Ballad of the Whiskey Robber

by Julian Rubinstein

  The case languished for more than a year until finally, in September 2002, Attila was driven to Budapest in an armored car to be present for what would be the final court hearing in his almost-decade-old saga. Before leaving the prison, Attila rejected suggestions from observers that he shave his sinister-looking beard to make a better impression on the judge, saying, “I’m tired of being a showman.”

  After brief arguments by Magyar, the prosecutor, and, of course, Attila, the chief justice read the ruling on behalf of the three-judge panel. Once again the attempted murder charges were dismissed as inconclusive, leaving as the only substantive charges against Attila the ones to which he had pleaded guilty in the first place. The Supreme Court, however, ordered that Attila’s sentence not be reduced but extended by two years, to seventeen. “He is not Robin Hood,” the ruling explained. Attila would have to pay for his popularity.

  The circus was now officially over. Attila was moved to a new higher-security cell (shared by one other prisoner) and given thick gray wool pants and a blue-and-gray-patterned long-sleeve shirt—the prison garb that he had not been required to wear while his case was still proceeding through the legal system. Éva, Zsuzsa, and Domonkos agonized that they would soon receive a call informing them that Attila had taken his life. But instead, as the months passed, Attila seemed more and more at peace with himself, an evolution that happened perhaps not coincidentally at the same time as his reconnection to his mother. In the summer of 2003 Klára Ambrus, née Csibi, traveled nearly a day by train from Transylvania to see Attila for the first time in more than twenty years. She spent most of their glass-partitioned reunion in tears but managed to get across what she’d come to say: it was her fault that Attila was sitting behind bars.

  Attila told his mother he didn’t blame her for the course his life had taken, but he was glad she came. He’d never known until then that the reason she had left the family was not something he’d done but that his father had beaten her, too.

  Since then, Attila has been consumed with using his idle time to educate himself properly. He spends much of his days reading, though he complains that the prison library is so thin that he’s read his copy of I, Claudius four times. He has also begun taking basic mathematics, science, and history classes in order to get a high school degree. On a recent history exam in which he received the equivalent of an A-, he appealed, and was granted, a perfect score after pointing out an error in the test. He hopes—even though it is unprecedented for a prisoner in Hungary—to later be allowed to apply to a Hungarian university as a correspondence student.

  When he’s not studying or doing his exercises in the prison courtyard—where he’s calculated that 104 laps around the square equals 3.1 miles—he is obsessed with following the news of the world. He has subscriptions to six publications, ranging from daily newspapers to the Hungarian edition of Playboy, and can eloquently hold forth on topics from Yasir Arafat’s formative years to the disgrace of the New York Times reporter Jayson Blair. When the hall warden allows television privileges, Attila practices his English by watching CNN on a fourteen-inch color set mounted in the corner of his cell.

  What Attila sees on the screen is a far different world from the one in which he came to prominence. Once a fledgling democracy, Hungary is now a full member of NATO and the European Union. Corruption is still rampant, but violent street crime has abated and the economy, though tepid, is relatively stable. Meanwhile, the U.S. economy that Hungary had tried so hard to emulate deflated like a balloon in the spring of 2000. And the attacks of September 11, 2001, brought an emphatic end to the twelve-year period when the world order was defined by the fall of communism.

  The reverberations within Hungary have been obvious. The country’s national elections in the spring of 2002 were arguably the most contentious in its history, becoming in many ways a referendum on the tumultuous postcommunist era. At the geographic center of a unified new Europe, Hungarians faced a choice between the government of the incumbent prime minister Viktor Orbán, of the Alliance of Young Democrats, and that of a former communist and secret intelligence agent, Péter Medgyessy, who had become the leader of the left-leaning Socialist Party. The Orbán government tried to frame the election as being about patriotism, a case made clumsily a few weeks before the election by one of Orbán’s top party deputies, who declared, “Whoever is not for us should get a rope, a hammer, and a nail and hang themselves.”

