The Collaborator

by Diane Armstrong

  As soon as he sees her, his doubts evaporate. She smiles at him with that slow, sensual smile he finds so alluring, and her dark eyes linger on his. As soon as she closes the door behind him, he takes her hand. It’s firm and strong, unlike the soft, boneless hands of other women he knows, and he bends over to press his lips to it as he breathes in the spicy scent of her perfume.

  She releases her hand when she notices the lilies-of-the-valley, leaves the room, and returns a moment later with a vase. As she arranges the flowers, she says in a voice that is low and husky, ‘I wondered when you’d come.’

  Without replying, he pulls her down onto the couch beside him, and kisses her for a long time. Her lips are warm and yielding, and he feels them parting against his as he explores her mouth.

  ‘I’ve wanted you ever since the day we looked at each other across this room,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve relived that moment a hundred times.’

  He starts to undo the little covered buttons on her cream blouse but he is too impatient and under his clumsy fingers one of them snaps off. Laughing, she takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom. With quick, deft movements she unfastens her blouse, pulls off her silk camisole and unpins her thick dark hair which spills over her naked shoulders. He strokes her slender body and covers her face and neck with kisses. ‘I wake up every morning aching for you,’ he whispers.

  Later, as they lie in each other’s arms, she traces his lips with the tip of her finger. ‘I’ve often wondered what it would be like to make love with you,’ she says. ‘Now I know. It feels as if we were meant for each other.’

  He nods and holds her tightly. ‘Gábor is a lucky man. I wish I’d been your first lover.’

  She smiles that slow, sensual smile as she caresses his body with her fingertips, making him shiver with pleasure. He wants to tell her that when she drew him deep inside her and they were locked together, he felt a rapture he had never experienced before. Despite death looming around them, he is suddenly aware of the dazzling beauty of life and its meaning. He’s not religious but the joy he felt when they made love was almost spiritual. He had never imagined that such bliss existed on earth. At that moment, even the existence of God was a possibility. But he just holds her closer and doesn’t speak. Putting his feelings into words would ruin this moment of perfect communion.

  For two miraculous hours he has forgotten the war, the occupation, and their predicament, but the fall from heaven to earth is swift and sudden when he recalls the deal he has made. Eichmann has offered to release six hundred Jews from Hungary to a neutral nation as down payment for the trucks he hopes to receive from the Allies, and he has ordered Miklós to compile a list of names for his approval.

  His initial elation at the possibility of snatching several hundred Jews from the fate awaiting them in Hungary has now given way to more anxiety. He never wanted to play God. How was he to select six hundred from half a million? Who should he include, and who would he exclude? He knows that in Poland, a German called Oskar Schindler was saving some Jews by employing them in his factory in Krakow. He met Schindler the previous year when he arrived in Budapest to ask Miklós and his committee for money so that he could continue supporting his Jews.

  Miklós admired what Schindler was doing but he didn’t trust the man. He suspected him of hobnobbing with the Nazis to provide himself with a labour force. A collaborator masquerading as a humanitarian. Still, for whatever reason, there was no doubt that he was saving Jewish lives, and Miklós approved a donation to help him continue his rescue efforts.

  But now that the Germans had occupied Hungary, the task of rescuing Hungarian Jews had fallen on his shoulders, and he no longer knew whether he had sought that burden or whether fate had chosen him. The deal Eichmann had proposed was impossible, but the stakes were high and he knew he would have to string out this game as long as possible even though the prospect of having to confront Eichmann again made him feel sick. Eichmann was unpredictable and fanatical, and couldn’t be trusted to keep his word. And unless he heard from Gábor in Istanbul very soon, he would have nothing to bargain with.

  Looking at Ilonka as she sits slowly brushing her hair in front of the mirror in her camisole and silk culottes, he is distracted from his dark thoughts. His body is stirring with excitement, and he longs to pull her onto the bed and make love to her again, but with an effort he looks away. He has arranged to meet Egon Friedlander, Rezsö Kadar and Lajos Kis, some of the members of the Rescue Committee, to update them about Gábor’s progress. They were all dedicated, hard-working men, but he wonders if they have the resourcefulness and strength needed to deal with the Nazi Satan.

