Annika stopped reading, frustrated that the writer didn’t explain things in more detail. How was it that this man, a Jew, was able to secure special protection for his group from the Hungarians and the Germans at a time when Jews were being rounded up in ghettos and deported? She needed to be patient. Perhaps he would explain it later.
All this time, no-one knew where we were going, though people kept talking about Palestine because they had permits to go there. When someone overheard that we were approaching a place called Auspitz, panic broke out. People thought they said Auschwitz, and they became hysterical. They said Mr Nagy had tricked us and we were being deported after all. Someone made up a black joke that did the rounds — Auspitz = Auschwitz, Cion (Zion) = Cian(cyanide.) Naturally I didn’t get it at the time, but I realise now that this joke is very significant, and I will tell you why. Years later, Nagy’s enemies accused him of deliberately withholding information that might have saved lots of people if only he had warned them about Auschwitz. Well from this joke, and the panic caused by the name Auspitz, it was obvious that people did know about Auschwitz, so they didn’t need Nagy to spell it out. And besides, those people who blamed him later for withholding information, displayed their ignorance as well as their malice. Because even if he had warned them, what would they have done? There was nowhere they could go without being caught. You see that was Mr Nagy’s triumph, and that’s what his enemies ignore — he succeeded in snatching our group from the jaws of hell, whereas for the rest of the Jews in Hungary, there was no escape.
From what I remember, it took about a week to reach Linz in Austria. We were ordered off the train and taken to be disinfected and deloused. That was traumatic for all of us. We had to take off all our clothes in public which was terribly embarrassing. Strangers with rough hands and harsh voices shaved us all over and sprayed us with Lysol which stung like hell. But from what I overheard my mother telling my father, it was even more humiliating for the women. They felt violated because they were stripped, brutally shaved, and prodded all over while SS officers made lewd comments about them. I felt sorry for the girls. They were so ashamed that they tried to hide, and some of them didn’t utter a word for days.
After that we were pushed back into the cattle trucks. A few days later — I remember the date, it was 9 July — the train came to a stop. The platform said Bergen-Hohne, which didn’t mean anything to us. We didn’t know then that we had arrived at the place which later became synonymous with the horrors of the Holocaust: Bergen-Belsen. We had to walk about seven kilometres with our belongings to reach the camp, escorted by guards with whips. In normal circumstances, seven kilometres isn’t very far, but we were exhausted and terrified, not knowing what was going to happen. They were yelling and their horrible dogs were barking and straining at the leash just waiting to sink their fangs into us.
As you know, I’ve always liked to measure, count, and figure out distances, I suppose that’s my way of feeling in control of a situation. Even now I could draw you an exact map of the camp and its baths and disinfection station, the SS quarters, the prison, kitchens, and the 80 wooden barracks. The camp was surrounded by two parallel barbed-wire fences, with a watchtower looming in between, and past the perimeter there was a pine forest with trees that seemed to touch the sky. I can still remember the clean, fresh smell of those trees.
But enough statistics. You can look them up in a history book. What you won’t find there is my story which is really your story too. I didn’t know, and neither did most of the adults, that at the time Bergen-Belsen was basically a transit camp where many prisoners were kept as hostages, to be exchanged for German prisoners or, in our case, ransomed for money. Anyway I’m not going to go into details about the overcrowding, the hunger, the cruel guards, and the hours we had to stand in the rain or freezing cold at the rollcalls called zahlappells that went on for hours and made our legs ache so much we could hardly stand. What we didn’t realise at the time was that we were much better treated than the prisoners in the other compounds because the Germans didn’t starve and beat us. They regarded us as a potentially valuable resource.
