Appointment in Berlin

by Neil Maresca

  “How? What is it I am to do?”

  “Are you familiar with what happened in Yakaterinburg?”

  “Of course. Every schoolchild knows what happened there. Yakov Yurovsky and his Bolsheviks exterminated the Czar and his parasitic offspring.”

  “Yurovsky was a patriot and a hero. Do you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Party has need of heroes like him. Do you, I wonder, have the courage to do what he did?”

  Farkas stared at the gun on the desktop in front of him. Slowly the reality of the situation began to dawn on him.

  “You want me to kill someone!”

  “Not just someone—a specific person.”

  “Who?”

  “Count Mihal Károlyi de NagyKárolyi—and his parasitic offspring.”

  Chapter 10

  May, 1944

  45 Andrássey Út

  Budapest, Hungary

  László kept the Walther in a bureau drawer, hidden in his underwear. Each night he would go to his room, sit on the edge of his bed, open the drawer, extract the gun from beneath his clothing, and carefully place it on his lap, where he would stare at it for a long time before lovingly taking it in his hands and fantasize about shooting the Count and his family.

  One evening, after dinner when the entire household except for him and the Count had retired for the evening, László responded to a knock on the front door. Peering through the eye-hole, he saw a man who, even though the weather was mild, had his coat collar turned up and his hat pushed down so that his face was obscured. Despite the man’s attempt at camouflage, László recognized him immediately as the same man who had come to the apartment in January.

  “What do you want?” László asked from behind the closed door.

  “I have a package for the Count,” the man replied.

  László opened the door part way, only as far as the interior chain lock would allow. “Let me have it. I will take it to him.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot allow that. It must be delivered by me, directly to the Count.”

  “Wait here,” László replied, bursting with curiosity. He closed the door and entered the Count’s study. “There is a person at the door who claims to have a package for you, sir, but I am reluctant to admit him at this late hour. He says that he must deliver it in person.”

  “Do we know this fellow?”

  “Not by name, sir, but I believe he came here one time before—in January. At that time he passed an envelope through the door, but this time he has a larger package, and—as I said— he refuses to hand it over to me.”

  László’s reluctance to open the door to a stranger was understandable to the Count. Budapest had become a very dangerous city, with Nazis, communists, and Arrow Cross partisans all competing for power. On top of that, the Count was acutely aware of the risk he had incurred in accepting the role as Horthy’s secret negotiator with the allies. But he had accepted the risk, and this late-night visit, he concluded, was part of it.

  “Let him in, but stay close, in case you are needed.”

  This suited László perfectly. Dunayevsky had charged him with spying on the Count’s activities and reporting back to him at regular intervals, and Dunayevsky was a tough master. He demanded details, and became cross when László’s report was, in his opinion, incomplete. The Count’s decision would allow him to stay in the room when the package was delivered and get direct, first-hand information. He had difficulty repressing a smile. Dunayevsky would be pleased—and how stupid was this Count to trust his loyal servant! Did it never occur to these people how much the servants hated them?

  László led the messenger into the Count’s study, but instead of leaving them alone and closing the door, he positioned himself a few steps behind the stranger and a little to the side so he could see, as well as hear, all that passed between them.

  The messenger removed his hat, but kept his collar turned up and looked directly at the Count, so László was unable to get a good look at him.

  After a few minutes’ silence, Count Károlyi directed the man to speak, but he held his tongue.

  “What is your message,” the Count demanded, “State your purpose.”

  “Your man,” he replied, nodding his head in the direction of László, who was surprised that the man knew he was there.

  “You may speak freely. I trust him completely.”

  “That is, of course, your right, Your Excellency. You may gamble with your life as you see fit. But I trust no one, and neither do those I serve.”

  The man’s response angered Milán, not because he was wrong, but because he was right. By accepting Horthy’s commission, Milán had placed himself and his family in danger. It infuriated him that he had to now consider distrusting László, who had served him faithfully for years, and whom Milán considered part of the family. Before the war, Milán had lived in the genteel world of an aristocrat-academic. He had passed his days discussing books with his students, and his evenings with friends discussing philosophy. He avoided politics with its inevitable acrimony. He was possibly the least qualified and least likely person in Budapest to be a spy. “Trusting no one” was antithetical to Milán’s nature. He was a good man, and as such, found it difficult to see evil in others. Even in Budapest in 1944, surrounded by the most appalling and obvious outrages against humanity, Milán clung to his belief in the basic goodness of the human race. However, as galling as it was to him, he gave in to the man’s request and dismissed László, who left the room, but remained outside, listening at the keyhole.

  Once they were alone, the messenger wasted no time in delivering the package and a set of instructions to the Count. László listened in amazement as the messenger explained that the package contained the final version of the treaty between Hungary and the allied forces. It needed only to be signed by a representative of England and the Count, representing Hungary. The signing would take place on an English warship in the Adriatic. “Father Márton is already making arrangements to conduct you to Opatija, where an agent from the British government will contact you,” the man said. He made it clear that speed was essential. “You will receive instructions within the next two days. You must be prepared to leave immediately.”

