Freedom

Krisztina Janosi

 

I am staring at the letter, still in the envelope. No need to open it, I know what’s inside. The world goes blank, and my heart sinks. My brain switches off, and I am gazing into nothing, into the empty space. Into the world around me that became all gray within a second. The carpet, the shelves, the cabinets, the window, the street, the noise, the silence. The same apartment I grew up in, the same two little rooms, the same air, the same atmosphere. Everything is the same, yet two worlds apart.

At the age of 47, I am still living in the little apartment, in an old house built well before the world wars. My father bought it in the early days of his career as a craftsman in the big city. My grandfathers, grandmothers, their fathers and mothers lived in rural family houses, even had a vineyard somewhere nearby. To past generations, these vineyards fully served their purpose, which was to produce wine for the family. But, my father and his peers, working in industry, could no longer maintain this state of affairs, yet they still felt they needed land, because their fathers and grandfathers had held some, so they also had to as well, without ever questioning this tradition. However, my dad, having moved up to the capital, a metropolis, could only find reasonably priced land nearby that had not only grapes, but mostly peach trees. It must have been very very reasonably priced; it was a long and narrow plot, on a slight hill, without water or electricity, or that said, any amenities. Public transport was – and still is – scarce at the place, yet my dad spent all his free time on that piece of land.

In retrospect, he must have actually found a purpose, which was to escape from us, the family. All other land-owner neighbors had somewhat adapted to big city life, and had not much intention to use their land “as intended,” in other words, to work their asses off on it. Rather, they much preferred to look at it as a space for recreation, where they should have a small weekend house with green grass, folding chairs, camping tables and all. Not my dad. He was diligently working away after his shift in the factory. We could never go on vacation because he didn’t want to leave the trees without irrigation, or it was time to harvest the tomatoes, peaches, or whatever else was ready to harvest. One year he crashed his car, a cornflower blue Wartburg, and because we were pretty much at the end of the company waiting list for qualifying for a car, that year we just did without. We transported the peaches to the small grocery store in buckets by bus. And not just by one bus. We had to take at least three to get to the store from that godforsaken land. As a kid, I just hated the whole thing.

When my friends talked about Balaton, the so-called Hungarian Sea, at the time a not very clean lake about a two-hour ride from Budapest, where we lived, I just sat there, biting my lips, and imagining what it could be like, knowing that if it were up to my parents, I would never ever see it. The first time I could finally soak my feet in it was the summer when I turned 12, on a school trip. I’ll never forget the strange feeling of the lakebed sand under my feet, the wooden fishing boats and the noisy crowd of East German tourists.

Not that I’d be better off now, I don’t have a car either. Today, for me it’s not that big of a deal, as the only place I go is the city, where public transport is just fine. In fact, the only place I go is the school where I teach primary-school kids. Better said, I’m trying to teach them, as more and more often I think there is just no point. I am starting to lose hope, which is a miserable feeling. But times are changing. I am getting older and older, and have less and less tolerance for the abnormal. I remember the time when I was fresh out of college.

I was so enthusiastic. I loved teaching and I loved the children. In my first class, I had almost only cute kids. Even the worst little guy was better than they come nowadays. In that class, one of the little boys always broke his hand; it was almost continuously in a cast. Another student, a little girl, had a baby sister with spina bifida, and her mum was very much distracted. I tried to help this kid a lot, and she was so grateful for it. Then there was this girl whose mum died. She lived with her father, who supposedly abused her. My heart went out to her. She had trouble with the simplest math and reading exercises, but I just could not give up on her. I still cry when I think of her.

This is the past now, however. The enthusiasm, the love and the urge to save everybody and make everything perfect is long gone. I had class after class, did what I could for the students, and all of a sudden, I realized my spirit was gone. Surely, it hadn’t disappeared, but I couldn’t recall how it faded into nothing.

This class I have now, in these four years, started out as any other class. It was a group of nice enough little six-year-olds. When you get your new first graders, you jump in it with slightly unrealistic hopes and dreams. Then, in the first few days, reality sets in, and you can already tell which kids will be trouble. This class had a fair share, too, but it wasn’t awful, and as time progressed, I slowly eased into a routine with them. More or less, they followed my instructions, making average progress in math, reading and writing. A tranquil, almost boring period followed.

