by Neil Maresca
The funeral service the previous evening had been a travesty. The Count, as the titular head of one of the noblest families in Hungary was entitled to a state funeral. Instead, the viewing had been held in the salon at 45 Andrássey Út. There were few visitors. The Count’s academic friends were afraid to come, deterred by the presence of Arrow Cross guards. A few of the Count’s distant cousins drifted in, paid their cursory respects to Sasha, all the time looking nervously around, and left rapidly after offering vague excuses. Horthy might have come, but he was under house arrest, and his absence sent a signal to any other members of the Hungarian government and nobility to keep away. Nobody outside the immediate family knew for certain who had murdered the Count, and few had the courage to let their admiration for the man be known for fear they would be the next to be targeted. As a result, Sasha, Father Márton, and Lukas sat a lonely vigil alongside the coffin through the night. Lukas had insisted on sitting by his mother’s side, but halfway through the evening he fell asleep, and was carried to a couch by Father Márton.
When he returned to his seat by Sasha’s side, the priest turned to Sasha. “It is time to think of yourself and the boy,” he said. “László was just a tool. I am certain that he intended to kill you and Lukas as well as the Count. He, or whoever sent him, will try again.”
“I know,” Sasha said. “I don’t care so much for myself, but we must get Lukas to safety.”
“Your family cannot help?”
“I have no family. They abandoned me many years ago. Only my brother and sister stayed true to me. My sister, Mikhail’s wife, died in childbirth, and I haven’t heard from my brother Gregor in many, many years. He may be dead as well.”
“And the Count’s family?”
“He had no close relatives. You saw the cousins earlier. Spineless, all of them.”
“No hope from that quarter, then.”
“No, Father. I am afraid Lukas and I are on our own.”
“Not entirely, Countess, if you permit me, I would like to help.”
“Thank you Father, but I cannot ask you to endanger yourself. You have done too much already.”
“The Count, your husband, placed the child in my care. He directed me not only to educate him, but to protect him as well. I gave him my solemn oath that I would lay down my life for the boy. You must permit me to fulfill my duty.”
“Then I am in your care as well. What do you suggest?”
“The travel documents to Croatia are still valid. Croatia is a catholic country. We should find friends there.”
“Isn’t there fighting in Croatia as well?”
“Yes, but at this time it is confined to the mountains. The capital is safe. How soon can you be prepared to leave?”
“Within a day. I have nothing to keep me here.”
“Pack lightly. The faster we move, the safer we will be.”
The next day, the small funeral cortege traveled the short distance to Saint Steven’s Cathedral for a solemn high mass celebrated by the Bishop of Budapest. The Catholic Church did its best for the Count, but the magnificence of the ceremony contrasted sharply with the vast emptiness of the cathedral. There were more priests on the altar than there were celebrants in the pews. The organ echoed and re-echoed throughout the near-empty church, making a mournful ceremony even more agonizing. Sitting in the pew, listening to the monotonous chanting, staring at the coffin, overcome with incense, something drained out of Lukas. He sat unfeeling, watching, listening, but not seeing, not hearing. It was as if it were all happening somewhere else, to someone else. Life in Budapest had not been fun. His best memories were his earliest, of life in the country, but they were faded, and now as he sat in the church, he tried to remember when he was happy, but he could not. He could recall moments, but they were fleeting. He was left with a feeling of emptiness. The only emotion he could summon was anger; the only face that he could see was László’s. The moment of his father’s death played out in his mind over and over again. He saw, in vivid slow motion, László turn from his fallen father and aim the gun at his head.
When the mass was over, he rose and walked in stony silence by his mother’s side. He was vaguely aware of her hand in his, of Father Márton’s presence by his mother’s side, the one comforting presence in a world that Lukas now saw in all its frightening reality for the first time. He had, of course, seen the German soldiers in streets, noticed the Jews with their yellow stars, witnessed the growing poverty, felt the rising tension, but these were things that did not enter directly into his world, a child’s world. He could always retreat into the safety and security of books and his mother’s arms in the quiet sanctuary of 45 Andrássey Út.
