by Neil Maresca
It made her think. Her life had been a whirlwind since the assassination. Despite her shock at seeing Milán gunned down, she had not missed what had passed between László and Lukas immediately after. She knew that the assassin would not be satisfied until the entire Károlyi family line had been eliminated, and was terrified that László would return to complete the job. Her only thoughts in the days following the murder were for the safety of her son. She had to get him out of Hungary, far away where the Communists couldn’t reach him. She hadn’t much time to mourn her husband, but she consoled herself with the thought that he would understand, and agree that her priority now had to be Lukas.
Von Piehl was an unexpected complication. He was dangerous. Germany was crumbling, and like many in the Nazi party, he struck out, like a wounded animal, at any and all enemies, real or only imagined. He coveted Sasha, not only for her body, but also for her status—a lofty social position that he could never attain on his own. Sasha knew the type well. Von Piehl was a member of the minor nobility with dreams of glory, and hatred for all those who, he felt, looked down on him. Petra had been anxious to share what she knew about Von Piehl, his whining about being mistreated by the nobility, the disdain with which they treated his membership in the Nazi party, and his never-ending vows to make them pay for their slights and insults. “My God,” she told Sasha, “he would go on and on till I thought I would scream. Be careful; he wants you badly, and if he doesn’t get what he wants, he can be very cruel.”
Sasha kept her thoughts and Petra’s words to herself as she entered the hotel restaurant. Von Piehl was waiting for her. He stood when he saw her and remained standing while the waiter seated her. She smiled. He smiled. But Sasha knew immediately that something was wrong. Von Piehl was tense. The smile was forced, and vanished as soon as she was seated. She waited, her every sense suddenly on high alert.
The waiter filled their champagne glasses. Von Piehl raised his glass and tilted it toward Sasha.
“To the future,” he said.
“To the future,” Sasha repeated, and took a sip of her champagne. To a future without Nazis and communists, she thought, To a future where my son and I can be safe from maniacs like you. But she said nothing. She waited. Von Piehl had something on his mind, and sooner or later he would reveal it.
It was sooner.
“There was a British light cruiser off the coast, yesterday,” he said.
“Really, how daring,” Sasha replied, assuming her most bored, sophisticated, tone, “I suppose the captain thought he was one of those “Sea Dogs” the British are always going on about.”
“Perhaps, but he took a great risk. Had he come just a little closer, our shore batteries would have blown him and his ship to pieces.”
“Interesting, but surely, General, you didn’t invite me to dinner to talk about some silly British captain.”
‘No, of course not, I had hoped to talk about the future, our future.”
“But …?”
“But … there is the business of the cruiser—and your travel documents.”
“I’m afraid I do not understand General.”
“I certainly hope you do not Countess.”
“General, are you trying to frighten me?”
“Not at all, my dear Countess, but there are certain—shall I say—suspicious circumstances that I hope you can clarify.”
“General, did you bring me here to dine, or to interrogate me?”
“My apologies, Countess, but even I have superiors, and they are very concerned about recent developments. I’m afraid I have let the problems of my office interfere with what I had hoped would be a delightful evening.”
“It can still be a delightful evening, General, if you can postpone your inquiries until tomorrow. I will be happy to put all your concerns to rest—tomorrow.” She delivered the last word with a touch of annoyance, certain that by asserting her social superiority, she would force the general to behave more civilly, concerned as he was with appearing to be sophisticated.
Sasha had heard the rumors. The war on the eastern front was going from bad to worse, the allies had landed on the French coast, Italy was in disarray, and, most recently, a coup by King Michael resulted in Romania switching sides, and instead of fighting alongside the Germans against the Russians, they were now fighting alongside the Russians against the Germans. Romanian troops were rumored to be massing along the Hungarian border.
“The Hungarians will fight, you know. We don’t have many men or munitions, but we will fight.”
The remark caught Von Piehl off balance. He was not privy to the sequence of ideas that had led Sasha to this point, and she had just chastised him for talking business.
“I’m sorry Countess, but I am not sure how to interpret that remark.”
“I hear the rumors General. I only mean to reassure you that if the Romanians invade Hungary, the Hungarians will fight.”
“For Germany?”
“For Hungary, General, but yes, alongside Germany, against the Russians and Romanians.”
“So, you believe that the Führer can continue to count on the loyalty of Horthy and the Hungarian army?”
Sasha had made a foolish mistake. She had let her patriotism overrule her caution. Von Piehl was no fool. He recognized immediately that Sasha had declared Hungary’s allegiance was to Hungary, not to Germany. The next logical step was for him to question where her loyalties lay—and he already had his suspicions on that score.
She was in even more danger than she realized. She had no way of knowing that Von Piehl had received intelligence from Berlin regarding the failed attempt by Horthy to sign a separate peace treaty with the Allies. Von Piehl, as SS commander in Hungary, had been ordered to uncover and arrest all co-conspirators. It was the report of the British cruiser that had brought him on the run to Croatia. When he found Sasha on the train, he thought at first, it was merely a stroke of good fortune, and he accepted her story about leaving Hungary to protect her son from the communists, but when he discovered that her travel documents had been prepared before her husband’s assassination, and they bore the seal of Horthy himself, he realized that he had stumbled upon a prize of immense value.
