The Collaborator

by Diane Armstrong

  For several weeks, they had heard rumours that the Germans were lying, that the Jews being rounded up and interned at the local brickworks would eventually be deported, not to some town where they would find work, as the Germans claimed, but probably to a concentration camp somewhere in the East. It was a story most people found incredible. It didn’t make any sense, and besides, they trusted the Hungarian government would protect them because Jews were patriotic Hungarians. After all, they had been in the forefront of the fight for Hungarian independence after the Great War, so what did they have to fear?

  But when they discovered that the Hungarian government colluded in the Nazis’ anti-Semitic agenda, stripped the Jews of all their rights, and facilitated the deportations, people started to panic. No-one wanted to be forcibly taken to some unknown destination. And that’s when Miklós Nagy appeared in town, like some sort of knight in shining armour. It was supposed to be a secret, but word soon got out that he was organising a train to take some of the townsfolk away from Hungary and the Nazi Occupation to a neutral country on the way to Palestine. There was apparently a list of people who would be included on the rescue train. Desperation reached fever pitch. What did they have to do to be included?

  For some reason — and Isaiah reckons he now knows the reason — although Miklós Nagy was a Jew, he had the power to save some people in Nazi-occupied Hungary. No doubt he’d put his own friends and relatives on that list, as well as some wealthy people, but maybe there was room on the train for a few more. Isaiah was among the villagers who crowded outside the Nagy villa like feudal supplicants at the manor gate, all beside themselves in their anxiety to get away. But Miklós Nagy flung open the door and pushed past them, not looking right or left or making eye contact with anyone. Isaiah, who was at the back of the throng, stepped forward and blocked his path, begging him to add his mother and sister to the list, but Nagy had looked through him and walked on, as if he was a worm on the ground, not even worth a glance.

  Of course, if they’d had money to buy a place on the train, it would have been a different story, but they didn’t, so his poor mother and little Malka ended up in the chimneys of Auschwitz instead, and their ashes were scattered over some godforsaken part of the Polish countryside. He remembers seeing the smoke over the camp that day, and some days he thinks he can still smell its nauseating odour. It’s a memory that haunts him. One day he might forgive the Germans, but he knows he will never forgive one of their own for his perfidy.

  Unlike the ardent Zionists who couldn’t wait to get to Palestine, as it was called back then, he had wanted to migrate to the United States, where he had a cousin, but America hadn’t given him a visa and Israel did. He wasn’t in a position to pick and choose, but he refused to be grateful.

  A caption on page two of Ma’ariv catches his eye. War hero accepts position as spokesman in the Department of Rationing and Supply. Isaiah chuckles. That department was always at war with the community, so no wonder they chose a man who had proved his mettle in armed conflict. He’ll probably wish he was back on the front line when he finds out what kind of job he’s taken on.

  A moment later he stops laughing. His heart is hammering so fast that he is afraid it will jump through his chest. His breath comes in short gasps. He knows this war hero who is being praised for saving thousands of Jews in Hungary. They might describe Miklós Nagy as a hero, but Isaiah knows him as a mamser, a bastard, duplicitous and corrupt.

  Isaiah leaps from his chair, then sits down again. He is trembling with excitement. This is the story he has been waiting for. Now he will shake them up, now they’ll sit up and take notice. They won’t make fun of him when he exposes their so-called hero as a swine with blood on his hands, a quisling who collaborated with the Nazis and helped them achieve the biggest mass murder in human history.

  Elated by the prospect of unmasking the fake hero, Isaiah can’t sit still. Perhaps there was a god after all. This wasn’t vengeance, it was poetic justice. Fate had chosen him to debunk the myth of Nagy’s heroism and expose his secret. He would do it for his mother and his sister, and for all the other innocents who paid the price for Nagy’s crime.

  Outside, large snowflakes are still falling from the leaden sky. They melt as soon as they touch the ground and form grey puddles on the broken asphalt. Soon no trace of snow would remain, the street would revert to its usual greyness, and the snowfall would be a distant memory. Perhaps it is his mother’s voice prompting his thoughts, but he can’t help wondering whether it is really only a coincidence that such a phenomenon has occurred just as he is about to publish his most sensational revelation.

