"Yeah? Well, invite her."

"How can I invite somebody I have never even met?"

Henryk stared at her and for a while they looked each other steadily in the eyes. Then Henryk started to pack. He called Jeff McPherson. The fellow knew at once who was on the line. His characteristic Irish brogue resonated in the receiver. "Hi, Henryk, long time no see. What's new?"

"All sorts, Jeff. Jeff, would you put me up for a couple of nights?"

"Here's the address."

Jeff lived on the winding road up to Buda Castle, on the top floor of a four-story house, also a loft, or as the Americans liked to call it, a penthouse. Seems the Americans love these, thought Henryk as he hauled his gear up four flights, then another level, up the spiral staircase. No elevator.

He enjoyed the welcome drink by the kitchen bar and apologetically confessed that tomorrow they would be joined by Grammy. "Sorry!"

"No sweat! Perhaps she'll make us paprika chicken."

"If she manages to climb up."

"Hey, we'll bring her up ourselves!" Jeff's good mood was a ray of sunshine that lit up the darkest corners of life. By midnight Henryk knew that the flat was Jeff's own, as it was now possible for foreigners to buy property in Hungary. By two in the morning he had heard that Jeff bought and sold property, buying run-down houses, renovating them, and selling them on at a hefty profit. By four in the morning, that Jeff preferred men, but there was no problem, he only went for men like Doug, his partner, who was on a business trip to Romania. "He likes to travel, I don't. We make a good pair."

Black-and-white photos of Doug were everywhere. Doug in the Palatinus Lido. Doug in Venice. Doug at Lake Balaton. Doug in Ibiza. Generally in swimming trunks but at least half-naked. Henryk thought he looked like he imagined his farrier grandfather to be.

They drove out to meet Grammy in Jeff's ivy-green sports car. At the last minute Jeff managed to conjure up a cellophane-wrapped bouquet for the old girl. "I can't help it, flowers are my fatal weakness."

Grammy was bowled over by Jeff. "A fine strapping fellow, your friend!" she whispered to him in Hungarian, so only he understood, from the rumble seat. Her sparse hair was tied in a girlish ponytail and fluttered in the slipstream.

"What does strapping mean?"

"Nice. Decent. Substantial. Don't they say that any more?"

Henryk didn't know.

Jeff made them dinner, Chinese. "Canard laque!" he declared with some ceremony as he whipped the ornate lid off what looked like a silver dish.

Grammy was spellbound. "And what do you do?" she asked Henryk. The conversation was in English.

"I'm in between jobs just now."

"He's joining us," said Jeff with an encouraging smile. "We're in property, that's the going thing at the moment."

Henryk's grandmother left after three weeks, secure in the knowledge that her grandson had rounded the corner. Jeff showed them the country house whose renovation was next on the agenda. The old lady burst into tears. The building reminded her of her childhood in Szekszard. Jeff offered to drive her down to Szekszard, especially as he had never been to the area, but Grammy declined. "There is nothing left there of what's in here," she said, tapping one temple.

Jeff insisted throughout that Henryk was a business partner. As Grammy's plane rose into the sky Henryk thanked him for this white lie. Jeff shook his head. "No lie, sonny Jim, we need new blood ... If it works out, you can have a share in the company ... You'll be working for Doug."

Henryk soon rose in status to partner with the right to vote in the limited liability company, whose name-originally JED (Jeff & Doug)-was for his benefit changed to HEJED, which came out almost as YOURPLACE in English. HEJED made successful property deals not only in Hungary but also in Transylvania and Slovakia. They were especially good at converting medium-size lodges and country houses. Doug, the Canadian giant, proved unequaled in resourcefulness in his dealings with builders and craftsmen, many of whom were scared of him. He bounded about the scaffolding like a mountain goat, in a white plastic helmet bearing the legend EASY.

Jeff negotiated with buyers and did the paperwork, while Henryk's brief was the internal refurbishing. He bought period furniture on his trips around the villages, and had them restored either by experts or, sometimes, with his own hands. He had never derived as much pleasure from any job as came to him from this. He was particularly thrilled by fresh wood shavings and the smell of glue.

