Days passed by. The bombardment ceased. Frightened shapes emerged from the cellars. Shrinking against the walls, they stared at the conflagration and when they had to cross a street they rushed to the nearest shelter.
The town waited with bated breath. In Ulwing’s house, anxiety became oppressive.
Young Christopher did not get out of bed for a whole week. Sickly fright left its impression on his face. In daytime he lay speechless in a corner of the office. Fear prevented him from sleeping at night; and then he would slink to the windows.
The black chestnut trees stood gravely in the back garden. Now and then a distant flaring light would crown their summits with red. Their leaves, like flattened bleeding fingers, moved towards the sky. Between the bushes, something began to move. The pump handle creaked. A stable lantern appeared on the ground; in its light stood men carrying water to the attics. The builder was there too, working the pump handle in his shirt sleeves; he was relieved occasionally by John Hubert, who, however, wore a smart coat and white collar which shone in the dark. Then all went away to rest. The courtyard became empty.
Christopher was again afraid. He grasped his neck. He felt as if some fine strings were quivering in it; this had happened frequently since the great clap had dealt the house a blow. In his brain the vision of that incident cropped up incessantly. He wanted to push it away but something reached into his brain and pulled it back.
He would have liked to go to Anne to tell her all about it. But would she understand? He could not bear the idea of being laughed at. He threw himself on his bed and pressed his head between his two hands. Why could he not be like the others? Why had he to think forever of things that the others could not understand?
In the next room, Anne lay sleepless too. Uncle Sebastian, living up there in the castle, was never out of her mind since she had had a glimpse of the spire of Our Lady’s church through the side door, opened during the bombardment. The stairs felt cold under her feet and the door-handles creaked loudly through the silent house. Crossing the dining-room, she sank into a chair. She thought with terror of her grandfather. If he had heard it? He would never let her do it, yet, however much she was afraid, however much she trembled, it had to be done.
She reached the piano. She listened again, lit the candle, but dared not look round. Her teeth chattered pitifully while she opened the shutter. The window was broken. What if the wind blew the candle out? But the May night was deep and calm.
Anne felt in her arm a reminiscence of the old movement with which as a child she used to wave to Uncle Sebastian across the Danube. She waved her hand and closed the shutter behind the illuminated window.
Outside the window the light of the candle spread yellow into the night as if attempting to go across the river on the errand on which it had been sent.
In the mellow, shapeless darkness the castle formed a rigid compact shadow. No lamps burned in its steep streets. The houses were mute and fearful.
For days Sebastian Ulwing had not emerged from his shop. He spoke to no one, knew of nothing. He lived on bread and read Demokritos. Occasionally the gleam of torches came through the cracks in his door. Their rigid beam made the round of the shop and then ran out again. The heavy steps of soldiers resounded in the street. Sometimes the guns spoke and the house shook.
On that evening everything was in expectant silence. It was about ten o’clock. All of a sudden it seemed to Sebastian Ulwing that there had been a knock at his door.
What happened? His heart began to beat anxiously and he thought of the Ulwing’s house. He could not endure the doubt, took his hat, but turned back at the threshold and, as he had done every evening, he walked again all over the shop. He wound up all the clocks, looking at them as if he were giving them food. Then, with his shaky helpless steps, he crawled out into the street.
May was all over the deserted castle. The clockmaker began to hurry. He raised his hat when he passed the church of Our Lady. He turned towards the Fisherman’s bastion.
Beyond the wall, down below, the shore of Pest was black.
Sebastian Ulwing forced his eyes to find the direction of the Ulwing’s house. He exclaimed softly. In the long row on the dark shore one window was lit.... He knew it was for him. His old heart warmed with gratitude.
Thoughtlessly, he leaned down and swept the rubbish together that lay about his feet. He piled it up on the wall of the bastion; then tenderly, with great care, he tore the title page from his “Demokritos, or a Laughing Philosopher.” He took a match. He wanted to thank Anne for the signal. The paper flared up, the rubbish caught fire and the flame jumped up with a shining light.
Just then, the clockmaker felt himself kicked on the back. He heard a shot and fell on his knees near the bastion. He grazed his chin against the wall. Annoyed, he put his hand up to it. He felt sick. It occurred then to him to look behind. Nobody was near. The window of one house rattled. Under the church a light Austrian uniform disappeared in the dark.