  Ilonka turns from the mirror to watch him. ‘Are you thinking about what you’ll say to Eichmann?’

  He nods. ‘You have no idea how terrifying it is to stand in front of him.’

  ‘I’ll find out tomorrow,’ she says quietly. ‘He has ordered me to come to his headquarters. I suppose it’s about Gábor.’

  He takes her hand, turns it over and presses his lips into her palm. He can’t bear the thought of her confronting the monster by herself. ‘I won’t let you go alone, my darling,’ he whispers. ‘I’ll go with you.’

  *

  The following morning, on their way to the Hotel Majestic, Miklós and Ilonka walk in silence. She takes his arm and squeezes it, and occasionally they look at each other and smile the complicit smile of secret lovers. The old woman is sitting on the corner of Andor Boulevard again beside her small wicker basket of lilies-of-the-valley. Faded signs in Hungarian and Yiddish advertise the workshops of the Jewish tailors, cobblers and jewellers who live in the maze of alleys in the Jewish quarter behind the boulevard. In Dohány Utca, they pass the synagogue with its two towers topped by oriental cupolas. Miklos knows that at its inauguration in the nineteenth century, a time when the Jewish community felt secure within the realm of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Franz Liszt had played the 5000-pipe organ. The erection of the Dohány synagogue represented a vote of confidence in the future. It was a sobering reminder that unless he succeeded in getting Eichmann to honour his promise, that synagogue would soon become a memorial to an extinguished community.

  Inside the Sikló cable car ascending Swabian Hill, Ilonka points to the obsidian waters below. ‘I don’t know why Johann Strauss ever thought the Danube was blue,’ she says, and he knows she is trying to defuse the tension with light-hearted chatter.

  He notices that she has worn high-heeled shoes with ankle straps, a smart jacket over her floral dress, and tilted her felt hat at a jaunty angle over her hair, which falls to her shoulders. She looks fetching, but he knows that if she is hoping to charm Eichmann, she is wasting her time.

  The cable car shudders to a halt at the top of Swabian Hill. Ilonka straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. ‘No matter what he says, Miki, we have to keep calm and sound firm. People like him only respect strength, they despise weaklings. Bullies are all the same, the only difference is the amount of power they have.’

  He looks at her composed expression and wonders if she is as fearless as she sounds, and whether she realises that she is Eichmann’s hostage and what that could mean. But he knows that it is strength and pride, not ignorance, that dictates her words. She is too smart not to be aware of the peril she is in.

  If the security checks at the German guard posts on the hillside leading to the hotel make her nervous, she gives no sign of being affected by them. On the contrary, she gives the impression of being accustomed to this procedure, and reacts with polite disdain.

  Miklós is going over in his mind what he will say to Eichmann, even though he realises it’s a useless exercise. It was impossible to anticipate his questions or gauge his reactions.

  Escorted by a cocky young guard who barks orders at them, they mount the curved staircase to Eichmann’s headquarters in silence. Eichmann is seated at his desk, his pistol in front of him as before to remind them of his power to dispense instant death. He doesn’t ask them to sit down, ignores
Miklós, and looks at Ilonka with an expression that reminds Miklós of a basilisk, the mythical serpent whose glance turned people to stone.

  He leans forward with a cruel, lopsided smile. ‘Ah so, Frau Weisz,’ he says. ‘I have still not heard from your husband. I think he will never return to Budapest.’ He lowers his voice to a hiss. ‘If he does not return, you will be joining the other Jews in Auschwitz.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  2005

  From the back of the hire car, Annika sees a succession of dilapidated warehouses, pockmarked industrial buildings, and apartment blocks that don’t seem to have had a coat of paint or fresh plaster for at least a hundred years. The awnings above the small shops are rusted, the wooden window frames are splintered, and the people walking along the streets look as weary and rundown as the buildings. Apart from an occasional tree covered in new spring foliage, there is little greenery to lift the greyness of the outer suburbs of Budapest.

