by Diane Capri
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 FIVE
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 s
lightly queasy and claustrophobic as they descended.
“All of this is portrayed as history,” Zoltan said. “But many survivors are still alive, and plenty of perpetrators have been left unpunished. The scars of this terror are still raw and the wounds easily reopened.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I think that our country is so steeped in blood that the ground has become viscous with it, and one wrong step will suck us all into the maw of the earth.”
Georg chuckled. “So poetic, my friend.”
Morgan expected Zoltan to be offended at the sarcastic tone, but he merely smiled and shook his head.
“Georg here is a gamer and hacker, and he associates with those who stand for anarchy and revolution.”
“What he means is that I know the truth,” Georg replied, his kohl-rimmed eyes suddenly serious. “I hack to remain anti-establishment, to keep an eye on those in power and to hold them to account. I don’t believe in the innate goodness of mankind, so I seek to ensure that there are balances in place to prevent the rise of such sickness again.”
“Why do you work here, then?” Morgan asked. “Surely this place represents everything that you hate?”
Georg nodded. “True, but I would have been one of the first to be thrown to these butchers, just for being different. Every day I confront the bullies of the past and I claim my right to be who I am. As you see, there are still people who want to return to the past, slam people like me and Zoltan into cells and leave us to rot.” The lift jerked to a halt. “Come, I will show you why working down here keeps me motivated.”
The lift opened into the dungeon of the museum and Morgan followed Georg into the stone corridors as Zoltan trailed behind.
“These are where the prisoners were kept,” Georg pointed left and right as they walked indicating where thick doors opened onto cramped cells. Each contained only a dirty wooden pallet and pictures of faces on the walls. Morgan peered into one and saw scratches in the plaster, the marks of desperation an attempt to cling to life for just a little longer. She closed her eyes, the echoes of torture reverberating in her mind. For a moment she felt utterly bereft, with a realization that humanity had always tortured and murdered and always would. Was there was no stopping that darkness, despite how many fought against it?
She clutched at the wall.
“Are you alright?” Zoltan’s hand was on her elbow. Morgan opened her eyes to look into his concerned face. Behind him she saw Georg watching her, and she knew that he understood. These men stood against the dark, and she would stand with them. ARKANE usually fought in the realms at the edge of the supernatural, but the violence in Budapest was altogether human.
Morgan nodded. “I’m fine. Let’s continue.”
“It’s just a little further,” Georg said, turning and walking deeper into the dungeon labyrinth. “I find it best to work in places that others prefer to avoid.”
As she followed, Morgan paused again to look into a stark stone room. Although the ceiling was low, there was still space for a tall wooden pole with a few steps leading up to it on either side. A simple rope noose hung there, its knot silhouetted on the wood by the bare bulb that lit the pale space. The cell was made somehow more obscene by its emptiness and Morgan felt that the air still held imprints of the murders carried out there. For it was certainly murder, even though it had been justified by a government as a fitting punishment for enemies of the state.
Georg unlocked a door at the end of the long corridor and the three of them squeezed into another cell, barely big enough for a desk and a couple of chairs. On the desk sat a huge, clunky computer from the 1980s.
“It doesn’t look like much,” Georg said with a cheeky smile. “But this is Budapest hacker central. Now let’s take a look at these right-wing lunatics.”
He pulled out the chair and sat down at the desk, lifting the old computer to reveal a slim laptop underneath, hidden in plain sight. Georg opened the laptop and his fingers flashed over the keyboard. Morgan was reminded of the ARKANE librarian Martin Klein, whose genius skills were harnessed in the pursuit of esoteric truth. But where Martin was often physically awkward, Georg’s presence seemed to intensify as he worked, exuding energy and passion for his quest. Morgan could see that this was a kind of game to him, albeit with serious consequences, a battle of good vs evil in a parallel world where he could work his magic undetected.
“Can you check the chatter on the Eröszak forums?” Zoltan asked. “See if there’s any mention of who was involved in the Basilica theft and murder?”
