The Rebels by Sándor Márai Page A

something in that,” agreed the one-armed one.
    “But you yourself are responsible,” Ábel retorted. “You agreed to serve and have your arm cut off. People have died on your account. People have died because of Ernõ’s father too. In my humble opinion anyone who takes part in this is responsible for what happens.”
    “You lot will shortly be called up,” said Ernõ coldly. “Do you think you will be talking like this then?”
    “Naturally not. We won’t be talking then, we will all be responsible, but until then I feel no obligation to acknowledge the rules of their world. Nor those of the music lessons I am currently missing because of a faked parental note, nor those that say it is forbidden to urinate against the walls of the theater in public. Nor those of the world war. That is why we are here.”
    “I understand,” said Ernõ. “And what are you doing here?”
    They kept silent. Béla examined his nails. Tibor rolled a cigarette.
    “Here we are none of their business,” said Ábel. “Don’t you understand yet? I hate what they teach us. I don’t believe what they believe. I don’t respect what they respect. I was always alone with my aunt. I don’t know what will happen now. But I don’t want to live with them, I don’t even want to eat their food. That’s why I’m here. Because here I can thumb my nose at their rules.”
    “They? Who are they?” asked Ernõ.
    They all began to shout at once.
    “The locksmiths for a start!”
    “The lawyers!”
    “Teacher, baker, what’s the difference?”
    “All of them! All of them!”
    They kept shouting whatever came into their heads. Béla was bellowing fit to burst. Ábel stood on the bed.
    “I tell you we have to escape,” he cried. “On bicycle, on horseback. Now! Through the woods!”
    “You can’t cycle through woods,” Tibor remarked like a true sportsman.
    They felt they were making progress. Now perhaps they were getting to the heart of the secret. Ábel was shouting himself hoarse.
    “Your father is a great idiot!” he bellowed and pointed accusingly at Ernõ. “What have I done? Nothing. My aunt kept sending me into the garden to play because the apartment was damp. So I played there. Your father goes on about the rich. That’s not it: there’s another enemy far more dangerous. It doesn’t matter whether one is rich or poor.”
    He made a funnel with his hands and whispered through it. “It’s all of them,” he said, his face pale.
    “We will become adults too,” said Ernõ solemnly.
    “Maybe. But until then I shall defend myself. That’s all.”
    Eventually they collapsed on the bed. Ábel’s face was burning. Tibor sat down beside him.
    “Do you really think it’s possible to defend ourselves against them?” asked Tibor in a low voice, his eyes wide.
     
     
     
    I T WAS SPRING AND VISITORS HAD STARTED CALLING at The Peculiar. The gang became more circumspect in their gatherings. Once or twice a week they managed to get away there in the afternoon but only on Sunday for a whole day. Occasionally they discovered people picnicking in the garden.
    So far everything that had happened was entirely between themselves and they felt no guilt about it. They had nothing to do with the mechanisms, rules, and policing of that other world. The “other world”’s significance lay as much in not being allowed to smoke in the street as in the world war. The insults the world showered on them roused them to a similar degree of fury: it was the same whether it was being unable to get bread without ration tickets, the unfair marks awarded by the Latin teacher, someone in the family being killed in action, or being prevented from frequenting the theater without express school permission. They felt that the system that worked against them and dragged them back acted as perniciously in insignificant matters as in great affairs of state. It was hard to say what hurt most: having to offer obsequious greetings to adults they met on the