Russian Resurgence

by Allan Topol

  He nodded with satisfaction.

  “Let me ask you,” Elizabeth said, proceeding gingerly into what had to be a sensitive family matter, “you told me a few minutes ago that Peter told you that he finally forgave you.”

  “That’s right,” he replied softly, perhaps sorry that he had told her that.

  “Can I ask you to explain what for?”

  When he didn’t immediately respond, she added, “It might be relevant to your son’s death.”

  He took a deep breath. “How much do you know about my life in 1956?”

  “That you were a hero of the revolution. That Imre Nagy sent you to the US to plead Hungary’s case at the UN and in Washington.”

  “At which I failed miserably.”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” said Elizabeth. “You were playing with a stacked deck.”

  “I wanted my wife, Anna, and son, Peter, to come with me in case I wasn’t able to return to Hungary. I had arranged for them to come.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The plan was for Peter and me to ride in the back of an army truck to the Austrian border. I was in a Hungarian soldier’s uniform. We covered Peter with a tarp on the floor. That way we made it through Russian checkpoints.”

  Elizabeth was at the edge of her chair. “And Anna?”

  “I set it up for a Hungarian farmer to pick her up at our house. She had papers showing that she was his wife. She was supposed to meet us at the border crossing. I had bribed the guards who were there until midnight. The next shift would never have let me cross. Peter and I arrived at a little after ten. Anna should have been there by eleven, but she never came.”

  “Why not?”

  “I learned later that Anna had changed her mind at the last minute. Perhaps she was afraid that she wouldn’t be able to return to her beloved Hungary. So she sent the farmer away.”

  “Why didn’t you take Peter with you?”

  “I planned to, but he became frightened when his mother didn’t come. I waited until the last possible minute for Anna to come. At five minutes to midnight, Peter ran into the woods to find his mother. The guards told me that I had to cross the border immediately, or I would have no chance of getting to Austria, and from there to the US. It was impossible to catch Peter in time to cross. So I ran toward the Austrian border.” Zoltan had tears of shame in his eyes. “As I ran, I felt horrible. I was leaving behind my son, my only child, who I loved dearly, because his mother was such a fool. I learned later that Russian soldiers captured Peter in the woods and turned him over to Colonel Suslov, who had been searching for me. The colonel moved into my house, made Anna his sex slave, and treated Peter cruelly.”

  “But then in 1977 Peter defected here. Did he find you then?”

  “He came to Cleveland, a center for Hungarian refugees, where I was living. For a long time, Peter would barely even talk to me. He blamed me for deserting him and his mother and causing them so much pain. I tried to make him understand that I didn’t have a choice, that I had to go to the US to try and save the country to prevent thousands more from dying. He told me, ‘You certainly did a good job of that.’

  “In the last couple of years, we had a bit of a thaw in our relationship. I had moved to Washington and was living in the area when Peter moved here as well after selling his business in Hungary to be with his son. Actually Viktor, my grandson, leaned on Peter to reconcile with me. Reluctantly, he tried. But he never really forgave me until that last time we were together.”

  Elizabeth stayed silent as she listened, moved by the story.

  “I loved my son,” Zoltan added, a tear rolling down his crinkled cheek. “I loved Peter. Even during all those years when he wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I never meant to desert him. If I could do it again, I would have done it differently.”

  “You mean you wouldn’t have come to the US?”

  “No. At the border I would have kept a tight grip on Peter. When it was clear Anna wasn’t coming, I would have picked the boy up and run with him, whether he wanted to go or not. Believe me, I never thought he’d run away. But life doesn’t give us another chance.”

  Elizabeth looked at Zoltan, wracked with sorrow and remorse, and thought about the handsome young man she had seen in a photograph in the book she had read on the plane, the freedom fighter who had come to the United States to plead Hungary’s case, leaving behind his wife and eight-year-old son.

