The Collaborator

by Diane Armstrong

  When it’s time for witnesses to be called, Miklós feels his muscles unclench. His breathing, which has recently become short and shallow, occasionally producing a dull pain in his chest, begins to deepen. As the shafts of light above him brighten, the courtroom, which has appeared a cold and threatening place, now seems neither wounding nor dangerous. The people he saved will tell their story, and the truth will emerge. He will be vindicated and he will triumph over the twisted minds that have tried to diminish his achievement and ruin his reputation.

  As Judge Lazar enters, everyone rises, and Miklós studies his face, searching for signs of sympathy or at least acknowledgement, but without looking in his direction, the judge takes his seat, bangs his gavel, and the session begins.

  The first witness that Amos Alon calls is not one of the men he rescued, but someone he has never heard of, who casts an angry glance in his direction as he identifies himself as Peter Bernsztein, a member of the Jewish community of Kolostór in 1944.

  ‘Were you included among the Jews that Mr Nagy rescued?’ Alon asks.

  The witness gives a short laugh. ‘No way. I wasn’t fortunate enough to be part of his family.’

  Miklós leans towards the prosecutor. ‘That’s outrageous. He can’t be allowed to get away with that.’

  ‘Objection. The witness is giving his opinion about something we know to be false,’ the prosecutor says. ‘It’s a documented fact that only a small number of the people Mr Nagy rescued were relatives.’

  Like an accomplished skater, Amos Alon glides to the next question. ‘So when you returned to Kolostór after the war, what were people saying about Mr Nagy?’

  Before the prosecutor has time to object, the witness replies. ‘They said that if he dared to show his face here someone would bump him off for sure.’

  ‘Your honour! This is inadmissible, it’s asking for hearsay.’

  But the judge overrules his objection, removes his glasses, and leans towards the witness, obviously fascinated. ‘I want to know why you said that.’

  ‘Because Miklós Nagy deliberately misled the Jews into believing German lies about being relocated to another town and getting jobs.’

  The prosecutor raises his voice. ‘The witness is repeating a lie, a spiteful rumour to discredit the defendant.’

  He sees Miklós’s stricken face and realises his blunder. It’s Isaiah Fleischmann who is the defendant in this case, not Miklós, but Amos Alon has twisted this case so cleverly that his own lawyer has fallen into the trap.

  Peter Bernsztein is dismissed, and the next few witnesses called to testify all appear to bear Miklós a grudge. One of them even refers to him as a quisling who colluded in the murder of Hungarian Jews.

  Miklós feels that his head is about to explode. What have these people got against him? He knows that his professional success and social prominence aroused envy among the less successful members of the community in his home town, and that his impatience was sometimes mistaken for arrogance, but their spite shocks him.

  He recalls being described as a wheeler-dealer, but that ability to manipulate became his strength in a tragic situation that required leadership and energy. Without nerves of steel, self-confidence, and the ability to bluff when he had nothing to offer in return, he wouldn’t have been able to confront Eichmann or to rescue anyone. Did they hold those qualities against him now they were safe?

  The next witness to be called is Ervin Szabo, one of the rescued Jews of Kolostór, but when he begins to praise Miklós, Amos Alon cuts him short.

  ‘Just answer the question,’ he says, and steers the cross-examination to what he describes as Miklós’s duplicity in not informing the community of their imminent fate. ‘You were one of the favoured few to be selected for the rescue train,’ he says, ‘but if you hadn’t been, you would have been on one of the death trains, because Mr Nagy had made it his business not to let anyone know of their destination so they couldn’t escape or rebel, wouldn’t you?’

  The prosecutor springs from his chair to object, but the judge surveys the witness with interest and directs his question to him. ‘I’d like to know, Mr Szabo, what would you have done if you had found out that the Nazis were lying about the aim of the deportations and were deporting people to death camps instead?’

  Ervin hesitates, and the judge waits for him to answer.

  Finally he says, ‘I can’t possibly know today what I would have done back then.’

  ‘You’re being evasive,’ the judge says. ‘You mean to tell me you really don’t know what you would have done in that situation?’