When nothing more was audible, Sebastian Ulwing held on to the stones and got up. In front of the church he raised his hat again. Somehow, he could not put it back on his head: it dropped out of his hand. He looked sadly after it but did not bend down for it. For an instant he leaned against the monument of the Holy Trinity. As if it were a nail which had pegged down the square in the middle, only the monument remained steady; the rest turned round him slowly, heaving all the time.
“I am giddy,” he thought and spat in disgust. He wanted to hurry, because he had already taken many steps and was still in the square. He felt like a man in a dream who wants to hurry on and remains painfully on the same spot.
In the shadow of Tárnok Street he saw light uniforms. This sight, like a painful recollection, pushed him forward. His shoulder rubbed against the houses and suddenly he stumbled into the shop. The match in his hand evaded the wick of the candle with cunning undisciplined movements.
Sebastian Ulwing fell into the armchair. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, everything seemed to be in a haze. “They make worse candles now than in olden times,” he reflected, then he felt suddenly frightened. He was thirsty. Open the windows. Call somebody. He could move his body but partially. He fell back into the armchair. The effort covered his brow with sweat.
He seemed to hear the guns somewhere. What did that matter to him. All that concerned others seemed to him strange and distant now.
To pray.... A child’s prayer came to his mind. He thought of the past but it tired him as if it forced him to turn his head. Life was so good and simple. That Barbara should have married Christopher was, after all, the right thing.
A painful confusion went on in his brain. Without the slightest continuity in his thoughts, he remembered that he owed the baker a half-penny. He began to worry; he had just ordered a pair of shoes at the bootmaker’s. “With bright buckles.” He had said that. Who was going to buy these now? Then, for the first time, it struck him that nobody wore shoes like that nowadays. Tears came to his eyes. Against his will, his body fell forward. How rusty those buckles on his shoes were ... the one on the left foot was getting rustier every minute. Rust seemed to flow on it, red, dense. It was spreading over the white stocking ... it flowed over the floor.
The candle burnt to the end. The flame flared up once more, looked round, went out. The heavy smell of molten tallow filled the shop and the head of Uncle Sebastian sank deeper and deeper between the leather wings of the armchair....
Outside, with the coming day, the firing increased every moment. But this wild thunder was not speaking to Pest. From the heights of the hills of Buda red-capped soldiers bombarded the castle. The Imperialists retorted hopelessly.
The dawn was gray and trembling.
No news penetrated the locked door of Ulwing’s house.
In the cellar Mrs. Füger was making bandages, with depressing sighs. The little book-keeper sat on the top of a barrel and held his head sideways, as if listening. At every detonation he banged his heel against the barrel.
His son stared at him so rigidly that his short-sighted eyes became contracted by the effort. He yawned with fatigue. Now, old Füger’s feet struck the side of the barrel at longer and longer intervals. Only by this did his son notice that the firing became less frequent; by and by it stopped. Then once more the house shook. A last explosion rent the frightful silence in twain and broken glass was hurled with loud clatter from the windows.
“That was somewhere near!”
The builder could stand it no longer. He wanted to know what was happening. He rushed up the stairs. In the green room he tore the shutters deliberately open.
Opposite, the royal castle burned with a smoky flame and on the bastion, beside the small white flag of the Imperialists, a tri-colour was unruffled in the wind.
“Victory!” shouted Christopher Ulwing. His short ringing voice fell like a blow from a hammer through the whole house.
Anne began to laugh.
“Do you hear, Christopher, we have won!”
When in the brightness of May the flag was unfurled on the bastion of the castle and opened out like a bountiful hand, it scattered joy from its folds. Its colours were repeated in Pest and Buda. Tricolours answered from the houses, the windows, the attics, the roofs. Singing, the people rushed toward the chain-bridge which resounded with the irregular trampling of human feet. The tide swept Ulwing the builder with it. He went to his brother. So much to tell! So much to ask!
From the other shore, the people of Buda came running. And on the bridge over the Danube the two towns fell into each other’s arms.
At the foot of the hill there was a crush. A heavy yellow cart turned into the road. A thin, yellow-faced man was on the driver’s seat. His moustaches hung in a black fringe on either side of his mouth. The cart was covered with canvas. The canvas was bespattered with dirty red spots. Human legs and arms protruded from it, swaying helplessly according to the movements of the cart.
The crowd had stopped singing. Men took their hats off. Those in front shouted in horror at the driver.
