His reverie is interrupted when the maître d’ comes towards him with a supercilious expression which changes to deference as soon as he asks for Obersturmbannführer Becher’s table. He is ushered to a banquette upholstered in burgundy velvet, situated a discreet distance from the central section of the ornate dining room. Miklós supposes this is the table Becher usually reserves for trysts with his Hungarian mistress, a nightclub singer whose white throat and slender arms always glitter with diamonds. He has no illusions as to how the Nazi lieutenant colonel has come by this jewellery, and the irony of the situation isn’t lost on him. Desperation created unlikely bedfellows, and he can’t ignore the fact that he is now hoping to benefit from Becher’s insatiable greed.
As he waits, he reflects on the extraordinary turn of events that has put this affable Nazi unexpectedly in charge of the negotiations about the train. Over the past few weeks, Eichmann has become increasingly volatile and erratic, breaking whatever promises he had previously made and threatening with a reptilian smile to send Miklós to Auschwitz along with the people on the train.
Determined not to appear cowed, Miklós unconsciously began to mirror Eichmann’s behaviour. He would pace around the room, chain-smoke, and retort to the threats in a mocking manner. ‘Yes, Obersturmbannführer, why don’t you go ahead and kill me and the Jews you haven’t managed to send off to Auschwitz yet? But if you do that, what will you have to offer the Western Allies in return for your trucks?’
At times during these macabre encounters, he felt as if Eichmann was treating him as an equal, but as soon as he left his headquarters, he realised the absurdity of this notion. He wondered whether his double life was causing him to become detached from reality.
Eichmann was a fanatic who made no secret of his determination to fulfil his mission in Hungary, and he couldn’t be trusted to keep any promises. Miklós increasingly despaired of his ability to arrange for the train to leave Bergen-Belsen, and he suspected that even in the unlikely event that the Allies agreed to his preposterous scheme, Eichmann wouldn’t keep his word.
‘Und wo ist die schöne Frau Weisz?’ Eichmann asked at their last meeting. Holding the Nazi’s cold gaze without blinking, Miklós explained that Ilonka had pneumonia, could hardly breathe, and was too ill to get out of bed. Eichmann’s expression indicated scepticism, but he didn’t pursue the subject.
Just as he’d been about to leave, Eichmann put him off balance again. In scathing language he usually reserved for Miklós in particular and for the Jews in general, he began attacking Becher who, he said, was an upstart who had been promoted to equal rank with himself despite his inferior talent and lack of experience.
‘Remember what I said, Nagy,’ he said, thumping his fist on the walnut desk. ‘The trucks deal is mine. If you want that train to leave Bergen-Belsen, you’d better keep Becher’s nose out of my business.’
This was an unexpected turn of events, and Miklós was relieved to hear that somehow, behind Eichmann’s back, Becher was up to his ears in this affair. How he had inveigled himself into these final stages was a mystery, but Miklós felt confident that dealing with the corrupt Becher would be far more straightforward than with the fanatical Eichmann.
With Eichmann in charge, the outcome was always in doubt. He was drinking more heavily, his outbursts becoming more volcanic, his language more vituperative. During their last encounter he leapt to his feet several times and pointed his pistol at Miklós.
He ignored the belated order of the Hungarian leader Admiral Horthy to stop the deportations, and every day so many Jews were being sent to Auschwitz its gas chambers were being stretched beyond their capacity for mass extermination.
So it was an enormous relief when Eichmann was unexpectedly recalled and Becher took over the whole operation. He was an opportunist, not an idealist, and Miklós knew that it was preferable to deal with a man who was motivated by greed rather than ideology. But who had put him in charge, and why, remained a mystery.
*
The mystery is solved over pâté de foie gras and roast duck at the Gellert Hotel. After the sommelier deftly opens a bottle of vintage Veuve Cliquot and fills their champagne flutes, Kurt Becher leans forward and says in a confidential tone, as though speaking to a trusted colleague, ‘Did you know that Eichmann was dead against releasing any Jews? If it was up to him, he would make sure every single Jew in Hungary — and that includes you, Herr Nagy, and that charming lady of yours — ended up on a train to Auschwitz. You have no idea how frustrated he was that his mission was being undermined.’