László had changed all that. László had pointed the gun at him, and he now understood the danger that the world presented. He now understood that evil could enter his world, touch him, kill his father, threaten his mother, destroy everything he loved. He had once overheard his father telling Father Márton to “trust no one.” And now he knew why.
He sat in the carriage next to his mother, his hand resting in hers, and stared out the window as they made their way through near-deserted streets to the cemetery. There were no young men in the streets. They were gone to war. There were no Jews, either. They were gone to camps. There were some German soldiers, but they paid no attention to the funeral procession. They had seen many before this one, and would most likely see many more before it was all over. Occasionally, an old man would appear at the curbside, lower his eyes, remove his hat out of respect for the dead, and maybe even make the sign of the cross as the hearse moved past. Lukas watched without interest until one man, not so old, came to the curb, and, instead of lowering his eyes, raised them and stared into the carriage at Lukas. The man’s face was skeletal, his eyes cunning and burning with hate. Oddly, Lukas was not frightened by this man. He was beyond fear. He had become as cold to death as he was to life. He stared back at the man, holding his gaze until the carriage entered Kerepesi cemetery and he could no longer see him.
The cortege stopped in front of the Károlyi mausoleum, which stood open, awaiting its latest tenant. Cemetery workers carried the coffin into the chamber, and placed it in its allotted spot before leaving to allow Sasha, Lukas, and Father Márton time for one final farewell. When the priest was satisfied that they were alone, he led the two of them to the small chapel in the rear of the mausoleum. They knelt at the prayer railing that fronted a simple altar topped by an elaborate silver cross. He drew their attention, however, not to the cross, but to the Károlyi coat of arms inconspicuously embossed on the front of the altar. “Turn this,” he whispered, “and a door opens in the wall behind the altar. The door leads to a passageway that goes down to a concealed exit at the stream’s edge at the bottom of the hill.”
“I doubt we shall ever pass this way again, Father,” Sasha whispered, “or have use for such a passage.”
“That well may be, but had he lived, the Count would have passed this information on to Lukas, and so I do it in his stead.”
Sasha and Lukas nodded their understanding, and, after a short prayer, quickly left the mausoleum. They had much to do.
Vasely Dunayevsky stood at the curb waiting for the funeral cortege to pass. He eyed the hearse with a certain degree of satisfaction. True, László had completed only part of his mission, but the Count was dead, and that counted for something. And, Dunayevsky considered, it was only a matter of time before the Countess and the little brat followed in the Count’s footsteps. He had already re-armed László and sent him out to complete his mission, scared to death of the fate that awaited him if he failed again. Dunayevsky couldn’t help but smile when he recalled the look on László’s face when Slava picked him up by the scruff of his neck and tossed him out the door. Had László been a different kind of assassin, the deed would have been done in the church, or somewhere along the processional way. A fanatic would have rushed the carriage, guns blazing away like some crazy gangster in an American movie, but László
was a coward—a cunning, deceitful, cowardly, killer—the best kind. Dunayevsky smiled again to think how smart he had been to discover László. He was a natural born killer, a man without a conscience, without loyalty, driven only by hatred and fear. He will be useful, Dunayevsky thought, very useful—and he won’t get himself killed like some crazy zealot. I’ll be able to use him over and over again, at least until his luck runs out.
Dunayevsky’s mood changed, however, when he turned his attention to the carriage carrying the Countess and Lukas. The boy was staring at him—looking directly at him as if he knew he was the one who ordered his father’s death. But of course that was impossible—still, it was odd. Then he noticed that the damned priest was looking at him too. He realized that he had been foolish. He had come to gloat, left the shadows for only a brief moment to savor his victory, but it had been a mistake. He had been seen, and somehow recognized—if not as the man responsible for the murder of the Count, at least as an enemy. Very well then, he thought. The boy posed no risk, but that priest! He hated priests, all of them, but this one especially—this damned Jesuit. He was trouble. He had already interfered once. He would have to be dealt with.