  He sits down at the table, picks up his pen and writes for several hours. He doesn’t stop to change a single word. He knows his moment has come at last.

  SYDNEY

  CHAPTER ONE

  2005

  The morning sun has been blazing through the windows of Annika Barnett’s apartment for several hours, and the last currawong stopped its gargling call and retreated to the coolness of the stringybark across the road long ago, but she’s in no hurry to get out of bed. For the first time in years there’s no office to go to, nowhere she needs to be. It’s almost a month since she resigned from her job, and time has coagulated into a shapeless conglomeration of days punctuated by the television programs that represent the virtual reality she now inhabits.

  At times she suspects that she has replaced meaningless work with meaningless idleness. No job, no man, no purpose. No-one waiting for her to light up their life or to promote their business. All her friends are working, and she feels isolated and disconnected from everything and everyone, alternating between hope that this feeling will pass, and dread in case it doesn’t. Ever since she was small, her mother and grandmother had told her she was a bright and capable girl who could achieve anything she wanted, but she no longer knows what she wants, only that she doesn’t want to continue doing work that feels dishonest. But how can you be almost forty and not know what you want to be?

  With a sigh she rolls out of bed and pulls on the loose grey T-shirt and baggy pants she bought in Target when the ones with the Trent Nathan label had grown too tight. She glances in the mirror and catches sight of the square jawline that a friend once compared to Grace Kelly’s. Sadly the resemblance ended there. Instead of sleek blonde hair, she has an unruly mass of copper-coloured curls that defy all her efforts to straighten them.

  On her way to the kitchen, she averts her gaze from the empty chocolate box lying on the bedside table on top of a recent translation of Aeschylus’s play Prometheus Bound. Since resigning, she has begun reading the plays of the ancient Greeks and become engrossed in the tragedies and the sufferings of their flawed characters at the hands of the merciless gods. Ever since finishing the play, she cannot get the fate of Prometheus out of her mind, indignant at the injustice meted out to the man whose heroic deed in bringing fire to humanity resulted not in praise, but horrific martyrdom.

  Perched on the stool in the kitchen nook in front of the microwave and the tiny sink, she spoons toasted muesli into her mouth and switches on the television for the midday news. It’s the usual mixture of triumphs and disasters. In Jordan, a suicide bomber killed over sixty people, in Louisiana people were still struggling with the deadly effects of Hurricane Katrina, in England Prince Charles had made a public appearance with his unpopular new wife Camilla, and in Australia Keith Urban had won a country music award. She can imagine how her magazine would go to town on that last item. Soon stories would appear about the imminent break-up of his marriage to Nicole, based on the gossip of some anonymous friend. To back up the claim, photographs would be edited to show them either not looking at each other, or looking at someone else. Annika lets out a sigh of relief. Thank God she was out of that factory of fallacious rumours and fake headlines.

  The next segment on the program is introduced by the iconic black-and-white image of a small Jewish boy walking with his arms raised in front of a Nazi soldier whose rifle is
aimed at him. In the studio, the presenter introduces David Freeman, an American executive who has arrived in Australia to encourage Holocaust survivors to record their experiences for the Shoah Foundation. He explains that this project was initiated and funded by Steven Spielberg to create a worldwide archive of testimonies of those who survived.

  ‘It’s essential to record these stories while there is still time,’ he says, ‘because each year there are fewer survivors left, so the window of opportunity for videotaping their testimonies is becoming narrower all the time.’

  The presenter now introduces two men and three women who have recently recorded their stories. Transfixed, Annika turns up the volume, anxious not to miss a word. One man recalls his terror and pain at being subjected to Mengele’s sadistic experiments; the woman tells how, as a prisoner in the Stuttgart concentration camp, she gave birth to a baby girl who the guards tossed against a wall. All agree that it has been liberating to finally get rid of the crushing burden of wartime guilt, shame, pain and humiliation that they have kept to themselves for over fifty years, and how much their disclosure has meant to their families.