Now I have this class for the third year, which means they are third-graders. In the second year I got two gypsy students, and from then on, hell broke loose. Not that I held anything against gypsies. I am okay with them on public transport, on the beach and so on, but teaching their kids is another matter. These two gypsy boys were older than the rest of the class. Probably, they had to repeat the previous grades before. But my school is an integrated school, and as integrated schools go, they take everybody from everywhere, which is supposed to be politically correct and something to be proud of, but, in reality, I am unbelievably tired of these troublesome kids. I feel terribly sorry for them, but it doesn’t make them less difficult. Now, problem children are either from a poor family, with troubled parents, or from a very wealthy one, getting everything they want, but nothing they really need. These gypsy boys were obviously from the former group: Their family was trouble; they were trouble. At the age of ten and eleven, I just found them hopeless. This makes me sad, but nothing I tried with them worked. During breaks, they would terrorize the other kids. The other day they hung another boy on the coat pegs by his hoodie. Once, one of them outright pressed another boy to the wall, and grabbed his throat. As it turned out, a similar incident was the very reason he was kicked out of his previous school. This upset the parents of the other kids, and I was called to the principal’s office.

To my relief, the principal didn’t intend to punish me. On the contrary. She – still a remnant from the old Communist era – dismissed the parents’ charges as a lie, and took the stance that this should and absolutely must not be escalated. Given the lack of expertise and empathy, dealing with it was no option either, so the only possible course of action was to sweep it under the rug. Though she saved my job with this attitude, it still fills me with hatred for the school, for her, and for the whole system. I was left without help, and felt like I was fighting a never-ending battle with these poor gypsy boys and the parents of the other kids.

Everybody is a miserable victim in this story. At times, outrage takes over, and I feel like I should slap everybody in the face: the gypsy boys, the parents, the principal, the guys supervising the principal, the ministry workers, the local government, right up to the MPs and the ministers. But that would just make me an outcast, send me to court, possibly prison, so it was no use. The best I can currently do is to switch to survival mode. I no longer care about making things better. I only want to keep my job until retirement. I don’t have much time to go, exactly one year, which means this is my last class. I want to do it right…

Every day after school, I walk down to the park and get on the yellow, Czechoslovakian-made tram that takes me to Széll Kálmán square. I used to hate this place when I was young. Back then it was called Moscow square, always full of lowlifes looking for trouble, but also, teeming with working-class residents hurrying and minding their own business, like people in big cities usually do. The enormous socialist-realist-style subway station also gave shelter to the homeless, to the Transylvanian crones trying to sell their handmade goods, the newsagent, and, in front of it, by the huge clock in the middle of the square, unemployed day laborers would loiter in the hope of finding jobs in construction or other, equally low-prestige, yet cash-paying areas. I get off the tram. Nowadays, the square is a little quieter, or I have just gotten used to the hustle and bustle over the years. It’s still a hub for working-class public transport commuters, and some street musicians scattered across it continue to make their music in the hope of some change. One corner has been taken over by an old, bearded homeless guy with an accordion, on which he is usually playing a terrible rendering of children’s songs. But playing terrible music is not only for hobos, and is sometimes balanced out. In the other corner, on a sidewalk island, as we say, a young, student-like fellow is entertaining the crowds with a dulcimer. This sounds way better. Sometimes I even throw some change in the case he puts out.

The spacious subway station is now empty, only a ticket machine and a bakery stand are allowed. The whole square has been refurbished lately, but to be honest, as opposed to the expectations the construction’s PR triggered in the ordinary citizen, this extensive renovation didn’t improve much about its appearance. I just hate it that contemporary architecture design is so minimalist that I can’t help comparing it to the old ways of socialist realism. Before reconstruction, everything was concrete-grey, and after reconstruction, voila, everything is raw-concrete-grey. To break the monotonous colorlessness, some flowerbeds are built right next to the tram stations, and, on the concrete edges of those flowerbeds, some crazy little brass snail sculptures are meant to entertain people. From a distance, they pretty much look like dog-pooh, so they most probably serve the purpose adequately. As I later found out, they are the work of an underground artist named Mihály Kolodko, who, for some reason, scattered his otherwise cute little sculptures everywhere around town. Some of them are of popular old-timers like this handyman goat from an old puppet series, or another little one from a commercial store advertisement. Some others are mini copies of heroes or famous people, real guerilla art. I am passing one of these tiny sculptures as I go alongside the tram station right to the other corner of the square. I am walking to the little apartment my dad bequeathed me. It is on Margaret Boulevard, the largest road in District II, home of the rich and famous.