  There are few people in the streets, but they seem downcast, and no-one is smiling. Perhaps her perception is coloured by irritation, because when she entered the arrival hall of Ferihegy International Airport, the driver who was supposed to pick her up wasn’t there. After waiting for almost half an hour, she was about to give up and find a taxi when he appeared, grabbed her suitcase without an apology, and rushed ahead of her so fast that she had to run along the uneven paving to keep up with him.

  A grey sky hangs low over the city, and as they drive along her attempts to brighten the atmosphere by engaging him in even the most basic conversation prove futile. Her questions about the traffic in Budapest and the cost of living meet with shrugs and monosyllabic answers. His mobile rings every few minutes, and he answers it in an argumentative tone. In between, he glares and swears at other drivers. Although she can’t speak Hungarian, she can recognise curses in any language.

  Forty minutes later, they emerge from the depressing industrial area, and approach the centre of the city. At her first sight of the river she feels a surge of excitement. ‘The Danube?’ she asks.

  He shrugs. ‘Yes, of course Danube,’ he says in a tone that makes her wish she had kept her thoughts to herself.

  In an avenue lined with plane trees, they pass an impressive colonnaded building with ornamental brickwork and two tall towers, each topped by an oriental-looking onion dome. She winds down the window for a closer look. ‘What’s that?’ she asks.

  ‘Zsidó tsinagoga,’ he says.

  ‘Tsinagoga,’ she repeats slowly. Then it dawns on her. ‘Jewish synagogue, yes?’

  ‘Zsidó tsinagoga,’ he repeats with a nod. ‘On Dohány Street. Most big in Europe.’

  It’s the first bit of information he has volunteered, and it encourages her to pursue the subject. ‘We have synagogues in Australia, but not as big as that. Are there many Jews in Budapest?’

  He is looking at her in his rear-view mirror. ‘Today not. But before, many.’

  He rifles in his glove box, muttering in Hungarian, until he finds what he is looking for, and turns around to hand her a plain white card. Jancsi Kovács, Budapest Tours. There’s a telephone number.

  ‘My friend very good guide,’ the driver says. ‘Say him Tamás sent you. He take you to Dohány Tsinagoga.’

  Annika thanks him and puts the card in the pocket of the black leather jacket she bought in Florence ten years ago. It’s tight now, and she can’t button it up, but she likes the casual style and the feel of the soft leather. She says she will contact his friend. There’s no point telling him that she had already arranged a city tour on the internet before leaving Sydney.

  He pulls up in front of a multi-storey international hotel near the embankment. As soon as the bellboy ushers her into her room on the fourth floor, she goes to the window. The clouds have dispersed, and the iron bridge that spans the Danube seems polished by the spring sunlight.

  The bellboy points to the other side of the river which rises steeply from the water. ‘Buda,’ he says. ‘Swabian Hill.’ A statue of a heroic figure on horseback faces basilicas with gilded cupolas, and terraces with ornamental turrets. At the summit, surrounded by oaks and beeches, a palatial building dominates the hillside. ‘Hotel Majestic,’ he says.

  Annika stands at the window for a long time, delighted by the view. Her grandmother had never mentioned how beautiful this city was. In fact, Marika said very little when Annika told her she had booked a trip to Hungary, apart from asking dryly why, of all places, she wanted to go there. The question had taken her by surprise. Because that’s where you came from, she replied. You know, roots. Marika had broken all links with Hungary and had no desire to reconnect with her birthplace. The past, as an English novelist once noted, was a different country, and it was obviously one Marika had no wish to revisit, but as Annika was at a loose end, this was a perfect opportunity to visit the country where her family originated.

  There was another reason, too. Intrigued by Marika’s reaction at the mention of Miklós Nagy, Annika had searched for him on the internet, but the items she had read intrigued her even more. Nagy was apparently a controversial figure who evoked strong and contradictory emotions. Some people hailed him as a hero, and described his fate as a Greek tragedy, while others described him as a scoundrel, a Machiavellian schemer, without explaining why. Perhaps her grandmother shared that opinion, although why she would regard her rescuer in that light was a mystery. It was one that Annika hoped to unravel.

  Her mother hadn’t been enthusiastic about her plan to visit Budapest either. ‘Why don’t you go to Italy or France instead?’ she suggested. ‘Those Eastern European countries are so depressing.’ She could imagine her mother commenting to her friends at the bridge club that Annika could always be counted on to be contrary.

