by J. F. Penn
He disappeared into the hole and Morgan watched him descend. She took a deep breath and followed him, climbing down about six feet. Zoltan was waiting at the bottom in a low tunnel, and as soon as Morgan’s feet touched the ground, he set off into the darkness, the light from his head torch illuminating dank earth reinforced with wooden planks. With barely enough room to stand upright, Morgan had to bend to walk quickly behind him.
It must have been built after the Ghetto, Morgan thought, as back then these blocks would have been surrounded by a high fence and stone wall. No food had been allowed in, and rubbish, waste and dead bodies had lain on the streets unable to be collected. She walked faster, specters of the past chasing her through the dark tunnel, the bony fingers of the dead crying out for justice while the living wailed in the synagogue behind her. She felt claustrophobic, as if the very earth wanted to crush her. There was a light touch on her cheek and she let out a little noise of alarm.
“Are you OK?” Zoltan’s whisper came back and he shone his torch at her feet.
Morgan touched her face, wiping away a crumbling flake of earth.
“Yes, sorry, just a bit jumpy.”
“Only a little further.” He turned and they walked on until they reached another ladder, which Zoltan quickly climbed, pushing open the hatch above. Light flooded down into the pit as Zoltan reached down to help Morgan up. They emerged into a beer cellar in the basement of a local pub, with metal barrels piled up in one corner, the smell of hops in the air.
“We need to find out more about the ultra right-wing Nationalist groups,” Zoltan said. “The relic theft is not the work of Jewish groups, but of a faction trying to stir up violence for their own agenda. With the elections only a few days away, there are those who would benefit greatly from a backlash against the Jews and a resurgence of Hungarian nationalism. I know someone who can help us … but you’re not going to like where he works.”
CHAPTER 4
In another area of Budapest, the Jewish delicatessen of Erzsébetváros was busy, full of people gossiping about the murder at the Basilica, their voices a hubbub of interest tinged with fear. Alma Kadosa served a customer with fresh bread, wrapping it quickly with fast hands, unconscious of the actions she had performed so many times before. She heard snippets of conversation, rumors of a mob calling for blood and vengeance and she felt a dart of concern for her parents, who were at the synagogue. She would call them as soon as the shop quietened down. They were still faithful to a religion into which she had been born but didn’t really identify with. Alma was proudly Hungarian first, embracing all the opportunities the country offered hardworking young people. She only had to save a few hundred more forints and then she could afford her dream holiday, visiting the famous art galleries of Italy and France that she studied at night school.
Suddenly, the sound of revving engines interrupted Alma’s thoughts and stilled the conversation around her. Brakes squealed to a halt and Alma could see men jumping out of a white van. There was shouting and the atmosphere in the shop shifted. Alma watched the old people shrink into themselves, some sinking silently behind display units as if they instinctively knew what was coming.
“Quickly,” hissed Ferenc, the portly owner of the store, as he pushed open the back door of the shop and urged some of the customers to flee. Those closest to the door ran, leaving shopping bags full on the ground. Alma was trapped behind the bread counter and, although she felt fearful, she also didn’t understand what was going on. How could there be a threat to their little shop?
She remained standing as the door banged open and, one after another, five men entered, their faces set in a sneer of malevolence, eyes shining with a lust for violence. Two carried baseball bats that they thumped from one hand to another and the others held guns in a relaxed grip.
Their leader strode in behind them, his eyes obscured by sunglasses. His nose was sharp, like a beak, and his dark hair shone with wax styling. He was closely shaven and Alma could smell the spicy cologne that he exuded along with an air of sophisticated violence. His eyes fell on her and Alma felt her heart pound in fear and her muscles tighten.
He walked forward, his eyes fixed on hers, while his men stood silently to one side as if waiting for a signal.
