The Collaborator Page 8

  She learns that in 1944 the Nazis invaded Hungary and disenfranchised the Jews with the co-operation of the government. Horrified, she tries to imagine a world where your government turns against you, where phones are disconnected, radios confiscated, car and bus travel forbidden, bank accounts frozen, and employment terminated. You wake up one day and discover that you are a despised nonperson in your own country.

  This was the prelude to round-ups, ghettos and mass deportations to Auschwitz. With a shock she realises that this was the world her grandmother lived through. She notices that the floor of the museum is sloping under her feet, as if she is walking in a world sliding towards destruction. She approaches the section about the death camps, and reads the heart-rending words of young girls about to be pushed into cattle trucks. One had written, I can’t believe I’m going to die before I’ve even lived!

  There’s also a quote from Elie Wiesel:

  Never shall I forget these things even if I am condemned to live as long as God himself. Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my god and turned my soul to dust.

  Elie Wiesel swore never to forget what had happened. Why had her grandmother forgotten to remember?

  It is almost closing time, and the young woman behind the ticket counter yawns as she flicks through her magazine. Annika wonders whether the mags in Hungary are as obsessed as Australian ones with gossip about nonentities whose only claim to fame was being written about in women’s magazines.

  A grey-haired attendant with a badge on his lapel identifying him as Imre looks up from the leaflets he is tidying, and asks if he can help.

  ‘I’d like to find out something about a man called Miklós Nagy who lived in Budapest during the Holocaust. Is there anything in the museum about him?’

  He surveys her for a moment in silence. ‘Nagy Miklós,’ he repeats. ‘This is name I not hear for many years. Now I ask myself. Why does young lady from — is it America? England?’

  ‘Australia,’ Annika says.

  ‘Why does young lady from Australia want to know about Nagy Miklós?’

  She is waiting for him to answer her question when he glances at the big clock on the wall and he slaps his forehead with a wrinkled hand. ‘It is late, I have to go. Is long story. Not nice story. Was scandal. And tragedy. Bad man or good man? No-one wants to talk about him.’ He looks at the clock again. ‘Sorry, I go now.’

  She leaves the museum, frustrated and annoyed. As she makes her way back to the hotel, it strikes her that once again Miklós Nagy’s fate has been described as a tragedy. Tragedy seemed to be the thread that linked her fascination with ancient Greek drama to the tantalising journey on which she had embarked.

  That evening, back in her hotel room, Annika stands by the window gazing at the city below. Night has fallen, and the bridge, the castle on the hill, and Parliament House are lit up with millions of tiny lights which transform Budapest into a beguiling fairyland. But the vision is illusory, and the scintillating lights are a deceptive facade. Flowing through the dark heart of the city, dividing it into two, is the Danube, and watching the black ribbon of water threading through Budapest, she senses that this is a city divided into past and present, where ugliness lies just beneath seductive beauty, and darkness lurks in the depths of its timeless river.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  June 1944

  Miklós wakes with a start, the scream still vibrating in his throat. In his dream he was trudging up a mountainside, stooped under a heavy sack. Rocks scattered beneath his feet and he lost his footing several times, but he knew that no matter what happened, he had to keep going. Although the summit receded with each step, on he staggered, gasping as he forced himself upwards. Finally, just as he was about to haul himself onto the peak, he stumbled and dropped the sack. It opened, and he watched, frozen in horror, as hundreds of people tumbled from it, one after another. They plunged into the chasm below, and all he could do was scream while their terrified voices floated up, cursing him.

  This is the fourth time he has had that nightmare, but waking offers no relief. No matter how he looks at it, or how often he turns it over in his mind, he is tortured by the responsibility of compiling a list of people he might manage to wrest from Eichmann’s grip. Men, women or children? Young or old? Orthodox or Neolog? Rich or poor? Professionals or labourers? City-dwellers or villagers?

