One Day In Budapest (6 page)

László Vay, leader of the Eröszak party, has just released the following statement.

‘Fellow Hungarians, we are all struggling to deal with the terrible theft of the Holy Right, but violence against the people who did this is not the answer. So I ask you for calm today in this beautiful city of ours and let the police do their job.’
 

Even as László Vay calls for calm, there are reports coming in of a man climbing the Széchenyi Chain Bridge overlooking the Danube. There are no indications of what he’s doing up there but we’ll bring you updated news as we receive it.”

***

The news bulletin finished and the radio segued into a pop song.

“Bastard,” Zoltan said. “Vay stokes the fires even with his careful words. I bet whatever’s happening on the bridge is down to him as well.” He leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Széchenyi Bridge.”
 

The taciturn driver nodded and pulled into another lane.

“Why is the bridge so important?” Morgan asked, her eyes fixed on Zoltan’s face, which was creased with worry.
 

“There are few things that symbolize nationalism for Budapest better than the Széchenyi Bridge,” he said. “Designed by an English engineer and opened in 1849, it was the first permanent bridge across the Danube, joining the two halves of Buda and Pest. It was considered an engineering wonder of the world at the time, a symbol of the strength and might of our Empire. In those days, we were kings.” Zoltan smiled as if in reminiscence, but then his eyes clouded with shadow. “You know some of Hungary’s suffering during the Second World War, but in 1944 we tried to withdraw, even though we were allied with Germany. Hitler wouldn’t stand for it and sent German troops here, installing the far-right Arrow Cross party. But Stalin was determined to make an example of Budapest and the Red Army advanced with over a million men.”
 

Morgan imagined these streets filled with soldiers and frightened people preparing for the impending inevitability of war. Zoltan continued the story.
 

“With Germans and Hungarians trapped within, Hitler nevertheless declared Budapest a fortress city, to be defended to the last breath of every man. The Siege of Budapest began, just as winter ravaged the city with cold so extreme that the Danube froze.”
 

The taxi was now speeding along by the side of the river, and as they rounded the corner Morgan saw the bridge. Two classical stone arches stood triumphant near the banks and, slung between them, elegant iron suspension cables seemed to hold the structure weightless above the water.
 

“In January 1945, the Germans couldn’t hold the Soviets back and retreated across the river into Buda, destroying all of the bridges as they went, including this one. Only the pillars were left.” Zoltan sighed, as if recalling those dark times. “But it didn’t stop the destruction. In February 1945 the German and Hungarian forces surrendered. Hundreds of thousands of people were killed or taken to the Soviet labor camps and eighty percent of the city was destroyed or damaged.”
 

Zoltan fell silent and gazed at the bridge as their taxi slowed. Morgan put her hand on his.
 

“I can see why the bridge means so much,” she said. “But I guess it also symbolizes that Budapest can rise again from disaster.”
 

Zoltan nodded. “And if today is about desecrating symbols of nationalism in order to enrage a nation, the bridge is an obvious target.”
 

The taxi pulled to a halt on the Pest side of the bridge and Zoltan paid the driver. Morgan took in the view across the mighty Danube to Castle Hill beyond, the Royal Palace dominating the skyline with its imposing facade. Her eyes dropped to the bridge itself as Zoltan joined her on the side of the main road that ran onto it.
 

“It’s unlikely that this group would expect to destroy the bridge,” she said. “They just want something symbolic to blame on the Jewish population and further stoke the fires of unrest.”
 

Zoltan nodded. “I think that they might be saving the finale for the synagogue tonight, and the main aim today is to fire up the mob.” He shook his head. “Sometimes there are days when I look to the sky and see only deep blue, a hope of happiness in a world where we have learned to live together in peace. But the storm clouds are never far from this city.”
 

He pointed towards the Parliament building where a swarm of police and media were gathered at the Shoes on the Danube memorial. “We cannot seem to escape the wheel of history that brings violence over and over again.”