  The phrase “vicissitudes of old age” entered her mind. She thought about her own life. What would she be like when she was Zoltan’s age, if she lived that long? And if she was in a facility like this, who would come to visit her? Not Craig. He was ten years older and unlikely to be alive, and she didn’t have any children who would come to see her.

  She thanked Zoltan for talking with her.

  “And you promise to investigate my son’s murder?” he asked.

  “I will do everything I possibly can,” she assured him.

  In the car on the way to meet Craig and Nick at the house in Georgetown, Elizabeth thought about her relationship with Craig. Where were they going? Craig didn’t want to get married again. And she had never even told Craig that she couldn’t have children.

  On the plane she had felt as if the three of them were a family. It had been a great feeling. She thought about Nick. When this was all over who would take care of him? Certainly, Zoltan couldn’t do it. Reka probably had relatives in Cleveland—that was a possibility. But Elizabeth thought of a better one for Nick. She and Craig could adopt him. But she wasn’t ready to discuss it with Craig yet.

  She picked up her cell and called Craig. “I just left Deerwood,” she said. “I’m on my way to Georgetown, planning to stop en route to pick up some food unless you already did.”

  “Nope. We’ve been in the house,” said Craig. He sounded distracted, and Elizabeth wondered what he was up to.

  An hour and a half later, carrying two heavy bags of groceries, she walked into the house. Peering into the study, she spotted Craig and Nick hunched over a computer. Cars were racing across the screen in some type of racing game.

  She stood in the doorway watching them. They had no idea she was even there, which explained why Craig had seemed so distracted on the phone.

  “Gotcha,” Nick cried out. “My game.”

  “Dammit. That’s three in a row,” Craig moaned.

  “Hi boys,” Elizabeth said. “I’m home.”

  Craig got up and kissed her. “Good timing. Now I have a reason to quit. This kid’s killing me.”

  Elizabeth took charge. “Nick, you go upstairs and get cleaned up. Craig, I’m putting you to work in the kitchen helping me with dinner.”

  She figured that was a good way to peel Craig off from Nick so she could tell him what she had learned from Zoltan.

  An hour later, the three of them sat down at the dining room table. Elizabeth had kept it simple: steaks that Craig cooked on the grill in the back, a corn and tomato salad, and sautéed and diced eggplant, pepper, and zucchini.

  Their bodies were still on Paris time, and after eating watermelon for dessert, Nick was practically falling asleep at the table. Elizabeth sent him up to bed while she and Craig finished a bottle of Vajra Barolo and cleaned up.

  Before they went to bed, Elizabeth looked out of the windows. Two FBI cars were in place. In the back of the house an FBI agent was sitting in the yard, watching the back fence. If anybody came, they would be ready for them.

  Craig slept soundly and woke up at 6:30 a.m. He left Elizabeth asleep in the bed and hurried down to the gym in the basement where he ran on the treadmill, pushing himself hard. Fifteen minutes later, he had company. Nick climbed on the exercise bike and started pedaling fast. The kid’s obviously in good shape, Craig thought.

  That was how Elizabeth found the two of them half an hour later.

  “Isn’t this a cute scene?” she said.

  “Would you like the bike?” Nick asked her.

  “You’ve got to be k
idding,” she laughed. “My idea of a morning workout is raising a cup of coffee while I read the paper.”

  After breakfast, Elizabeth took Craig aside and said, “I’m going to the memorial service for Peter and Reka. When do you want to leave for the White House?”

  “Two o’clock. I’ll call Betty and tell her to meet us there at 2:30. That’ll give us a little prep time.

  “Okay. I’ll be back by two. What will you and Nick do until then?”

  He shrugged. “Hang out I guess.”

  “I know you, Craig,” she said. “You have something in mind. But I really think you and Nick should stay in the house. I don’t want you taking any chances with him.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “We’ll see you here at two.”

  Five minutes after Elizabeth left, Craig said to Nick, “You ever been to the Spy Museum?”

  Nick shook his head. “I always wanted to go.”

  “Good, then get dressed. That’s where we’re going.”

