The Budapest Protocol (12 page)

Here everyone is sick, feverish, and the doctors can do nothing. Still our communal kitchens keep operating, and distribute meagre food supplies: bread made of flour and sawdust and sometimes a thin stew of peas or beans. But our teeth are loose in our mouths and we cough and spit blood. They call this illness the Ukrainian disease, but its name doesn’t matter. There is no medicine to cure us. The only cure is the Red Army
.

The start of a new year. I heard today that a gold watch will buy a lump of rotten horsemeat. A man with a packet of cigarettes is a millionaire. The rats are becoming fatter and no longer fear us. A few brave ones amongst us still venture out under the ghetto gates through the sewers into the city, and bring us back news of how Budapest is slowly dying. I too used to sneak out by bribing the Arrow Cross guards, but they have been sent to the front. Their replacements are even worse, political commissars, true believers in their leader Ferenc Szalasi’s madness and there is no dealing with them. So now I sit and wait. We know not what terrible fate they have planned for us when the Russians advance into the city. There are rumours that the Arrow Cross will torch the whole ghetto, with us trapped inside. We have a few weapons, guns, stolen pistols and a rifle or two. We have pledged to die fighting, as our fellow Jews fought in Warsaw. At least now we all shelter and starve together, Jew and gentile
.

Today I received a present: a piece of bread. It arrived courtesy of the SS, in a roundabout way. Someone knocked on the cellar door, quite politely, about 11.00am. In the doorway stood a man in SS uniform, smart black jacket and trousers, even a cap perched on his head with the twin flashes, holding three loaves. Then a strange thing happened. The SS officer smiled. The woman next to me jumped up, sobbing and laughing with joy. “Don’t worry, don’t worry everybody. It’s my husband, my husband.” They embraced, and she kept saying his name, “Laszlo, Laszlo.” She had last heard from him six months before when he was serving with the Hungarian army in Romania.

Our great generals have lost whole armies, but he had survived. He walked back, travelling by night, sleeping by day, for six weeks, and somehow crossed the Russian front-lines. A friendly SS officer – can such a creature exist – had drafted him as his driver, and even given him, a Jew, a Nazi uniform. A privilege to wear such fine clothes, and the Arrow Cross does not bother him. But then, as I know myself, strange things happen in war. I made the bread last as long as possible, for it was a taste from another world, a reminder of breakfasts served on Meissen china, of fresh pastries and strong, hot coffee in our dining room at home on Andrassy Avenue. I have heard that the SS has requisitioned it. Antal Noludi too is quartered there, the former manager of the Farkas steel works on Csepel Island, to whom my father gave trusteeship. The mills and factory are gone from us forever, that much I know. But I would surrender them willingly just to know the fate of my parents.

Alex sat back trying to digest what he had read, leafing through his grandfather’s testimony with a kind of awe. The faded ink, the thin wartime paper only served to highlight the power of Miklos’ words. He walked over to the window and stepped out onto the balcony. It was a cold and blustery winter day, pedestrians wrapped up in hats and scarves against the wind blowing in off the Danube. He felt the air buffet him, as he watched a well-dressed family emerge from a Ford estate car, mother and father in their Sunday best, two young children in hand. The mother carried a bunch of flowers, and a parcel of cakes, carefully wrapped in dark green paper and topped with a ribbon. A Budapest Sunday lunchtime, a Mittel-European snapshot, following family rituals established over a century ago. Take away the new cars and modern shop signs, and the street must have looked exactly the same then. He felt as though he had somehow travelled back in time.

Who knew what had happened here, in front of his apartment building, or a few yards away, down by the river? A powerful longing surged through him. Alex’s grandfather had rarely spoken of the war, and then only in general, vague terms. If only he had sat him down with a tape recorder. But now it was too late. Yet perhaps Miklos was telling him more with his diary than he ever would have said in person. Alex tapped idly on the keys of the antique typewriter on his desk. Black and gold lettering on the carriage, a faint smell of ink. It was a present from Zsofi, dating from the 1930s, and still worked. Outside the grey sky darkened and thunder rumbled. A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows, and rain began beating down on the pavement. He turned up the heating and returned to his grandfather’s testimony.

