The Budapest Protocol (13 page)

The Red Army advances steadily. We count the days, the hours, the minutes. Every second we survive brings us nearer to salvation. And revenge. Sweet, cold revenge. A Russian soldier will surely sell me a gun. A revolver, black and heavy. Or perhaps a rifle. I dream of a line of Arrow Cross men, unarmed, fearful and begging in front of me. Or Gendarmes. Shall I be merciful and quick, or shall I play with them, taunt them, as they did us? My anger has curdled to hatred. Pest is wreathed in smoke and flames and I rejoice. The shells pour in, raining death and destruction. The Russians fire their barrages of Katyusha rockets. Stalin Organs, they call them. Whoosh, bang, whoosh, bang, goes the chorus of the Red Army. Encore, Jozef Stalin. Play on!

This morning the shelling stopped, and an eerie silence descended, although a few shots still echoed in the distance. After a couple of hours a few of us ventured outside. Everywhere was deserted, and the ghetto seemed somehow different, no longer full of fear, but still and expectant. Ruth came with me, and I held her hand tightly. A few blocks away we saw some soldiers, moving warily, darting between doorways, sub-machine guns in hand. They wore grey uniforms. The gate to the ghetto was destroyed, and deserted. Corpses lay nearby, dead Germans and Arrow Cross. The troops were ragged and filthy, faces blackened with the grime of war, a red star on top of their caps. They advanced warily, shouting. In Russian. I shook from excitement but stood still, with my hands in the air, for they were tense and nervous.

By some magic process, the news spread, and all around Jews suddenly appeared. They crawled out of the basements, and many were too weak to even stand up so just lay in the street. Some were laughing, others cried in their joy while most just stood and stared, half-starved, unable to believe that the day had finally arrived. The Russians looked at us, appalled at the parade of human skeletons. A few of the soldiers started handing out bread, which the Jews wolfed down. The Russians pushed two Arrow Cross men forward, ordering them to stand against the wall. A Russian offered me his sub-machine gun, waving the barrel at them. They were mere teenagers. They stared at him, then at me, their eyes darting back and forth, terrified. One began to cry, calling for his mama. Here was my chance for revenge, the moment of which I had dreamed. But I felt no anger, only a weary numbness. I shook my head. The Russian shrugged. The boys were cut almost in two by the hail of bullets. The Russian kicked their bodies each once, and started going through their pockets, shouting with delight at the treasure trove of watches and jewellery. A Soviet officer appeared.

“What shall we do, where shall we go?” I asked him.

“You can go wherever you like. You are free now,” he said.

He told me to put my arms down and took a knife from his belt. He cut through the thread holding my yellow star on my coat. It fell on the ground. I stared at the cloth. I could not speak. He handed me some bread which I gave to Ruth. I held her close and wept, as though I would never stop.

It hit him then, the power of what he held in his hand. Alex felt as though Miklos was there in the room, reading to him in his warm, wry voice. He felt his grandfather’s loss keenly. He had to get out of the apartment, get some fresh air. He grabbed his jacket and walked down to the river. He strode fast along the embankment, past the five star hotels, the Chain Bridge and towards Parliament. A thin winter rain spattered his face and clothes but he didn’t feel the cold. There was a memorial near Parliament, dozens of iron shoes spread along the riverbank, to commemorate the Jews that the Arrow Cross had shot into the Danube. Womens’ shoes, mens’ shoes, childrens’ shoes, dress shoes, work shoes, casual shoes, all black and made of metal. He stopped, knelt down and touched a sculpture of a woman’s boot. It was coated with a thin layer of ice.

A number two tram trundled by, Sanzlermann grinning from the posters on its side, and stopped by Parliament. Alex jumped on and took it two stops to the Margaret Bridge where the line ended. He walked away from the river, down Pozsonyi Way, once the main road of the International Ghetto, under Raoul Wallenberg’s protection, and went into a courtyard. Even on the brightest summer’s day it was always dark and gloomy. For some reason it was here that he always imagined them. They stood in a line, four or five people wide, yellow stars on their coats. Arrow Cross and SS troops shouted orders, and they stood frightened, gripping suitcases, that held, what? Clothes, food, a crust of bread, sandwiches even –
don’t forget the packed lunch, it’s a long ride –
valuables or family heirlooms stashed in the suitcase lining. Fathers, reciting platitudes, trying to reassure their wives and children; screaming babies; trembling old people, who knew they were never coming home; children holding a favourite teddy bear. Neighbours watching silently.