  Among those who cast their ballots on election day was Attila Ambrus, who still had the right of suffrage because his case had not yet been finalized by the Supreme Court. Attila had never voted before in his life, and his heavily guarded journey to the Sátoraljaújhely voting station at the town hall was covered by a herd of photographers and camera crews. After deliberating for weeks, he decided to pull the lever for the Socialists, whom he still calls “the commies”—those former representatives of the political system he had spent the first twenty years of his life running from. Indeed, they won an unexpected victory over the Young Democrats.

  More than a decade after he first began making news by stealing 548,000 forints ($5,900) from his neighborhood post office, there is rarely a week that goes by in which Attila does not appear on television or in the newspapers. When a bank in the town of Mor was robbed after a bloody gun battle that left eight dead, Attila was interviewed by several Hungarian news outlets as an expert crime analyst. Sometimes, even Don the dog makes the front pages of the tabloids, as he did recently when an anonymous tip led police to dig up the yard in which he is living, to search vainly for a buried stash of loot.

  Though popular opinion in Hungary is now divided as to whether Attila is a positive or negative figure, the overwhelming majority of lower- and middle-class Hungarians commonly refer to him as the “Sándor Rózsa of our days” and “the modern Robin Hood.” In Transylvania his image remains almost uniformly heroic.

  But regardless of his legacy, it is Attila’s past that remains so stunningly emblematic of the world in which he lived. He is a living relic of a bygone era, trapped inside the postcommunist snow globe he penetrated when he rode into Hungary beneath a train in 1988, just before the whole scene was shaken up. It is all but certain that he could not have carried out his seven-year, twenty-nine-robbery streak the way that he did—nor become the sensation that he did—at any other time, or possibly any other place in history. Hungary’s police force today may not be the world’s strongest, but it employs more than double the number of officers it did in 1993, who have access to contemporary vehicles, carry working weapons, and are linked to a central crime computer system. (They also remain closely allied with the United States; in August 2003 Hungary agreed to the U.S. request to become a primary training center for the new Iraqi police force.) And like the American Depression-era times that produced folk hero John Dillinger, it would take a special set of social circumstances to create another Whiskey Robber. Even now, much of the media that fed Attila’s legend and that had exploded onto the scene when press freedom arrived—including László Juszt’s hit show, Kriminális—no longer exist.

  Whether that makes Attila one of the luckiest or unluckiest people in the world is debatable. He worries whether he will have any chance to get a job or have a family when he is released in 2016 at age forty-nine. (It is possible, but unlikely, that he could be paroled as many as five years earlier for good behavior.) Yet like his country and his people, all Attila ever really wanted was to be respected and to belong somewhere he could call home. And though that may not have transpired the way he envisioned, it has indeed come to pass. On the floor of Attila’s cell, among his growing collection of history books is a large encyclopedia of Hungarian history, Magyarok Kronikája. Sometimes when he can’t sleep at night he opens it to page 816. There, next to the entry about the Balkan War, the chronological reference book tells the story of the Transylvanian hockey goalie who became known as the Whiskey Robber, “a national fairy tale hero.” On good days, Attila can convince himself it was worth it.
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  Postscripts

  LAJOS VARJÚ, FORMER ROBBERY CHIEF, BUDAPEST POLICE

  While discussing the Whiskey Robber case recently, Lajos’s new girlfriend interrupted the conversation, first to remind him that “the whole country was laughing at you” and then to ask, “He [Attila] did two in one day? I’d sleep with him!” Lajos currently works as head of security for the Hungarian Post Office.

  LÁSZLÓ JUSZT, FORMER HOST OF KRIMINÁLIS

  After being thrown off Hungarian television when he was arrested and charged with “revealing state secrets” for his reporting on the “Hungarian Watergate” scandal, he now hosts a political talk show on an independent cable channel. He is suing the Hungarian government for several hundred million forints (a couple of million dollars), one of the largest lawsuits in the country’s history.

  ÉVA FODOR, ATTILA’S FORMER GIRLFRIEND

  Every few months, she drives four hours each way to visit Attila in prison and speaks to him regularly by phone. When he called on December 5, 2001, she had just been told that her boyfriend had been killed in a car accident, but wanting to remain strong for Attila, she did not mention it.

