Gratitude by Joseph Kertes Page B

said. “I’m sorry. You’re right and I’m wrong.” He stood up. His look had softened and she stood to accept his embrace.
    Just then, Zoli walked in behind them, startling them. “How did you get in?” Rozsi said. Despite her question, she was relieved to see him.
    “I’m so sorry. The back door was open, and I didn’t want to be seen at the front. I don’t want you implicated. I’ve been stealing around like a cat lately.” Zoli was wearing a North German seaman’s cap pulled low over his eyes, but he now removed it.
    Rozsi took a fresh snifter from the sideboard. “Why don’t you want to be seen?” She poured Zoli some brandy. “And why would we be implicated in anything?”
    Zoli accepted the brandy and followed Paul out to the front room. “Please,” he said and took the liberty of closing the curtains on the tall bay windows before sitting. Rozsi switched on the lamp beside him, and he looked around the impressive room. He glanced at the old portraits of distinguished Beck forebears. One of them looked out from the picture’s deep frame as though he were regarding the room from a casement window.
    “What’s going on?” Paul asked.
    Zoli told them about his parents. Rozsi gasped.
    “I’m so sorry,” Paul said.
    “Yes,” Zoli said. He took a swallow of brandy. He tried to speak again but couldn’t for a couple of minutes. He got to his feet. He looked as if he were going to excuse himself. Rozsi stood, too, and hugged him lightly, gently. He could smell her hair.
    Then he said, “Please, sit down. I’m afraid I have bad news for you, too.” He stayed on his feet, set his glass down. “Your father has met the same fate.”
    “What?” Rozsi said.
    “He was hanged in Szeged. By the Germans.”
    Rozsi began to sob, and Paul took her into his arms. Zoli explained what had happened. “I heard it from my editor at the paper. We’re not going to run a story until we have instructions from the authorities.”
    “The authorities ,” Paul said. He released his sister, who continued crying.
    “Yes, the new authorities.”
    “Oh, my Lord help us,” Rozsi said.
    “What about our brother?” Paul asked. He’d gone to the window to peek out, to check whether an invasion had begun.
    “I contacted a friend of a friend in Szeged, another newspaperman. Your brother appears to have gone into hiding.”
    “In Szeged?” Rozsi asked, turning to look at Zoli.
    “All I know is that he hasn’t left the country, but I also know he has not been killed and he has not yet been deported.”
    “Not yet ,” Paul said, turning on Zoli. “How reliable is your source?”
    “He’s reliable. It’s better that no one knows where your Istvan is. He’s safer that way.”
    Rozsi fell back in her chair. “Oh, Father. Oh, my father, my father. Oh, my dear father.” She was sobbing. She waved off her brother, who had moved to comfort her.
    “I have to go to Szeged,” Paul said. “I have to do something.”
    “Don’t go to Szeged,” Zoli said. “What could you do there?”
    Paul reached into his jacket pocket and showed Zoli his papers. “I’ll go as a Swede,” he told him.
    Zoli looked at the papers, and Rozsi wiped away tears to look too. There seemed almost no time for grief. Urgency blew it away. Zoli said, “You’ll go as a Swede to search for your Hungarian Jewish brother?”
    “Please, Paul,” Rozsi said. “Let’s think things through.”
    She went to get the brandy and poured out some more for the men. She took a sip of her brother’s before passing it over. “Let’s go talk to Aunt Klari and Uncle Robert,” she said. “We have to work this out together. We have to tell Uncle Robert his brother is dead.” She put her hands to her face and sobbed again. “Oh, my God, our father is dead, Paul.” She ran to her brother and looked up into his dark face.
    Paul said, “I have to go. I can’t just stand by.”
    “And what will you do?” Rozsi asked. “Please, Paul, we’ve lost