by Leon Silver
Tolek panicked as he saw them go – he was on his own again.
The First Secretary sat down at his desk and began reading over papers.
Tolek waited for a polite length of time, then asked, ‘What about me, Your Excellency?’ His voice cracked on the last word.
When he received no answer, he cleared his throat and asked again.
The First Secretary looked up, and he no longer wore the same warm face that had embraced Tolek’s compatriots. A pair of icicle blue eyes dared Tolek to make trouble.
‘We have no use for you. We are only recruiting officers. You’re a corporal.’
‘So is Szymanski,’ Tolek replied, slowly, respectfully.
The First Secretary sighed as though it was an effort to explain himself. ‘But he’s in line for promotion.’
Barely controlled fury ignited inside Tolek. ‘I’m the one who helped them escape. Without my help, without the assistance of a Jewish family I met, they would’ve never escaped.’
The First Secretary stood up. ‘I appreciate your help. Poland appreciates your help, but I have orders only to recruit officers for the army being formed in France.’
‘Your Excellency.’ Tolek’s voice trembled and his face began to sweat. ‘I’m desperate. I want to fight for Poland. My family is there. I have nowhere else to go.’
‘Go back to the camp.’ The official sat behind his desk once more, grabbed a batch of papers and studied them before shuffling them. The interview was over.
‘I would like to be treated the same as my two colleagues.’
The First Secretary reached a hand under his desk and two burly men appeared. Tolek was suddenly swamped with fear. No one knew that he was there. If he disappeared, he would leave no trace.
‘Go back to the internment camp.’ The First Secretary’s voice was cold. ‘Take your due punishment for escaping.’
‘Did you give my two compatriots the same advice?’
The First Secretary waved a finger at Tolek and barked, ‘Mind your own business.’
In the best Polish Army tradition, Tolek thanked the First Secretary and nodded politely. He saluted, standing at attention. Then a caretaker arrived to show him down the stairs and out of the building.
Tolek stood among the people outside the embassy, breathing in relief. Yes, he had been heartlessly rejected, but at least he was safe, free and in one piece.
He walked the streets of Budapest, hands in pockets, trying to absorb the city as a tourist. He was surprised his guts were not churning with fear and apprehension and was confident that he’d work out what to do next. Budapest was a major European metropolis renowned for its business opportunities, grand dining and cultured lifestyle. The winds of war didn’t seem to be blowing too severely here.
Gathering himself, Tolek decided to approach men and women who looked Jewish. In a mixture of Polish, German and Yiddish, he clowned around, trying not to appear threatening, and asked where he could find a synagogue. He knew that he had to be off the street before curfew or he’d be arrested. Eventually he was directed to a synagogue and from there was sent to the office of a new organisation dealing with the influx of Jewish refugees from Germany, Austria and Poland, the Jewish Refugee Help Board.
He found a queue of people waiting at the office, families, couples and singles, some well dressed and some in rags, and once more he joined the line and waited. No one looked anyone in the face, whether from embarrassment or fear Tolek couldn’t tell.
Finally, he was called in front of two men wearing suits, who introduced themselves as Fabian and Pfeffer. They interviewed Tolek, checked his military ID and questioned him in detail as to who he was and how he got there.
Then there was silence. Fabian looked at his colleague. Pfeffer nodded agreement to an unspoken question.
Fabian extended both hands in welcome. ‘Look, Mr Klings, I must say that we’re impressed by your legal training and by your time in the army.’
Tolek smiled. ‘That’s good. Can you offer me some accommodation until I’m ready to move on? I need a few days to work things out… I’ve got a little bit of money.’
‘Actually,’ Pfeffer said, ‘we’re looking for someone to run the refugee centre. Are you interested?’
Tolek raised his eyebrows. He didn’t have too many options. ‘Sure, thanks… I think I can do the job, but I must tell you upfront that I’ll stay only until I can find a way to go home or rejoin the army.’
‘Don’t you want to know your salary for running this place?’ Fabian asked.