In the evening they would sit around at Jeff's (Henryk had moved into a flat of his own a couple of streets away) and drank historic Hungarian wines as they browsed through books and albums of art history. Henryk acquired serious specialist knowledge of furniture, carpets, and especially lamp styles; in the Lamp Museum at Zsambek he was the only regular visitor. The nouveaux riches treated the phone number of HEJED Ltd. as if it were the password to enter the circle of the top hundred thousand.

Henryk's first car in Hungary was a ten-year-old ATV, a Cherokee Jeep, bought from one of Jeff's drinking pals. He gave it a test drive to Pecs. In the county archives he was received much more cordially than he expected; they accept ed his solemn word that he wanted to carry out scholarly research and gave him a temporary reader's ticket. In the place that seemed like a school hall, an elderly archivist attended to the researchers' requests. Henryk confessed to him that he was searching for his ancestors.

"What is the name of the family?"

"Csillag."

"Echt Pecs folk?" Pecs folk?"

Henryk did not understand the word echt echt, and nodded uncertainly.

"What was their line of business?"

"Unfortunately, I don't know."

A few weeks earlier he had visited the state registry in Budapest and on the basis of the date of birth they were able to supply him with a document about his father. Vilmos Csillag, b. Feb. 5, 1950. Father: Dr. Balazs Csillag Vilmos Csillag, b. Feb. 5, 1950. Father: Dr. Balazs Csillag ( (1921), Mother: Mrs. Balazs Csillag, nee Maria Porubszky ( (1929). Both resident in Pecs.

It was this trail that had led him to Pecs. He showed the document to the archivist. He read it carefully and then suggested: "Choose one name, and on the basis of the year of birth, start looking at the year."

"Which should I choose?"

"I would try Dr. Balazs Csillag."

Nothing. Henryk thumbed through 1920 and 1922 as well, just in case ... His hands turned black, but in vain. No sign of grandfather. Or grandmother.

"Are you sure they were born in Pecs?"

"No."

"Because if they were, they must be here. Ah, just a minute, could it be ..." and he leaned closer, almost whispering, "that they were Jews?"

"Yes. Could be."

"You don't know." It sounded like a statement, not a question.

"They have all been dead for many years."

"Fortunately, we hold a certified copy of the Jewish registers, from '49 onwards."

In the Jewish register Henryk at once found Dr. Balazs Csillag-he was born on New Year's Day. Nice, he thought. Every New Year they could drink to the memory of grandfather as well. In the OTHER REMARKS column he found the following note: UB 238/1945. The above-named, on the basis of document number 67/1945 from the First Pecs Parish Office, has this day, August 25, 1945, converted from the Israelite religion to the Roman Catholic faith UB 238/1945. The above-named, on the basis of document number 67/1945 from the First Pecs Parish Office, has this day, August 25, 1945, converted from the Israelite religion to the Roman Catholic faith.

He read it over four times, word by word, before he managed to fully grasp its meaning. The old archivist leaned over from the far side of the narrow table, their heads almost meeting above the brick of a book. He lowered his wizened finger onto the rubric. "To be quite honest, I have never seen such a note in a register of births."

"So this means my grandfather was a Jew at first, but then later he ..." He did not complete the sentence.

"The family suffered a lot in the hard times, didn't they?"

"That's just it ... I don't know. I don't know anything about it! Let me try Maria Porubszky."

"Go ahead."

No Maria Porubszky.

"It seems she was born elsewhere," said the archivist.

"So that's it, is it?"

Henryk's American accent made the old archivist smile. This hurt Henryk and so he did not ask his questions, though to some of them he might have received a reply. The archivist suspected that the young man should head for the Jewish cemetery, for if a family is from Pecs, there is a chance of finding an uncle or two or a great-grandparent, and if he were to return with a year found engraved on the gravestone, he might have more luck in his search. But in America Henryk had been brought up to do things himself and he did not ask for advice. He managed to reach the Jewish cemetery anyway, though he had set off for the main cemetery. At the office there he was told that they could check the old registers for his Csillags only if he knew the exact dates of death.

