The Sound of Time

'Tick, tock, tick, tock,' The clock made its usual sound. The quiet, subtle, unchanging 'tick, tock.' It was a humble clock. Not cheap, but humble. It hung upon the wall with a swinging brass pendulum. Its frame was of cedar and it's hands of some black metal which could not be identified by its owner, who sat in the dim light staring at it. The old woman who owned the clock dared not rock the chair in which she sat for it was a squeaky old thing. She breathed softly, fearing that the slightest sound would bring that ancient memory, which she so feared, upon her.

There were voices in the dark, echoing, reverberating. But they were all whispers. One voice rose above the others, “get out!” it cried, “get out now!” The old woman's breathing became more rapid. There were gunshots.

An image appeared before her. She shut her eyes but it only became more vivid. A man she recognised ran from a small house carrying a young girl. The streets were crowded. People were fleeing.

There came a rumbling sound above the shouts of the people followed by a loud blast.

“We’ve got to go,” the man cried.

Men filed into the streets, carrying guns and Molotov cocktails.

“We can’t leave now! We’ve got to help them,” she heard herself respond.

“It’s no use! The Soviet’s have the bigger weapons. Now if we can get to Austria-”

“We can’t just go to Austria!” she interrupted. “This is our country, we’ve got to fight for it!”

There were gunshots in the distance.

“We’ve got to go,” the man said sternly.

They were jostled as they entered into the crowds of people in the streets. In the chaos, she got separated from her father. She never saw him again.

“Barbara?”

The woman opened her eyes.

“Can I get you some tea, dear?” her assistant asked.

“Yes, tea would be nice,” Barbara replied slowly.

The assistant nodded and hurried away. Barbara sighed and stared once more at the clock.

When the assistant returned she set the tea on a table next to Barbara’s seat and said, “Your son will be coming by very soon, he told me to tell you. “

Barbara turned towards her and nodded.

“Well I’ll let you be for a bit, dear.” said the assistant.

Barbara nodded again and the assistant shuffled away. Barbara turned back towards the clock and listened to it’s rhythmic ‘tick, tock, tick, tock.’

A voice rose up within her head, speaking loudly and clearly. She shook her head, trying to get rid of the voice, but it persisted. She knew the voice to be that of Imre Nagy, the prime minister of Hungary at the time of the revolution. finally, she gave in and let the words come freely.

“Mom?”

Barbara turned to see her son, relieved that his voice could take the place of the other.

“How are you doing,” he asked as he took a seat, his bushy black eyebrows furrowed.

“Oh, Ok.”

“Still looking at that clock are you?”

“Yes... how’s your work?”

"Not well. They're doing some… reform, they call it. So their downsizing. I think I might lose my job."

“Reform,” Barbara scoffed, “sometimes for the good, sometimes for the worse. You know Imre Nagy wanted to reform communism, but where did that get him? Killed,” she answered her own question, “We didn’t want reformed communism. We wanted something better than communism, still it seemed better than nothing. When we tried to reform, the Soviets slaughtered our people. Luckily I made it to Hungary.”

“Still thinking of it are you?”

Barbara nodded, "this clock never lets me forget it. They were clockmakers you know, my father, and grandfather."

Stephen, Barbara’s son, nodded then said, “Well mom, I’d love to stay and chat but I’ve got an important phone call, hopefully not my last. But I think I’d better take that clock with me, for your own sake.”

She didn't respond but watched as Stephen removed the clock from the wall, said goodbye, and started to leave.

“István,” she called him by his Hungarian name just before he left, “Why are you doing it?”

He turned back to her, “You don’t need to remember. It’s over now. It’s just a memory,” and with that, he turned to go

“Don’t forget your history Stephen,” she called after him, “never forget history.”

Stephen walked out to his car and set the clock in his trunk and started for his house. He arrived just in time for his phone call.

After thirty minutes on the phone, he went back out to his car and opened the trunk to grab the clock. He stared at it for a minute before taking it out. It was a simple yet beautiful clock. He listened to it's ticking as he carried it into his house.

He brought the clock up to the attic, where he opened a dusty cardboard box full of memories of his mother and father, who was Austrian. He stopped the clock and set it in the box before pulling out a dusty book that caught his eye. It was his father's memoir. He flipped through it looking at the different headings. He thought it a pity that there was only ever this one copy made.

He put the memoir back and picked up an old photo. It showed his mother and father in New York City not long after they had immigrated to America. In the background was the Statue of Liberty. He sighed and a tear rolled down his cheek as he looked at it. He sniffed and put the photo back.

He looked once more at the clock he had taken, the brass pendulum, the cedar frame. It was indeed a humble clock, humble yet beautiful. In a way it seemed not to be defined by time; it seemed timeless. It was almost as if it was the timekeeper of the world and all of history. Moved by emotion, he started it up again. It made its usual sound, 'tick, tock, tick, tock.'

"Funny isn’t it,” he said to himself, “the sound that time makes.”