While Vasely Dunayevsky was free to enjoy the fresh air, László Farkas was shut up in a depressingly small, dirty room over the King’s Treasure. There was room for a cot with a straw mattress, a nightstand and single, spindly and decidedly uncomfortable wooden chair. Fargas guessed that the walls must have been whitewashed at one time, but he couldn’t be certain, just as he couldn’t be sure what was responsible for the yellowish stain that seemed to grow up from the floor to cover most of the wall space.
He was unhappy. He missed the soft bed and warm coverlet that was his at 45 Andrássey Út. He longed for the simple luxury of a wash basin. And fresh linens—what he wouldn’t give for a change of clothing! A short time ago, he would have awoken and walked down the hall to the kitchen for a cup of freshly-brewed coffee, a taste of Maja’s sweet cakes, and a squeeze of Ema’s equally sweet buttocks. Today, however, he would have to trade Maja’s sweet cakes for a piece of stale bread and Ema’s sweet rump for Slava’s bitter laughter.
His only comfort was a Russian-made Nagant M1895 revolver given to him by Dunayevsky to replace the Walther lost when he was knocked to the floor by Father Márton. He sat on the bed, hungry and dirty, caressing the revolver, filling his empty belly with hatred, blaming his current unfortunate state, not on himself and his own actions, but on the Károlyi family and the entire social structure that had decreed that he be born to serve and they to be served.
He was aware, of course, that the Count was being buried this day, but he made no attempt on the lives of the Countess and the boy, who were under the constant protection of the Arrow Cross. He wanted to kill people, not be killed, so he knew he would have to plan carefully, to find a weakness in their protection. Patience, he told himself, Patience.
His patience was rewarded later that afternoon, when Slava came to his room and escorted him to Dunayevsky’s office.
“How do you like your new toy?” Dunayevsky asked.
“It is like an old friend,’ László replied. “The old Count had one like it. I cleaned it for him many times.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t shoot him.”
“I didn’t shoot him because I respected the Countess…and at the time I was young and foolish and filled with myself. I had risen quickly in the household. I didn’t realize then that no matter how high I rose, I would always be a servant.”
Dunayevsky leaned so far forward that László momentarily wondered if he were short-sighted. He got so close that László could smell the stale odor of vodka and tobacco with every word he spoke.
“You,” Dunayevsky said, enunciating very clearly and emphasizing the word with a poke in László’s chest, “You are a servant no longer. You are an avenging angel.”
He leaned back in his chair, giving László time to absorb his words. When he was satisfied that they had had the desired effect, he smiled. “I have a present for you,” he said.
“A present?”
“Yes, I am going to give you the Countess and the boy.”
“I don’t understand.”
“After the funeral, the priest went to Budapest-Déli pályaudvar”
“The railroad station? Why…”
“So he could talk to the station master. They spoke for a very long time.”
“But there are no passenger trains leaving from the Déli anymore. The Nazis are using all the rails to ship the Jews to the camps.”
“Ahh, but tomorrow there will be a train. Our comrades in the rail yards tell me that some Nazis apparently have to get to Zagreb. So tomorrow there will be one train—at one p.m. It is supposed to be a secret, but I have instructed our friends to spread the word. There will be a mob at the station trying to get out of Budapest. The Arrow Cross will be overwhelmed. You should have no difficulty in completing your mission, and escaping in the confusion.”
“This is excellent news, Comrade. I will not fail you.”
“I certainly hope not, comrade Fargas. I certainly hope not.”
Dunayevsky waited until Fargas was almost out of the room.
“One further thing, comrade,” he called, and as Fargas turned, he added, “Kill the priest while you are at it.” And don’t lose your gun this time, he said to himself when the door closed.