“What are you looking at, Jew-bitch?” he asked, his voice almost an obscene caress and his mouth curving into a smile. Alma could read his intent, and her hand gripped the bread-knife in front of her. She thought of her grandparents, survivors of the camps, and her parents who had suffered under the Soviets. This was her fight now, and suddenly she felt proud of her heritage. She would not deny who she was, even though she had spent her lifetime avoiding the synagogue and her parents’ religious fervor.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Alma asked, her voice shaky. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the customers frozen with fear. Nearest was old Mrs Karolyi with her gnarled hands who came in every day for fresh poppyseed cake. Her eyes were closed and her chest was heaving, as if she was having a panic attack. Behind her was a mother, clutching her young son to her chest, hiding his eyes and looking away, hoping that by not seeing what was happening, they would avoid the oncoming threat.
“You Jews have helped yourselves for far too long,” the man snarled at Alma. “And now you have stolen the symbol of our country, the Holy Right, no doubt for some disgusting ritual.” He came close to the counter and leaned over it towards Alma. Everything in her wanted to thrust the bread knife at him, but she knew that his jacket would stop the blade and then she feared he would use the knife on her. Her heart pounded.
“We don’t know anything about the Holy Right. We are Hungarian, just like you.” Alma’s voice trembled and the man smiled, his grin wolfish. He raised a hand and slapped her face hard, the crack resounding in the shop. Anna felt the pain a split second after the noise, her hand flying to her cheek and tears springing to her eyes.
“Don’t you dare claim to be Magyar,” he snarled. “You are nothing, and we will show you what you are worth.”
He signaled behind him and the other men started laying into the shelving and displays with their bats, smashing glass cases and bottles. The smell of pickled vegetables filled the air and the screams of the frightened customers were lost amongst the violent outburst. Alma heard Ferenc moaning from behind his till, shaking his head as his livelihood was destroyed, the perfect little shop with everything in its place smashed to pieces. Glass shards rained down on the customers, but although the men heaved their bats down right next to the people huddled on the floor, they didn’t hit anyone. Alma was shaking with shock and fear now. Could this really be happening in twenty-first century Hungary?
“Today we are taking vengeance for the stolen Holy Right,” the man said. “But beating you to death doesn’t give the correct signal to the Jewish community. We want to cast a longer shadow into the past today.” He grinned and cupped Alma’s chin roughly in his bony hand. “You’re pretty, little Jewess. I’ll take you for sure, but we need several more for our little enactment. Will you choose, or shall I?”
Alma stared into his eyes, dark pools showing no acknowledgment of her humanity. “You can’t do this,” she said. “The police will be here any minute. They’ll stop you.”
He laughed. “Haven’t you noticed, idiot Jews?” He spun and addressed the cowering shop customers. “The police aren’t interested in you, they only care about defending Hungary. And today, we’re doing their job for them.”
He barked a command and each of the men grabbed one of the customers.
“Now, Jewess, will you come quietly or shall I take someone else?”
The man turned and his eyes fixed on the mother with her young son, and old Mrs Karolyi. He moved towards them and the old woman opened her eyes, a piercing blue that fixed on his.
“Shame on you,” she whispered. “You bring dishonor to Hungary. This brutality should have died with the generation that started it.”
The man laughed at her and then his face t
ransformed.
“It is you who bring shame.” He spat at the old woman. “We bring glory, for we are ridding this country of the unwanted Jews, Roma and dirty foreigners. Soon, we Magyar will be great again.”
He reached for a tin of pickled gherkins from the shelf and used it to smash Mrs Karolyi in the face. There was a sickening crunch as her nose broke and a weak cry as she sagged in agony back against the young mother, who clutched desperately at her son and shuffled backwards from the violence.
As the man leaned forward to hit Mrs Karolyi again, Alma stepped out from behind the counter.
“Please, leave her,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”
He turned back, his hand still raised with the pickle jar stained with blood. Alma knew she could never look at one of the green containers again without seeing the red specks. He flung the jar carelessly to the floor where it rolled under a display case.