  “What about my family?” Milán asked.

  “I know nothing of that,” the man said and parted so quickly that László had barely enough time to disappear around a corner to avoid detection.

  The man made his own way out, leaving Milán alone and troubled in his study, and László thrilled and excited in the hallway outside the study door, which he silently opened.

  “Your Excellency,” he said in his most obsequious manner, “May I be of service?”

  “No, that will be all for this evening, László, thank you.”

  “Then, may it please Your Excellency, I will retire for the evening.”

  “Of course.”

  Milán sat at his desk for a long time after László had gone, studying the document he had been given, trying to concentrate. But try as he might, he could not free his mind of thoughts about his beloved Sasha and his son, Lukas. He berated himself for taking on this assignment. What right did he have, he thought, to impose such dangers on his family?

  And yet, what choice did he have? The world he knew was in ruins, and whoever won this war would never bring it back. The best he could hope for was that this treaty was successfully concluded and Hungary would remain a free and independent country— one in which he and his family could live in peace and relative comfort.

  Although he was born and raised in aristocratic elegance, wealthy, and surrounded by servants, Milán was a man of simple tastes, and few needs. The loss of the family estates saddened him, but did not distress him. He regretted the loss of beauty, the destruction of the home and gardens that he loved, the desecration of family graves that he knew would follow from a communist victory, but he could accept that as the inevitable march of history, if only he could be left alone with his books and his family.


  But he knew that was an impossibility. He knew what a communist victory would mean for him and his family. The Bolsheviks had made it clear in 1917 that no member of the aristocracy would survive, no matter how young or old, how rich or poor. A title meant death.

  So Milán resigned himself to studying the plan that had been laid out for him. At first glance, going to Croatia seemed a risky business. The country was awash with violence as Tito’s communist forces fought the Nazis, Croata’s pro-German Ustaše government, and the monarchist Chetniks. But the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. The Ustaše were fanatically pro-catholic, like the Hungarian Arrow Cross. Milán had heard rumors that they “were worse than the Nazi’s,” but even if that were true, they would pose no threat to him, a Hungarian catholic. He might even, if all went well, be afforded a welcome and some level of protection. Nor was it likely that the royalist Chetniks, nor Tito’s forces, engaged as they were fighting each other in the mountains, would have the time or resources to worry about one Hungarian Count traveling to Opatija, a popular health spa on the Adriatic Sea. The major problem would most likely come from the Germans, who had placed strict limitations on travel by anyone, for any reason, and had commandeered virtually all the trains to carry Jews to concentration camps. Getting travel permits would be difficult, but not impossible for a person with some influence to take his family to Opatija for rest and fresh sea air. He made up his mind at that moment: He would go to Croatia, but only if Sasha and Lukas could go with him, and if, as part of the arrangement, they would all be given safe passage to England. It had suddenly occurred to Milán that up until this point, he had been Horthy’s pawn, taking orders—and risks—for the sake of Hungary’s future without any thought to his or his family’s safety. If he were successful, and the treaty completed, the Germans would most certainly retaliate against his family—and if they didn’t, the communists most assuredly would. No, Sasha and Lukas would have to accompany him to Croatia, and they would have to be guaranteed asylum there. They would arrive penniless, of course, but at least they would be safe. And, Milán reasoned, they would not be entirely alone. His cousin was in England, as well as some of his former Jewish colleagues, who had had the foresight to leave Hungary before the door to freedom closed. And England held Oxford and Cambridge. Perhaps, he thought, I could gain a university position. Almost instantly, a vision of a small cottage in the British countryside appeared to Milán, and inside the cottage, he saw himself, seated in a comfortable chair reading, while Sasha and Lukas played in front of a roaring fire. He laughed. Like a scene out of a bad novel, he thought. Nevertheless, the vision buoyed his spirits, and with that happy thought in mind, he went to his room to tell Sasha of the evening’s events and his plans for their future.

  Only a little more than 100 feet away, László Farkas sat in his small corner room caressing the Walther P-38 and dreaming of Yakaterinburg and glory

  Chapter 11

  May, 1944

  45 Andrássey Út

  Budapest, Hungary

  The sun was already streaming in the windows by the time Milán woke the following morning, happy for the first time since before the war. He and Sasha had talked late into the night. He told her all about the secret treaty, his role as emissary, Father Márton’s role as intermediary, Horthy’s plan for him to go to Croatia, and, finally, his plan to take the family to England. He told it all, nonstop, in one long sentence, afraid that if he paused before he got to the end, Sasha would burst into tears, and berate him for endangering her and Lukas’ lives by throwing the family into the middle of a useless, senseless war that she detested.

  And when he was finished talking, Sasha did berate him, not for the reason he had anticipated, but for not confiding in her sooner. She threw her arms around him, cried, kissed him, told him she loved him; that she was proud of him. But, she reminded him, with some degree of pride, she too was Hungarian.

  “Have you forgotten that I am a direct descendent of Sisi, Empress of Austria and Queen Consort of Hungary and Croatia. I would gladly lay down my life for Hungary,” she said. “And my son’s as well, if it came to that.”