“But we have today,” Morgan said, turning to him. “If we can find the Holy Right, we may be able to stop the escalation. The synagogue would be safe.”

Zoltan smiled, his scarred cheek furrowing.
 

“I’m glad to have you here, Morgan. An outside view helps when the melancholy grows too dark. Come then, let’s see what we can find.”

Together they began to walk across the bridge as cars accelerated past, their occupants oblivious to the possibility of disaster. Morgan scanned the walkway, her eyes narrowing as she studied each of the people approaching. In Israel, it had been a core part of military training to spot possible bombers and to be vigilant of danger in a new environment. That kind of awareness never leaves you, she thought, even though she had tried to escape that aspect of her past.
 

Morgan felt the ghost of her father by her side as she walked. Even though he was Sephardi, he had lived amongst Ashkenazi, Jews of Eastern European ancestry, and some of his friends had escaped this very city. Morgan’s thoughts flashed to Elian, her husband, who had died in a hail of bullets on the Golan Heights. Defending the community here felt like a tribute to his memory.
 

As she looked out to the Danube, Morgan saw one of the many open-topped boat tours coming down the river. Tourists leaned out over the water, wrapped in scarves and gloves, but determined to take pictures of the majestic city. Her gaze shifted to the suspension cables, thick and stable, easy enough to scale quickly. Her eyes followed the cable up to where it met the towering classical arch and then widened in surprise. She grabbed Zoltan’s arm.
 

“Look, up there. Is that a man on the top of the arch?”

Zoltan looked up, squinting to see further. Then something moved and they clearly saw a figure crawl across the top of the stone tower.
 

“What’s he doing?” Zoltan said, as the man leaned over the edge, holding something in his hand. Blue spray paint started to etch its way across the stone as the man carefully began his graffiti.
 

“Oh no,” Morgan said. “He’s spraying a blue star of David, so whatever happens here next will be blamed on Jews.”
 

“And it’s not likely to be just graffiti,” Zoltan said, as he swung himself up over the railing and onto the cable. “I’m going up to get him.”

Cars began to slow on the bridge as rubberneckers stopped to watch, and Morgan held her breath as Zoltan climbed higher. The man sprayed faster, his lines more shaky as he completed the fourth line. The star was almost finished as Zoltan reached the platform high above the bridge, pulling his body up and holding his arms out to steady himself. Morgan clenched her fists with the tension of watching them as Zoltan rushed the man and threw a punch. The man ducked and then ran to the end of the tower platform. He glanced down towards the Danube, gave a cheeky salute and jumped.
 

Morgan gasped as the man leapt into space, his legs cycling in the air and then a mini parachute extended from his backpack, slowing his fall. He drifted down onto the boat below as the tourists exclaimed and snapped photos. Morgan saw Zoltan freeze at the top of the arch, looking down at them and then bend to something at his feet. Whatever he had found, she was going after the man who had left it. She clambered onto the ledge of the bridge, assessing the fall to the tourist boat below. She saw the summer awning still hanging above the top deck of the boat. If she could just land on that, it would cushion her fall, but she had only seconds left to decide.
 

She could see the man from the bridge stripping off his parachute, laughing with the tourists, and posing for photographs, seemingly unconcerned about being identified. The moment slowed in Morgan’s mind. Part of her hesitated, a physical brake applied by the ancient lizard brain that protected the body from harm. That part didn’t jump from great heights or take physical risks. But then she glanced to her right and saw the people gathered at the Shoes memorial. She imagined the bodies of those murdered earlier that day floating in the freezing river and their echo sixty years ago, a reflection of the atrocities of the past. Morgan thought of the people trapped by the mob in the synagogue, the potential for violence that hung over the city. She jumped.
   