As Von Piehl saw it, there were several ways this could play out, and in each of the possible scenarios, he was a winner. He could simply arrest Sasha, and wait for Hitler to honor him with medals, maybe even a personal meeting with the Führer in the Eagle’s Nest. If he could be sure of such an honor, he would arrest Sasha before she had finished her dinner. Alternatively, he could use the threat of arrest to gain control over Sasha. This too, was very tempting. Then there was the third option, and the reason he had not yet acted. He could reveal her husband’s complicity and take credit for his death, giving him the accolades he desired without having to give up Sasha. The key to this strategy was Lukas. Von Piehl knew that Sasha would do everything in her power to protect her son. But where was her son? Sasha said she sent him to an aunt’s villa in the seaside town of Opatija. But a telephone call to the local SS office revealed no such aunt, no such villa, and no sign of Lukas.
Early the following morning, long before the sun was up, a wagon loaded with vegetables for the Saturday market pulled to a halt in the central square. The farmer, an old, weather-beaten stick of a man, put his horse whip aside and descended from his seat. He walked to the back of his wagon and began unloading the vegetables onto the same spot on the ground that had been his family’s since before he was born. When he reached the halfway point in the wagon, he removed a large bag, and woke the man who had been sleeping behind it.
“It’s time, comrade,” he said.
The man mumbled something incomprehensible as he strove to shake the sleep from his head. He had been traveling hard for two days, and was very tired. He blinked his eyes and looked around. The farmer seemed to know what he wanted.
“That way,” he said, pointing to the center of town.
László didn’t understand the words, but the gest
ure was unmistakable.
“Thank you, comrade,” he said in Hungarian. He stepped down from the wagon, checked to make sure that his gun was still in place, and began walking toward the town center while the farmer continued to unload his wagon as he had done every Saturday since he was a boy.
Chapter 18
May, 1944
Town and Country II
Zagreb, Croatia
Morning
“He knows.”
“How much does he know?”
“He won’t say, of course, but he knows I’m lying. Good Lord, Father, I need absolution. I have never lied so much in my life.”
“Don’t worry Countess. It’s no sin to lie to Nazis.”
“I’m frightened Father. He knows Lukas isn’t in Opatija, and he made me promise to bring him here tonight before the ball. He claims that he is better able to protect him from the communists than I am. He professes to have my interests at heart, but he’s lying. He wants Lukas so he can control me.”
Father Márton managed a small laugh.
“I’m glad you find it so amusing, Father. I find it terrifying.”
“Yes, I imagine you do. Please forgive me, but that must have been some dinner with you lying to Von Piehl and him lying to you. And it might work to our advantage. If Von Piehl’s agents have established that Lukas is not in Opatija, then that is the last place he will look for him when you fail to appear this evening—and that is exactly where he will be.”
“You are confident then?”
“As long as the documents are ready, and you have your plans in place, yes, I am confident. I sent a message last evening to Ambrose along with your note to Lukas. Everything is ready. By this time tomorrow, you and Lukas will be together.”
The evening before, Father Márton had entrusted Sasha’s message, along with one of his own, to a fellow Jesuit for delivery. Unknown to him, however, Von Piehl, convinced that the priest was helping the Countess in some way, had assigned one of his best operatives, SS-Hauptsturmführer Freidrich Schengel, to follow him. Schengel had followed Márton to the rectory, where he observed the exchange between the two priests. He watched as, following a brief discussion, the second priest took a small package from Márton and headed quickly away from the residence.
Schengel was an experienced agent. He had tracked down Jews throughout Eastern Europe, and had followed Eichmann to Hungary where he had come to the attention of Von Piehl who had ‘borrowed’ him for help in tracking down Horthy’s accomplices.
Schengel was not an effective undercover agent. Tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed, meticulously dressed, with his black boots highly polished, he couldn’t fool anybody. He was so obviously SS that people crossed the street when they saw him approach. But the SS had no need of undercover agents; they needed trackers and killers, and Schengel was one of the best.
Following Father Márton was an easy task. The Jesuit stood head and shoulders above most of the people, and in his black cassock, was easy to pick out in a crowd. Besides, he had no idea he was being followed, and, unlike Jews, felt no need to take evasive actions.
Now, as Schengel stood watching the exchange taking place between the two priests, he had a decision to make. He had been assigned to follow Márton, but he had seen enough to know that the package that passed between the two priests was more important than the priest himself. He did not know whether it contained money, documents, or secret messages, but he was certain that it was worth following, so he made a decision. It was dinner time; he believed that Márton was back at his lodgings, and probably in for the night, but this other priest, the one scurrying off into the night with the mysterious package—where might he be going?
Schengel turned his attention away from Márton, and followed the second priest into the growing darkness of early evening.
Ambrose woke Lukas from a sound sleep. Yesterday’s activity had left him exhausted, and after a light meal in the monastery’s refectory, he had gone to bed and slept through the night uninterrupted by the bad dreams that had plagued him every night since his father’s murder.
