The Dispossessed by Szilard Borbely

Author:Szilard Borbely
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-10-05T04:00:00+00:00

“‘Is the declaration of the majestic Royal High Court—which the noble commission and His Transparency, the Lord Lieutenant, has deigned to sign with his own hand and to uphold with his carmine-hued seal—comprehensible to all? The declaration to which, moreover, the metropolitan of all Romanian subjects of Transylvania has, in his approbation, appended his signature as perfectly accordant with his own will, affixing it with the most excellent carmine-hued seal of the cardinal, prepared from the finest Hungarian wax?’ sounded the voice of the envoy, imperative and impatient.

“Having thus completed his statement, the envoy, shouting ever more threateningly, turned to the village priest Popescu, clothed in full ecclesiastical garb; and who, despite all this, next to the envoy, who was dressed simply but in fine fabrics, looked like a chicken who had fallen into pig swill.

“Popescu was silent.

“‘Has everyone understood what I have said, you priest?’ the envoy asked, shouting. To which Popescu, the father of your great-great-grandfather, meekly replied:

“‘My esteemed sir, the unfortunates hardly know Hungarian, for they are Romanian—’

“‘Well then, that is the problem!’ the envoy shot back. ‘Let them learn! Until then, you translate for them,’ he said, enraged, strongly emphasizing the word you. And the blood just kept on dripping from the seal of the metropolitan raised in captivity, the metropolitan who was never able to leave his bishop’s cage. Sometimes escaped prisoners reached him, bringing him news of dreadful tortures that they could depict only by drawing them in the dirt of the courtyard, for their tongues had been cut out. They showed their wounds to the metropolitan, who just placed his index and middle fingers on the living cicatrices and tore off the pus-covered flesh with his own hands, digging into the scab-encrusted parts while mute tears flowed down his face. Then, later on, when he touched the paper gently with his ring finger, thus ratifying the seal and validating the latest measure against the Romanians, the mute tears cut furrows into his fine skin, protected from the sun.

“And then Popescu, the father of your great-great-grandfather, told his frightened flock that they could no longer speak Romanian, that in the little church they had brought with them they could no longer sing in Romanian the liturgy of Saint John Chrysostom. No longer could the mysterious words of the faith with their hidden meaning resound in the church:

“‘O Heavenly King, the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, Who art everywhere and fillest all things; Treasury of Blessings, and Giver of Life—come and abide in us, and cleanse us of every impurity, and save our souls, O Good One!’

“This was the section that he loved most of all from the text of the liturgy. The secret shall be lost, he thought, for they are taking the words away from the people.

“‘We may no longer say the heavenly liturgy in Romanian.’

“Then, from the people, anguish burst out. They shouted, they lamented, they began to weep.

“In time, the murmuring began to subside. The cold voice of the envoy, his raised hand, silenced the people, commanding a final silence.

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