"Take a look in the Jewish cemetery!" suggested one of the officials.

He had trouble finding it and twice drove past it in his Cherokee Jeep. The entrance was up a narrow side street: an iron gate painted black in the middle of a yellow brick fence with a handwritten sign in pencil: RING LONG AND HARD! He did so, but no one came. He returned some hours later to find the gate wide open.

Dr. Balazs Csillag, Maria Porubszky, he kept repeating the words to himself, like the first line of a prayer. Will they be here?

My grandfather was a Jew but he did not want to be. Because the Jews were persecuted here during the war. But the war ended on August 25, 1945. What is the point of becoming a Roman Catholic then, if he remained a Jew all the way through the dangerous times? I don't understand.Another question presents itself. Does this mean my father was a Jew? And that I am a Jew as well? At the Jewish Community office they said that it was the mother that counts. My mother was half Indian, half Hungarian. Jeff says Grammy is highly suspect, a Steiner, particularly a Rachel, is obviously Jewish. Grammy says no, she says a farrier could not be Jewish and was more likely to be a Swabian, that is to say, a German settled in Hungary. But then why would a German family have to flee from here? I don't understand this either.According to the archivist, just because someone was a Roman Catholic, he or she could easily have been a Jew. Confusing. He says those who converted were nonetheless hounded by the Arrow Cross ( (Nazis). So in the end what am I, with all these ancestors? Indian, Swabian, certainly Jewish, perhaps Jewish, converted Jewish, and of course America is in there too ... A cocktail. A genuine, proper, thoroughly shaken cocktail.How great it would be to know what happened when I was not yet born. How great it would be if once, just once, I could look into the past. How great it would be if I could fly back on the Back to the Future Back to the Future time machine! But it cannot be, everyday life is not like Hollywood time machine! But it cannot be, everyday life is not like Hollywood.But it's truly a tale of adventure, this disappearance of my father without a trace. All that's certain is that he flew back to the U.S., as they found his name on a Swissair passenger list. And that's all. At the Federal Bureau of Investigation they said that he probably left for a new life in another state, perhaps in another country, Mexico, or somewhere in South America, presumably under another name, so he would be impossible to trace country, Mexico, or somewhere in South America, presumably under another name, so he would be impossible to trace.It's a shame and thoroughly reprehensible that my father took the entire history of our family with him, into the void. He lost it. I'd like to find it. I've opened a new file, with the name "Father et cetera," and I'm copying into it everything that I can find out about our family. I will print out several copies. At least what little we know should not be lost. So that if I ever have a child, I can hand it to him. Or her. He ( (or she) should not have to start from scratch should not have to start from scratch.

Pecs cemetery seemed neglected, with most of the gravestones standing at drunken angles. Henryk was not sure if it was appropriate to enter in jeans, Teva sandals, and Ray-Bans, and he went in timidly. He tried to read the German (Yiddish) and Hungarian inscriptions, the Hebrew characters he could only caress. Isn't there some office here, with someone to help? The building next to the entrance, several stories high, had all its doors closed. The steps at the back suggested a flat: a baby's bath and a rocking horse indicated that there were small children here. What can it be like to grow up in a cemetery-a Jewish cemetery?

He set off at random down one of the rows. He knew that Dr. Balazs Csillag was born in 1921 and his wife Maria Porubszky in 1929. The question was: when did they die?

He paused at those graves where he could read the names.

Ignac Koller and his wife Hedy.

Bela Weiss. Robert Weiss. Alexander Weiss. Izabella Weiss. Vilma Weiss.

Albert Weiss and his wife Aranka Skorka.

Lipot Stern.

Mihaly Stern.

Jozsef Stern.

Dr. Jeno Schweizer and Judit Wieser.

Imre Walser.

Mate Rotj.

Mojzes Roth and Eszter Holatschek.

Erno Moohr.

Miksa Straub.

Otto Rusitschka.

And ... his head was reeling ... the vault of the Csillag family!

Two structures the size of phone booths rose high above all the others, with a cupola recalling the Turkish dome of the church in the main square of Pecs. Unbelievable! ... These are my ancestors! he thought. He began to perspire.