Tolek shrugged. Money seemed less important after he’d been robbed in the woods; he was happy to at last have somewhere to stay and some friendly support. ‘I’ll leave that to you.’
Smiling broadly, the two men stood up and shook his hand. ‘Welcome to Budapest, Tolek.’
They hugged him and he stood stunned. Then they took his photograph for a new ID card.
Tolek sent telegrams to Klara and Ludwig Voyanoff in Zagreb to say where he was and that he was working on his promise to come home as soon as possible. Ludwig answered the next day, but there was no reply from Klara. When Tolek asked Fabian why that might be, the man bit his lip and explained that communication with Poland had been virtually cut off by the Soviets.
Fabian took Tolek to a rented room in a large boarding house for single men, where he settled in but hardly slept. Too many things had happened too quickly, and his mind whirled with memories and hopes and plans.
The next morning, he reported to the office, where Pfeffer gave him new identity papers. The two men introduced him to the doorman at the main entrance, and instructed the doorman that he must never – never – allow more than one person at a time in to see the new secretary. They allocated a desk for Tolek on the second floor and heaped a bunch of lists on his desk, all handwritten.
‘These are the names of the refugees,’ Fabian said. ‘The list changes every day.’
‘Sometimes it changes twice a day,’ Pfeffer added.
‘Sometimes even more than that,’ Fabian concluded.
Tolek scanned the handwritten lists, tapped them on the desk to square them up then shook his head and asked for a typewriter. The men agreed to obtain one for him without hesitation.
‘Our biggest problem is temporary housing. We’ll take you on a tour,’ said Fabian.
They took Tolek shopping for a new outfit then to a three-storey house nearby, a former boarding house for single men. ‘One hundred and twenty people are here right now,’ Fabian said.
Tolek looked up in disbelief, but as soon as they entered, he understood the problem. The small foyer housed a number of three-level bunks with sleeping mats on the floor in between. Men, women and children were sleeping, talking, eating and bathing in buckets. The next three floors were the same in every room, and Tolek, Fabian and Pfeffer struggled to move between the encamped people.
‘Only one bathroom and toilet on each floor.’
Then they took him to another building, smaller, only ground and first floors. This housed eighty people, also practically sleeping on top of each other.
Tolek massaged his crinkled brow as the men sat down for coffee after the visits. His law clerk brain was already working out the cost of financing this operation. ‘I can see what you mean,’ he said. ‘Too many people in too little space.’
‘That’s not all, there are many more refugees who are billeted with volunteers. Locals try to help as much as possible,’ Pfeffer said.
‘Tell me, how do you fund all this?’
Fabian laughed. ‘About time you asked! The Joint in New York sends us money. The American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, which helped sponsor early settlements in Palestine, is now helping European Jewish refugees. They also help Polish non-Jewish refugees.’
‘They have a bank account right here in Budapest and we withdraw funds by cheque signed by three committee members,’ Pfeffer said.
Tolek whistled slowly, impressed. ‘I know about their work in Palesti
ne. I have a sister-in-law and many friends at the Yishuv kibbutzim.’
‘That’s it,’ said Pfeffer. ‘We telegraph weekly reports to the Joint, and they send us help, so much per head.’
‘I must tell you, after seeing those two crowded houses, I panicked, but I feel better now I know the Joint is supporting us.’
* * *
Over the next few days, Tolek desperately tried to find large, cheap houses in the city, not too far from the processing centre. He made appointments with prominent Jewish businessmen, entrepreneurs and community leaders, religious and secular, to ask and beg for charity. He was out of the office most of the time, but Fabian and Pfeffer managed to grab him for another meeting at his desk as he sat behind the typewriter, working. They complimented him on his touch typing.
‘Legitimisation is even a bigger problem than housing,’ Fabian said. ‘Even though some of the refugees have money, diamonds or gold bullion, they are stuck here without exit or arrival visas. If they can secure a visa to America, England or even Palestine, the Hungarian authorities are only too pleased to see them go to Genoa in Italy to take a boat. But very few visas are forthcoming. The gates of the world are closed to the Jews.’
