Anastasia
Rupert Colley
Text copyright © 2014 Rupert Colley
ebook Edition
rupertcolley.com
“October 23, 1956, is a day that will live forever in the annals of free men and nations. It was a day of courage, conscience and triumph. No other day since history began has shown more clearly the eternal unquenchability of man's desire to be free, whatever the odds against success, whatever the sacrifice required.”
John Fitzgerald Kennedy, speaking on the first anniversary of the start of the Hungarian Revolution.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
About the Author
Get in Touch
PART ONE: MAY 1949
Chapter 1: Zoltan
Zoltan Beke sat at his desk, his fingers arched in a steeple, eyeing the nervous youngster opposite him. The boy, nursing a bandaged hand, was only eighteen but, after a week in the cells, looked older; his skin had already taken on the sallow complexion of being too long away from sunlight. Above his right eyebrow, still fresh, a crescent-shaped wound.
‘Well,’ said Zoltan, ‘I hope you found your time here of some value.’
‘Yes, sir.’ His nose was long and thin, a Jew perhaps, his eyebrows too thick for a boy of his age.
‘Comrade, not sir. There are no sirs in the people’s democracy.’
‘No, I’m – I’m sorry, comrade.’
Zoltan, in a rare moment of charity, had decided to release him. He’d initially come to his attention when the boy’s ex-girlfriend had informed on him – “Dear Comrades, Jasper Szabo spends every night listening to the Voice of America.” Their break-up must’ve been spectacular to go to such lengths to wreak revenge. “He listens to their bourgeois claptrap and says how, one day, the people will rise against Comrade Rakosi and his Russian-loving cronies.”
‘So,’ said Zoltan, fixing his stare on the unfortunate Jasper Szabo. ‘What is our opinion now of our esteemed leader?’
‘Comrade Rakosi is our leading light, sir – I mean, comrade.’ He looked furtively at the bull-necked guard standing to his side. ‘He is the embodiment of Comrade Stalin and Stalin’s greatest pupil; and through our beloved leader we will find the true way to a Socialist utopia.’
It was amazing, thought Zoltan, what a week’s worth of rehabilitation could achieve. This young lamb, who’d strayed so far from the flock, had been successfully brought back to the fold. The first part of the process had involved tying his hand down to a table with a belt and smashing his knuckles with a mallet. If that didn’t hammer the message home for the errant youth, nothing would. He smiled at his unintentional pun.
Jasper Szabo continued. ‘Only through his teachings and his policies will we match our brothers in the Soviet Union and show the imperialist West that the communist is a worker free of exploitation.’
‘And subjugation.’
‘And subjugation.’
The initial phase of rehabilitation may have been severe but it was brief. Jasper Szabo was still a boy; Zoltan had only wanted to show him the error of his ways, not to break him. Another year or two older, he wouldn’t have hesitated. The broken knuckles were but a trifle; the crescent-shaped wound nothing more than a scratch.
‘And should we expect another visit from you at any point?’
The boy almost fell off his chair in his eagerness to respond. ‘No, comrade. I have my future life to live among the happy people of our country.’
‘And will you be listening to any more of that shit on the capitalist radio?’
‘No, comrade. I shall be devoting my time to reading the works of Comrade Stalin.’
Zoltan laughed; he hadn’t meant to but the boy was surpassing himself. Following on from the mallet, Jasper had experienced the hospitality of the Hungarian secret police, the AVO – two nights in a dingy cell without a bed or chair, with a ceiling too low for the average man to stand straight. Then transferred to the relative luxury of a regular cell where he’d been allowed to sleep, read and receive half-decent rations of food and cigarettes.
‘Well, young man, you’re at liberty to go.’ Jasper Szabo stared back at him, his eyes agog. Zoltan continued, ‘You will sign the pledge that forbids you to breathe a word to anyone about your time here. Understood?’
‘Yes, yes, of course, comrade.’
Zoltan glanced up at the guard. ‘Show him out,’ he snapped.
Jasper rose unsteadily to his feet, clutching his bandaged hand. He seemed poised on the brink of saying something, perhaps even a thank you, but evidently decided against it.
As Jasper reached the door, Zoltan couldn’t resist asking him one more question. ‘Tell me,’ he said, barely able to hide the smirk, ‘will you be seeing your young lady friend?’
Jasper blinked, seemingly unsure how to respond. Zoltan obligingly filled the gap, ‘I think you should. After all, in writing to us, she had your best interests at heart. You should seek her out and personally thank her for what she did for you.’
The boy glanced subconsciously at his bandaged hand and looked back at his interrogator, the corner of his mouth twitching in an attempt at a smile.
*
There were a number of arrested citizens awaiting Zoltan’s consideration. Men and women plucked from their homes whose devious activities had been brought to an end by an informer – spies, fascists, counter-revolutionaries, deviationists, and a whole catalogue of reprobates whose business warranted the attention of the secret police. Thank God for the informers – an army of ordinary citizens; eagle-eyed comrades who were not prepared to see their country restored to the evils of capitalism, nor for their communist system to be perverted by devious, shit-stirring lackeys of the imperialists.
