by Neil Maresca
“I have a letter for Count Károlyi,” was the muffled reply.
“Who are you and who is this letter from?” László demanded.
“I am not at liberty to say,” the man replied, “but I assure you it is of the utmost importance.”
“Pass it under the door.”
Moments later Milán stood at his ornate Empire period desk staring at an envelope containing the official seal of the Kingdom of Hungary. His name did not appear on the envelope, yet it had been delivered to him. Milán had questioned László closely on this point and was satisfied that he was the intended recipient. He further realized that there could be only one explanation for this: the contents of the letter were of such consequence that, had it fallen into the wrong hands, it would endanger the life of the person who was to receive it.
And now the letter was on his desk. Milán had no doubt that it would change the course of his life—and the lives of Sasha and Lukas as well. It was for their sakes that he had abandoned his ancestral lands, retreated to the fortress-like apartment at 45 Andrássey Út and resisted every entreaty to lend his prestigious family name to any political party, hoping that by staying neutral, he and his family would survive the cataclysm he could see approaching. He wished that this envelope with its royal seal demanding his attention had never appeared on his desk, for it could mean only one thing: he was being summoned to service and he could not refuse. He could have declined a call from a political party, but not from Hungary itself. He picked up the envelope with trembling hands, carefully slit it open and extracted a handwritten letter. As he read the letter, he involuntarily sank into his chair. After taking a few moments to compose himself, he summoned Father Márton.
The letter that concerned Milán so greatly was a personal request from Horthy for assistance “to save the people of Hungary from Stalinist domination.” In support of his request, he enumerated a litany of facts: Hungarian troops had suffered more than 100,000 casualties at Stalingrad and Voronezh. The German siege of Leningrad had collapsed; the Germans were falling back all along the Eastern front, and the Russians were advancing. The Americans and British had driven Germany out of North Africa and Sicily and had just landed at Anzio south of Rome. There was talk of an Allied invasion of the Balkans, and the invasion of Northern France was not a question of if, but when. The Germans were losing the war Horthy wrote, leaving Hungary with only the remnants of an army to fight off the Russians. Horthy was certain that the Russians had no intention of leaving Hungary once they had entered it. Stalin wanted an empire. Hungary was to be a vassal communist state. Hungarians would lose their freedom. Then, having made the case for Hungary, the wily politician made it personal. He reminded the Count what Communist domination meant for Catholics, and more specifically for the nobility. He didn’t have to mention the fates of Tzar Nichols Alexander and his family. Milán was familiar with the details.
Horthy was writing to Milán “at great personal sacrifice” to ask his help in saving Hungary from Communism. He didn’t need to explain this either. Horthy and Milán’s cousin, Count Mihály Ádám György Miklós Károlyi de Nagykárolyi, now living in exile in England, were political and religious enemies. Milán knew that Horthy must have been desperate to ask a Károlyi for help. But when he read what Horthy was asking him to do, he fell back in his chair in amazement.
He was asking Milán to be his intermediary in negotiating a secret peace treaty with the Allied forces, one that would exclude Russia and guarantee Allied recognition of Hungary as an independent nation. Horthy was willing, not only to lead Hungarian troops against Hitler’s armies, but also to step down as Regent and establish Hungary as a democratic republic with free elections. Even more amazing, he was asking Milán to use the “underground Vatican network” to deliver the secret communications from Horthy in Hungary to Count Mihály in England.
“Father Márton,” the Prince asked when the Jesuit responded to his summons, ‘To whom are you faithful?”
Father Márton was a large, husky man with a peasant’s face and peasant’s frame. He looked like a man built to labor in the fields, not a man to spend his time with books and philosophers.
“To Jesus, the Pope, Hungary and you, your excellency—and the young master, Lukas,” he answered.
“In that order?”
“Perhaps Lukas ranks a little higher than I indicated.”
The two men shared a smile. “Then I have a task for you. Do you know anything of a Vatican network?”