“So be it.” He shouted a command to the men and they thrust the five captives through the door, guns trained on the remaining customers.
Alma was the last to be hustled into the van, all of them crammed into the back to sit on the floor, surrounded by the men with guns. As one of the women began sobbing quietly, Alma felt as if her brain was processing the situation on a totally removed level. She could see the tiny details of the scene as if time moved more slowly. A fly buzzed around the head of one man, landing on his ear as he flicked at it. There was a mole on his cheek shaped like the island of Crete, where she had spent one lazy summer. She noticed the broken zip of another man’s jacket, the thin material a cheap imitation of an upmarket brand. She saw the broken veins in the outstretched legs of one older woman, her skirt riding up as she tried to stay upright in the lurching van.
As she took in her surroundings, Alma felt the cool aftermath of the adrenalin rush, the sag of exhaustion and a sense that she couldn’t fight whatever was going to happen. She thought of her parents at the synagogue and hoped that they were safe, but she felt a sense that she would never see them again. She wanted to rage at the men, appeal to some kind of human decency, but they wouldn’t even look at the little group. Was this how people had felt on the way to the camps? Powerless, clinging to a faint hope of reprieve?
The van finally lurched to a halt and the men readied themselves. A panel opened from the front seat and Alma saw the leader’s leering face.
“Hungary appreciates your sacrifice,” he said, and barked a command. The doors were thrust open and Alma saw that they were at the banks of the Danube, on the promenade south of the Hungarian Parliament building. She could see the grand lines of the Széchenyi Chain Bridge as they were forced out onto the pavement. Cars drove past on the main road, and a tram pulled up only meters from their position. Concerned faces looked out, but Alma knew that they would do nothing. The more witnesses to a crime, the less likely it was that anyone would act. That was just human nature, it was someone else’s problem. Don’t get involved, pretend that you didn’t see anything, that was the easiest way.
“Take your shoes off,” one of the men said, pointing his gun at their feet. “Quickly now.”
Then Alma knew what was about to happen and her heart seemed to burst in her chest. She couldn’t help a sob escaping her throat as she turned to see exactly where they were. Sixty pairs of shoes cast in iron were lined up in pairs along the banks of the Danube, created as a memorial to the Jews shot by the fascist Arrow Cross militia in World War II. She sank to her knees, sobbing, screaming “Help” at passing cars. But one man pushed her to the ground and another held her down, pulling off her shoes with rough hands. Alma scrambled forward on her knees, thinking that she could escape into the water. The man grabbed her hair and pulled her back and up.
“It’s got to be done this way,” he whispered. “It is a signal.”
Alma felt pain blossom in her back as she heard a sound, a muted gunshot mingled with her own breath and then she was falling forward into the Danube. The freezing water made her gasp but at the same time, she was overheated, her mind fuzzy. She couldn’t turn over, she couldn’t breathe, she was sinking. In her last moments, she called out to the God of her ancestors for vengeance.
CHAPTER 5
Blending into the crowd of pedestrians, Morgan and Zoltan walked quickly along the boulevard of grand mansions and luxury boutiques in the center of Budapest. They passed the State Opera House, with its tiers of ornate sculpture, but Morgan was too tense to enjoy its beauty.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To see an archivist,” Zoltan replied, “but his location is less than pleasant. I’m sorry that you have to witness the darker side of Budapest on this trip.”
A few minutes later, they arrived at the House of Terror, 60 Andrássy Way, the address feared by Hungarians as the headquarters first of the Fascist Arrow Cross Party and then the ÁVH, the Communist Secret Police. A metal awning over the side of the top story had the word TERROR cut into it with the communist star, so that the sky could only be seen through the lettering. It was now a museum and Morgan thought it brave to acknowledge history with such a statement of fact. For even after the Fascist regime had ended, those of the Communist era had imprisoned, purged and murdered their own people. It seemed incredible that the terrors of the past had not ended with that generation and that now the rise of the right-wing witnessed it beginning again. It seemed impossible that the atrocities of the past could be repeated, yet here they were, seeking to stop violence from escalating as it had done all these years ago.