  BETTY GERGELY, ATTILA’S LAST GIRLFRIEND

  Last seen by Attila on the prison cable television system, where she appeared as a dancer in an erotic film.

  BUBU, ATTILA’S FORMER TEAMMATE AND FRIEND

  Still an “unemployed hockey player,” as his business card states. Recently lost a front tooth in a fight outside a Csíkszereda bar.

  KARCSI ANTAL, ATTILA’S UTE TEAMMATE AND SECOND ACCOMPLICE

  Recently rearrested for violating parole by entering Hungary on the Csíkszereda hockey bus.

  UTE HOCKEY TEAM

  Ordered a Whiskey Robber flag reading harjrá viszkis! (Tallyho, Whiskey Robber!) that will fly over the stadium. Still broke and championshipless.

  SÁNDOR PINTÉR, FORMER NATIONAL POLICE CHIEF AND INTERIOR MINISTER

  Leading up to the 2002 elections, opposition party posters depicted his face next to a time bomb and the words who’s protecting whom? Was replaced as interior minister when the new prime minister was sworn in and, after a stint as a security consultant for the OTP Bank, is now self-employed.

  FBI

  No longer counts Sándor Pintér as its primary liaison in Central Europe.

  MÁRTA TOCSIK, LINCHPIN OF HUNGARY’S SCANDAL OF THE CENTURY

  After five separate trials, has never served a day of jail time nor been found guilty of anything.

  JÓZSEF KESZTHELYI, CURRENT CHIEF OF BUDAPEST’S ROBBERY DIVISION

  Claims that “the Whiskey Robber case was not so big. We have bigger cases every day.” Hanging on the wall behind his desk is a plaque inlaid with two color photos, one of his capture of Attila at the Romanian border in January 1999, the other of his recapture of Attila in Budapest in October 1999. No other plaques or awards adorn his office.

  ZSOLT BÉRDI, FORMER CHIEF OF THE GYORSKOCSI STREET JAIL INVESTIGATIVE UNIT

  Resigned from the police department, primarily because of the Whiskey Robber case, which he calls the “vet’s horse,” because through it, one can see everything that is wrong with Hungary. Now practicing as a lawyer in a Budapest firm.

  VALTER FÜLÖP, BÉRDI’S SUCCESSOR AS CHIEF INVESTIGATOR

  Recently investigated several criminals who kept Attila’s book, I, the Whiskey Robber, on their night tables as if it were the Bible. Intermittently seeks updates on Attila’s physical condition, as he is convinced Attila will attempt another escape.

  LÁSZLÓ VERES, ATTILA’S COUSIN AND FIRST ACCOMPLICE

  Still living in Fitód with a wife and two young daughters. He is the only culprit in the Whiskey Robber case who was never caught—and he never will be. The statute of limitations on his crimes has expired.

  DON, THE DOG

  Still makes the news a couple of times a month. Eats like a canine king thanks to Attila, who often spends his entire five-minute weekly phone allowance specifying to Zsuzsa the type of food Don should be served. Virtually no chance he will ever see Attila again.

  KLÁRA ORBÁN, GABI’S MOTHER

  Believes, erroneously, that in Hungary, a prison sentence will be reduced if you pay down the financial damages from the case. Has started playing the lottery.

  GABI ORBÁN

  Serving his time at the Márianosztra medium-security prison two hours south of Budapest, where he plays on a soccer team and is not required to wear handcuffs outside his cell. When his mother began crying during a recent visit, he told her, “Stop whining and behave like a gangster’s mother.” His own book, The Whiskey Robber’s Partner, remains unpublished.

  ATTILA AMBRUS

  Asked if he would consider attempting to escape again, he said, “Regarding this, I couldn’t say. I wouldn’t be sincere.”

  Acknowledgments

  The process of reporting this book often felt like running an international business, and my first thank-you has to go to Vera Rónai, my indefatigable interpreter, who found me an apartment in Budapest, held down the fort while I was in New York, and helped coordinate countless interviews and, most important, successfully negotiate a path through the Hungarian police, court, and prison systems.

