, alone in bed, Izsák stared up at the high ceiling in his room, yearning for sleep but with a mind too disorientated to find it. He owned no watch, no clock to tell the time, but he knew he lay there for hours. As the moon rolled out of sight, arcing over the roof of Tansik House, his thoughts turned again to Jakab and Jani. He could not understand, even now, how the tanács had seen fit to set brother upon brother. Jakab had sinned, yes, but Jani had done nothing wrong. As if the execution of their father had not wreaked enough destruction on their family.

  When he heard movement in the hall, Izsák slipped out of bed and tiptoed across the room. Bending to the keyhole, he recognised the bone-thin shape of Etienne as she passed. The girl wore a long nightdress, hanging like a shroud from her sharp shoulder blades.

  Izsák eased open his door and poked out his head. He watched her advance to the end of the corridor, where she knocked at a door. When it opened he saw Trusov’s face, ghoulish in the candlelight spilling from the room beyond. Etienne entered, and the door closed behind her.

  Izsák went back to his bed. A few minutes later, he heard, floating down the hallway outside, the steady creak of bedsprings, a metronomic nightmare in the darkness.

  That first week at Tansik House rolled by in a welter of new experiences. Izsák spent his days with Béni and János, exploring the mansion and sitting through lessons with Ludwig Heidegger, the bespectacled Belgian academic who visited five days a week, taught them Latin and mathematics, and every lunchtime filled his leather case with as many bread rolls, pastries and slices of ham as he could comfortably spirit away.

  He fell quickly into the daily routine. Up at six to wash his hands and face, breakfast at seven, lessons at eight. Lunch was served in the dining room, or on a blanket outside if the weather was clement. Each night he lay rigid in his bed, unable to find sleep until the wheezing gasps of Trusov’s bedsprings ceased their exertions. He didn’t know what he should think about that, or what he should do about it, conscious he hadn’t even raised the subject with his three friends. Some nights, when he spied Etienne returning to her room, he noticed that her nightdress was stained with blood. He saw no wounds on her face or elsewhere on those evenings, and wondered whether the girl healed herself of her injuries before she left Trusov’s apartment.

  On his eighth day at Tansik House, Izsák met the doctor’s daughter.

  He was sitting on a bench in the formal gardens opposite the pool, Gesta Hungarorum open on his lap, reading a passage he had been set by the Belgian tutor.

  The girl, a fresh wisp of white cotton and blue ribbon, appeared at his side, tucked her skirts under her legs and sat down next to him. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Katalin. I’ve read that.’

  Izsák stared. ‘Are you new?’

  She laughed. ‘No. I’m not new.’

  ‘What are you doing here, then?’

  Katalin nodded towards the plinth rising from the middle of the pool, and the statue of the man riding horseback atop it. ‘I’ll give you a clue. That’s my grandfather.’

  His mouth dropped open. ‘You’re the doctor’s daughter.’

  ‘Finally the boy catches up.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to talk to you.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘They all said.’

  Katalin frowned. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you obey rules you don’t understand?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘You’re him, aren’t you? I mean, he’s your brother. The one that’s caused all the trouble.’

  Izsák dropped his head. ‘Lukács.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say his old name. He’s a kirekesztett now. Jakab, they’re calling him. In fact, better that you say nothing at all, to anyone. Your other brother’s gone after him, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I heard about your father.’

  Tears sprang into his eyes. An automatic reaction, every time someone reminded him of what he’d seen at the Citadella.

  ‘Don’t cry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m not really very good at making conversation. Here.’ She proffered a delicate square of silk. He scrunched it into his eyes, handed it back.

  ‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘I have a drawerful. Looks like you need it more than me. I’m really sorry. I didn’t think. Sometimes my mouth just runs away.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  She nodded. ‘What do you want to be?’

  The girl’s thoughts seemed to dance randomly. He struggled to keep up.

  ‘What do you want to be?’ she repeated. ‘When you’re older?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, you should think. Everyone should have a plan.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Maybe it would help if you thought about it a bit. About the future, I mean.’

  ‘I suppose. I suppose I just—’

  ‘Balázs!’

  Izsák saw Trusov bounding down the steps from the house. The man marched towards them, his face scarlet.

  ‘I have to go,’ Katalin said. She jumped off the bench, brushed down her skirts and hurried back to the house, averting her eyes from Trusov as he passed.

  By the time he reached Izsák the man was panting, face wet with sweat. The cords of his neck were swollen and throbbing. ‘What were you doing with her?’ he hissed.

  Izsák shot to his feet. ‘We were just talking. She—’

  He never finished the sentence. With brutal force, Trusov slapped him across the face. Izsák reeled backwards, blood flying from his mouth.

  He crashed to the paving stones, too stunned to feel any pain. Shaking his head to clear it, he saw the man bearing down on him and tried to scrabble backwards. Trusov was too fast. He caught a fistful of Izsák’s clothes and dragged him towards the pool, eyes like black holes.

  Izsák tried to twist loose, but Trusov brought up his knee. He heard one of his ribs crack. Grabbed by the back of the neck, he found himself staring over the lip of the pool.

  ‘You do not!’ the man screamed, and dunked Izsák’s head beneath the surface. The cold wat
er was a shock, the sudden darkness more so. He thrashed, desperate to break loose, but another knee connected with his ribcage, emptying his lungs in a stream of bubbles. Now the pain hit. He clamped his mouth shut against it and went loose, terrified that the last of his breath would escape.

  Trusov jerked him back over the lip in a slopping tide. ‘Talk!’

  Again, Izsák plunged beneath the water. He hadn’t taken his chance to breathe. His diaphragm convulsed. He fought against the compulsion to open his mouth.

  Now he felt himself dragged out of the pool once more. This time he gasped a huge lungful of air.

  ‘To the girl!’ Trusov screamed. Trembling with rage, he flung Izsák to the ground and stalked back towards the house.

  Lying on his side, Izsák curled up his limbs, a crippled insect. Water dripped from his hair, staining the paving stones black. He took short breaths, each one slicing a blade into his torso where his attacker had split his ribs.

  Pig found him.

  ‘Hurt you,’ the boy said, crouching down and stroking Izsák’s head. ‘Not good man. Hurt you.’

  Izsák found just enough strength to nod. They stayed like that for a while, until Pig waddled off and returned with Béni and János. Together, they helped him back to the house.

  An hour later he sat on a chair in the doctor’s study, watching as the man felt his ribs.

  ‘Trusov tells me you hurt yourself while trying to escape from him. Is that correct?’

  ‘I . . .’ He hesitated, certain that to tell the truth of what had occurred would not serve him well. ‘Yes, sir.’

  András Benedek frowned. ‘He says he found you talking to Katalin. That when he approached, you attacked him and ran. He chased you and you fell.’

  Izsák bowed his head. Too late to change his mind now; he would have to concur with whatever script the doctor’s madman had written. Miserable, he nodded.

  ‘You’re most welcome in this house, Izsák. But you must obey our rules, and one of those rules is that you must not have any contact with Katalin. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘That’s right. Nobody told you, and that’s not your fault. But I’m telling you now. You must respect my daughter’s privacy.’

  ‘I will. May I ask a question?’