  Annika’s thoughts turn to her grandmother. She knows that Marika Horvath lived in Hungary during the war, but that’s all she knows. Like so many Holocaust survivors, Marika has never talked about her experiences either. She is forbiddingly private, and when Annika thinks back, she realises that her grandmother has always side-stepped personal questions by changing the subject. Marika’s past is a locked door to which she has hidden the key.

  Not that she herself has probed her grandmother’s past. She has always been too busy or too preoccupied with her own life to think about Marika’s wartime experiences. But it’s obvious that unlike so many survivors of horrific events she has read about in the newspapers, her grandmother hasn’t suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. Without resorting to alcohol, drugs or psychiatrists, she has rebuilt her life in Australia and made a success of it, Annika reflects with admiration. According to psychologists, it was unhealthy to suppress traumatic experiences, but Marika was clearly an exception.

  Suddenly she yells, ‘Shit!’ She jumps off the stool and rummages under the pile of newspapers for her mobile. She scrolls down her calendar reminders and groans. She had arranged to have dinner with Marika at six that evening, not realising that she had arranged to meet Emma, one of her former colleagues, at a popular watering hole near the magazine where she used to work. Now that she was free of office politics and the pressure of deadlines, she looked forward to catching up with the latest gossip and finding out how her replacement was getting on. She would prefer to put her grandmother off, but knows she isn’t brave enough. Breaking an arrangement with Marika was unthinkable. Without a word of reproach, she could make her feel guilty and incompetent with just a flash of her dark eyes.

  *

  Driving through peak-hour traffic to her grandmother’s home that evening, she inserts her Leonard Cohen CD into the stereo. ‘I’m your man,’ he sings, and she sighs at the sensuality of the voice that always draws her in with its revelations of the ache of unrequited love and the glory of sexual ecstasy. The CD ends, and without thinking, she clicks to restart it.

  As she weaves in and out of a line of cars that creeps a metre at a time along the congested road that winds towards her grandmother’s home in Bellevue Hill, Annika reflects that she admires her grandmother but doesn’t love her. So much sentimental drivel has been written about families. It occurs to her that those closest to you understand you the least. Perhaps that’s why it’s so much easier to sympathise with other families than to forgive your own. Her grandmother doesn’t understand her or her life, but the power of her rigid standards makes Annika feel that she has let her down, that she hasn’t lived up to her hopes and expectations.

  Bracing herself for the argument she knows will ensue when Marika hears that she has resigned from her job, Annika climbs the four steps that lead to her grandmother’s Art Deco apartment block and presses the buzzer, relieved that she’s only twenty-five minutes late. The large foyer is decorated with huge potted philodendrons whose thick leathery leaves have attached themselves to the walls, where they have left brown traces. They remind her of triffids, and she can’t resist the feeling that one day they will creep up and twine themselves around her neck and strangle her.

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you, édesem,’ Marika says, using the Hungarian endearment. She envelops Annika in a hug, and a moment later Annika feels her grandmother’s glance sweeping over her, from the messy curls falling across her face, to her baggy pants. Looking at her elegant grandmother with her immaculately coiled white hair and expensive silk blouse — probably Italian — Annika regrets not making more of an effort with her appearance.

  Marika has a designer boutique in Double Bay, and her customers — who include actresses, diplomats’ wives and society matrons — come as much for the owner’s charming personality as for the exclusive imported clothes. Marika has the gift of creating a sense of intimacy and friendship with total strangers who enjoy her company, admire her taste, and trust her advice. They wouldn’t dream of choosing an outfit for any gala function at the racecourse, Government House or the opera without Marika’s advice. She never lies or flatters, but in her silken manner she points out their best features and suggests clothes that will make them look younger, slimmer and more alluring.

  ‘It’s so long since I’ve seen you. Sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing, darling,’ Marika murmurs as they sit in the lounge she has furnished exactly as if she still lived in Budapest before the war: Persian rugs, carved walnut sideboard, and plump settees upholstered in cream brocade. ‘How is work?’