Before Miklós can ask the obvious question, Becher smiles, and Miklós is struck by his innocent, boyish expression as he says, ‘It was my boss, Reichsführer Himmler, who suggested this deal from the start.’
So the rumours he had heard were true: Becher really was Himmler’s man! For the next twenty minutes, Miklós listens in amazement as Becher extols the virtues of Himmler, whom he describes as the wisest, kindest and most intelligent man he has ever met. Miklós surmises that this admiration and affection must be mutual, as it was Himmler who had promoted him — ahead of time and talent, if Eichmann’s jaundiced view was correct.
But as he listens to Becher’s paean of praise for his boss, one question bothers him. Why did Himmler initiate this scheme? Why did he send a Jewish representative to negotiate with western powers on behalf of the Nazis for a deal that promised to release the Jews that Eichmann had been sent to annihilate?
It doesn’t make sense. Himmler is Hitler’s deputy, a ruthless killer and vicious anti-Semite. Moreover, he isn’t a fool. He can’t possibly imagine that the Allies would supply Germany with trucks. There has to be some underlying motive for this apparently crazy plan. Does he anticipate that his scheme won’t work, which would later enable him to blame the West for refusing to save Jews?
Over their hazelnut and chocolate palacsinta, the conversation turns to music, art and literature. Becher’s boyish face is flushed after three glasses of Château Margaux, his eyes are shining, and he enthuses about Bach cantatas and Mozart operas. It turns out that he is a connoisseur of Impressionist painters, and Miklós supposes that his appreciation of fine art has been a great advantage in plundering valuable paintings from Jewish homes. He loves poetry, too, especially the work of Goethe. ‘Have you read Faust?’ Becher asks. ‘A fantastic story about a man who does a deal with the devil.’
They look at each other for a moment without speaking, as if struck by the same thought. Then Becher breaks the silence with a loud recitation of a poem and says he wished he had written it in honour of Magda, his Hungarian lover. His voice resounds through the restaurant, and some of the diners, many of them immaculately coiffed Budapest women in elegant gowns who are dining with German officers, turn in his direction, smiling indulgently. ‘Du bist wie eine blume,’ he booms, quoting from Heine, and clicks his fingers for the sommelier to bring the finest French cognac and Havana cigars. Miklós smiles to himself. He wonders if Becher is aware that Heine was Jewish, and that his works, along with hundreds of thousands of other banned Jewish literary works, had been burned in the squares of Berlin.
After their brandy balloons are filled, Miklós takes a deep breath, clears his throat and leans forward. He has waited all evening for the right moment to say this, and now that Becher is sitting back, puffing his cigar in a haze of alcoholic bonhomie, he senses that the time has come.
‘I have a problem, Herr Obersturmbannführer, and if you don’t mind mixing business and pleasure, I’d like to tell you what it is,’ he begins, trying to sound relaxed. ‘It’s about my train. It has been stuck in Bergen-Belsen for several months now, even though I’ve already paid the ransom. The trouble is, our people in the West are beginning to doubt the sincerity of your boss’s offer. I wonder if it’s in your power to do anything to expedite the train’s journey to Switzerland.’
As he speaks, he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a thick envelope whose contents the Rescue Committ
ee had managed to raise, and slips it under Becher’s starched linen napkin.
Without saying a word, Becher nods, and with one smooth motion of his beautifully manicured hand he slides the envelope into his pocket with a smile. He knows that the envelope contains twenty thousand American dollars.
‘You know I am doing this to help the Jews,’ he says. ‘I never had anything against Jews, not like some of my colleagues. One day you will remember that I helped to save them?’