  Was he even capable of pulling off this feat? Those who knew him would be astonished to learn that behind the confident facade, the strong voice and firm tread, he was struggling with such doubts. Ever since he arrived in Budapest from Kolostór, he has become the man everyone turns to whenever they need something done. He was the man who always knows the right people to contact, where to go, and what to do. He has to admit he enjoys the power and respect that this reputation brings him, but now for the first time he feels overwhelmed by the enormity of the task he has brought upon himself. The thrill of being able to rescue six hundred lives has now become overshadowed by the agony of deciding which six hundred to save.

  To ensure that the responsibility would not be his alone, he has entrusted prominent members of the Rescue Committee with the task of selecting most of the six hundred. That way, no-one could accuse him of nepotism or favouritism. His own much shorter list contained his relatives, close friends, former work colleagues, prominent members of the Kolostór community, including several members of the Jewish Council, and some poor residents, but whenever he rereads it he is tormented by anxiety.

  Judit was on his list of course, but Ilonka, the person he was most desperate to save, was still Eichmann’s hostage. Her survival depended on Gábor’s success in Istanbul, and there was still no news to relay to Eichmann.

  Klein has sent him a peculiar coded message saying that he and Gábor had been arrested at the Turkish border as spies, but that thanks to Klein’s influence with the Turks, they have been released. Deciphering his message, Miklós is worried. As he suspected all along, sending Klein has endangered Gábor’s mission and the lives of those they were trying to save. In all likelihood Klein was not only a double agent but a triple agent who spied for the Germans, Hungarians and British, and was being watched by the Turkish secret police to whom he probably fed information in return for being freed. And as for Gábor, although he was sincere and well-meaning, he definitely wasn’t the right man for such a tricky assignment.

  In his message Klein added that Gábor was still trying to contact representatives of the Jewish Agency, who hadn’t yet left Palestine despite Gábor repeatedly imploring them to meet him in Istanbul as soon as possible. It was always difficult to know to what extent Klein’s own agenda was dictating his communications, but Miklós doubted that the leaders of the Jewish Agency in Palestine were deliberately delaying their arrival in Istanbul. Whatever the reason, it would be catastrophic if that information ever reached Eichmann, and Miklós knows he must keep it to himself.

  The Agency’s co-operation was vital, and every hour counted as cattle trucks crammed with over a thousand Jewish men, women and children continued to leave the Hungarian provinces for concentration camps every single day. Unless Eichmann believed that the representatives of the Jewish groups and the British government would make funds available to pay the Nazis a huge bribe and supply his trucks, they were all doomed.

  Whenever Miklós catches sight of himself in the mirror, he is startled to see his own father. The same worried eyes, greying hair and deeply furrowed cheeks. At times like this, he wonders if God himself has become worn down with the burden of all his decisions and has decided to wash his hands of the catastrophe that has befallen the human race. The only time he relaxes is with Ilonka, but anxiety about her future is weighing him down. She is his refuge, his solace and his delight, and knowing that Eichmann wouldn’t hesitate to have her deported unless Gábor produced positive news strengthens his resolve to continue bluffing.

  Preoccupied with his thoughts, Miklós doesn’t say much when he arrives at Ilonka’s apartment that afternoon, bu
t pulls her to him with an air of desperation that unsettles her. She takes his hand, leads him to the bedroom and, without speaking, proceeds to unbutton her demure white blouse with the navy polka dots, and steps out of her cream silk culottes, but for once the sensual movements of her body don’t arouse him. He sighs as they lie on the bed side by side, his hand passive in hers.

  Ilonka props herself up on her elbows and looks into his face. ‘Eichmann told you to submit six hundred names,’ she says slowly. ‘But he didn’t stipulate they had to be individuals, did he? So you could select six hundred families but submit only six hundred surnames, couldn’t you? That way you’d be able to save a lot more people.’

  He sits up. It’s a long shot, and a risky one, but the whole enterprise is fraught with such uncertainty and danger that this ploy is worth trying. He gazes at her with admiration and pulls her against him.