What I do want to say is that while we were in the camp, I discovered something about human nature that I never forgot. We all have a glorified image of ourselves that enables us to deceive ourselves most of the time, but our true selves only emerge in situations like this. Young as I was, I noticed that most people were totally engrossed in their own problems. Most of them manipulated, manoeuvred, pushed, and didn’t care about anyone else, but there were a few who tried to comfort and help others, and even shared their meagre rations. I must confess I did a lot of whining myself, so I suppose that said something about me. I was hungry, cold and bored, although my parents did their best to cheer me up and often gave me some of their food.
One awful memory from that time just came back to me — I slept on the top bunk, and one night I spilled the jar in which I used to urinate. It drenched the man in the bunk below me. He was so furious, he yelled at me and wanted to wring my neck. My father told him off, but looking back on it, I can’t say I blame him.
To distract myself from the hunger and boredom, I made a list of all the people in our group but as time went on, I was too hungry and miserable to bother with lists. Our rations gradually decreased and the bread they gave us tasted like mud mixed with sawdust. I found out how debilitating hunger is. It made everyone lethargic, and took away our interest in everything except food.
Most of the adults talked about the meals they’d eaten and the food they had wasted, which now they wished they had. The women exchanged recipes for hours which I thought was stupid, but just talking about food made them feel better. Sometimes people came to blows waiting in line for food, and I’ll never forget how horrified I was when I saw one of the adults with a bloodied nose as a result of one such scuffle. I can tell you this much: hunger is a great equaliser.
For the adults, the uncertainty was demoralising. Weeks passed, and we had no idea why we were being detained in Bergen-Belsen, how long we were going to languish in there, or if we would ever get out and reach some neutral country where we were supposed to be going en route for Palestine.
Whenever we passed the other compounds and saw the gaunt, yellow-skinned hollow-eyed inmates who looked like walking corpses, we wondered if we’ d end up looking like them. We didn’t know that behind the scenes, Nagy Miklós was desperately trying to raise funds and negotiate our release. What I did know was that whenever people cursed him, and accused him of dishonesty, trickery and fraud, one of the women in my barracks always spoke out in his defence.
Whenever she said anything about him, I noticed people exchanging looks, and some of the women whispered behind their hands. She was very pretty, with thick hair and eyes like black velvet. She often told us children stories, and played games with us, even though she wasn’t very well herself. I knew that because sometimes I saw her rushing out of the barracks with her hand over her mouth, and a few moments later I heard her vomiting. I liked her, and I couldn’t figure out why the other women were always talking about her behind her back.
Once when I asked my mother about it, she said I was too young to understand these matters, which made me even more determined to find out more. Whenever I noticed the women glancing in her direction and gossiping, I would sidle over, but the words I overheard didn’t make much sense to me. I couldn’t understand why they referred to her as a mistress, but when I asked my mother if it meant she was a teacher, she gave me a sharp look and told me to play with the other boys instead of eavesdropping on things that didn’t concern me. I didn’t find out until much later who she was.
Annika turns the page eagerly, but to her dismay István’s story ends there. No wonder Jansci’s friend translated it so fast. Impatient to know more, she calls him.
‘I’ve just finished reading the part of your father’s memoir that was in the envelope, but where’s the rest of it?’ She blurts it out, forgetting that she meant to begin by
thanking him for having the memoir translated.
‘There isn’t more. My father had heart attack and died soon after he wrote that.’
‘So that’s it?’
‘That’s it. Now I wish I had asked him about his life when he was still alive.’
‘But you’re lucky at least he wrote that much. Most people never write their memoirs, or even talk about their wartime experiences.’
Like her grandmother, who has slammed the door on her past. Annika had hoped that István’s story would provide the key to that secret door, but the trail has run cold.
CHAPTER TWELVE
2005
The vapour rising from the Danube gives the river an opalescent sheen, swathing the Pest embankment in muted tones and softening the facades of Parliament House and the Hero Monument. It is as if Budapest’s assertive voice has lowered to a seductive whisper. At least that’s how it seems to Annika as she walks along the embankment, and she slackens her pace to enjoy the city’s misty palette.
