Layers

Zary Fekete

Gabor’s knuckles rapped against the Lakatos’s door, the sound swallowed by thick wood. Behind him, his mother shifted the cake plate… a dense dobos torta layered with caramel and chocolate… her knuckles white around the edges. Shoes shuffled behind the door, a chain rattled, and Mrs. Lakatos appeared, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. She clucked like a hen, ushering them into the dim foyer with brisk, practiced warmth.

"Köszönöm, köszönöm," she murmured, taking the cake. Her fingers brushed Gabor’s mother’s sleeve… a fleeting touch that spoke of shared history Gabor couldn’t access. The apartment smelled of wax polish and stewed plums, undercut by the faint medicinal scent of old age. Mrs. Lakatos lived on the first floor; Gabor and his mother on the third, directly above the old man’s bedroom where he’d taken his last breath yesterday.

Gabor had known it was coming. For weeks, the building’s rhythm had changed… the nightly coughs through the vents grew fainter, the elevator groaned less under Mr. Lakatos senior’s Sunday visits to church. At 98, his death was less a tragedy than a tired conclusion. Still, when his mother came home yesterday, her coat still damp from the autumn mist, her voice had wavered: "Apa Lakatos meghalt."

Gabor had stared at his calculus homework. "Do we have to go?"

"Igen. We’ll take a cake."

Now, in the overcrowded living room, Gapor regretted his compliance. Ten faces turned toward them… all etched with lines deeper than his mother’s, all belonging to people who’d watched him grow from a Cleveland-raised outsider to a lanky gimnázium student. He was the building’s sole under-55 resident, a fact that felt like a neon sign above his head.

His mother joined the fekete szoknyák, the black skirts, by the window. They clustered like crows, their voices a low hum. Gabor accepted a porcelain cup of tea, the heat seeping through the thin china. Outside, Bartók Street glittered under streetlamps. Number 26 stood proudly despite its scars: Art Nouveau curlicues framing windows, bullet holes from ’56 still pocking the facade like acne scars.

"A hatalmas orosz tank… a huge Russian tank," one woman murmured, her knobby finger tapping the glass. "Came through the alley, gun pointed right at Erzsébet’s balcony."

"For an hour, drágám! An hour!"

"Nem, not an hour… ten minutes, maybe. But, enough to send us scrambling to the bomb cellar."

Gabor sipped his tea. The country had breathed revolution. His grandfather had fled during those same October days… smuggled himself onto a Vienna-bound train with nothing but a knapsack and a borrowed prayer book. He’d settled in Cleveland, married a Polish girl, and spoken Hungarian only in dreams. Gabor’s mother had returned three years ago for a banking job, dragging her resentful son back to a homeland he’d only known from paprikás recipes and faded photos.

Why here? Gabor had demanded when they’d first moved in. His mother had gestured to the high ceilings and parquet floors. "It’s real history, Gabi. Not like those concrete blocks in Újpalota."

Now, history pressed in from all sides. He drifted toward a gallery of black-and-white photos crowding the wall. Mrs. Lakatos stared back at him through decades: a gap-toothed child in braids (1938), a bride stiff in lace (1955), a young mother cradling a baby (1961). In each frame, Mr. Lakatos senior hovered at the edges… a mustached shadow growing gaunter with time. The final photo showed him two months prior, dwarfed by an armchair, a birthday cake like a tiny island before him. His eyes were milky, unfocused.

Gabor’s throat tightened. He remembered passing the old man in the stairwell last winter—how Mr. Lakatos had gripped the banister, each step a conquest, and rasped, "Fiatalember, segíts." Gabor had supported his papery arm, smelling camphor and decay, and walked him to his door. The memory felt like trespassing.

He set down his cup. Near the hallway, layers of newspapers rose like miniature sky scrapers. They lined both walls, chronological sentinels marching backward in time. The top papers were yellowed but intact; deeper down, the newsprint crumbled like dried leaves.

Curiosity tugged him. He slipped into the hallway, running a finger along the nearest stack… Budapesti Hírlap, 1990. Headlines shouted about change, democracy, hope. Further back: 1978, a report on the New Economic Mechanism; 1965, Kádár’s bland smile. The air grew denser, dust motes dancing in the weak light.

At the hallway’s end, the oldest stack leaned precariously. Gabor knelt, gingerly extracting a brittle issue from the bottom. November 5, 1956. The front page showed young people marching down a boulevard he didn’t recognize. Their sign, hand-painted, read "HELPT HONGARY." Their faces were alight… not with fear, but a fierce, almost reckless joy.

"Apa’s archives," Mrs. Lakatos’s voice came softly. She stood holding a tray of empty cups, her gaze on the newspaper in Gabor’s hands. "He saved every one. Even those ones." She pointed to the one in his hand.

Gabor flushed. "I’m sorry…"

"Nem baj." She set down the tray, her knuckles swollen with arthritis. "He’d be glad someone looked. Even if it’s just before we throw them out."

"Throw them out?"

"Fire hazard." She shrugged, but her eyes lingered on the photograph. "That march was in London. Papa had cousins there. They sent him the paper."

Gabor studied the eager faces. "Did they ever come back? After the revolution?"

Mrs. Lakatos’s laugh was a dry leaf rustling. "No. They opened a butcher shop in Hampstead. Became English." She touched the edge of the newspaper. "Papa kept this to remember... not the politics. The people. The ones who tried to help."

A memory surfaced: Gabor’s grandfather in his Cleveland kitchen, rolling töltött káposzta while the TV droned in English. "We were ghosts to them," he’d muttered once, stabbing a cabbage leaf. "Freedom fighters? No. We were just hungry."

"Gabor?" His mother appeared, her hand gentle on his shoulder. "We should go."

Mrs. Lakatos clasped his mother’s hand. "Köszönöm a tortát, Éva. And, thank you... for bringing the boy."

Outside, the night air bit Gabor’s cheeks. He stared up at their building… its ornate cornices, its stubborn bullet holes.

"What did Mrs. Lakatos mean?" he asked as they climbed the stairs. "About the newspapers?"

His mother paused on the landing. "Mr. Lakatos lived through two wars and a revolution in this building. Those papers... they were his witness. His proof he’d survived."

In their apartment, Gabor went to the balcony. Below, the courtyard lay empty. He imagined a Soviet tank grinding through the archway, the terrified faces at windows. He thought of the young marchers in London, their misspelled sign hoisted high. He thought of his grandfather, boarding a train with a fake passport.

History wasn’t a single narrative. It was layers… like those newspapers. Like the photos on Mrs. Lakatos’s wall. Like the scars on their building’s face.

He touched the cold railing. For the first time, he wondered what layers he’d leave behind.

Published in Issue No. 12, Somnia et Charta, October 1st, 2025.

Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social