This particular neighborhood is not very luxurious. In fact, it’s rather the opposite. The smoke from cars, trucks and buses settles in the street, which is basically a valley between Rózsadomb and Castle Hill, and accommodates mostly Chinese shops, Turkish kebab buffets, filthy pubs, second-hand shops on the ground floors of the old, five- or six-level, turn-of-the-century style, yellow-painted buildings. The long, circle-shaped tram line traversing the entire city also has a few stops in the area, attracting all sorts of people from all over the place, and these crowds don’t help the problem of cleanliness or noise either. In the summer, the valley traps the heat, and combined with the smog, this makes the air unbreathable. Right where the avenue branches off of Széna Square, which is directly adjacent to Széll Kálmán Square, there is an air quality meter. I seriously wondered how the indicator could ever get in the green zone at first. The initial surprise I had when I first found out that the air quality was still good disappeared, when, after a few weeks of monitoring, the meter didn’t reach the red zone once.

My apartment is on the second floor. There is no elevator, so I have to climb the stairs. The view from my living room is supposed to make up for this inconvenience. It faces the street and the fountain on the opposite side, somewhat higher up, at the foot of the hill. However, this is all I can list off as an apartment amenity. The small kitchen and an even smaller bathroom render the place unfit for families to live in. And by family, I mean only one kid and a parent.

Whoever designed these apartments should really try to live in them. I am alone now. My kids have all moved out. Yet I still can’t find the room for my stuff. I remember when my children were little and they needed help in the shower. I always had to tell them to only go to the bathroom one by one. With two kids in that small room, it was just impossible to reach for the towel without bumping into somebody or something. When my ex-husband still lived with us, it was even worse. In retrospect, it was a mistake to move into such a small place with him. Or to move in with him at all. Our everyday struggles left their mark on our marriage. After a few years, I just couldn’t handle it anymore and told him to leave.

It wasn’t until he finally found a job abroad that he left us. He got one in Manchester, as a warehouse worker, but it was better than nothing. In fact, this idea seemed so much better that I even paid the fee the agency ripped us off on just for arranging the job and, allegedly, accommodations. When he got to the address in the middle of the night, of course nobody was waiting for him, and when they let him in after a few phone calls, the situation didn’t improve much either. For a couple nights he slept on a bed without a mattress, in a mildewy little hole, but then, with my initial financial support, he finally found his place – both literally, figuratively and job-wise. Although he did dump the warehouse after a week or so for a better position, and went on from there. Following a few escapades, he managed to continue his career in aviation.

Meanwhile, my struggles, instead of disappearing, only materialized in a different form. In one way, it became much easier; in another, a lot harder. There were no more fights between us, and fewer with the kids, and even financially, things improved. The whole situation unfolded at a time when I was still enthusiastic about teaching. Besides school, I gave private classes to children, sometimes even adults, in various subjects, which I actually enjoyed a lot. But it came at a price. My own kids started to grow wild, and by the time I took notice, it was too late. One morning, when I realized my little teeny-tiny boy not yet in his terrible twos had started to use the four-letter word, I fell into despair. I took it as a sign. I knew I had to act before they got out of control, or later, when they grew even wilder, would end up incarcerated for some stupid petty crime. I was most probably overreacting, and in retrospect, it was a little stupid of me to even think of such a possibility. When your kids are young, you just don’t know anything about parenting.

I dropped some of the private classes, picked the little bastards up earlier from pre-school and nursery, and tried to pay more attention to those little things that made them happy, however silly they were. I actually did my best to patiently explain what was right and what was wrong, and it started to show, but then my income dropped. Not much time elapsed before we found ourselves in a financial predicament. I started to have trouble keeping up with everyday expenses, food, bills, toys, extra classes. As the years went by, this constant struggle turned into a sort of part of my existence. When it became obvious that, without private lessons, I wouldn’t be able to afford their skating and soccer lessons, I gave more private lessons. I worked hard at home, and hard at my job. Balancing the two wasn’t easy, but I put on my iron helmet, and fought day in day out.

Then this offer came. One of my former private students asked whether I could issue some invoices to him, without the actual teaching. He’d pay me ten percent of the value. I didn’t hesitate much. It was free money after all. I needed to grab every opportunity that made life even a little bit easier. At first it was only one or two invoices a year, and I didn’t think much of it. By the fourth or fifth year, however, he got the hang of it. And all of a sudden I found myself overbilling about a million. At this point I got goosebumps. It was too much. I told him I couldn’t do it any longer. Anyway, I wanted to switch tax schemes. I had found a better one, but registering for that one meant I had to quit fake bills, as the taxes were progressive. From then on, I preferred skipping invoices to issuing fake ones. Either way, I was somehow cheating on taxes. Really, no big deal, everybody does that to some extent. Where there is poverty, people will do anything to escape the burden, and not because they want to cheat so much, but because they just want to provide for their families. I don’t remember when it became a social culture, but by now it had certainly become a dominant part of it. All my life, I had struggled with finances. I just couldn’t make enough to have a decent house, a decent car, travel and so on. And, as I was convinced that this was due to the government’s cruel policies, I had never felt any remorse for this little wrongdoing. I never thought I would be caught anyway, I was too small of a fish for that, but still, every now and then, the thought crossed my mind: What would prison be like?