“I know it is possible for the Bishop of Hungary to communicate with the Vatican without interference from the SS, if that is what you mean, although I have no idea how His Holiness accomplishes this.”
“I need to get a message to my cousin in England. It is of vital importance to me and my family, to Hungary and to the Catholic Church. Do you think you can accomplish this?”
“It may be possible. I will make inquiries.”
“Be discreet. I don’t need to tell you of the consequences of discovery.”
“If I may suggest, it might raise less suspicion if I were to make these inquiries in the company of Master Lukas.”
Milán thought this over. Father Márton was right, but he hated to involve Lukas. In the end, however, he realized he had no choice; like it or not Lukas was already involved. “As you wish,” he said. “The lad could do with some fresh air and exercise anyway. See that you are cautious. I am sure this house is watched—and trust no one.”
The next day Father Márton took Lukas to the park for exercise and to St. Stephan’s Basilica to view the relics and wait while he went to confession.
If life changed dramatically for the Count after the arrival of the envelope, it also changed for Lukas, but from his perspective, it changed for the better. “A young man needs to have some fresh air and exercise,” his father said to him one day, and every day thereafter, weather permitting, Father Márton took Lukas to the park for exercise. He clung close to Father Márton’s black cassock as they walked down Andrássey Út past burned out and closed up shops with “JUDE” painted on the buildings. Lukas didn’t have to ask what it meant. He may have been kept—for his own safety—virtually locked away in 45 Andrássey Út, but he was very intelligent—and very intelligent young men like Lukas find ways to learn what the elders don’t want them to know. He watched—from windows and through keyholes—and he listened—outside of closed doors and inside drawn drapes. Unsuspected and unnoticed, Lukas was a spy in his own household, and so he learned early on what a dangerous place the world was, who was plotting with whom, what the Nazis and the Arrow Cross had in store for the hated Jews, who the Communists were and what would happen to his family and to Hungary if they were victorious. He got most of his information from the servants, Ema, Maya, and László, who spoke in Romanian, a strange language very unlike his native Hungarian, but oddly similar to the Latin that Father Márton was drilling into his head. Believing that Lukas could not understand them, the servants spoke freely in front of the child who often came into the kitchen for treats from the grandmotherly Maya. Lukas confided in no one, not the authoritarian Father Márton, whom he both respected and feared, nor even his mother whom he loved unconditionally, and from whom he received the only affection he was to know as a child.
Lukas learned that even though the servants were deferential and respectful in front of his parents, they disliked their subservient positions and secretly rooted for a Communist victory when, they believed, the riches of the few like their masters would be shared equally with all. For Ema and Maya, this was something like a fairytale they told each other but never really believed would happen. But László was a true believer, and became more outspoken, the closer the Russians came to the Hungarian border.
Of course, at ten years old, Lukas couldn’t fully appreciate the seriousness of the situation, and like most children he could quickly put aside any concerns when the opportunity to have fun arose. So when Father Márton would announce that it was time for “fresh air a
nd exercise,” Lukas was delighted. Not only would he have the opportunity to leave the apartment and its all-too-familiar sights and sounds, but he could chase squirrels in the park, none of whom seemed to be concerned about Jews or communists. Occasionally, there was another child his age with whom he could play ball. But what fascinated him most was the people—people of all sorts, people unlike any that ever came to visit at 45 Andrássey Út—peasants in rags, soldiers, Germans driving by in staff cars, smartly rigid and resplendent with medals; Jews dressed in heavy black Prince Albert frocks and black hats, their sidelocks streaming as they hurried past; beggars and bankers, women who raised their skirts, and made foul comments to Father Márton as they passed and then blew kisses and smiled and shouted “Come back when you’re older” to Lukas when he turned to look at them. But best of all, he liked the park.