CHAPTER 7

The rush of cold air on her face was bracing as Morgan jumped off the edge of the bridge, looking out to Margaret Island so that she didn’t pitch forward as gravity pulled her downward. She knew how to fall from her Krav Maga martial arts experience but also from the years that she had spent rock climbing and canyoning in the hills of Israel. Her muscles remembered the sensation of jumping from the top of waterfalls into icy dark water beneath. She breathed out heavily to try and stem the flood of adrenalin, glancing down to see the canopy of the tourist boat rushing up to meet her. She heard the shouts of the people below, and just before she landed she saw the man turn and spot her. His eyes narrowed and then she lost sight of him as she landed heavily on the canvas.
 

Morgan felt the air whoosh out of her as she slid towards the deck, turning and grabbing for a hold on the cloth. There was shrieking from the tourists below as she landed with a thump onto the wooden boards, her fall slowed and cushioned by the canopy. It took her a second to reorient herself, and then she heard the revving of a powerful motor. She stood quickly, brushing off the concerned comments of the tourists, pushing through the throng. She hopped up onto the side of the boat and looked towards the source of the noise. At the stern, the man ditched his parachute and was standing, waiting to jump onto a fast-approaching speedboat.
 

“Hey,” Morgan shouted. “Stop him.”
 

But the tourist crowd was more interested in taking photos of this strange incursion than joining in. The man turned at her shout and she saw his hawk-like profile. It was the Raven himself, his mouth twisted into a mocking smile, as Morgan began to fight her way to the back of the boat.
 

The speedboat pulled alongside, and the Raven leapt deftly in, his step light. Morgan reached the stern just as the boat pulled away, the sound of his laughter just audible above the engine’s roar.
 

***
 

High above the Danube, Zoltan examined the large package that the man had left. The explosives were encased in clear solid plastic and a prominent timer counted down from five minutes. It was a taunt for anyone who discovered it, for there was no way into the package to stop the bomb going off. Zoltan felt a cold calm descend as he analyzed his options. The bomb wasn’t big enough to cause severe damage or destroy the bridge, but it would be a symbolic attack on a nationalist icon, and the media would infer responsibility from the almost complete blue star graffiti. He had to do something, and fast.
 

The timer ticked into four minutes remaining.

CHAPTER 8

The Széchenyi spa baths had always been a realm of magic for Elena, a place that transformed her mother from tyrant to soporific princess. During the summers of her childhood, while her mother lay relaxing in one of the hot pools, Elena would play in the shallows, her mind weaving stories of bath nymphs and fairies. She would sink under the water, eyes open, gazing at the hazy figures beneath. Legs loomed like sea monsters and the giants of legend while she fought battles, waiting for the reward from the Bath King who would let her sink down into the blue forever. These moments helped her to forget the packages passed in the changing rooms, and how her mother would duck into the toilets afterwards, her daughter forgotten. She would emerge smiling, rubbing her nose, her body riper somehow.

As Elena walked into the baths today, her body heavy with the false pregnancy stomach she wore, she thought back to those times and how so much had changed. The fairytale of earlier days had been but a dream before the nightmare of her real life had begun. But today, she hoped to escape.
 

As a child she had discovered that the goodwill from the baths only ever lasted for a short time and then Elena found herself backhanded into silence as she tried to tell her mother of the nymphs. After a while, she didn’t mention them anymore. When her breasts had begun to show just before her thirteenth birthday, it was her mother who noticed first.
 

“Come, Elena,” she had said. “We’re going shopping.”
 

Elena remembered how excited she had been, for her clothes had been the subject of ridicule at school, hand-me-downs that ill suited her. Now it seemed that her mother would dress her like one of the popular girls. Elena had been confused when the only shop they had entered sold swimwear and her mother had picked out a tiny bikini. Elena was embarrassed but her mother just adjusted it around her newly formed curves and whispered, “Good, you’ll do just fine.”
 

On the next trip to the baths, her mother had kept a tight grip on her hand, making sure that Elena changed into the bikini. In the changing cubicle, her mother had clutched her arm tight, fingernails digging into her arm.
 

“Now, Elena,” she had whispered, her eyes dull. “We need money and you have to earn it. You’ll go with someone today and you’ll do whatever they want. Don’t make a sound or you won’t be coming home with me. But be a good girl and there will be money for nice things.”