Here lay Dr. Antal Csillag, who died in 1933, Dr. Bencze Csillag, died 1904, Dr. Ervin Csillag, died 1877.

Heavens! Here they are! His knees shook. It was plain that Dr. Antal Csillag was the father of Dr. Balazs Csillag, Antal's father was Dr. Bencze Csillag, and the latter's father was Dr. Ervin Csillag. Fantastic! He scribbled down the names. Doctors? Or lawyers, like grandfather? And where are the wives? Perhaps all will be revealed in the archives.

Only as he was leaving did he notice a grassy area, the size of a small garden in the corner by the entrance, where a row of gray gravestones of uniform size and shape stood, leaning against the fence. They seemed very old: the wind, the rain, the snow had all but worn them smooth. By the side there was a metal plate, like a road sign: BEREMEND. He had no idea what that could mean. I'll ask someone. He wrote it down, otherwise he'd forget. He stood a long time on the parched grass. The afternoon began to smell ever more sweet. The buzzing of the wild bees tickled his eardrums.

"You staying?"

An old woman, brightly dressed, was standing behind him, a faded muslin kerchief tied about her head, a worn pair of clogs on her feet. Henryk did not understand.

"Excuse me?"

"Because I would like to lock up."

"Oh, right ..." and he moved to go.

"No rush, mind!" said the old woman barring his way. "Stay as long as you like."

"Please could you tell me what is Beremend?"

"Beremend?" The old woman blinked fiercely as if caught out doing something naughty.

Henryk pointed to the metal sign.

"Ah, Beremend! That's a village, not far from Pecs, further down."

"What's the sign doing here?"

"Dunno really. I was doing them a favor ... They left the key with me while they all went off to a wedding in Baja."

"Well, thank you," said Henryk and went out into the street.

The old woman followed him and immediately locked the iron gate from outside. "Farewell."

He hurried back to the archives but there was no trace in the parish registers of Dr. Antal Csillag, or of Dr. Bencze Csillag, or of Dr. Ervin Csillag.

"Doesn't prove anything," said the archivist. "There are always documents gone astray. If I were you, I'd believe the gravestones."

From Pecs Henryk drove to a little village in County Somogy, where Jeff and Doug were waiting for him in a camper van, with a celebratory meal. They ate in the open air. Henryk gave a detailed account of how far he had got.

The HEJED Co. had bought two run-down properties in County Somogy. Jeff had already secured firm buyers for them. In Somogyvamos it seemed virtually impossible to imagine that in place of the ruins heavily used by the cooperative there could arise a country house similar to that of the original owners, the Windisch family, in the eighteenth century. This family of Austrian nobles had put down roots in several areas of Hungary; in Somogyvamos there lived one of the more impoverished branches. What remained of their shrinking lands had been taken over in 1950 by the Red Star Agricultural Cooperative: the grander rooms were used as offices, while the outhouses became grain stores. Since the dissolution of the cooperative it had stood derelict, the weeds waist-high in almost every room.

Henryk had not lost any of the impetus he had gained in Pecs and early in the evening he walked to the village cemetery. He passed under the rusting curlicues of the sign RESURREXIT! and began to examine the crosses and the gravestones. The better-off families had had monuments raised to them here that he thought were large enough to live in. Mechanically, his ran his eyes over the names. The most monumental crypt, almost a mausoleum, housed the dead of the Counts Windisch and the family Illes.

As the sun disappeared behind the hills, the air turned gradually colder. Henryk had the curious notion that he would lie down on one of the bed-shaped crypts to see if he could sense the presence of the dead at rest beneath him, or the presence of death itself. Newly planted trees lined the path, their branches arching over him. As the evening breeze brushed through the trees their leaves touched and sighed. Woolly clouds flitted across the sky. Henryk closed his eyes and not for the first time felt how the majesty and beauty of nature could actually hurt. He imagined what it might be like when you could not experience even this. If you cease to exist in this world. What becomes of you? Where do you go? If anywhere ...

"Biro?" queried a woman's voice, obviously pleased.