  Craig figured that accompanied by two FBI agents they would be safe. And after the museum, he and Nick could get some pizza and still be back in time to leave by two o’clock.

  At thirty minutes before ten, Elizabeth entered the Church of the Little Flower on Massachusetts Avenue in Bethesda, Maryland. Not knowing what she hoped to learn, she sat down in the last pew to have a clear view of others in attendance.

  At ten o’clock, the church was about a quarter full with two hundred attendees. Seated in the front row she saw Zoltan with Mary Jane from Deerwood at his side and Janos Rajk, the Hungarian justice minister.

  The pastor spoke first. He talked about Peter’s life, but the lack of personal details made Elizabeth think he didn’t know Peter very well. As the pastor spoke about Peter, Elizabeth noticed a gray-haired woman in the second pew, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed softly. Elizabeth couldn’t see her face.

  The pastor then spoke about Peter’s wife, Reka, describing her as a devoted member of the parish, “Outgoing and gregarious, she supplied strong support for Peter’s work in Hungary.” Then he added, “Both Reka and Peter provided loving care and nurturance to their twelve-year-old grandson, Nicholas, who was also a victim in the fire, following the untimely death of his parents last year. It is so unfortunate that Nicholas had his promising life ended at such an early age.”

  Speaking after the pastor was Jane Jordan, who had been a close friend of Reka’s.

  “Reka was a wonderful woman,” Jane said. “We became good friends when she and Peter moved to this area from Cleveland two years ago to be with their son’s family.”

  Jane recited the many community organizations to which Reka had belonged. Then she added, “Reka never had an easy life. Peter was gone much of the time in Hungary; and yet she managed to make a life for herself. Tragedy struck a year ago with the untimely death of their son and only child, Viktor, and his wife, Ellina, in a boating accident. Still, Reka continued her community involvement.”

  The woman in the second pew didn’t seem to be as affected by the words about Reka, and Elizabeth wondered whether this woman had been another one of Peter’s lovers.

  When Jane sat down, Janos Rajk climbed up to the pulpit.

  “I am Janos Rajk, the Hungarian justice minister. I have flown from Budapest because I want all of you in attendance and indeed the whole world . . .” he paused and looked around, “to understand and to appreciate what a patriotic Hungarian Peter Toth was. Russia slapped a virtual straitjacket over our country from the end of the Second World War until 1989 when the wall fell and the Soviet Union imploded.

  “Hungary is a wonderful country with great natural resources and incredibly talented, creative people. However our nation faced the difficult task of building an economy out of the mess that Russia left. Perceiving this necessity, Peter Toth left the US in order to bring his business expertise to our reborn nation. To a great extent, we owe our current economic vitality to Peter Toth.

  “On a personal level, I have had the pleasure of Peter’s friendship for more than twenty years. I have found him to be a warm and caring individual who would do anything for a friend, while at the same time devoting himself to Hungary, the country he loved so much.”

  After Janos Rajk had finished speaking, the pastor recited a few prayers and the service ended.

  While people filed out, Elizabeth kept her eyes on the gray-haired woman in the second pew. She hadn’t risen when everyone else had left. Janos stopped when he saw Elizabeth and introduced her to the Hungarian ambassador.

  “Excellent words, Mr. Rajk,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he replied. “I look forward to reading your article about Peter.”

  Janos moved to the door with the ambassador, then Zoltan and Mary Jane filed by. Elizabeth nodded to them. At last the woman in the second pew stood up and turned around. Elizabeth thought she looked familiar, but at first she couldn’t place her. As she walked down the aisle, coming closer to Elizabeth, recognition clicked into place. Her name was Tracy Thomas. Elizabeth had met her about ten years ago while she was still living in New York. It had been at the Press Club in Washington. The Foreign Press Association was honoring Tracy, who was retiring, for her years of distinguished foreign reporting for a Philadelphia daily.

  Tracy stopped when she caught sight of Elizabeth. Her face was tear-stained, although she had stopped crying. “I know you, don’t I?” she asked.