Zoltan and his fellow AVO officers were busy men and little appreciated. Suppression is a thankless task. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a holiday. How little he saw of his daughter, Roza. He ran his finger down the glass of the framed photograph he kept of her on his desk – her eyes so wide, her hair so blonde, her cheeks so dimpled. In a week’s time she’d be three-years-old. Petra was planning a party and he’d promised to be there to perform a few simple magic tricks (an old speciality he had – entertaining children with disappearing ribbons and card tricks). The hard work now was an investment for the future. With time, the work would bring promotion. And with the promotion, the greater privileges, the perks, the respect, and the holidays. It was only a matter of time – time, work and a fanatical devotion to the cause.
With a sigh, he plucked the top file from the pile of Category Xs. Everyone in Hungary had a category and the Category Xs were the enemies of the people, the socially undesirables, whose arrest was only a matter of time. The telephone rang. It was Donath, his boss. Did he have a minute? As if there was a choice.
*
Donath’s office was naturally larger and more opulent than his own. The desk was of a darke
r wood; the leather chair a deeper red; three telephones, not two; a larger bust of Stalin; a thicker carpet. On the desk, an overflowing ashtray; on the wall a portrait of Felix Dzerzhinsky, founder of the Soviet secret police. Donath sat behind his desk, his tunic decorated, as always, by his proudest possession – an Order of Lenin medal. His rubbery face flushed red, his fingers clutching a file – a priority, thought Zoltan, otherwise why the summons?
‘Got one for you here,’ said Donath, flinging the file onto the desk. A cloud of ash billowed up from the ashtray.
‘What is it? What he’s done?’
‘Nothing yet. Your job is to ensure it remains that way.’
Zoltan peered at the photograph on the top page – a good-looking chap, dark eyes, strong cheekbones. He scanned the details: George Lorenc, aged eighteen, occupation – football player. ‘A footballer?’
‘A good one too, apparently, not that I would know.’ He looked bored by it all. ‘Who needs football when there’s still so much to do in the real world?’
‘The masses like it.’
‘The masses like bonking and drinking – doesn’t mean it’s good for them.’ He sneered slightly as he always did when he thought of the people en masse, the great working class on whose behalf they were fighting. ‘Anyway, Beke, there’s a game next week – one of the city teams against a visiting side from Moscow.’
‘Moscow Lokomotiv – yes, I know.’
‘Ah, well you know more than me. Message from Moscow is that the team need to win this game.’
‘Why, is it important?’
‘God no, it’s only a friendly but they’re having a tough time of it recently and a win here would set them up for an important cup tie next week or so. Apparently,’ he added quickly, for fear he should sound like a man who gave a damn. But of course, the real reason hung unspoken between them – their political masters would not entertain the idea of one of their football teams being shown up by a bunch of feeble Hungarians. The Soviet Union led the way in football as it did in all spheres of life.
‘So why this chap, this...’ Zoltan glanced back at the name, ‘this George Lorenc?’
‘We’ve already nobbled their manager, Bordas, I think his name is, and he reckons if it wasn’t for Lorenc, his team wouldn’t stand a chance anyway.’
‘Good then, is he?’
‘Meant to be, yes. He’s their centre-forward, a natural goal scorer. So, a nice, easy job for you.’ One of his three telephones rang and Donath grabbed it immediately. ‘Yes? What is it?... Wait, let me get her file...’ Resting the receiver on the blotting pad, he pulled open a drawer.
‘I’ll get to it, then,’ said Zoltan, not entirely sure whether his audience with the boss had come to an end.
‘Yeah, do so,’ said Donath, rummaging around in the drawer. ‘A quiet word should do the trick. It’s only a friendly after all, he won’t mind.’
For half a moment, he thought he caught Dzerzhinsky’s portrait winking down at him. ‘Dare say you’re right,’ he said, rising from the chair. ‘It’s only a friendly.’
Chapter 2: George
It was a definite dive, thought George. But what did he care; the resulting penalty provided him with a gilt-edged opportunity to bag his hat-trick. Kosak, the inside-left, had flown into the penalty area but the ball was already running away from him. The defender’s shadow had barely encroached on his space when Kosak threw himself on the ground, clasping his ankle and screaming as if it’d been hacked off. The referee charged to the scene, his whistle clamped in his mouth and pointed to the spot. The Union players made a show of complaint, if simply for the sake of decency. The crowd cheered in anticipation of a three-goal victory and a hat-trick for their dashing rising star, now standing over the ball.
George placed the muddied ball on the penalty spot and took four carefully paced steps back. His first goal, late in the first half, was a far post header; his second, minutes later, was a low, powerful drive from fifteen yards out. And now the third beckoned...
The crowd hushed. Before him, stood the Union goalkeeper, his knees bent, his hands comically big in their oversized gloves. The image of his father flashed across his mind as it always did in life’s big moments. There he was, standing between two piles of coats, telling his son to keep his eye on the ball.