  ‘I wish I’d thought of that,’ he murmurs as he kisses her eyelids and her lips. Then he stops talking. She is running her long nails delicately along his back and around his buttocks, arousing him to such erotic rapture that for one whole hour there is no Eichmann, no trucks, and no lists.

  *

  The following day they are summoned to Eichmann’s headquarters again. He starts yelling even before they are inside his office. ‘You Jews are conning me. I’ll have you both shot!’ Pacing up and down, he glares at Ilonka. ‘And as for you, you’d better hope your husband comes through soon with those trucks!’

  Ilonka doesn’t flinch. ‘My husband is doing all he can, but your request is so important, you must realise that he needs time,’ she says quietly when he finally stops shouting and drops into his chair. He stretches his jackbooted legs out under the carved walnut desk and drums his fingers on its tooled surface, dangerously close to his pistol.

  In a quiet voice, Ilonka says, ‘Obersturmbannführer, if you stopped the deportations, you would prove to our people in Istanbul that you were serious, and they would be more likely to consider your offer.’

  Eichmann’s face contorts with rage. He springs up, and, as he takes a menacing step towards her, the bony bridge of his nose becomes more prominent, and she can smell schnapps on his breath. ‘How dare you offer me suggestions, Frau Weisz. Do you take me for a fool? If I stopped the deportations, what would I have to bargain with?’

  Sweating under his coat, Miklós removes his cigarette case from his pocket, lights up, and takes a long slow puff of his cigarette, hoping to steady his voice and stop the trembling of his hands. He explains that Gábor needs time for the request to reach the right people who would then have to check with their superiors. After all, surely Eichmann understands that supplying ten thousand trucks to Germany in exchange for a million Jews would require authority from the highest levels. He dreads to think what Eichmann would do if he knew that the ‘right people’ haven’t even left Palestine to meet Gábor, and there has been no response from the British government.

  Knowing that his request would never be fulfilled makes it difficult to maintain this deadly poker game, but he is buying time for the Jews of Hungary, and for Ilonka. Surely the war must end soon. The Germans must know they have already lost, yet they were still filling their trains with more Jews destined for death than with soldiers destined for the battlefield. He doubts whether in any previous war a beleaguered combatant has chosen to prosecute a campaign against civilians at the cost of wasting resources to defeat the enemy.

  Although he is trembling with anxiety, Miklós manages to control his voice and sound as though he is speaking with a reasonable equal, not with a fanatic who wouldn’t hesitate to press the trigger. His performance is so convincing that Eichmann calms down, and Miklós reminds him of his promise to release the six hundred Jews with visas for Palestine. He has already seen to it that members of the Jewish Agency’s Palestine Office inside the Swedish Legation have stamped the permits. If his luck holds and Eichmann keeps his word, thanks to Ilonka the number of people saved will now be over fifteen hundred.

  Every time Miklós leaves Eichmann’s office, he feels as if his whole body has been sucked dry and only a hollow husk remains. He and Ilonka walk to her apartment, hurrying past the latest anti-Semitic regulations pasted on walls, headed with swastikas, and threatening transgressors with death.

  ‘What makes it worse is that our own government is collaborating with the Nazis,’ Ilonka sighs, and Miklós nods.

  ‘One day they will pay for their collusion,’ he mutters.

  At a time when their ugly world is closing in on them, the beauty of the shimmering new foliage on the oak and chestnut trees makes his heart ache. Perhaps this will be their last spring. Ilonka glances up and sees the pain in his eyes. She squeezes his hand.

  ‘I’m sure Gábor will send us news soon. I know he’s not a diplomat, but he’s no fool either, and he knows how much hinges on this. He won’t give up until he convinces the people in Istanbul that they have to come up with something to keep Eichmann on the hook.’

  Instead of lifting his spirits, her words plunge him deeper into gloom. She doesn’t know that some of the people in whom they have invested so much hope haven’t yet arrived in Istanbul, while others have ignored Gábor’s entreaties.

