He nodded, got to his feet, and took her hand. She held the other hand out to Magda, who was always happy to follow wherever she was led.
The back door opened with a creak as Judit pushed it, and they emerged into the night. The moon shone over the fields, alternately veiled and unveiled by clouds. They waded through barley, which scratched Margit’s knees so that she wished she were wearing pants. They went quickly, as quickly as they could, but there was a sea of barley ahead of them and already they were faltering, because oh, how tired they were, thought Margit, dropping D’nes’ hand for a moment to scratch her itching knees. And every step seemed more difficult, pulling D’nes and Magda, both of whom lagged behind, until she felt as though she were carrying them. And D’nes was about to cry, she knew it.
She looked behind them. The barn was already filled with light, and a voice cried, “Sir, I found a handkerchief!” Which meant the voices knew they were here, and they would be caught, and their blood would form puddles among the stalks of barley. If I really were Fair Ilona, she thought, I would make the barley grow so that the Turks could not find me. But that’s only a story.
“Margit,” said Judit ahead of her. Even Judit was moving slowly, carrying Deb’ra, who was whimpering and refusing to walk. “What’s that in the trees?”
There was a light among the trees at the edge of the forest. Not like the light of a lantern, but pale and still.
And then, although a dog began barking behind them, which meant that the farmer was awake, Margit stopped and stood among the barley, thinking to herself, can it be true? But D’nes said, “Look, it’s the White Stag.”
He shone like the moon, and he stamped his hoof on the ground as though telling them to hurry.
“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 T?nd’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 T?nd’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—T?nd’r?” It felt strange, speaking English, and Csilla could not use the English word, as Mrs. Martin had done.
“Or related to the T?nd’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 T?nd’r.
There were whispers around her, as the story spread. “Yes,” said Professor Kert’sz, turning to the people around the fire. “Antal Szarvas has been arrested. This is, of course, the worst news I could have for you. But I am also sorry to say that we have been unable to locate his manuscript. We believe there were two copies, his personal copy and another that he was sending us. We searched his apartment after his arrest, but the police had already been there. We found nothing, and we do not know if the second copy was sent. I can’t tell you how sad I am to have a colleague in danger. To have lost Queen Gertr’d’s stories is a double blow. Translating them into English would have been the most significant work of my life.”
“We haven’t lost her stories,” said Mrs. Mad’r.
From the darkness into which she had fallen, Csilla suddenly saw what seemed to her like a flicker of light, bringing her back to the stone she sat on, and the forest. “My grandmother was queen of the T?nd’r?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Mad’r. “Your grandmother was our queen. If she had told you, it would have put you in danger.”
In the blankness of her grief, Csilla thought, I wish people would stop trying to protect me.
Mrs. Mad’r looked at the people around the fire, ordinary people who looked like farmers and teachers and librarians but were, it turned out, not ordinary at all. “This is Csilla Szarvas, Professor Szarvas’ daughter and Queen Gertr’d’s granddaughter. She knows where the second copy of her father’s manuscript is located.” Csilla heard the people around the fire whisper to one another.
“What do you mean?” she said. “I don’t know anything about a second copy. I just know about the one he was typing.”
“Csilla,” said Mrs. Mad’r, “don’t you understand? You are the second copy—or rather the first copy, because what he was typing was really the second. You know all the stories that your grandmother knew—she made sure of that. We couldn’t understand your father’s message—was he sending us his daughter or his manuscript? It turns out he was sending us both.” Mrs. Mad’r put her arm around Csilla’s shoulder. “But don’t think about that right now. Just keep getting stronger. We’ll try to help him, I promise. Even in prison, we’ll try to help him and bring him out. We’ll never stop trying.”
The people around the fire were turning to each other, talking. She heard a pipe begin, and then a drum. But Csilla could not stand, and she could not speak, because her father might be dead already, and who cared about a bunch of stories that were probably, anyway, a bunch of lies? Even the White Stag.
“Csilla, there is someone I want you to meet.” Mrs. Mad’r squeezed her shoulder and then stepped aside.
The woman who stood before her was so small, no taller than Csilla herself, and so slender. Her bones were