  Milán was stunned—and delighted. She was right. He had forgotten—not only who she was, but what she was. Despite her small size, she had the heart of a lioness. She had defied her family in marrying him, a man twice her age, and by Károlyi family standards, a disappointment. Károlyi males had always been soldiers, diplomats, men of action, not bookworms, like Milán. It made no difference to either Sasha’s family or his own that he was an internationally recognized scholar. To them, he was a milk-sop and a traitor to his class, preferring to spend his time with Jewish intellectuals and other members of the bourgeoisie. But Sasha adored him, and had abandoned her family and all the privileges that went along with it, content to live on a small estate in the remote Eastern corner of Hungary with a quiet, unassuming university professor.

  “If we do this,” he told her. “There will be no turning back. The best we could hope for would be an independent Hungary—most likely, a democratic Hungary, without a place for aristocratic families such as ours.’’

  “The aristocracy has been gone for a long time now, and I for one, will not risk my life to bring it back,” she replied. “But an independent Hungary—that is something worth dying for.”

  “Hopefully it will never come to that. But we must act quickly, and discretely. Horthy was very clear on that point. Father Márton will have to go with us, and I suppose we’ll have to tell the servants something.”

  “Leave the servants to me. You take care of the arrangements for Croatia. I’ll take care of everything here.”

  “We won’t be able to take a lot with us. You’ll have to leave all of your gowns behind.”

  “I don’t need gowns, but I will regret leaving your books behind.”

  Milán held his wife at arms’ length, and stared at her, in awe of her courage, and the calm with which she had accepted the news he had just delivered.

  “So, Sasha,” he sighed, “the world has finally caught up with us. I tried to keep it out, tried to protect you and Lukas. I’m sorry I failed.”

  “You are a brave man Milán. And up to now, you have had to face all these dangers alone, but that is over now. From now on we go together, as one, as we promised when we wed.”

  They parted then, Milán to meet with Father Márton, and Sasha to pack and concoct a cover story for the servants.

  László Farkas was also on the move. He had to get his news to Dunayevsky, who understood better than he what all the secret meetings were about. László was ready, even eager, to assassinate Milán and prove his worth to the Party, but Dunayevsky had made it clear that he was not supposed to act on his own. So he intercepted Milán on his way to the study where Father Márton was already waiting, and begged the Count for some time off to take care of urgent personal business. Milán, who was just as happy not have László lurking about, quickly acquiesced. Father Márton had warned him not to trust László, and, even though the Count was a naturally generous, trusting person and had discounted Father Márton’s warnings as excessive, he had to admit that, in this case, the fewer people who knew his plans, the better.

  For László’s part, the bowing, scraping, and begging that he had to undertake to gain some time off only served to inflame his anger and make him more eager to put his Walther to use. Of course, he did not let the Count see anything but a deferential servant bowing his head as he asked for permission to leave the residence. László knew well how to dissemble. All servants learned quickly how to mask their true feelings—either they learned or they were cast out. That, László mused, was the life of a servant, but that life was soon to end.

  As he made his way along the now-familiar route from the fashionable 45 Andrássey Út to the dilapidated, waterfront district that housed The King’s Treasure, László marveled at how different everything looked in daylight. He wondered why he had been so frightened during his first visit. He
also wondered if Dunayevsky would be there. László, who couldn’t escape his peasant roots, thought of Dunayevsky as a creature of the darkness and couldn’t picture him in daylight. The man had assumed almost supernatural proportions to László, who had unknowingly exchanged one master for another.

  Daylight did nothing to improve The King’s Treasure’s appearance. If anything, the dirt and grime that stained the windows and exterior of the tavern were even more obvious in sunlight than they were in the darkness, but the tavern’s exterior meant nothing to László, who was solely interested in what transpired inside its darkened, half-hidden back rooms.

  Pushing through the creaky door, he was not surprised to see Slava in his usual spot, crouching over the bar, pretending to take no notice of who came and went. László did not hesitate. He walked directly up to the huge man.

  “Is he in?”

  Slava turned slightly on his stool, looked momentarily at László, and nodded his head in the direction of the back room.

  László, assuming that the gesture meant that Dunayevsky was in his office, turned without another word and made his way along the corridor to his master’s door. He hesitated only a moment before tapping gently, and whispering, “Comrade, are you in? It is Comrade Farkas. May I enter?”

  When there was no answer, he added, “I have urgent news of the Count.”

  László, who was excellent at listening at keyholes, heard the sound of papers being shuffled and placed in a desk drawer, the lock of which he clearly discerned being turned. There was also muffled voices and the distinct click of a door being closed when whoever had been in the room with Dunayevsky left.

  A few moments later, he heard footsteps approaching the door; the lock turned, the door opened, and he found himself staring at the skeletal face of Comrade Vasely Dunayevsky. It was a sight that never failed to frighten László, who stood staring at him as if he expected the man to morph into a demon and devour him whole.

  Dunayevsky smiled, which only made him look more sinister.