In Jerusalem, at the Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial, he had seen a photograph of Hungarian Jews lined up at Auschwitz. One face stood out: a man in his late twenties. He was dressed in a crumpled suit, and he had sensuous, Semitic features, and large, intelligent eyes. He looked like an intellectual, a writer perhaps, who had spent his days arguing about politics, the course of the war, who would arrive first to kick out the Nazis, Russians or Americans. His face was resigned, as he stared sideways at the camera. He knew he would never see the Danube again.
So this is how it ends
,
but please, just tell me, for what am I to die
? The same question that Stalin’s victims asked as they walked along the corridors of the Lubyanka.
Zasto?
For what? It was the question of the twentieth century. There was no answer.

He walked down to the embankment by the Margaret Bridge and looked out over the river flowing fast under its arches. The water ran high and brown, waves breaking its surface, whirlpools spinning. He heard the crackle of rifle fire, smelt acrid cordite, saw the bodies bound together by barbed wire bobbing in the water, their faces bleached white, their clothes swirling in the current. The Danube in 1944, the Drina in 1994, even now, somewhere the guns were being reloaded, the shots echoing across the water, the dead tumbling in. This world, he thought, this city, was a giant graveyard, and he lived in its heart.

*  *  *

Two tables had been laid with a lavish cold buffet in Sanzlermann’s pressroom. Salads, rare roast beef, even caviar. Attractive young hostesses circulated, some with trays of champagne and canapés, others handing out press packs. Natasha accepted a press pack: copies of Sanzlermann’s speech, campaign literature, badges, the plastic watch the young people next to her at the rally had worn, a digital recorder and a USB memory stick. Giant posters of Sanzlermann covered the back wall, above the buffet, several showing him and Attila Hunkalffy with their arms draped around each other’s shoulders. She dropped the watch in a nearby dustbin, took a glass of champagne, and sipped slowly as she looked around the room.

The assembled journalists had broken up into three groups. The Hungarians writing for the nationalist press broke into applause as Sanzlermann entered, but there were mutterings and sneers from those working for the left standing on the other side of the room. A few foreign correspondents stood in the middle, talking animatedly in a babble of languages. David Jones was deep in conversation with a French television reporter, waving his cigarette in the air as he spoke. He smiled when he saw Natasha and raised his hand in laconic greeting. She waved back, and watched Istvan Kiraly march up to Sanzlermann. The two men shook hands briskly.

“Herr Sanzlermann, congratulations. An excellent speech. Complex and important ideas, but expressed clearly and simply,” said Kiraly, radiating bonhomie.

“Thank you, thank you. But please call me Frank. And I could not have done it without your help.
Nem, nem soha!
What a brilliant idea. Certainly arouses that fiery
Magyar
spirit. Remind me please of its origin.”

“It dates back to the 1920s, after the Treaty of Trianon, when Hungary lost two-thirds of its territory to the neighbouring countries like Romania, Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union. It was the national catchphrase:
no, no, never
, we will never accept Trianon,” explained Kiraly. “You are a new face, but the message is that you understand Hungary, ‘you feel its pain’.”

“Or, Istvan, it means that you take one of Hungary’s greatest historical traumas, an injustice that still reverberates today, and manipulate national sentiment for partisan political pointscoring,” a female voice said. “And I have a question.”

Sanzlermann and Kiraly turned to their right.

“Herr Sanzlermann, it’s my pleasure to introduce Natasha Hatvani, from the
Budapest News
,” said Kiraly, smiling brightly and nodding at Natasha, who was standing poised with pen and notebook. “Natasha always says, and writes, what she thinks.”

Sanzlermann shot him a puzzled look: she was certainly attractive, but was this newspaper important?

Kiraly jumped in. “An English language publication, with a wide readership among Hungarian opinion-formers, politicians, diplomats and, of course, the expatriate community.” He could hardly have anything
but
important journalists at his reception.

Sanzlermann bowed slightly. “Ms Hatvani, a pleasure to meet you. Please, go ahead with your question.” Reinhard Daintner materialised by his side.

“Greece,” she said.

