The Book of Fathers Read Free Page B

house—of which only the kitchen and part of the yard still had a roof—but to the bottom of the garden and the rose bushes there. These had not been touched by the bandits. He nodded and proceeded to douse them with his own water. Kornél’s eyes opened wide in astonishment as he saw his grandfather’s member for the first time, both in length and breadth the size of a very decent sausage.
    Their furniture was in smithereens, their clothes and everything else had either been taken or else torn and trampled into useless rags.
    “What are we to do now?” asked Zsuzsánna.
    Grandpa Czuczor did not reply but drew a stool that was more or less intact up to the composing frame, sat down, and began sharpening the quills. He poured ink into the inkwell and began to write in the folio.
Day of mourning. We have lost Wilhelm, as we have most of the res mobilis. My equipment is largely gone and as yet I lack the strength to scrape what remains out of the mud where it lies. Our lives, too, are in danger. We can do naught but trust in our God . Justus es Domine, et justa sunt judicia tua.
    He glanced sideways and saw his grandson crouching under the composing frame and drawing with a lead pencil on a scrap of paper, while resolutely clutching his grandfather’s trousers with his right hand.
    “What are you doing there, Kornél?”
    “Grandfather dear, I am writing.”
    “Indeed?” Grandpa Czuczor gave a groan as he went down on his knees to take a closer look at the scrap of paper. To his great surprise the unsteady and imperfect letters formed themselves into more or less readable script. “Day of mourning,” Kornél had written. “We lost Burkus and I’m going to bury him at the bottom of the garden, under the rose …”
    “Not there!” Grandpa Czuczor burst out.
    The boy did not understand. “I beg your pardon, Grandpa?”
    “No, not there … You have to bury him in … dry soil. Let’s do it together!” He led Kornél into the garden. “Tell me … where did you learn to write?”
    “I watched you, Grandpa dear.”
    By the fallen fence they found a casket of rotting wood. In it they laid to rest the body of Wilhelm, placing it by the shed, where the previous owner had planted a small pine tree. For Burkus they dug a hole in the ground and buried him in the purple tablecloth Zsuzsánna had made for the big dining table. They had found it in front of the house, torn and covered in puzzling brown stains.
    By the evening the other villagers had also sneaked back. The night was riven by sobs and cries, as each family reached their front door.
    *
    It was well into the night when the sound of slamming and of horses’ hoofs was heard.
    Grandpa Czuczor swept up Kornél, still wrapped in his blanket, and headed out onto the road and up the mountain. Behind him came Zsuzsánna, her wooden clogs clattering as she ran. This second time round, only a third as many folk managed to reach the Old Cavern, mainly those who lived nearby. Bálint Borzaváry Daróczy was nowhere to be seen. Apart from Grandpa Czuczor, there were only two men: an old peasant and lame old Gáspár Dobruk, which suggested that even with his game leg he could run faster than most. The suddenness of their departure meant that this time they were short of food as well as light, and only a single lamp sputtered in the Cavern.
    “If we have to stay here tomorrow, we shall all starve!” said Gáspár Dobruk.
    “As long as we’re alive, there is hope!” countered Grandpa Czuczor. “Let us share out everything, like a family, until the danger has passed.”
    They took stock. The only folk to express any unease were old Mrs. Miszlivetz and her daughter, who had brought six round loaves, two skins of butter, a rib of salted pork, and several bottles of wine. Grandpa Czuczor rounded on them: “You have no lamp of your own, yet you benefit from the light we share … if you begrudge us these victuals, get you hence! But if you stay, accept your fate as