  ‘I could tell you anything, but I’m trying to be honest. It’s impossible for me to know today, in the safety of Israel in 1954, what I would have done in the hell that Hungary was ten years ago.’

  Miklós sinks back in his chair, and closes his eyes. The judge hasn’t understood that Ervin has given the only truthful answer possible, an answer that goes to the heart of this case, where people who weren’t in that hell are sitting in judgement on those who were.

  But even the people who are called by the prosecution to give favourable accounts of the man who saved their lives are disappointingly lukewarm about their rescue. Yes, they admit, Miklós Nagy did save them, but, when skilfully cross-examined by Amos Alon, they dwell on the hardships they experienced on the train to Switzerland, rather than the joy of being released from Nazi Occupation and rescued from certain death. They recall the primitive conditions during the journey, their distress at not knowing where they were being taken, the privations they endured during their months of detention in the camp, and the anguish they suffered not knowing when they would be released.

  When one woman mentions her terror at the rumour that they were being taken to Auschwitz, Miklós leans towards the prosecutor to remind him that this was a vital point in his favour, because it showed that people did know about Auschwitz, whereas one of the most damaging accusations levelled against him was that he had deceived them by refusing to inform them about the extermination camp. But the prosecutor is too slow to capitalise on the advantage. From the corner of his eye, Miklós sees Judit closing her eyes and spreading her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  Miklós listens to their complaints with growing anger. He supposes that the sensational nature of recent newspaper reports with their screaming headlines about collaboration, together with Amos Alon’s damaging accusations, have induced them to reassess their rescue in a less positive light.

  Of all the accusations and insinuations made so far during the trial, it’s their grudging acknowledgement of his role that has embittered him the most. An old Jewish saying of his mother’s, that he never understood before, now comes into his mind: no good deed goes unpunished.

  Then he recalls one of his father’s stories. A man has a fishbone stuck in his throat and is about to choke to death when at the very last moment the doctor arrives and removes the obstruction. The man can breathe again. ‘You saved my life, how much do I owe you?’ the grateful patient asks. ‘Just give me one-tenth of what you would have given me while that fishbone was stuck in your throat,’ the doctor replies.

  That story always made him smile, but now he understands its sad truth. Gratitude is conditional and memory is short. They have chosen to forget their plight and their relief at being rescued, and are now damning him with their faint praise. And these are the people for whom he negotiated with Eichmann and risked his life.

  The prosecutor announces that his next witness is Yoel Maroz, a representative of the Jewish Agency who was based in Istanbul when Gábor Weisz arrived from Budapest. At the mention of Gábor’s name, Miklós feels his muscles tightening.

  ‘Mr Weisz arrived in May 1944,’ Maroz testifies. ‘He told us that Eichmann had offered to release a million Jews in exchange for ten thousand trucks. As proof of his intention, he said he’d allow a train carrying over fifteen hundred Jews to leave Hungary while we negotiated with the Allies for the trucks he wanted. Mr Weisz kept stressing that
he had to return to Budapest with proof that the offer was being considered because the fate of the remaining Jews hung in the balance. He was also worried about his wife, who was Eichmann’s hostage.’

  At the mention of Ilonka, Miklós looks up sharply, flushes, then quickly bows his head and grasps his trembling hands to conceal his reaction from Judit’s piercing gaze.

  ‘How did you react when you heard this?’ the prosecutor asks.

  ‘We were speechless,’ Yoel Maroz replies. ‘Who ever heard of Eichmann doing a deal with a Jew to save Jews? And how did we know if this preposterous offer was genuine? But either way, we had to grab at the straw being offered. If we didn’t do whatever we could, we would be haunted by guilt for the rest of our lives. So it looked as if we might manage to save the lives of the remaining Hungarian Jews.’

  Hearing his story being corroborated, Miklós raises his head. The judge is engaged by the dramatic account, and the court is attentive.

  The prosecutor turns to Amos Alon. ‘Your witness.’

  ‘Knowing how desperate the situation was, what did the Jewish Agency do to save these Jews?’