Georg’s eyes were fixed on the screen and he didn’t reply, just typed faster, his brow furrowing as he read. Morgan could almost see him processing, sifting the information and weighing its importance. The Secret Police would have certainly killed him for being different, she thought, but he would have made a hell of an informant.
Minutes went past before Georg spoke, and Morgan could almost feel Zoltan’s impatience beside her. She understood his need for action, it was mostly her own preference, but they needed at least some indication of where to start searching.
Georg’s eyes widened and his already pale face blanched.
“What is it?” Zoltan asked.
“There’s chatter about a revenge attack,” Georg’s eyes were hollow, a corridor of time that reflected the massacres of the past. “No specific details but it sounds like a group of Jews have been shot on the banks of the Danube.”
Zoltan pushed back his chair with a violent shove, his face contorted, fists tight. His rage seemed to fill the tiny space but just as Morgan thought he would punch the wall, he laid his forehead on the cool plaster and breathed a long exhalation.
“Surely there can be no doubt that this is the work of ultra right-wing nationalists?” Morgan asked, her voice tinged with horror. “Won’t the police be investigating this as a matter of urgency?”
“But they’re only Jews,” Zoltan growled, his voice low. “Just recently, Eröszak supporters marched near a hotel where the World Jewish Congress was meeting. The protestors wore military uniforms, forbidden and outlawed in Hungary, but the police let them march.”
Georg nodded.
“Eröszak currently has one third of the Parliament, but across the country the support is much more widespread. And you can see why. Their ‘Movement for a Better Hungary’ has been embraced as a way to combat unemployment, crime, immigration, and the dependence of welfare cases like the Roma. Jews are again seen as too powerful, a useful scapegoat in a country where we have been murdered and driven out before. These murders will be investigated, but they won’t search too hard for those responsible and it won’t help us today.”
While he spoke, Georg’s fingers flashed over the keyboard. “The incident has brought out the big-mouths on the forums. The boasters, the braggers.” His face twisted into a sneer. “Idiots.” His eyes scanned the pages, while Zoltan still stood against the wall, finally turning to lean against it, his body taut with restrained power. Finally, Georg spun the laptop around for them to look.
“This man was seen in the delicatessen from where they took the victims. He didn’t even hide his face, which just shows you the confidence the bastards have.”
Morgan and Zoltan leaned closer to the screen. The man was elegant, his features finely chiseled and his nose long and sharp, his black hair slicked into a stylish wave.
“Hollo Berényi, known as the Raven,” Georg said. “He’s linked to many anti-Semitic attacks as well as to violence against Roma. There’s no clear evidence that he’s part of Eröszak and, of course, their leader, that slime-ball László Vay, always condemns the violence, but they must be linked somehow. Everything Berényi does furthers the Eröszak cause.”
Zoltan grunted. “A few days before the election? Of course it’s them. Who else has so much to gain?”
Georg continued. “Some of the chatter indicates that Berényi was also seen around the Basilica early this morning.” He clicked another key and more blurred images of the man filled the screen. “Unde
r another name, he spent several years with the Russian Spetsnaz GRU elite military force before disappearing off the radar, surfacing occasionally as a mercenary in various wars. It seems that he offers military strategy for hire, so I think it best to focus on him and what he has been doing.”
“Or consider what he might do next?” Morgan said.
Both men looked at her, waiting for more.
“It seems to me that the murder in the Basilica and the theft of the Holy Right has enraged the nation,” she continued. “So much so that almost anything would be considered acceptable today, even these murders by the Danube. While the Hand is missing and the Jews blamed, this Berényi can do his worst and be considered a folk hero. From what you’ve said, I don’t think he’s finished yet.”
“Of course.” Georg spun the laptop around again and resumed his tapping. “The police will have to investigate all this, but while there is chaos, they’ll just let it ride.”
“So if you were going to target Jews in retaliation,” Morgan said, “but also escalate the situation by tapping into Hungary’s past and attacking symbols of nationalism, what would you do next?”
In the moment’s silence that followed, a siren rang out in the building, a deafening ‘nee-naw’ cacophony. Morgan and Zoltan pressed their hands over their ears while Georg’s face froze, as if that sound conjured up a history that he thought lay only in the past.