  Annika takes a deep breath. ‘Actually I’ve resigned.’

  Marika is frowning. ‘Resigned? What do you mean? What happened? You were doing so well as editor.’

  Annika can feel her muscles tensing. ‘No I wasn’t. It was phony. All they wanted was stories about actors and actresses who are gaining weight, losing weight, screwing around or splitting up, and anyway half the stories were based on gossip or made up. I hated having to publish before and after photos of celebrities to show they’d lost weight, because it sent the wrong message to young girls, but whenever I didn’t have a diet story on the cover, the circulation went down, so they pressured me to keep running them. I couldn’t hack it any more. I can’t spend my life doing things I don’t believe in.’

  From Marika’s expression, Annika is aware that her grandmother is disappointed by her decision, but refrains from saying so. Instead, she takes Annika’s hand, and with a sympathetic smile, she says, ‘This probably isn’t a good time to resign, édesem, but there are so many magazines, and with your experience, you’ll soon find a better job. What do you have in mind?”

  ‘I really don’t know what I want to do,’ Annika says slowly.

  Marika raises her eyebrows. Sensing her disapproval, Annika can’t conceal her irritation. At least her mother, who had also been dismayed by her decision, had shrugged and said, I suppose you know what you’re doing. But it hurt that neither of them had acknowledged that she had chosen to walk away from a well-paid, high-profile job on account of her principles. Now, watching Marika, she supposes her grandmother is shocked that she has thrown in her job without having another offer, and that, at nearly forty, she is still wondering what to do with her life.

  Marika goes into the kitchen, and returns a few minutes later, holding a Rosenthal tureen decorated with nymphs, shepherds, and aristocratic ladies in crinolines on the fine glaze, and places it on a white tablecloth embroidered with scarlet cross-stitch depicting figures in folk costume. When she raises the lid, it releases the tantalising aroma of Annika’s favourite dish.

  Annika praises the goulash, but for once she can’t finish the food on her plate. The air is still heavy with unresolved tension, which Marika tries to diffuse by telling her anecdotes about her clients and their latest gossip. After the goulash, she brings ou
t her pièce de resistance, a dobos torte. Annika knows that she has baked this festive cake especially for her, but after a few mouthfuls of the seven layers of sponge cake layered with chocolate cream and topped with crisp toffee, she pushes away the plate.

  In the uneasy silence that follows, she remembers the television program she watched earlier.

  ‘Grandmamma, did you ever think about recording your story for that Spielberg project?’

  Marika shakes her head. ‘Definitely not. Someone called me about it a few years ago, but I said no.’

  ‘But why? It would be so good to have your story on tape, not just for us, but for people who don’t know much about the Holocaust.’

  ‘I have better things to do with my life than dwell on the past. That’s good for people who have nothing in their lives.’

  Annika sits forward on the settee and tries to control her frustration. ‘I think survivors have a duty to tell what happened.’

  For the first time, Marika raises her voice. ‘The only duty of survivors is to survive and try to lead normal lives. Darling, let’s drop the subject. You won’t convince me. Let’s just agree to differ.’

  *

  Visits to her grandmother always leave Annika feeling flat, and that night, when the cloying scent of jasmine wafts through the warm air, she tosses in bed, unsettled by the thoughts that drift into her mind. She wonders what became of the successful life and happy relationships she had always assumed she would have. But she has published enough self-help articles to be aware that her own choices were responsible. The men were never good enough, and the jobs never fulfilling enough.

  Unable to sleep, she picks up her volume of Sophocles, but feels depressed by his vision of a world where humans stumble through life understanding nothing, incapable of recognising the truth. Too restless to continue reading, she replaces the book on the bedside table and goes to the window. A young girl and a guy are jogging side by side along the darkened street and, out of breath, they stop under a street lamp and fall into a passionate embrace. Watching them, Annika sighs. It must be intoxicating to be loved by a man you love in return, but it has never happened to her, and she wonders if her problem with relationships stems from the fact that when she was growing up, there were no men in the family.