It was late winter the first time that Father Márton took him to the park. It was covered in snow and Lukas was bundled so tightly that he could hardly walk let alone ‘exercise,’ yet, that is what the Jesuit made him do, leading the way as they trudged through snow banks, slipping and falling and finally tumbling down a hill, Lukas crying out in fright, landing at the bottom covered in snow, wet, cold and, upon looking at each other, growing hysterical with laughter. It was the first time Lukas had seen Father Márton laugh. That day, on the way home from the park, they stopped at St. Stephan’s Basilica where Lukas stared in awe at St. Stephan’s mummified hand while Father Márton went to confession. Lukas couldn’t figure out what Father Márton had to confess unless it was that he looked too long at the women who raised their skirts, but Lukas was too excited about seeing St. Stephan’s hand to worry about Father Márton’s sins.
The “Vatican network” that Horthy referenced in his letter to Milán lay like a large spider web centered in Rome, its threads radiating around the world. Papal couriers, both official and unofficial, carried communications regularly from the Papacy to Bishoprics throughout Europe. Even though the Papacy found itself in an uneasy accommodation with fascists like Hitler and Mussolini against Communism with its atheistic, anti-religious doctrine, its official couriers were under constant surveillance by spies from every country. But the unofficial couriers, the priests, nuns, monks and lesser church officials who traveled from town to town or even from country to country could not be closely watched. Who was to say that a pair of German nuns making a pilgrimage to Lourdes, or a French priest from Avignon visiting his ailing parents in Paris were anything more than what they claimed to be, and who had the time or the reason to search them all? And if they did, and they found in the nuns’ possession a prayer book with a Latin inscription, or a Latin bible among the French priest’s possessions, what private in the German army would have the skill or the inclination to question it?
It was this network that Father Márton plugged into when he went to confession in St. Stephan’s Basilica. It was an effective covert communications system, but it was extremely slow. Messages had to be physically carried from place to place, passed from one courier to another, all made more difficult since this ‘network’ operated without official Vatican sanction. The Holy See may have made political accommodation with Germany, but each member of the clergy made his or her own choice. Some, like members of the Hungarian Arrow Cross, enthusiastically supported Hitler and his anti-Semitic policies; others, like Milán and Father Márton, did not. The problem was that it was often difficult to distinguish one from the other. The rule applied to clergy as it did to everyone else at the time: Trust no one.
It had been four weeks since Milán had sent his message to his cousin in England, and still there had been no response. Each day during those four weeks, Father Márton took young Lukas for ‘fresh air and exercise,’ sometimes to the park and sometimes to the ball field where Lukas was introduced to football as it was played by children of the lower classes. When he first appeared with his clean, finely pressed clothes and reticent manner, the young thugs—for that is what they were—ridiculed him and would have beat him savagely, but for the presence of the rugged-looking Jesuit who accompanied him. Nevertheless, despite Father Márton’s presence, Lukas took a pretty good pounding during the game, there being no referee and no rules—at least none that were observed. Lukas accepted his lumps without complaining and returned day after day, gradually learning to give as good as he got. He would return from each day’s adventure, dirty, bruised, and occasionally bloodied. Sasha would cry when she saw him, and cradle him in her arms while reprimanding Father Márton for allowing Lukas to be harmed. The Count would look kindly at his son, saddened that he should be the cause of Lukas’ pain, but resigned to the necessity of it. Lukas’ world would be different than his. He would have to grow strong to survive.
One day in mid-February, after Sasha and Ema had swept Lukas off for a hot bath, Milán chided Father Márton. “I have tasked you to protect my son,” he said, “yet he comes home bloodied.”
“He plays football with the urchins of the street and they are rough, but there are none of his class with whom he might play,” explained the priest.
“Nevertheless,” Milán insisted, “you have been remiss in your duties.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Father Márton replied. “I beg your forgiveness.”
“It is not my forgiveness you must seek, Father. You have sinned against God in neglecting your sworn duties. Go confess your sins to Him and don’t return until you have done penance.”
Father Márton left immediately to confess his sins at St. Stephan’s. László Farkas, who had been listening outside the doorway, was surprised by this. He had never before heard the Count reprimand the priest for allowing Lukas to play with street urchins. Why, he wondered, was this day different?