The jerks caused a corpse to slip slowly from under the canvas. Indifferent, the yellow coachman whipped his horses and the cart went on at a greater speed. The corpse’s head now reached the ground. It struck the protruding stones of the roadway, jumped up with a jerk, and with glaring open eyes fell back into the street.
The crowd passed by in speechless horror.
Springless carts brought the wounded. The courtyards of decaying houses were full of red-caps, bayonets. On the pavement, shiny blue flies swarmed over a dead horse. From the ditch of the canal, the soles of two boots protruded. Carts covered with canvas everywhere. Their lifeless load swayed slowly in the sun.
Christopher Ulwing turned the corner of Holy Trinity Square. People stood in front of the clockmaker’s shop. The first storey jutting over the street cast a deep shadow in the glaring white sunshine.
The builder recognised Brother Sebastian’s friends. The lame wood-carver leaned against the wall and wiped his eyes. The censor was there too. He pressed his hand against his face as if he had a toothache. Those behind him stood on tiptoe and stretched their necks. When they perceived him they all took their hats off.
The chaplain’s pointed, bird-like face appeared in the open door. He walked with important steps to meet the builder. He spoke at length, with unction, pointed several times to the sky and shook his head sideways.
The big bony hands of Christopher Ulwing clasped each other over his chest, like two twisted hooks.
“How did it happen?”
Now they all stood round him and all talked at once. A curious, old-fashioned lady bowed suddenly in the middle of the road.
“With your kind permission, I am Amalia Csik. I am entitled to speak. They only heard it from me. You may remember I live on the Fisherman’s bastion. Last night my husband felt unwell, because we hid in the cellar. The air was bad. So I went up into our rooms for some medicine.”
The builder turned painfully towards the door of the shop. The people stood in his way.
“Hurry up,” whispered the chaplain. The lady went on talking all the faster.
“Pray imagine, I saw the whole thing from my window. Someone lit a fire on the bastion. I recognised him at once: the clockmaker. I saw his face, the flame just lit it up. Then a shot rang out. And the clockmaker fell to the ground near the wall.”
Christopher’s heart contracted in anguish. His eyes reddened as if smoke stung them. “Poor Brother Sebastian ...” and he could not help thinking of Anne.
The lady sighed deeply.
“You may imagine I was frightened out of my wits. I flew back to the cellar. There my husband explained everything. His reverence the chaplain knows it too, so do the others; it is they who broke into the shop after the siege.”
The builder started again towards the shop.
The chaplain made him a sign to stop. He again lifted his hand to heaven. He spoke of the country. Of heroes. He turned his pointed bird-face upward as if inspired.
“And greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life....”
“Why do you say that?” The builder thought he could not stand the voice of the priest any longer.
The chaplain became more and more enthusiastic.
“The name of Sebastian Ulwing will live forever in our memory. Buda, the grateful, will preserve the memory of its heroic martyrs.”
The builder shuddered. He wanted to speak, but, with an apostolic gesture, the priest opened his arms to the assembled people.
“And do you who are brought here by your pious respect for a hero, tell your children and your children’s children that it was a simple, God-fearing clockmaker who with signals of fire called the relieving Hungarian armies into the fortress, suffering death therefor by a deadly bullet at the hands of the foe!”
He had grown sentimental over his own eloquence. The builder, embarrassed, looked around him. Big coloured handkerchiefs were drawn. People blew their noses noisily. Mrs. Amalia Csik stood in the middle of the circle. She felt very important. She reiterated her story to every new-comer:
“It happened like this....”
“He is the real hero, the hero of our street,” affirmed the gingerbread maker from the next house. The baker too nodded and thought of the two loaves for which Sebastian Ulwing owed him.
For a moment the builder stared helplessly into the priest’s bird-face. He was frightened by what he had heard. He was agitated, as if by his silence he had entered a fictitious credit dishonestly into his ledger. He passed his hand over his forehead.
“Reverend Mr. Chaplain, allow me.... My poor brother Sebastian was a peaceful citizen. He never took any interest in the ideals of the war of Liberation. He kept carefully out of revolutionary movements....”
The priest pushed his open palm reprovingly into the air.
“Master-builder Ulwing, even the humilitas christiana leaves you free to receive with raised head the pious praise bestowed on your famous brother.”
“Listen to me,” shouted Christopher Ulwing in despair. “It was an accident. Believe me. You are mistaken....”