  “Elizabeth Crowder. I met you at the Press Club when I was with the New York Tribune.”

  “Of course. Now you’re with the International Herald. The foreign news editor in Paris. What brings you here today?”

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  “I’m staying at the Hyatt in Bethesda. They have a coffee shop.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Elizabeth’s curiosity was piqued as her FBI escort drove her to the Hyatt. She wondered what kind of relationship Tracy might have had with Peter.

  When Elizabeth arrived, Tracy was already seated in an isolated corner. A waitress came over and they ordered two coffees.

  “Were you a friend of Peter’s?” Elizabeth asked.

  Tracy smiled. “I wouldn’t describe us as friends. We were lovers in the seventies. A long time ago,” she added wistfully, “before he married Reka. I haven’t seen him in many years. Now tell me what brings you here?”

  Elizabeth chose her words carefully, not wanting to give too much away. “Peter was an international businessman, and he died under mysterious circumstances. My editor thinks there might be a story here. You know how that goes. I have family in the States, so I was happy to come.”

  “You think it was arson?” Tracy asked, instinct from her years as a reporter kicking in. “Not the rupture of a gas line as the police claim?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “I have a friend in the New York Fire Department who told me that the rupture of a gas line wouldn’t produce a fire so devastating that the bodies were burnt beyond recognition. Let’s assume he’s right. Then I have to understand Peter. What he did and who his enemies were. Any help you could give me would be appreciated.”

  Tracy took a deep breath before responding. At last she said, “I helped Peter defect. It was December 1977. He was in Philadelphia with a Hungarian hockey team playing an evening exhibition match against the Flyers. Though my beat was international, my editor saw a good story here. It was the height of the Cold War and the right-wing fringe in Philadelphia had decided to use this match as a way of protesting against Communism.”

  “Did it occur to them that there was a difference between Hungary and Russia?”

  “With a Moscow-controlled puppet government in Budapest, that difference was too subtle for our hockey fans. At any rate, Peter decided to defect that evening, and I reluctantly became his accomplice.”

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  “Better than that, I’ll send you a piece that I wrote for
the memoir I never finished. What’s your email address? You can read it on the plane back to Paris.”

  “Thank you,” said Elizabeth, handing Tracy her card.

  “Bear in mind as you read this story that I was pretty gutsy in those days. Though my father had been a general in the U.S. Air Force and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs in 1977, I had previously been active in the anti-war movement. I was even arrested in Chicago at the 1968 Democratic convention, which almost drove my father crazy. So I was willing to take chances to help Peter.”

  “And you became lovers?”

  Tracy looked wistful. “I fell in love with Peter. Our relationship only lasted a couple of months. Then we split.”

  “Did you ever see him again?”

  Tracy shook her head. “I followed his business career in the media and on the internet. I knew that he married Reka, a Hungarian American whose father was a wealthy lawyer and real estate developer in Cleveland. And of course that Peter became a successful businessman in Hungary after the Russians left.”

  “He hated the Russians, didn’t he?”

  Tracy looked grim. “That’s an understatement. Peter suffered horribly under them. Colonel Suslov, who raped his mother and moved into their house, branded a hammer and sickle on his arm. Peter would have done anything humanly possible to get revenge.”

  When Elizabeth returned to the house at 1:30 p.m., Craig and Nick weren’t there. Of course Craig hadn’t stayed in the house as she had requested.

  She called him on his cell.

  “Where are you?”

  “Eating pizza with Nick. We’ll be back by two. We’re fine. No need to worry.”

  Elizabeth was annoyed that Craig hadn’t listened to her. It was vintage Craig. He always did as he wanted regardless of the risk. But there wasn’t much she could do at this point, so she put aside her irritation with a sigh.

  With a little time to kill, she couldn’t resist taking out her iPad and at least starting the piece Tracy had sent her.

  The Hungarian Hockey Player and the Newspaper Reporter