His easy smile and jovial manner have disappeared and he holds Miklós’s gaze with a compelling expression. Miklós understands what he means. The war was drawing to a close, and Germany was facing inevitable defeat. When it was all over, judgements would be made, and retribution would follow. Nazis like Becher would need all the friends they could get.
‘I won’t forget what you have done.’
Becher is smiling again. ‘So, we shake hands?’
Miklós takes the hand extended across the table. He is aware that Becher will continue to exploit him and milk the situation for financial advantage as ruthlessly as possible, but he believes the Nazi officer will keep his side of the bargain. Whatever his motive, he is an invaluable ally.
Becher raises his brandy balloon in a toast. ‘To the train!’ he says.
As they clink glasses, Miklós knows that a promise has been sealed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
December 1944
Despite the handshake and the $20,000, several weeks pass without any progress. The passengers are still detained in Bergen-Belsen. For Miklós, the feeling of bonhomie that his dinner with Kurt Becher at the Gellert Hotel had engendered, with its seductive sense of being treated as an equal, seems an illusion. It is already December, and the days are cold, bleak and dark. The ground at night glitters with frost, and early snow cushions the branches of the spruce trees. Miklós thinks about the group at Bergen-Belsen, and imagines them oscillating between hope and despair. They have already spent four months in the camp, not knowing when they would be permitted to continue their journey, or if they would ever be released.
His frustration and helplessness make him so restless he can hardly sit still, as if ceaseless motion might distract him from his anxiety. Whenever it seemed that he had finally reached an agreement with the Nazis, new conditions were imposed and new demands were made. Becher’s latest excuse is that unexpected impediments have arisen, but Miklós recognises this as a brazen attempt to extort even more money.
He knows the money isn’t there, that it will never be there. For one thing, Szymon Goldberg, the representative of the American Joint Distribution Committee in Switzerland, is expressly forbidden from dealing with the Nazis, and for another, even if the AJDC lifted their ban, the outrageous amount the Nazis demand — 20 million Swiss francs — simply isn’t available. Nonetheless, Miklós is willing to continue this exhausting game, to bluff and make promises he knows he can never keep, just to keep the negotiations going.
To add to his frustration, Goldberg is a stickler for rules and considers bluffing dishonest, so the meetings Miklós arranges for him with Becher and some of Becher’s Nazi cronies on the border of Austria and Switzerland come to nothing.
And what is worse, these episodes put everything in jeopardy, because Becher and his offsider stalk out fuming that they have been tricked into a meeting that wasted their time. Exhausted and on the point of despair, Miklós tries to convince Goldberg to prevaricate and promise the Nazis something, anything, but it is useless. In normal times, Goldberg would be an ethical, honest businessman but these are not ordinary times. They are dealing with avaricious killers who have no qualms about extorting money, and Miklós has no qualms about lying to them. The lives of over a thousand people are worth a few lies and false promises.
He admits he has set himself an impossible task, but having reached this point, so close to a success that had once seemed improbable, he can’t bear the possibility that it might all come to nothing. But as he paces around his room, smoking one cigarette after another, he knows that no matter how many times he has to keep arranging meetings between the Nazis and Goldberg, or what lies he has to invent to keep them believing that the money will be deposited into whatever bank account they nominate, the passengers have to be released as soon as possible to travel to Switzerland.
The reason for the renewed urgency lies in a letter Judit has managed to send him from Bergen-Belsen. It is brief, but he knows her well enough to sense the excitement pulsing behind her understated words: I have wonderful news. The three of us will be so happy. He reads it over and over, incredulous at first, then delighted, and finally panic-stricken. He feels he is being ripped apart.
The irony of it. From the day they were married he longed to have children, but she had refused. That was before the war, at a time when having a baby would have been a joy. But Judit had been adamant. Her musical career was flourishing, with invitations pouring in for her to give concerts and join prominent chamber groups. ‘You married a pianist, not a hausfrau,’ she used to remind him whenever he broached the subject. That had been the beginning of their rift. Afraid of an unwanted pregnancy, she had discouraged intimacy and never initiated or responded to his efforts to excite her. Hurt by her rejection, he had turned to women whose sexual appetites matched his, and whose desire for him nourished his ego.