So, here I am in my dad’s apartment. I have taken my shower, fixed some dinner and just slumped into an old armchair, holding a book. Normally I would go for a relaxing jog to Margaret Island. Running helps me tune out for a little while. I can finally forget about my miserable life. When I am out there, in nature, I feel like I am a human, like I belong here. Before nature, everybody is equal. No matter if you are missing an arm or a leg, are blind, deaf, poor or just have suicidal thoughts in your head, nature is there for you. The skies are the same blue for everybody, the trees give just as much shade for the rich and the poor, and when you just want to sit on a rock out there on a hill, the rock welcomes you, no matter who you are. I never get tired of being out there, summer or winter, always beautiful. When I step out of the apartment building, I am full of expectations already, I don’t even care that running is tiring. I jog alongside the smoggy Margaret Boulevard, then run up the yellow-railed bridge, which, in crossing the Danube, branches off right in the middle to Margaret Island. That part is liberating, and I love the way it gives me the momentum for the rest of my run. I’d pass the bicycle rentals and the huge, music-playing fountain, the green meadows, the mini-zoo with the sad-looking deer, huge storks and wild ducks. Soon I would approach the once fancy, but nowadays rather pathetic yet still expensive hotel on one side, turn around at the foot of Árpád Bridge on the northern edge of the island, and continue along the other side behind the always crowded Palatinus spa stretching along almost half of the area, and the swimming pool and athletic center rather close by the Margaret Bridge. I’d run up on the sloping branch again, then down the main bridge to the Buda side, and soon I’d be home.

But not today. Today I’m not going anywhere, because I found this letter in my mailbox. It must be a fine, a subpoena, or, worst-case scenario, just a notification of prison time. I should open it, but I can’t find the courage. I slowly reach for the knife. With trembling hands, I cut the envelope open. I’m pulling the letter out. My heart skips a beat as I unfold the white A4.

I remember the day when, sitting in an armchair with a book, in my bathrobe, I heard a knock on the door. As my daughter and my son had moved out, I didn’t receive many visitors. I was getting excited. Who could that be? Maybe a neighbor telling me that I had forgotten my keys in the door… which had happened a lot lately. I am getting forgetful and maybe even old. I got up from the comfy armchair and opened the door to see two serious guys in suits. I didn’t even try to disguise my surprise. When they introduced themselves and said they are from the tax administration, I still couldn’t believe it. What it could be, only dawned on me when they said they wanted to see my accounting records. All of them.

At this point, I started to sweat. I didn’t know what they knew, so I had no idea whether to worry about the fake bills or the skimped bills. And on top of this, I had absolutely no clue where I had put those books or my invoice copies. I had deleted the invoicing program years ago, exactly five years after I quit giving private lessons. I was desperately searching for the books and invoices I still might have had in print. I was also looking for the Excel tables I either still had or had deleted long ago, I had no clue. The men in black suits just stood there menacingly, towering over the small desk I somehow still had, but only to hold my laptop. If only I had known where my bills were. No voice was coming out of my throat and I handed them the folder with the printed ones, my hands trembling. I knew that the ones they were looking for were not in there, and I was crossing my fingers that they would not ask for more. They started scrutinizing them, kept asking which transaction entailed what, who was the client, how I found them, etc. Then they asked for the books I had to maintain. But to be frank, I had never been good at that stuff, so they would certainly find some discrepancies. They had never checked me before, and I always thought they only wanted to catch the big-time offenders, not me. Really, what would they have wanted from me? Oh, please, please, don’t find anything wrong, I don’t want to go to jail. Deep inside I was praying, begging for mercy, but they just kept on reviewing those papers, talking to each other about all sorts of discrepancies they had found, looking for signs of a crime I was most probably guilty of. Finally, they looked up from the records, took my papers, and left.

And now, I have their verdict. I am skimming through the first sentences, facts, findings, figures. The ink on the paper becomes smudged, the noises distant, the world around me fades to black. I’m losing my balance, my feet turn into jelly. The world around me disappears and …

When I come to myself, I don’t know where I am. Slowly I recognize the table, the chairs, the letter. I am lighting a match, hold the letter above it and watch as the flame burns the corner of the paper. I feel incredible calmness as the fire eats up the whole thing, and I know that whatever they wrote, it will not keep me hostage. Once and for all, I am free.