Tolek had figured that out from talking to the refugees.
‘Unfortunately, we’re well aware that Germany is not going to be satisfied with Poland,’ Pfeffer said. ‘Especially now that it has pacified Russia with a treaty. All the countries are paranoid about German spies, saboteurs or provocateurs, so anyone travelling without proper papers is treated with hostility.’
‘You want me to try and secure travel papers for the hundreds of refugees pouring in every week?’
‘Yes, if at all possible – we have allocated three supporting staff for you.’
‘Do whatever you can, Tolek,’ Fabian said, stern-faced. ‘Time is short.’
Tolek’s staff were Zelda, a woman of about forty, and two men, Isidor, sixtyish, and Farenc, a young father of four children. They were third-generation Hungarians who knew their way around. Tolek sat them down and told them that they would go to all lengths to get travel papers. He instructed them to bribe officials and to find a forger, a printing press and a good photographer. Money didn’t seem to be a problem; Fabian, the financial secretary, supplied whatever Tolek needed. Within two weeks, Tolek’s team were producing many official-looking documents with lots of seals and stamps. They worked late into the night, forging papers by hand with the help of multilingual experts. It helped that the political scene was so confused no one knew which papers were genuine and which were faked.
As Tolek was working, he began to think of staying long enough to have another go at rejoining the Polish Army. Or to save enough money to obtain the correct papers to escape to Yugoslavia if the Germans got too close. His most fervent wish was to stay until a ceasefire allowed him to go home. He kept sending telegrams and letters to Klara but never received replies.
Tolek soon discovered that the organisation had a security problem: who exactly were the genuine refugees and who were impostors? Some impersonators were after handouts of food, clothing and money; Tolek was authorised to hand out twenty pengős to each refugee. Twice they caught spies: a Hungarian Police plant and a Nazi posing as a German Jew, trying to discover the refugee escape routes. When in doubt, he had no choice but to turn them away.
Part of Tolek’s job was to report weekly to Kovacs, the Budapest Inspector of Police in charge of internal security. Kovacs had a glaring gold tooth and habitually chewed a messy toothpick. He took an instant dislike to Tolek, perhaps because he felt that Tolek was too smart and was cheating on his weekly report lists – which of course he was: Tolek left many names off the list so he could send people lacking proper papers on underground escape routes.
Tolek realised that, despite his comical appearance, the inspector was a man to be feared.
‘We caught six Jews from your list last night trying to cross into Yugoslavia.’ Kovacs threw the list of names down on his desk. ‘The Alderstein family. Why didn’t you advise me they were leaving? Your refugees are escaping from your care to roam all over Hungary.’
Three days earlier, Alderstein had confronted Tolek when he was addressing the refugees at one of the shelters. He had stood up from the floor, his family of five around him.
‘Mr Klings, you need to do something to get us passports. We are desperate. Hungary is still out of the war, we know, but since Hitler came to power he’s allowed Hungary to annex parts of Czechoslovakia, Romania and Yugoslavia. So clearly soon Hungary will join Germany. Any day Hungary will close its borders to Jews and even with passports we won’t able to get out.’
Tolek couldn’t blame him, anything was better than just sitting around waiting. He had been told that three other families had escaped with the Aldersteins. He hoped they’d got away.
‘I know, I’m so sorry, inspector. They escape, I can’t lock them up.’ He fished out a newspaper from his pocket, laid it flat and pointed at the glaring headlines of German victories on every battlefront. ‘The people are scared.’
‘The Alderstein family have been put into the internment camp.’ Kovacs stood up, leaned forward and spat his toothpick onto the desk. ‘I’m holding you personally responsible for these escapes. And I’m warning you, if you keep breaking the law you’ll end up in the same camp.’ He smiled. ‘Or in jail.’
Tolek got up.