Ever since Eichmann arrived in Budapest and ever-increasing anti-Jewish laws were imposed, the concert invitations had dried up, and Judit had to restrict herself to playing at home. It lifted his spirits to watch her play, her eager face leaning towards the score as her slender white fingers caressed the keys. He often wondered if she ever regretted her decision, now that music no longer occupied all her time and her career had come to a sudden halt, but their emotional distance precluded intimate discussions. She had become increasingly withdrawn, and now for the first time it occurs to him that she has probably been depressed, and perhaps he is the cause.
Was that why she had come into his bed? For he knew now without any doubt that it was Judit to whom he’d made love with such urgency that night. He often reflects on it. He had gone to bed alone, as usual, and had fallen into a deep sleep. How had he become so aroused? Had it been a dream, or had Judit stimulated him until his body responded with a pitch of excitement that could only find relief in the accepting warmth of a woman’s body?
From her oblique comment about Ilonka, he realises that Judit is aware of their relationship. At the time, she hadn’t voiced any distress or even concern about it, but she has always kept her thoughts and feelings to herself.
Was it desire that had led her to his bed, or just the longing for physical connection? Or was it simply her determination to reassert her status as his wife that had impelled her to make love to him, something she hadn’t done since the early days of their marriage?
Judit’s behaviour, so out of character, intrigues him, and the idea that she deliberately set out to seduce him is unexpectedly exciting, although at the same time he is angry at being tricked. He doesn’t know whether she had wanted to become pregnant, but she must have realised that he wouldn’t use a condom or withdraw in time to prevent filling her with his semen.
But a baby, now! He remembers an old Chinese proverb about being careful what you wish for. His anxiety for the passengers now intensifies as he thinks of his fragile wife with his child in her belly, suffering the privations of a concentration camp. Judit was so delicate, so spiritual. How would she cope in such harsh conditions, in the winter frost, surrounded by brutal guards? The food rations would be meagre, the bunks would be hard, and the blankets paper thin.
And what would happen to the baby, deprived of the nourishment babies need? Until that moment, his mission has been to save other people. Now he realises with a shock that he is also saving a part of himself.
In the middle of the night he sits up, wide awake. Ilonka! What is he going to do? He loves her, he still aches for her every morning, and he misses her smile, her warmth and her bright
mind. They promised each other that when they reached Palestine, he would divorce Judit and she would divorce Gábor and they would marry. It had all been so clear to them then, but now everything has changed and nothing is clear anymore. He covers his face with his hands.
The memory of Ilonka’s fingertips caressing the most sensitive parts of his body arouses him, and he tries not to think of her moans of pleasure as he unfolded her, petal by petal. How can he live without her? Without the pleasure whose intensity sometimes made him sob with joy? Without sharing everything with her, discussing every plan with her, and listening to her wise ideas? How can he betray the promise they made to each other?
But how can he leave Judit now that she is expecting his child? He makes a swift calculation. She must be almost five months pregnant now. He wonders if her slim figure has filled out, and whether she can feel the baby — their baby — kicking. As his feeling for her rekindles, she is in his thoughts day and night, and he is tortured by the dilemma that is tearing him apart.
But did he have to give either of them up? Perhaps he could explain everything to Ilonka, and they could continue their affair just as before. As soon as that comforting thought occurs to him, he dismisses it. Ilonka would never agree. He must make a choice that will crush one of the women in his life, and crush him as well. Whoever he chooses, he will be tormented by the loss of the other for the rest of his life.
The negotiations for the train have stalled once again, and with no agreement reached about the funds, the situation appears bleaker than ever. So when Szymon Goldberg cables that he will raise four million Swiss francs after all, despite orders forbidding him to do so, Miklós is ecstatic.
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