  The witness appears confused and glances at the prosecutor for guidance but finds none. ‘Our hands were tied. We weren’t empowered to act until the leaders of the Jewish Agency in Palestine had time to study his proposal and make a decision. And they were in a bind. On one hand, their policy was dead against making any deals with the enemy, and anyway, how could they agree to furnish Hitler with trucks to help him win the war? In any case, they didn’t have that kind of money at their disposal…’

  Amos Alon cuts him short with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘The answer is nothing, isn’t it? Given the opportunity to save Hungarian Jews, the Jewish Agency did nothing.’ With expansive gestures and dramatic pauses, he launches into an impassioned account of the heroism of the Irgun members who fought to defend their colleagues in 1948, and defended the Altalena to the death in the face of attacks. Everyone listens enthralled, but Miklós is fuming. He can see through this performance, and knows that Alon is contrasting his fearless Irgun comrades with what he perceives as the cowardly attitude of the Jewish Agency. He stares at the judge, furious that he is allowing this self-serving, self-indulgent and totally irrelevant diatribe, whose only motive is to blacken the government, but even the prosecutor seems mesmerised by the defence lawyer’s eloquence. Finally the judge snaps out of his trance and urges Amos to spare the court the history lesson, and confine himself to cross-examining the witness.

  ‘You say that the Jewish Agency hadn’t had time to study his proposal, but isn’t it correct to say that shortly after Mr Weisz arrived in Istanbul, the Jewish Agency informed the British of his presence there, and told them about his mission? And isn’t it a fact that the Jewish Agency colluded in the betrayal of Gábor Weisz because Ben-Gurion didn’t want to do anything to upset his British bosses? Mr Weisz was persuaded to set out for Aleppo, even though they knew that the British would arrest him as soon as he got there. You all knew it was a British trap. Did you let Mr Weisz know that it was a trap?’

  The audacity of that accusation shocks Miklós, and he wonders where this outrageous claim originated.

  ‘I repudiate your melodramatic claim that we hatched some kind of conspiracy and deliberately sent him into a British trap,’ Yoel Maroz retorts. ‘We received assurances from the British consulate in Istanbul that Mr Weisz would not be arrested, so there is absolutely no truth in the accusation that the Jewish Agency trapped him or colluded with the British.’

  ‘But if you received assurances, as you say, it must be because you suspected the possibility of him being arrested?’

  ‘We knew it was a possibility, but we believed the British officials.’

  Alon keeps hammering his question. ‘So you knew he could be arrested. Did you let him know that he could be in danger, yes or no?’

  ‘No,’ Maroz concedes.

  ‘And isn’t that why the mission ultimately failed?’

  The prosecutor is bristling. He knows how damaging this is for the Mapai party which evolved from the Jewish Agency when Israel became a nation. ‘This line of questioning is irrelevant, your honour. The witness is in no position to make a judgement about decisions made by the Jewish Agency or by the Allies, or about possible reasons for the mission’s failure. In any case, we’re prosecuting a case of criminal libel here, not engaging in a political post-mortem. Besides, this has nothing to do with the case against Mr Fleischmann.’

  But from the vulpine gleam in Amos Alon’s eyes, Miklós knows that this is exactly what the defence lawyer is doing, and by allowing his questions and his editorialising, the judge appears to be encouraging this line of questioning. He also knows that the prosecutor is hopelessly out of his depth, out foxed by Amos Alon’s devious agenda, which is now blatantly clear.

  Maroz steps down from the witness box, and from his dazed expression it’s clear that he knows he has been used to sharpen the defence lawyer’s political hatchet but has been helpless to prevent it.

  People in the courtroom are becoming restless. They are frowning, whispering, asking questions. Only the politically savvy among them understand the significance of this twist in the questioning. The rest are bewildered by it and confer with their neighbours. ‘Can’t you see, he’s dragging the government into this to incriminate it,’ someone whispers loudly, attracting a glare and an order for silence from the bench. ‘But what does that have to do with the case against Miklós Nagy?’ someone asks in a voice loud enough to be heard.