  *

  It’s late when he lets himself into his apartment, hoping that Judit is asleep, but he hears the strains of Liszt’s Transcendental Meditations filling their home. This contemplative music matches his mood, and he stands at the door, watching as she plays. Her back is very straight, and her eyes are closed as she listens to the melody flowing from her slender white fingers. Until now, he has regretted that her refusal to have children. A child anchors you to the present and gives you a stake in the future. Listening to the music, he wonders if Judit regrets her decision now that the anti-Jewish decrees have put a stop to her musical career. But perhaps she was right after all. Much as he loved children, this wasn’t the time to bring them into the world.

  She looks up when he enters, smiles, and makes a vague comment before resuming her practice. He wonders if she has noticed that he has been coming home later than usual lately. Her composure conveys such innocence that he feels a pang of guilt as he kisses the top of her blonde head. He envies her ability to shut out reality by immersing herself so completely in her music.

  ‘I have to travel to Kolostór tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’ll be gone for a day or two.’

  Judit stops playing and turns to face him. ‘How can you go there when Jews aren’t allowed to travel?’

  ‘Kurt Becher gave me a travel pass and a driver.’

  She looks surprised. ‘Really?’ Then she adds, ‘I’ve heard that Becher is Himmler’s man.’

  Miklós is astonished. Judit hardly ever leaves the apartment and takes no part in his activities to help the refugees or in his rescue plan. She seems to live in a universe where the only thing that exists is music, yet she has heard about Becher. He is about to ask where she had heard of him when her next question takes him off balance.

  ‘How is Gábor’s wife Ilonka managing while he’s away?’

  It might have been a guileless inquiry but he wonders why she has made a point of referring to Ilonka, whom she has known for several years, as Gábor’s wife. She doesn’t appear to notice that he hesitates before replying, and nods when he makes a noncommittal comment.

  ‘It must be hard for her on her own, wondering what’s happening over there, and when he’ll be back. But in a way she has always been on her own, hasn’t she? Perhaps he’ll decide to stay in Istanbul. I wouldn’t blame him. They’ll kill him if he comes back without the news Eichmann wants. Anyway, I suppose you’ll look in on her from time to time.’ Then she turns back to the piano, as if dismissing him, opens the score of a Chopin Ballade and begins to play, transported by the music once more. He stands still, wondering how much she knows, and what lies behind her apparently innocent words.

  Later, as he lies in his bed, every muscle in his body feels like a boxer’s fist, and the tumult in his
mind makes sleep impossible. Tormented by his recollection of the meeting with Eichmann and his fear of Gábor’s failure, he dreads his impending visit to Kolostór. If only Ilonka was lying beside him. Her touch would soothe him.

  He must have dozed off. In his dream she is lying beside him, and he clings to her with an urgency he has never felt before. They are locked together in an embrace he never wants to end. It is still dark when he wakes up, and he lies with his eyes closed, not wanting to break the spell of the dream, not wanting to lose the memory of her warm flesh entwined with his, her fingers stroking the most sensitive parts of his body, and her body opening up to gather him inside. The dream is so vivid that when he opens his eyes he almost expects to see her lying there.

  There is a body beside him, but it isn’t Ilonka. It is Judit, sleeping like a child with her fair hair fanned out on the pillow, and her lips slightly parted. He stares at her for a long time trying to make sense of what he has just experienced. Surely it was a dream. He and Judit haven’t slept in the same bed for several years, and even before that, there had been no passion between them.

  Since starting his affair with Ilonka, he has regarded Judit as a platonic friend. He assumes that this suits her as she hasn’t objected. He glances at her again. Perhaps she felt lonely and sought solace in his bed, and the proximity of her body inspired his erotic dream. That’s what it must be. He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, light is streaming into the room and he is alone in the bed. The strains of a Schubert sonata waft from the front room, telling him Judit is already at the piano.

  He kisses the top of her head as usual, and wonders if she will allude to the previous night, but without taking her eyes off the music sheet, she asks when he is leaving, and wishes him a safe journey. The question that tantalises him can’t be articulated and remains unanswered.