“Greece? That is a country, not a question. Although some may think differently,” Sanzlermann laughed and scratched his left hand.

“My question is, have
you
looked at a map recently?” she asked. “Turkey also borders Greece. Part of Turkey is in Europe. It’s called Thrace. So why shouldn’t Turkey join the EU?”

“Only a part, my dear, only a part. Perhaps we could let a slice of Turkey join the EU,” said Sanzlermann. “Yes, that’s a good idea. A slice of Turkey. Maybe at Christmas, ha ha. What do you think of that,” he asked Daintner and Kiraly.

The PR consultant smiled politely. Daintner nodded slowly, as though this was a serious policy option to be considered.

Natasha pressed on: “Your opponents say you are deliberately whipping up hatred against the Roma. How do you respond?”

“With amazement. As you heard, we have just launched a new fund for Roma education,” exclaimed Sanzlermann. He felt a tug at his elbow and Daintner murmured in his ear.

Sanzlermann moved away. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms Hatvani. We should discuss these issues at length when I have more time. Here is my card, just call my office if you would like an interview,” he said, as Daintner directed him to the throng of reporters.

*  *  *

Alex lay on his bed, wondering if he had chosen the best hiding place for Miklos’ diary. He had photocopied it, and posted the duplicate by recorded delivery to an old friend in London. He then wrapped the original in thick plastic and brought in the largest plant from the balcony. He slid a knife around the edge of the pot, carefully removed the plant and its packed-in compost and placed the diary on the bottom, before covering it with soil and returning the plant to the balcony, where it looked as brown and dead as ever. He switched on the television and flicked through the afternoon programmes. CNN showed footage of the recent Bundestag car bomb. The newsreader, a slim African woman, announced: “In a videotape passed exclusively to CNN, Hasan Al-Ajnabi, leader of the Immigration Liberation Army, promised further outrages after last week’s car bomb in Berlin, threatening strikes at targets across Europe.”

A lean, hawk-faced man, dressed in camouflage fatigues stared at the camera. His eyes were the colour of obsidian and he spoke slowly and deliberately. “We are the Immigration Liberation Army. We live among you but we are invisible. We clean your offices. We cook your food. We care for your children. We sell you sex, all manner of pleasure. But you give us nothing, beat us, arrest us and deport us. We gave you no permission to plunder our lands in Africa, in Asia and the Americas. Now we will reclaim what is ours. By whatever means necessary.”

The programme returned to the studio. “An ominous warning,” said the newsreader.

Alex pressed the off button and walked over to the windows that opened onto the balcony. The plant shimmered in the wind on the other side of the glass. He stared out at the river. A police launch roared under the Elizabeth Bridge. Miklos’ testimony had unleashed powerful emotions and filled in a piece of his family history. But Alex had read nothing there that could account for his death. The ghetto diary raised more questions than it answered.

*  *  *

Natasha put her bag down and pulled up a chair in Kitty Kovacs’ office. Even though it was Sunday, many of the staff were working, as the Presidential election campaign was generating extra pages and advertising. She poured two glasses of red wine from a bottle on the filing cabinet and handed one to Kitty. The advertising manager came from Pecs, a city in southern Hungary, near the Croatian border. Kitty was as ambitious as she was vivacious. She had no qualms about exploiting her shoulderlength raven hair, dark, come-hither eyes and Rubenesque figure to entice advertisers into buying space. She flirted outrageously but the nearest she ever got to her clients was the other side of a restaurant table.

“Want a new phone?” asked Kitty, putting down the glass and reaching into a box marked ‘Magyar Mobile’ next to her desk. She took out two handsets and tossed one to Natasha. “Two dozen just arrived, pay as you go, loaded with 100 euros worth of credit. The network’s already working. It’s a barter deal. Magyar Mobile get page five. We give away a dozen as prizes in a competition, and keep the rest. It’s their own model, but quite good. It’s even got GPS.”

“Thanks,” said Natasha, putting it in her bag without looking at it. “I’ll give it to my mother.”

“You’re both very welcome. You don’t look very happy. How was the rally?” asked Kitty.

“Sanzlermann is an incredible speaker. He was really well briefed, hitting all the right notes. It’s amazing, watching him play the audience like a violin. If he carries on like this in every country I’m sure he’ll win. I asked him for an interview. Do you think I’ll get one?”