She had woken up with the thought of returning to the Holocaust Memorial Center, even though her first visit had been so unsatisfactory. The guide Imre had answered her questions with riddles, but they intrigued her. Perhaps he was about to go home, and hadn’t wanted to prolong his day answering awkward questions. Or maybe his comments simply concealed ignorance, but something in the way his eyes flickered away from her, the way he hesitated before answering, made her suspect that he knew more than he was letting on. And then there was the frustrating cultural aspect of communication. Americans told you too much, the English prevaricated, the Japanese never admitted ignorance, and, from what she had already observed in this city, people in Budapest rarely gave straight answers.
The previous day when she had complained to Jansci about Imre’s response, he’d shrugged. ‘Maybe is different in Australia, but here people are closed tight, like this,’ he said, clenching his fists for emphasis.
‘In past hundred years we have war with Romania, two world wars, and Holocaust. We lose territory to Romania, we are invaded, occupied and oppressed, first Nazis then Communists, and when we rebel, they crush us. Always we are defeated, always on wrong side of history, always afraid of informers, always in danger. So we learn important lesson. Is safer to keep thoughts to ourselves. If you don’t speak, you don’t suffer.’
Confronted by his impassioned recitation of Hungary’s long and blood-filled history, she was embarrassed once again by her ignorance. ‘But Hungary is free now, so there’s no risk in speaking out,’ she argued.
He didn’t say she sounded naive, but his expression said it. ‘It becomes habit not to trust. You suck in suspicion with mother’s milk. You are lucky you don’t understand this, Annika.’
Thinking about their conversation as she walks towards the Holocaust museum, she knows she will never understand this way of life or his way of thinking. The chasm of history is too deep for her to cross.
As soon as she enters the museum’s foyer, she recognises the chilling soundtrack of marching boots coming from the exhibit on other side of the wall, and Jansci’s words come back to her. Perhaps he was right, and Imre’s evasive reply was the result of wariness learnt from past disasters, but just the same she hopes that when he realises that she is genuinely interested and has no ulterior motives, he will be more forthcoming.
The foyer is empty except for a cleaner in a wraparound lozenge-patterned apron and headscarf twisted around her head, swishing a grey mop that forms arabesques of soapy water on the tiled floor. No sign of Imre. Behind the ticket counter a stout woman with long scarlet nails bustles around importantly, opening a register, checking the credit-card machine, and stacking a pile of brochures on the counter with a tapping sound.
‘Do you know if Mr Imre is coming today?’ Annika asks.
The woman looks up. ‘Mr Imre?’ she repeats, then laughs, showing a gap between her front teeth. She checks her watch. ‘Orban Imre will come in twenty minutes,’ she says, and points to the grey leather settee near the door. ‘Sit, please.’
Annika is confused. Is Imre the man’s first or last name? Then she remembers that in Hungary surnames are placed before given names. Another cultural difference. The enforced wait gives her time to think about her dilemma. She has already stayed in Budapest longer than she intended, and she wonders when she should leave. This is a beautiful city, but she knows that the attraction isn’t the city but Jansci. It is a long time since her last relationship. That had been so coruscating she hadn’t wanted to risk embarking on a new one. In her experience, the flames of love invariably ended in a heap of ashes.
She knows she is fighting the attraction she feels for Jansci. There’s no future in this relationship, and I’m too old for a casual fling, she thinks. But her sensual side argues, So what? Nothing comes with a lifetime guarantee. Then she remembers Ella and the risk of having an affair in another country when you are alone and there is no-one to give you a reality check and stop you from making a fool of yourself.
She always comes back to Ella and her Cairo guide. But perhaps it is time to grasp life with both hands and take a gamble? The museum door swings open, and she swivels around expecting to see the guide, but it’s a group of lively American women, some of whom she recognises from the concert at Rákoczy Castle. One of them rushes towards her, and enfolds her in a suffocating hug. ‘Why, it’s the Australian gal! Fancy seeing you here! How long you stayin’ in Budapest, honey?’ Over the woman’s shoulder, Annika notices the buxom ticket seller watching them with unconcealed amusement. It’s a relief when the rest of the group calls the woman to join their tour and they all disappear behind the door leading to the exhibition.