The crowd became hostile in its interruptions. Those behind murmured. Amalia Csik began to fear for her present importance. She incited the people furiously, as if this stranger from Pest had attempted to deprive them of an honour due to them.
“He is so rich, and yet he left his brother poor. He never gave him anything. Now he wants to deprive him of his memory.”
“We won’t let him!” shouted the bootmaker from Gentleman Street and resolved not to claim from the builder the price of Sebastian Ulwing’s buckle shoes.
The chaplain rebuked the builder severely:
“Nobody must grudge us the respect we pay to our hero!”
Christopher Ulwing’s honest face assumed a resigned expression. With a sweeping movement of his hand he announced his submission. An entry had been made in the books over which he had no control. After all, what does it matter why a man is proclaimed a hero? To signal, at the risk of one’s life, to a little girl, or to soldiers, what is the difference?
“I thank you,” he said, scarcely audibly. He took his hat off and, slightly stooping, entered the shop. Outside, on the clock-sign, sparrows were waiting for Brother Sebastian’s crumbs. Indoors two candles burned. The silence was broken only by the ticking of the clocks; it sounded like the beating of many hearts. The heart of him who wound the clocks beat no more.
Night was falling when the builder descended from the castle.
“I shall come back for the night,” he said to the spectacle-maker and the wood-carver, who had decided to sit up near their old friend. Then he stepped out smartly, making an effort to keep his head erect, but his eyes looked dimly upon the people. He walked as if nobody else existed, as if he were quite alone. It occurred to him that throughout all his life he had been alone. He did not mind; it was the cause of his strength. To expect nothing from anybody, to lean on no one. But what he felt now was something quite different. It was not the solitude of strength, but that of old age. The house in Pozsony with its dark corners; his mother’s songs; his father’s workshop; his youth ... there was nobody left with him to whom these were realities. When a man remains alone with the past, it is more painful than present solitude. It came home to him what it meant, now that everyone had gone to whom he could say: “Do you remember?”
Round him soldiers began to flow in. Rows of men, grimy with sweat and smoke. The drums beat. The crowd followed on both flanks. The whole road was singing.
In the windows of the houses handkerchiefs flickered like white flames.
Anne and Christopher had run to the window. Opposite, the sun had set already behind the castle. The outline of Buda, spires, gables, showed dark on the red sky. A black town on the top of the hill. On the bridge over the Danube a dark stream of steel poured over to Pest ... soldiers with fixed bayonets. They too received the sun on their backs and had their faces in the shade.
Anne leaned out from the window.
At the head of the troops, the shape of a man dominated the floating throng. The one in the red dolman. The leader.... His horse was invisible. The living stream appeared to carry him over its head.
From the bridge end on the Pest side he looked back to the castle. The outline of his features shone up clear and strong, with Buda as its background. The sun, reflected violently from the glasses of his spectacles, sent a vivid flame into the darkness.
“Do you see them?” shouted Anne and, looking at the leader she felt as if in his face she saw all the faces that followed him in the shade—the faces of the whole victorious army.
Ulwing the builder gently opened the front gate.
When Christopher heard that Uncle Sebastian was dead he began to weep. His sobbing was audible in the corridor. Anne gazed rigidly, tearlessly, in front of her.
“Shall I then see him never more?”
“Never.”
Her little face was convulsed. She shut her eyes for a moment. She would have liked to be alone.
In the corridor, the Fügers were waiting with a miserable expression on their faces. The builder nodded silently to them. He went down the stairs. He wanted to be alone.
He stopped in the hall. A curious murmur was audible outside; it spread through the air with a penetrating force as if it had risen from the very foundation of things and beings, from between the roots of the town. He recognised it. It was the outcry of joy and sorrow; the breath of the town, and as Christopher Ulwing listened to it he felt keenly that the breath of the town and his own were but one. He rejoiced with the town. He wept with the town.... The hatred for those who had hurt what was his own—his brother, his home, his bridge, so much of his work—took definite shape in his heart.
As if facing a foe, he raised his head aggressively. His eye struck a little tablet hanging on the opposite door, it bore the German inscription:
CANZELEI.
His jaw turned aside. His steady hand snatched at the tablet and tore it from its hooks. He took a mason’s pencil from his waistcoat. He reflected for a second. Was it spelled in Hungarian with a T or a D? Then, with vigorous strokes he wrote on the door[B]:
IRODA.