  Several other interpreters and translators were also enlisted over the course of the project, including Vill Korányi, Drew Leifheit, Katalin Tóth, and David Simon in Budapest; the Romanian- and Hungarian-speaking Adél Hodor in Transylvania; Anna Szalai, Norbert Puskás, and Mária Mazei stateside. During the five weeks I spent examining court files and police reports at the Supreme Court building in Budapest, I was flanked by both Vera and another patient interpreter, Anna Hives.

  From the first day I met Attila Ambrus at the Budapest Metropolitan Courthouse in December 2000, he was incredibly forthcoming. He opened up his life to me and responded to every inquiry and cross-examination with what (upon further investigation) always proved to be earnestness and honesty. Over the twelve full days I spent with him in the prison, he earned my respect and my sincerest hope that he can make it out and get another chance to use his many talents for good ends. Plus, I’d love to have a drink with him.

  Lajos Varjú also spent significant time with me despite his busy schedule and the fact that this story is not exactly his favorite topic. He is a fine person who never let me leave his home sober and who, despite the way his story played out in Hungary, was (like Attila) a decent man doing his best under trying circumstances.

  Literally dozens of others graciously accepted me into their lives and often their homes during my reporting. Those who deserve special thanks include Jen “Bubu” Salamon (who personally showed me around Csíkszereda), Gabi Orbán, George Orbán, Klára Orbán, Zsuzsa Hamer, Péter Bárándy, János Egri, and the lovely Éva Fodor. At UTE, George Pék, Gustáv Bóta, Zsolt Baróti, Kriztián Nádor, and Attila Tolnai were always helpful. In Csíkszereda, László and Margit Szabó and László Veres overcame their fear and trusted me. From the police, Valter Fülöp and Zsolt Bérdi were generous with their time, and even József Keszthelyi usually put up with me. Many others I would like to mention asked that their names not be used, but I want them to know how appreciated their contributions to this work are.

  I was lucky to have my understanding of Central Europe in general, and Hungary in particular, augmented by a number of excellent Hungarian journalists and writers, including József Jónás, László Bartus, Gergely Fahidi, János Elek, Balázs Weyer (whom I still owe dinner), Endre Aczél, Ern Kardos, Tivadar Farkasházy, and László Neményi. In Transylvania, Robbie Szszer, Zoltán Szondy, and László Kürti. Ferenc Köszeg of the Helsinki Foundation, Sándor Orbán of the Center for Independent Journalism, and the excellent essayist and novelist George Konrád were generous with their time and contacts. Marian Perkin offered warmth and hospitality in Budapest.

  Back in New York, I am blessed to have the best collection of friends and supporters around, without whom I couldn’t have completed this book. I should start with Virginia Hef
fernan, then at Talk magazine, who was the first person to believe in this strange story. Phoebe Eaton, then at Details, ultimately sent me to Hungary and, along with Dan Peres, saw the magazine piece through to publication. David Mizner helped persuade me not to pass up the chance to do this as a book. Vanessa Mobley, Alex Sherwin, and Jack Wright were also early believers.

  The following talented people offered help and/or insightful comments on the manuscript: Nina Siegal, Elizabeth Kadetsky, Dale Maharidge, Edward Lewine, Francesco Fiondella, Donnell Alexander, Jack Murnigan, Jesse Upton, Nick Fowler, Lisa Pollard, Boris Fishman, Pete Wells, Jeff Howe, Hillary Rosner, Jenn Leitzes, Maya Nadkarni, Jozsi Litkei, David Davis, and Kostya Kennedy. All of my compatriots at the New Real (particularly Celia Farber and Steve Kettmann) were, as always, important and inspiring advisers.

  At Little, Brown, my excellent editor, Geoff Shandler, saw and understood the potential of this story from the outset; his skillful pencil and calming demeanor not only made the text better but made the whole experience better. Liz Nagle also offered helpful suggestions to the manuscript and quick-response answers to any question or need I had. Sándor Szatmári, the Hungarian legend, was a wise and spirited lunch date. Steve Lamont was there when I really needed him. And Michael Pietsch’s support and encouragement were invaluable.