‘Let all the Jews escape from Hungary, Klings, but I’ll tell you one thing, you –’ he stabbed a finger at Tolek ‘– you will never leave Hungary. I make you this promise: if you ever cross the Hungarian border, I’ll stop being the Inspector of Internal Police.’ And he threw his inspector’s badge on his desk.
* * *
In Budapest, memories from home were everywhere. Local Jewish families invited Tolek for dinner, where he basked in the warm atmosphere, trying to block out for just one evening the encroaching danger. Tolek entertained his hosts with stories of his own family life but the words he left unspoken wet his eyes. His family’s photos and his son’s stick-figure drawing pulsated in his breast pocket.
One day, worn out from interviewing French-Jewish refugees through an interpreter, Tolek closed up the interview cubicle and went into his office. He poured himself a whisky, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. The meeting with Kovacs burned in the back of his mind. It was just so hopeless. More and more refugees were arriving and he couldn’t move them on.
The caretaker rang from downstairs. A late arrival to interview.
‘Send him up.’
In came a tall, strong man with a booming voice. Goldenstein, a Polish Jew from Kraków. While he claimed to be looking for a short-term place to stay, he seemed more interested in Tolek’s war history. Tolek was tired, so he offered Goldenstein a whisky and they sat and chatted.
Goldenstein smiled, his heavy moustache dancing. ‘For a price, Klings, I can get your wife and son out of Poland and into Hungary.’ He ran his fingers through his thick blond hair as he watched Tolek’s face. He was older than Tolek, perhaps mid forties. ‘I’m going back into Poland to get my own family out of Kraków.’ Another big con man’s smile. ‘I can stop on the way in Bóbrki.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Sure, I can do it. I’ll see you in a few days when I’m ready.’
Goldenstein returned a few days later with a stack of money and forged travel documents identifying him as a Polish civil servant purchasing officer. Normal business still went on.
‘Give me a thousand pengős for bribes,’ Goldenstein urged Tolek, sitting opposite him in the office. ‘I’ll bring back your wife and son.’
Tolek had the money – he’d saved up most of his pay – and he didn’t even care if the man took it and disappeared. But daily he heard stories of refugees murdered on the roads. Entire Jewish families robbed and disappeared. Many false escape agents made promises, collected the money, then gave up the families to the Germans or Poles or Ukrainians, who shot and rob
bed them. Those people had lost everything.
He carried Klara’s only letter, the one he had received in the internment camp, the snow marks still on it, in his breast pocket. His brother Lonek had been murdered, but otherwise, such a positive letter in these bad times. Things were tolerable under the Russians; maybe Klara and Juliusz’s best chance was to stay at home with his parents and brother to wait the war out.
Tolek excused himself and went into the toilet, where he took the photo of Klara from his pocket. He imagined he could see the tears on his wife’s face.
He returned to Goldenstein. ‘Wait one day, please, I beg you. Can I tell you tomorrow night?’
Goldenstein nodded, and he gently squeezed Tolek’s shoulder in solidarity. Tolek was reluctant to admit it, but he also felt the connection. He didn’t know why, but he believed this Goldenstein could be trusted.
That night Tolek met with five other ex-Polish-Jewish soldiers, who all had wives and children at home. They discussed the many rumours of the murders on the roads, and the stories of Jewish soldiers in civilian clothes being shot as deserters in the towns and villages. They were being turned in by neighbours, and sometimes their families were shot as well, their houses confiscated. In a sweat, babbling and repeating himself, Tolek told them what Captain Gultz told him in Stryj. Even though that information was now a few months old, it gelled with the stories being told.
Again Tolek battled with himself. Should he tell these men what had happened in that forest after he was robbed? But he still couldn’t. That veiled fog engulfed him just thinking about it. He might never be able to express what he’d seen in words, they would just refuse to come out.
The next day, with the money in his pocket, Tolek accompanied Goldenstein to the railway station. His heart thundered in his chest and his right hand shook badly; should he dip it into his pocket and take out the money to give to Goldenstein?