The referee blows his whistle. One step, two, three... shoot! The goalkeeper dives the wrong way. He looks on helplessly as the ball almost trickles over the line and nestles in the far left corner, barely rippling the net. The ’keeper slams his fist on the ground in frustration but George doesn’t notice: he’s already halfway down the pitch, skipping with delight, acknowledging the crowd’s rapturous applause. His colleagues slap him on the back and ruffle his hair. He looks up into the stands and sees his mother in her usual place, jumping with joy. There’ll be tears in her eyes, tears of pride tinged, as always, with sadness that her husband wasn’t around to see another momentous occasion in George’s footballing career.
George’s third goal takes the sting out of the contest and the last twenty minutes are played out as a formality. With ten minutes to go, Bordas, the manager, substitutes him. George is delighted – being able to exit by himself, secure in the knowledge that the applause is his alone. Sure enough, the crowd stand to show their appreciation, their smiling faces and cheers reflecting the joy in his heart.
Bordas welcomed him with a solid shake of the hand, the gaps between his teeth showing beneath his smile. ‘Good lad, well played,’ he said. ‘Bring on the Soviets, eh?’
George laughed and, taking the tracksuit top offered to him, trotted off down the tunnel and down the stairs, his football boots echoing on the concrete steps. The dressing-room was empty but the noise of the crowd was still present, though dulled and distant, like the faraway crashing of waves. He rolled down his socks, removed the shin pads, and rubbed his calves. Three goals! What a feeling; his mind was still buzzing with the excitement, his muscles still tense with adrenaline.
‘Bring on the Soviets,’ he said to himself, repeating Bordas’s war cry. ‘We’ll knock them for six.’
The game against Moscow Lokomotiv, a fortnight away, was nothing more than a friendly but the thought of beating the Soviet Politburo’s third favourite team was the stuff of dreams. How his father would have loved it, seeing his son score against the country’s political masters. Any snub against Soviet supremacy, even on the football field, was worth paying to see.
‘Football is a game of psychology, a game where the confidence trickster wins.’ He could hear his father saying it, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, the smell of sweet tobacco on his breath. George closed his eyes and leant back against the tiled walls, the noise of the crowd lapping in and out of his consciousness; his father’s voice rising above the waves of sound: ‘Show them even the slightest hint of fear and you’re done for. Confidence in football, as it is in life, my boy, is the key to everything. Everything.’
George didn’t hear the dressing room doors open or the soft-soled shoes as someone crossed the tiled floor. Nevertheless, something made him sit up and open his eyes. With a lurch, he noticed the dark figure approach. ‘Sorry, you’re not meant to be in here,’ he said quickly, adding, ‘you can collect autographs later,’ although he knew full well that this short, middle-aged man with cat-like eyes, now standing in front of him, was no autograph hunter.
‘George Lorenc?’ asked the stranger. He had a round, moon-like face and a thin wiry moustache.
George’s stomach tightened. The man, with his hands in the pockets of his long cream overcoat, looked every inch a secret policeman, an AVO. ‘Yes?’ said George, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice.
The man smiled, his moustache stretching across the width of his face. ‘Mark Decsi,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘A good game today.’
George shook his hand. ‘Yes, it was OK.’
‘Ah, you’re too modest. It’s not everyday one scores a hat-trick. May I sit down?’ The man plonked him
self on the bench so close that George had to fight the urge to inch away from him. Decsi looked at his watch. ‘Final whistle in a couple of minutes. I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself.’
‘Mark Decsi.’
‘I mean my responsibility and my reason for wanting to see you. You see, I am the player development officer for the Hungarian National Communist Football Team. In plain language – a talent scout.’
George’s eyes widened. ‘A talent scout?’
‘Indeed. And you, young man, are on my list.’
‘Really?’ Amazing, thought George, how he’d assumed the man to be a threat to his future; instead, he had the potential to be the maker of dreams. Suddenly, the invasion of his body space seemed inconsequential.
The two men heard the eruption of a cheer. The game had finished; soon the dressing room would be full with his team-mates. As much as he wanted to talk to this man, George didn’t want the others to see him; this was his moment and he had no desire to share it.
‘Your game in two weeks,’ continued Decsi, ‘against Lokomotiv – I’ll be there, as will be Comrade Gusztav.’ Had he heard correctly, wondered George, Sebes Gusztav, the national team manager? ‘Play like you did today, my boy, and Comrade Gusztav cannot fail to be impressed and you’d have every chance of a place on his team. What would you say to that, eh? Playing centre forward for your country?’
‘It – it sounds...’
‘Quite.’ Decsi rose abruptly to his feet, turned on his heel and marched quickly away, leaving the dressing room as George’s team-mates descended down the stairs and through the swing-doors. No one seemed to notice the short man in the long cream overcoat who slipped away as quietly as he’d appeared.
*
An hour later, George was walking home, striding home towards Pest, his mind reliving for the umpteenth time the brief conversation with the talent scout. Following Decsi’s exit, George’s team-mates had crowded round him, amidst whoops and cheers, and much handshaking and back-patting; jubilant in their own celebration and proud of their self-effacing, three-goal hero. Bordas was all smiles as he delivered his post-match dissection, congratulating George but emphasising the team effort. George tried to listen but his mind was too much a whirl to concentrate.
Anastasia Page 1