*  *  *

Natasha looked around the audience at Frank Sanzlermann’s campaign rally at Budapest’s central sports arena. She was surprised at how many young people there were, almost all fashionably dressed and clearly prospering. The atmosphere was electric. Sanzlermann was a masterful speaker, thoroughly briefed, never patronising, asking and answering rhetorical questions. He frequently used phrases in Hungarian, and made repeated reference to points of Hungarian culture and history. He spoke in English, while German and Hungarian subtitles flashed up along the bottom of the two video monitors flanking his lectern. A giant banner behind him proclaimed: “Family, Work and Unity: Forward to a Christian Europe.”

He was halfway through his speech. “I’m sure that by now, many of you are thinking there is a paradox here. How can a federal Europe, with a common currency, political and legal institutions, protect Hungary’s national interests? I know what you are asking: for the first time in its proud 1000 year history, Hungary is finally free, sovereign and independent of foreign rule. We
Magyars
can decide our own destiny. Why should we give that up?”

The audience sat still and attentive. “It is a good question, and here is the answer. Because you are not giving up anything. You are gaining, not losing. In the new Europe Hungary can protect its national interests as never before. Hungary’s interests are Europe’s interests, and Europe’s interests are Hungary’s. You will no longer be a
Magyar
island in a Slav sea, no longer be isolated, misunderstood, unappreciated. You will be surrounded by friends and allies, at the very centre of a strong, united Europe.”

He paused, while the cheers echoed around the stadium. “But enough of politics. Let me turn to an even more important theme. And that is family. I never knew my parents. I was raised in a children’s home in the mountains of Carinthia. My father was killed in a car crash on an icy mountain road when I was four. My mother died soon after. She just faded away. Friends of my father paid for my stay at the home,” he said, with a faraway look in his eyes.

Natasha felt the sympathy ripple around the auditorium. There was a press box, with a good view, and copious supplies of refreshments and food, but she preferred to sit among the public, to better take its mood. Which was hugely enthusiastic. The young woman on her right, a heavily-made up tall brunette with a copy of
Ébredjetek Magyarok!
poking from her black mini-rucksack, kept turning to Natasha, nodding enthusiastically. On her left a pale young man with a long ponytail of blond hair stared as Sanzlermann spoke, yelping his approval. Both wore plastic wristwatches emblazoned with a picture of Sanzlermann.

Sanzlermann waited, as though gathering his strength before recalling the poignant memories. “It is family that gives us a sense of self, of who we are and what our values are. I am now blessed with a family of my own,” he said, gesturing at the screen over the stage. A picture flashed up of Sanzlermann, flanked by his German wife Dagmar, and their three children. “I believe in family, work and unity, for all Europeans, no matter what their ethnic origin. For some of our fellow citizens desperately need our support.”

The picture of Sanzlermann’s family was replaced by a picture of a Romany settlement. A mother breastfed a baby in the doorway of a flimsy shack, children played barefoot in the mud. There was muttering in the audience. Sanzlermann continued: “My friends, I see some of you are uncomfortable with this picture. But we can, we must, help the Roma, to overcome prejudice and misconceptions, to overcome unemployment, and lack of education, or we will continue to pay a high price for our neglect. We will pay in crime, in delinquency and lawlessness.”

The settlement was replaced by a photograph of a group of inmates at a young offenders’ institution, all dark-skinned and obviously Gypsies. “The Roma have slipped so far through the net that we don’t even know how many of them there are. Births are unregistered, deaths unreported. That is why I am calling for a Europe wide census, and as part of that, the Roma would be fingerprinted, so we know where they live, and can help them live full and productive lives.” The prisoners vanished, and the screen showed two swarthy men brawling in the middle of a village main street. “Sadly, violence is all too common, but it is never the answer. Education is. Which is why I’m personally donating the 250,000 euros I received from the Brussels Prize to launch the European National Union Roma Education Fund,” he proclaimed.

Natasha scribbled in her notebook while the audience clapped enthusiastically. Sanzlermann stopped and drank some water. “I am proud to say that I believe in Europe’s Christian heritage. I have been accused of being racist. Race is not the issue. The issue is values, European values. Some argue that we should let Turkey join the European Union. Turkey is home to a rich culture, a moderate Islam that can guide the rest of the Islamic world. But look at a map. Turkey borders Iran and Iraq. Their values are not our values: ‘honour killings’, stoning adulterers, executing teenagers. For whatever the multi-culturalists argue, Christian values are the pillars of our civilisation, from the renaissance to the internet, pillars on which we are building the new Europe. And you
Magyars
know what it means to live under Islam.”