Chapter 14
May, 1944
Déli Pályaudvar
Budapest
Sasha, Lukas, and Father Márton left 45 Andrássey Út before dawn with only a few small bags, their simple travel outfits heavy with jewels Sasha had painstakingly sewn into the linings. They slipped easily past the snoring Arrow Cross guards, into the street, and on to a waiting carriage that carried them unseen to the Déli where they were met by the Station Master who guided them into a small room behind his office. There, they would wait for the train to arrive several hours later.
Despite the early hour, a few people had already begun to gather on the platform, bags in hand. When the Station master saw this, he became troubled and informed the trio waiting in his back room that something was wrong. The train had not been announced. There should be no people waiting. He was worried. He pulled Father Márton aside, and told him that someone must have leaked the news about the train.
“How does this affect us?” the priest asked.
“It’s a terrible situation,” the man answered. “The crowd will grow. There will be pandemonium. I have seen this before, Father. The Germans will be furious. There is bound to be trouble, and I will not be able to escort you on to the train.” The man was distraught. “You will have to make your own way through the crowd. I’m sorry. I have a wife and family. I cannot take the chance…You understand.”
“Of course I do, but, please, tell us what you advise.”
“You will have to take your chances with all the others. If you wait here as planned, the platform will be filled and it will be impossible to make your way through the crowd. Your only hope is to take your place on the platform now. I can show you where the doors will open. You must claim that space and defend it as best you can. I’m sorry. That is all I can do.”
“It is enough. Show us to this place we must stand.”
The Station Master led them to the trackside, indicated where they should stand, and left them not quite alone on a rapidly-filling station platform. Some of those who were standing nearby, noticing the quality of Sasha’s and Lukas’ clothing, and the attention given to them by the Station Master, and correctly concluding that they knew something, inched closer to them.
László slept late and dressed leisurely. He was in no hurry. Dunayevsky had told him the train was due in the station shortly before one p.m.—plenty of time for a second cup of coffee. There would be a crowd at the station, but that should work to his advantage. He planned to arrive at the Déli about 20 minutes earlier, locate his target, and use the remaining time to work his way close to Sa
sha and Lukas. He would wait for the train to enter the station and use the noise and commotion to his advantage. He had no doubt he would be able to identify his target quickly and easily. He assumed they would be well-dressed, loaded with baggage and accompanied by an Arrow Cross guard. It would be quite likely that the guard or guards would keep others away from the mother and child, allowing him a clear shot. He had played out the assassination in his mind all night. In his vision, he saw them standing there, waiting for the train, looking down the track in anticipation, completely unaware that he was coming up behind them. He saw himself moving through the crowd, drawing the Nagant from his waistband, aiming—shooting the boy first. He falls! There is a scream—it is the Countess. She has seen her son shot dead, and now she looks into the crowd, recognizes him, her former servant, and as she screams again, he shoots her dead. It is a delicious dream, almost erotic. He can’t sleep as it plays and replays in his mind all night.
And now it is time to put the plan into action. He tucks the Nagant into his waistband and dons a loose-fitting shirt to hide the tell-tale bulge. He moves stealthily, avoiding main streets wherever possible, keeping to doorways and alleys, walking two, sometimes three blocks out of the way to avoid a German or Arrow Cross checkpoint. It takes time, but he has time; he is patient.
He arrives at the station at about 12:30 p.m. But it is completely mobbed—far more crowded and chaotic than he had imagined it would be. Even from across the street, he can see that his plan to locate his quarry will be more difficult than he had planned. He could throw himself into the mob and hope to come across them more or less by chance, but that seemed unlikely. He was at a loss until he spied the pedestrian bridge that spanned the tracks just outside the station. He raced to the bridge, unconcerned about being noticed amongst the many people running into and around the station. He climbed the steps and ran to the middle of the span. To his delight, he had a clear view of the entire platform—but there was no sign of the Countess and Lukas, no Arrow Cross-escorted, elegantly-dressed lady with several baggage carts.
