Other Earths (collection)

“I’m Imre, and the White Stag has come to save me from the Turks!” Now D’nes was dragging her forward, and all of them were running, with a breath they did not know they had. And then the forest was all around. They were following the glimmer of the stag through the trees, while the barking of the dog faded away behind them.

“Look,” said Mrs. Mad’r. “You can see the moon.”

“I haven’t heard that story,” said Csilla. “Is it true?”

Mrs. Mad’r stared at the sliver of moon, pale against the darkening sky. “Judit was my best friend.”

“Were you Margit? I mean, are you Margit?” Mrs. Mad’r nodded. “Well, what happened? What happened to Judit and the children?”

Mrs. Mad’r sighed. “Judit stayed in Romania and was sent to prison—this was many years later—because her art was considered subversive. Deb’ra went to Israel with her uncle. She studied economics—but I have not heard from her in years. I was sent to Switzerland with D’nes and Magda, where other children of the T̈nd’r were sent as refugees. Magda is still there, in a good home. After the war, D’nes and I were brought to America. He went to a university and became a history professor. It was his idea to bring as many of the T̈nd’r here as we could, from the countries where they are oppressed and imprisoned. It was also his idea that your father should write a book. He’s the one who will be handling the petition to have you declared a political refugee. But you’ll hear more about that soon. We’re almost there.”

“And—” Csilla hesitated. “Did you really see the White Stag?”

“It was long ago,” said Mrs. Mad’r. “I’m not sure I really remember. But D’nes has always believed that we did.”

The first person she saw in the clearing was Anne Martin.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you’re doing better,” said Mrs. Martin, clasping her hands in front of her. “Helga didn’t realize. I mean, most of you aren’t so affected by metal anymore. My husband had some Fairy in him, on his mother’s side, and he could eat with a knife and fork, just like ordinary folks. You wouldn’t even have known it, except he had hazel eyes. Such beautiful eyes! He died a couple of years ago, of lung cancer. No one knew about cigarettes when we were growing up. That’s why I do this, you know. For him and for Susanna. She’s so proud of her heritage! Really, I’m just a librarian. And of course Mrs. Mad’r is so persuasive. I mean the queen. Although she never lets us call her that, outside of the forest.”

Mrs. Mad’r looked like a queen, standing in the middle of the clearing. Someone had put a crown of ivy on her head. I could be Princess Erzs’bet in the forest, thought Csilla. Except that the man talking to Mrs. Mad’r was wearing overalls, and the people standing and talking to each other, or sitting on the stones that ringed the clearing, looked ordinary, like people she might meet in a grocery store. But one boy who was building the fire had green in his brown curls, and a girl in a school uniform looked at her with eyes as green as a cat’s.

“Are they all—T̈nd’r?” It felt strange, speaking English, and Csilla could not use the English word, as Mrs. Martin had done.

“Or related to the T̈nd’r, though not by blood. Like me to my Henry.”

“Csilla, can I speak with you for a moment?” Mrs. Mad’r was standing beside her.

Mrs. Martin tactfully withdrew to speak to the girl in the school uniform. Csilla wondered if that was Susanna Martin. They were about the same age, although Csilla wondered why anyone would mistake Susanna’s picture for hers. They didn’t look that much alike. But perhaps they would be friends?

“This is my brother, Professor Kert’sz.” He didn’t look like Csilla’s idea of a professor. Her father had always worn a jacket and tie, even to the grocery store. This man’s overalls had grass stains on the knees.

Professor Kert’sz held out his hands. Without thinking, she put her hands in his. “Csilla, I’m sorry to bring you such bad news when we’ve just met. Your father has been arrested.”

Csilla sat down abruptly on one of the stones. Mrs. Mad’r knelt beside her. “Oh, my dear. I’m so terribly sorry.”

A crack was opening inside her. She could feel it open, and everything was falling inside it: her grandmother’s gingerbread, her father’s jackets, which always needed mending, the city of Budapest. The night itself was falling into the crack, and Csilla thought, We’re all going to fall in, all of the T̈nd’r.