  For the first time since resigning from her job, she was embarking on something that felt right. ‘I need to get away,’ she told her friend Cassie. ‘My mother and grandmother are driving me crazy about finding a job, but I can afford to take some time off, and there’s nothing at the moment to tie me down, so I might as well take advantage of my freedom and travel. I’ve never been to any of the countries in Eastern Europe, and I want to see where my family came from.’

  ‘So you’re escaping, right?’ Cassie commented in her blunt way, before adding, ‘I don’t blame you. You’ve been a bit depressed lately, and going away will do you good.’ Annika is thinking about Cassie’s comment as she enters the hotel dining room the next morning. Perhaps there was some truth in her words, and a change of scenery might be just what she needed to sort herself out. She refrained from mentioning her fascination with Miklós Nagy, not wanting to provoke Cassie’s scepticism about a wild goose chase.

  After a buffet breakfast that includes peppery csabai sausage, paprika-flavoured cheeses and grilled red and green capsicums, she goes down to the lobby to meet her guide. It is busy with tourists milling about, mostly Americans, whose demanding voices and assertive tones resound throughout the foyer. Her tour was booked for nine o’clock but by nine-thirty the guide still hasn’t appeared, and she asks the concierge to call the tour company. From his frequent glances in her direction, and his subdued voice, she realises there’s a problem. He hangs up and turns to her.

  ‘Unfortunately, madame, there is a mistake about the date,’ he explains. It seems they had her booked in for the previous day. Would she like them to send a guide tomorrow instead?

  Annika shakes her head. I’m not going to book with that incompetent lot again, she decides. Standing at the door of the lobby, she sees a cloudless blue sky, and whenever the door opens, a refreshing breeze ruffles her hair. It’s a perfect spring day, ideal for sightseeing. She takes the lift to her room and searches for her Lonely Planet guidebook. Then she remembers the guide’s card in her pocket.

  Jancsi Kovács runs into the lobby twenty minutes later, panting. He has driven across the city, and the back of his pale blue T-shirt is patched with sweat. He wipes his forehead as he comes towards her with a smile.

/>   He has the trim figure of a young man, and she thinks he’s about thirty, but when he removes his New York Yankees baseball cap, she sees grey hairs on his temples and realises that he is probably older.

  ‘Kezét csókolom,’ he greets her, and raises her hand to his lips. ‘Hungarian custom, kissing lady’s hand,’ he explains. Annika is taken aback by a man in today’s Budapest practising what she sees as a sexist old-world ritual, but he is already asking where she would like to go. ‘My friend Tamás said you are interested in Jewish places, yes?’

  ‘This is my first time in Budapest, so perhaps an overview of the main sights to start with?’

  Waving his arm in the direction of bridge, he says, ‘The Danube divides Budapest into two parts, Buda and Pest. We begin here, in Pest, okay madame?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  As they head off along the embankment, he says, ‘I will start with short history. So I can say to you that Hungary has been on wrong side of every major war. Our history is invasions, wars, occupations and defeats. Mongols, Turks, Russians, Austrians, Germans and again Russians. In World War I we are on side of Kaiser. Bad choice. We lose war and we lose peace. Treaty of Trianon in 1920 takes away most of our population and our land. World War II, bad choice again. We fight with Hitler. Germans occupy us. We lose that war two times — after Nazis, Communists come.’

  History has never been Annika’s strong point, and as she listens to his sardonic account of his country’s past, she realises how ignorant she is about Hungary. It also strikes her that peace treaties seem to create unforeseen and catastrophic situations not only for the defeated but for the victors as well. The words of Sophocles spring into her mind: no-one is exempt from the wounds of war.

  Past the impressive Hapsburg building that houses the parliament, they continue their riverside stroll until they come to a row of oddly assorted shoes spread along part of the promenade. When they come closer, she sees that they are bronze installations, bolted to the cement path. There are little children’s shoes, women’s high-heeled pumps, work boots and men’s lace-up shoes. Some are lying on their side, as if they had been carelessly kicked off, while others are neatly lined up as if in a wardrobe.