Pictures of men and women who had disappeared into the building, never to emerge, were displayed on the outside, haunting images of long-gone loved ones, with candles still burning and fresh flowers left in remembrance. Morgan glanced at the faces as she walked past, the stiff portraits in sepia representing brave individuals who had only wished for democracy. Many of them were taken in the wake of the 1956 revolution, when Hungarians had risen up against the Soviets, pulling down the statue of Stalin. The protestors had been quickly and brutally quashed by the Red Army, who killed 20,000 people in the process, arresting and imprisoning many more.
“Georg is a friend from the Army,” Zoltan said. “He works within the museum now, cataloging horrors from the past, but he’s also a skilled hacker and he knows the Budapest underground scene.”
Zoltan spoke to the museum security official, who waved them through the queue of people waiting to enter the macabre memorial. The main entrance hall led into a wide light well, reminiscent of a prison, with walkways around the levels and doors leading off into various departments. A Soviet tank was parked at the bottom of a wall that stretched three floors to the ceiling, covered in black and white photos of victims who had died here.
Morgan was struck by the grey atmosphere that seemed to suck the light out of the air, giving the space a negative energy. Pictures of myriad faces on the walls communicated hopelessness and a complete lack of power, mugshots with obscured features, the shapes in lines of dark black. These people didn’t look like the archetypes of revolution. A dumpy woman in a floral print dress. A boy with fine bone structure. A proud businessman in a suit.
As she examined them, Morgan found the features running together, until the lines of human faces became a repeating pattern on a wall of the past, de-individuation even in death. What must it have been like to be brought here, she thought, knowing that you would never leave?
“Come,” Zoltan said, walking through the main gallery towards the shop and administration area. He put his hand gently on Morgan’s arm, guiding her away from the vast display of the dead. “We must focus on the present, not the past.”
They entered an office suite behind the gift shop, its ceilings low and oppressive. The employees worked on the paperwork of a functioning museum these days, but these rooms had once processed the bureaucracy of intimidation and death. A tall, pale man stood to greet Zoltan, his pallid skin emphasized by his completely black clothing. His features were fine, his eyes a pale brown and
Morgan noticed that he wore kohl around them, highlighting the lines in a subtle manner. She could imagine him in more bold makeup, a Goth by night, perhaps, and an academic by day. Morgan found herself intrigued by this man already.
Zoltan spoke a few words in Hungarian, while Georg’s eyes rested on her with a questioning gaze. Morgan met his eyes. After a moment, Georg nodded and Zoltan beckoned her forward.
Georg extended his hand and Morgan shook it. His hand was cold and firm, testing her grip as if somehow he could discern through her skin whether she was trustworthy.
“I’m sorry that you couldn’t have come at a better time,” Georg said, his voice deeper than Morgan had expected, his English slightly accented. “We are fiercely proud of our Hungary, but sometimes she bares her teeth.”
“I want to help however I can,” Morgan said. Georg nodded and let her hand drop. He looked around at the other workers in the office and nodded to Zoltan.
“Perhaps I can give you a small tour so that you can fully appreciate this part of our history,” he said. “Follow me.”
They walked out of the office and down a short corridor, stepping past a line of tourists to claim the next lift. As the doors closed behind them, Georg explained.
“There’s another room downstairs that will be more private for our discussions. It’s not a nice place to work, the shadows of history are dense down here, but we need privacy for what we seek.”
The lift moved slowly down into the depths of the complex. A short video played, featuring an old man who had once cleaned the torture and execution chambers. He described death by garroting, trapping lift occupants into a forceful confrontation with the past. Despite the things she had seen, his matter of fact tone made Morgan feel slightly queasy and claustrophobic as they descended.