A slow murmur of assent.

“You suffered for 150 years, under the rule of the Sultans.”

The murmur grew louder. The screen showed the bloody aftermath of the Berlin bombing.

“The shadow of foreign terror once again falls over Europe. Immigration Liberation Army bombers are murdering the innocents in Berlin, Rome and Paris. Peace loving immigrants are welcome of course. But what of the extremists? Who claim asylum in the democracies that they seek to destroy? They despise us, our freedoms, and our tolerance. Many times I have asked, why do we give sanctuary to those who wish to destroy our way of life, and impose the values of an alien religious system? Nobody can answer. Nobody. But not only do they despise us, they also kill us. That’s why we say no. No to the Immigration Liberation Army. No to its leader Hasan Al-Ajnabi, and no to terrorism and extremism.
Nem, nem, soha
, no, no, never. Do I hear you?”

A muttered,
nem, nem
.

“Do I hear you?” louder, this time. Natasha looked round as the chorus erupted across the hall. “
Nem, nem, soha. Nem, nem, soha
.” Hundreds of voices thundered across the hall as the audience rose to its feet. “
Nem, nem, soha. Nem, nem, soha
.”

She sat silently, looking straight ahead as her neighbours shouted their approval, stamping their feet, waving Hungarian and European Union flags and campaign placards. Sanzlermann stepped back, waved and disappeared behind the stage.

Alex put Miklos’ diary down and exhaled slowly. He was three quarters of the way through, but it was too much to digest all at once. Rimsky Korsakov’s
Scheherazade
had replaced Schumann’s piano and the surging music echoed through the flat. It was a morning of storytellers. Sentenced to die by the Sultan, Scheherazade had spun a web of stories to live, keeping him entranced with cliff-hanging tales for 1001 nights, of Sinbad the sailor, menaced by fantastic beasts and stormy seas. Alex’s grandfather’s adversaries were real, and far more murderous. That Miklos did not know if he would ever live to see at least the arrival of the Russians only rendered his testimony more powerful. He needed a break. He poured himself some more coffee and checked his email. Two messages. He opened the first:

From:
[email protected]

Dearest Alex, can you ever forgive me? It’s already Sunday lunchtime and I am absolutely stranded in Vienna. So many people to see. I GOT THE PART! Meet the new Juliet. Can’t wait to see you (tomorrow hopefully) and we will go out and celebrate. Or maybe even stay in... :-) your only Zsofi.

He smiled, despite himself. He would miss her. He clicked on the next message.

From:
[email protected]

As you say in English, great minds think alike. You may find the attached article from yesterday’s Magyar Tribün of interest. No tariff listed for our encounter, but I think we got a good price. Natasha.

Alex clicked on the attached file. The article was a report on a recent conference on police corruption in Budapest. So the Siberian ice-queen did have a sense of humour. He laughed out loud as he read. One of the conference speakers, from the police’s own Internal Affairs Department, had caused a scandal by publicly listing the tariffs for different levels of bribe. The prices were clearly defined. At the top end, getting a criminal case dropped by a senior officer, for ‘lack of evidence’ or other reasons would cost half a million forints, or about a couple of thousand euros. At the bottom of the scale, a traffic violation would be forgotten or ignored for about ten thousand forints, thirty-five euros. Definitely a story for the
Budapest News
. He tapped out a brief reply, thanking her for sending over the article.

His mood sobered as he sat back down and read through the rest of Miklos’ testimony. He knew that his grandfather never saw his parents again. The steelworks manager Antal Noludi had brokered a deal for Baron Laszlo to hand over the foundry to the SS, in exchange for safe passage to Switzerland. But Miklos had never trusted Noludi, let alone the SS, and decided to take his chance in the ghetto under false papers. Once the deal was signed, the rest of the Farkas family was quickly despatched to Auschwitz and killed. Noludi had quickly appointed himself General Manager and taken over the steelworks and the family villa.