  Amos Alon’s voice rings out in the courtroom. ‘I would now like to call Gábor Weisz to the witness stand.’

  Miklós swallows. He hasn’t seen his old friend since their last meeting in Budapest just before Gábor left for Istanbul, and dreads coming face to face with him. But at least Gábor will be able to confirm his efforts on behalf of the condemned Jews of Hungary.

  Meanwhile the prosecutor is strenuously objecting to Gábor being called. Miklós knows that the government is desperate to prevent him from giving evidence that could be damaging to them. In the heated altercation that ensues between the two lawyers, who step up the bench to argue their case, Miklós can hear Alon insisting that in the interests of justice Gábor must be allowed to testify.

  ‘As my learned colleague didn’t call Mr Weisz as a witness for the prosecution, I was within my rights to contact him. In fact I’ve been in touch with him several times because I am convinced that his evidence has a bearing on this case,’ he states, and with a grandiose gesture, he adds, ‘I refuse to be intimidated by the prosecution into abrogating my responsibility to the court.’

  Miklós closes his eyes and suppresses a groan. But it’s not Gábor’s account of his mission that worries him, but the thought of any personal information the wily solicitor might have elicited during their private conversations.

  Gábor’s appearance shocks him. He has lost weight and his clothes hang loosely from his stooped shoulders. But the biggest change is in his face. His eyes look dull, and his cheeks have sagged and lost their buttery sheen. He has the hunted look of a gazelle on the savannah when, isolated from the herd, it feels the cheetah’s hot breath on the back of its neck.

  Miklós wonders if Gábor and Ilonka are still together, and where they are living. More precisely, he longs to know where she is, but he is forbidden from contacting a witness for the defence, and in any case, it’s probably better not to know.

  Gábor begins his testimony with a nervous account of his mission which Miklós remembers from the coded messages that the double agent Zoltán Klein sent back from Istanbul.

  Looking around and clearing his throat, Gábor coughs frequently and pulls at his tie, which is loosely knotted around his scrawny neck. From the way his gaze skims over Miklós as if he doesn’t exist, Miklós suspects that he probably knows about his affair with Ilonka.

  With a tremulous voice his friend describes the tense flight to Istanbul on a diplomatic Luftw
affe plane, his difficulty in obtaining a Turkish visa, and his desperate efforts to arrange meetings with the representatives of the Allied governments and the Jewish Agency.

  Time was running out, and messages from Budapest, where his wife was Eichmann’s hostage, kept arriving with entreaties to return with a positive answer or the extermination would continue and the rest of the Jews would be killed, along with her. Miklós is uncomfortably aware that whenever Gábor mentions Ilonka, he shoots a baleful look in his direction.

  ‘Knowing that the situation was so desperate, I suppose Moshe Sharett of the Jewish Agency rushed to Istanbul to talk to you about this vital matter?’ Amos Alon asks innocently.

  At the mention of the leader of the Mapai party, the atmosphere in the courtroom tenses, and people sit forward, not wanting to miss a single word of the answer now that the prime minister is in Alon’s sights.

  Gábor shakes his head. ‘No. He didn’t come to meet me in Istanbul. I was told he couldn’t get a visa to Turkey, which seemed very odd. The Jewish Agency people in Istanbul suggested that I should go to Palestine instead, to report to him in person. They said I’d have to go through Syria. I didn’t want to go to Palestine because it was still under British mandate, and I knew there was a risk that, as a Hungarian national, I could be arrested if I stepped on British soil, but they convinced me I’d be safe. Knowing what was at stake, I felt I had no alternative but to follow their advice.’

  ‘And what happened when you reached Aleppo?’ Amos asks.

  ‘My worst fears were realised. I was arrested by the British. It turned out that Moshe Sharett was already in Syria, and he talked to me in the presence of a British intelligence officer, but the British refused to release me. First they detained me in Aleppo and then they drove me to Cairo where they kept me under house arrest for four months. They interrogated me for hours every day. The questions kept coming thick and fast, sometimes from several officers at the same time, all demanding to know every minute detail of our dealings with Eichmann.’