Earlier in the day, a poorly clad and obviously cold parish priest had arrived at the door begging alms for the poor. Farkas, who had answered the bell, told the man to go away, but he was interrupted by the Count who invited the priest in to warm himself by the fire and gather his strength while he sipped a cup of hot tea. The priest thanked him a thousand times over, and when Milán dropped a coin into his pocket, blessed him, his house and his family. Farkas, who as usual, was observing everything that went on in the apartment, was furious. He had been working at half-wages since the family relocated from the country estate to this wretched city apartment. He bristled at the thought of that bright shiny coin settling into the pocket of the priest while his pockets were empty.
The priest’s appearance at 45 Andrássey Út and Milán’s charitable contribution were the agreed-upon sign and countersign that a letter from England had arrived. So, as soon as Father Márton returned from his afternoon exercise with Lukas, Milán contrived an excuse to send him to St. Stephan’s to ‘confess his sins’ and retrieve the message. When Father Márton returned, Milán led him into his study and closed the door behind them. Shortly thereafter, the study door opened and Father Márton left the house once again. Farkas observed all of this, aware that something was going on, and it rankled him—nobles and priests—two classes of people that he despised.
László Farkas had a long list of grievances against his master, not the least of which was that the Prince had uprooted him from his comfortable position as head man of a country estate with a dozen peasants to lord over and his pick of women widowed or simply left behind by the war. László’s father, grandfather and great grandfathers had all served the Count’s family faithfully for generations, ever since Milán’s ancestors had conquered the territory and made the native Romanians serfs on their own lands. Most of the Romanian peasants, like the László clan, were used to serving one master or another, and so it made little difference to them whether the Count was Hungarian, Romanian, Mongol, or Turkish as long as they could have their bread each day and their wives in their beds at night. Others, like László, harbored a brooding anger against their masters, an anger that could be easily exploited.
One bright, cold day shortly after the priest had come to the house,
as László sat brooding over his wine in a darkened corner of a tavern, he was approached by a lean man with eyes like a snake.
“Good afternoon, Comrade,” the lean man said as he sat down at the table.
“I’m not your comrade,” László grumbled.
“I think you are,” the man replied. “You are Romanian by the look of you, but you wear your Hungarian master’s clothes. Tell me, how do they feel?”
“Go away. Leave me alone.”
“I will go if you wish, but first, László Farkas, let me buy you another wine.”
László let the snake-eyed man buy him a glass of wine, and then another, and soon he was unburdening his soul, betraying confidences his father would have died rather than reveal. He told him about the events of the last few days, Father Márton’s mysterious comings and goings, and of other messengers arriving late at night and meeting with the Count behind closed doors. The man was very interested in everything László had to say and was generous with the wine. By the time they left the tavern, László Farkas and Vasely Dunayevsky were comrades, and László had agreed to attend a meeting where Dunayevsky promised him he would find friendship among other Romanian patriots.
By early March, negotiations between Horthy and the Allies had taken definite shape. A secure Catholic underground network had developed that moved communications along fairly quickly, and there was hope that Hungary could maintain its independence after the defeat of Nazi Germany. Couriers continued to move in and out of 45 Andrássey Út and for the first time in many years, Count Milán Károlyi began to feel optimistic.
In mid-March, Hitler invited Horthy to a conference in Schloss Klessheim, a Boroque palace west of Salzburg, Austria. The ostensible purpose of the conference was to discuss Hungary’s lack of support for the war effort. It was an open secret that after the losses suffered by Hungary in the Russian campaign, Horthy had not tried very hard to replenish the ranks, and—more importantly from Hitler’s perspective—he had not deported Jews as actively as Hitler demanded. The conference was a ruse. The Germans had become aware of Horthy’s secret negotiations with the Allies, and as soon as Horthy was out of Hungary, Hitler had him placed under house arrest, sent the Wehrmacht in to occupy Hungary, and replaced Horthy’s government with men of his own.