“What time is it?” he groaned as he tried to focus his eyes on the smiling Ambrose.
“Time to get up. If you don’t get up soon, you’ll miss breakfast, and you don’t want to do that. The monks are already in the fields, and they don’t leave food waiting around too long.”
Lukas rose, splashed some cold water on his face, and quickly dressed. Ambrose was right. He was ravenously hungry. He did not want to miss breakfast.
“What are we going to do today?” he asked after he had stuffed himself with breads, cakes, eggs and pancakes.
“I have a special treat for you today,” Ambrose replied, “but first, you should read this note from your mother. It arrived last night after you were in bed.”
Lukas grabbed at the letter eagerly. “You should have wakened me,” he said as he tore it open.
Ambrose laughed. Armageddon wouldn’t have awaked you.” He said. “What does your mother say?”
‘She says she loves me and misses me, but she writes as if I am on some kind of summer vacation. Is it in code?
“It is a precaution. Does she say anything else?”
“Only that she will visit me soon.”
“That,” Ambrose emphasized, “is code. I too received a message last night. We are to meet up with your mother and Márton this evening in Opatija.”
While Ambrose and Lukas were enjoying their breakfasts, Hauptsturmführer Schengel was reporting to General Von Piehl. Schengel had not slept all night. He had managed to follow the priest half the night from Zagreb to the monastery where he witnessed the delivery of the package. Then he traveled the remainder of the night back to Zagreb, and went directly to Von Piehl’s office without bothering to shower and shave, convinced that he had found where the boy the General sought was hidden.
Von Piehl was delighted with Schengel’s report, and rewarded him by sending him right back out to continue his surveillance of Father Márton. Everything was falling into place perfectly. He agreed with Schengel’s assessment that Lukas was being stowed away in the monastery, and ordered an SS detachment to go and fetch him. Petra was watching Sasha; Schengel was watching the priest, and soon he would have the boy. By this evening, he thought, I will have all the pieces in place.
László Farkas was bone-weary. He was tired, dirty, and hungry. He had traveled from Budapest to Zagreb on foot, in carts, and on the backs of donkeys. He was near collapse when he entered the open doors of Saint Catherine’s Church seeking a safe, quiet place to rest. He sat down on one of the hard, narrow, wooden benches and immediately fell sound asleep.
He was awakened by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. Before he opened his eyes, he smelled the hot soup that was being passed to him. It was a wonderful smell, a peasant smell, a smell reminiscent of home, and for a small moment, László felt happiness. But his happiness turned immediately to terror when he focused his eyes on the figure offering him food—a black-cassocked priest who, in László’s guilt and fear, he mistook for Father Márton. He reached for his gun, and only stayed his hand, when he realized that the priest offering him food was not his hated enemy and posed no threat.
László was no great intellect, and would not have appreciated the irony, but he had inadvertently stumbled into the mother church of the Jesuits in Zagreb, and while he sipped at his steaming bowl of soup, Father Márton was in the rectory adjacent to the church, enjoying a hearty breakfast.
The priest, an old, kindly-looking man, offered László a large hunk of bread, and spoke to him in a language Farkas did not understand. László paid little attention to the priest; he was too hungry. He tore the bread from the priest’s hand and began furiously dunking it in the soup. He did this until the bread was gone and then he gulped down what remained of the soup. Only then did he look up at the priest, who smiled at him and once again spoke to him in a language he did not understand.
László looked at the smiling priest, but
did not return his kindness. Instead, he pushed the now-empty bowl back into the priest’s hands, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and fumbled through his travel-worn jacket until he found a crumpled piece of paper upon which Dunayevsky had scrawled 45 Nova Cesta, Zimja. He placed the scrap of paper in front of the priest, hoping he could provide directions. Instead, the priest started shouting at him and beating him with the soup bowl. He crumpled up the paper, and threw it at László, who overcame his urge to shoot the old man and quickly left the church.
László walked across the square, sat at an open table, and ordered a coffee. He pawed through his near-empty pockets until he located a tiny cache of German Pfennigs, one of which he placed on the table. He was sipping his coffee and silently cursing the old priest when he saw something that amazed him. Father Márton walked out of the rectory, and turned left onto the first street leading out of the square. László started to rise, but halted when he saw another man quickly fold the paper he was reading, and leave his seat, walking in the same direction as Father Márton. It was clear that the man was following Márton, and it was equally clear that the man was SS.
László waited until the man had gone a discreet distance, then he began to follow him, certain that he was following Father Márton, and equally certain that the Jesuit would lead him to the Countess and the child. He found it curious that the SS was following Márton, but he didn’t waste any time thinking about it. It made no difference to him, or to his mission. They walked for about 15 minutes, until they reached a large, elegant hotel, which Father Márton entered without hesitation, followed closely by the SS man. László, however, stopped across the street, hesitant to even approach such an ostentatious building. There was no way he was going to be able to enter that building—at least not through the front door. Satisfied that he now knew where to find his prey, he returned to his previous task, finding the man called, Zimja, “The Snake,” who could be found at 45 Nova Cesta.