With all the commotion in the foyer, she doesn’t hear the door swing open again, and almost misses Imre as he walks soundlessly across the foyer in scuffed brown suede shoes. Perhaps he recognised her and tried to get past before she saw him. When she jumps up and moves towards him, he gives a reluctant nod, but continues walking.
She falls in step beside him.
‘I was hoping you’d have time to talk to me this morning. When I was here a couple of days ago, it was closing time and you were going home.’
He turns and studies her with his unhappy gaze. The pouches under his eyes seem more swollen than before, and the hair that hangs over his white collar looks greyer. From his deep sigh she realises that he had hoped she wouldn’t return with her tiresome questions.
‘I have fifteen minutes, then work,’ he says. He opens the door to the guides’ room at the far right of the foyer, and stands aside to usher her in. The room is neatly fitted out with furniture of minimalist Swedish design. There’s an oak hatstand, three wooden chairs arranged around a square table, and a settee upholstered in striped grey and white fabric.
‘So, Australian lady, you came back,’ he says, and drops into one of the chairs. ‘Nagy Miklós is very important to you. Why?’
Put on the spot, she finds it difficult to come to the point. Should she begin with her grandmother, or her Hungarian heritage, or just admit to a crazy impulse? Then she remembers something her first editor had told her: If you can’t sum up your story in one sentence, you haven’t got a story. It was a sound principle, one she had often repeated to young reporters when she became an editor herself.
As Imre watches her with his heavy-lidded eyes, waiting for her to answer, she knows that the outcome of this encounter depends on her reply.
‘I believe my grandmother was on the train that Miklós Nagy organised in 1944, and I want to find out more about him,’ she begins. ‘I’ve heard so many contradictory and tantalising things about this man that I’m fascinated, and I want to find out the truth.’
‘The truth.’ He considers the words as if they were some exotic delicacy to be turned over on the tongue and tasted, not swallowed whole. ‘We all want truth, yes? But can you cut water with a knife?’
There he was again, with his mysterious pronouncements. This really was a waste of time. Pick
ing up her handbag with an abrupt motion, she blurts out, ‘You talk in riddles, but you never answer my questions.’
He doesn’t seem to take offence at her comment. ‘Not all questions have easy answers. This is long and complicated story. Who can know truth?’ He raises his bushy eyebrows and spreads his hands in an eloquent gesture of doubt. ‘Nagy Miklós is a puzzle in a puzzle inside another puzzle. There are many possible solutions but always pieces missing.’
Tell me something I don’t know, she thinks. She is about to thank him for his time, hoping she will manage to sound polite, when she glances at him, and something in his demeanour makes her hesitate. As a reporter, she had often found that the most telling quote was the throwaway line uttered at the very end of the interview, when she was packing away her tape recorder and the person she was interviewing was off guard.
The lines on Imre’s cheeks have deepened, and there is a haunted look in his eyes. She sits in silence and waits. Finally he says one word. ‘Israel.’ He says it in such a low voice that she sits forward to make sure she doesn’t miss a single word, and he lapses into silence again.
‘What’s in Israel?’
He pauses and she holds her breath as if waiting for the pronouncement of the Delphic oracle, the one that the tragic characters of Sophocles and Aeschylus might have consulted.
He starts to cough, a tormenting rasp that makes him double up. His eyes bulge and tears run down his cheeks as his chest heaves with the effort of taking in air. Alarmed, she looks around for water and a glass, and spills half of it as she runs to give it to him. By the time he grasps the glass, the paroxysm is over. She is still waiting.
‘If you want to know about Nagy Miklós, go to Israel,’ he whispers, and adds, ‘But truth? More than one. You will see.’
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