The Collaborator

by Diane Armstrong

  ‘One month, maybe two,’ he says, and bursts out laughing at her dismayed expression. ‘I make joke, Annika. I will ask. He is professional translator. If has time, he will do quickly. But why you leave so soon? You are in hurry to meet someone special in other country?’

  When he asked her a personal question the day they met, she had bristled, but this time she says quietly, ‘There isn’t anyone special in my life anywhere in the world.’ She tries to say it nonchalantly but the statement hangs heavily between them.

  ‘So why you don’t stay longer? Maybe you meet someone special here.’ He is teasing her, looking straight into her eyes and raising his thick eyebrows.

  Before she can think of a light-hearted reply, he says, ‘This night, you are busy?’

  Her heart is thumping. Is he about to ask her out? If she agrees, would he regard it as a date? A prelude to sex? Was she about to become a cliché like her friend Ella, a lonely female in a foreign country who believes her guide’s flattery, makes a fool of herself, and then regrets it?

  Jansci was saying something but distracted by her inner conversation, she has to ask him to repeat it. ‘You like music? There is concert in Rákoczy Castle tonight,’ he says, and explains that he had booked this tour for a group of Americans but as one has fallen ill, he has an extra ticket.

  ‘Will be interesting for you to see inside Hungarian castle, yes?’

  ‘I’d love to go.’

  ‘So come to lobby at six. I cannot go but my colleague Kati will be guide. You will enjoy. I will call her and say you will go with group.’

  So he wasn’t asking for a date after all, she thinks, relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  *

  Just before six, when Annika comes down to the lobby, she finds it crowded with Americans who are laughing, shouting and calling out to each other across the hotel foyer. Typical Yanks, brash and noisy, acting as if they owned the place. But despite her initial reaction, she warms to them. They don’t seem to mind that an outsider is joining their group, and soon she becomes the centre of attention on account of her accent.

  ‘Oh my, Australia!’ one woman gasps, while another chimes in, ‘I’m goin’ there next year, honey. Can’t wait to see your kangaroos and koala bears.’

  Rákoczy Castle is a stone manor house with turrets and oriole windows, and welcoming them at the entrance is the owner, the epitome of Austro-Hungarian elegance in a long black velvet skirt and embroidered jacket. Just the kind of outfit her grandmother would stock in her boutique. If Marika knew she was attending a function at a historic villa whose owner was descended from one of the oldest Hungarian families, she would be impressed. It was something she would boast about to her clients.

  Annika could almost hear her saying with a smile, My granddaughter the magazine editor was invited to meet the great-granddaughter of the Hohenzollerns in Budapest.

  Strange how she relates everything to Marika. Her grandmother is the pebble in the shoe of her life, Annika thinks and winces at her clumsy metaphor. If one of the reporters on the magazine had written that, she would have scrawled a thick line through it.

  At least on this occasion Marika would approve of her appearance. She is wearing the only smart outfit she has packed, black silk Zampatti palazzo pants which she thinks make her look slimmer, and a Scanlon & Theodore top which clings in the right places, accentuates her cleavage, and hopefully distracts attention from the rest.

  She tries to concentrate on the conversation around her but she can’t get involved in the ingenuous comments of her companions who seemed to travel around the world expecting to find American food and western facilities everywhere, and complained about locals who didn’t speak English. ‘I’m sick of paprika chicken, goulash and schnitzel, and all that fancy stuff, all I want is a big juicy T-bone steak,’ one of the men is saying loudly. It’s the second time she’s heard him say it, and she makes an excuse and retreats to the far corner of the room.

  The salon where drinks and canapés are being served evokes the atmosphere of an aristocratic hunting lodge, with enormous fireplaces, boars’ heads above the fireplace, and huge framed portraits of ancestors in powdered wigs and crinolines hanging on the walls. Smiling young waitresses in white cotton gloves circulate around the room, offering flutes of champagne and tempting finger food. Annika is sipping champagne when some of the Americans gravitate towards her, firing questions about sharks, snakes and spiders in Australia. ‘How do y’all cope with those dangerous creatures?’ one of the women asks with a shudder. Annika is relieved when a bell summons them to dinner.

  Ten round tables, set with crisp white linen cloths and silver cutlery emblazoned with the owner’s initials, are arranged in a glittering hall whose walls are covered in gold-framed mirrors, reflecting an infinity of lights from the sconces and chandeliers.

  A procession of waiters in white stockings and black vests, carrying plates under large silver cloches, station themselves behind each high-backed chair and, in a synchronised motion, remove the lids. On her right, a woman whispers, ‘Oh my Lord, will you look at that?’

  But Annika is looking at something else. A group of musicians have entered and are taking their seats on a dais. They are formally attired, the men in dinner jackets, the women in long black dresses. As they tune their instruments, the violinist on the far right turns and looks straight at her. It is Jansci.

  So he’s not just a guide, she thinks.

  The leader of the ensemble raises his bow, and at his signal they strike up a lively piece that she recognises. It is Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, a piece she loathed as a child when she stumbled over the notes during reluctant piano lessons, but now she enjoys the familiarity of the music. As she listens, she can’t stop staring at Jansci. It isn’t just that he looks so different from the casually dressed guide in jeans and a baseball cap. It’s the loving way he cradles the violin against his shoulder, as if it is part of him, and the expression on his face when he plays, as if nothing else exists and nothing else matters. The concert consists of the inevitable Vivaldi Four Seasons, a couple of Strauss waltzes, and some favourites from The Merry Widow which make her table companions link arms and sway in time to the music. Some of them hum the familiar tunes, smiling appreciatively at each other. The couple on her left, who seem to be keen concert-goers, comment on the mellow sound of the cellist, the bow technique of the violinist, and the violist’s euphoric expression, but she is only aware of one member of the ensemble.

  The encore is a czárdás. It’s the sensual one that the musicians played for her in the Europa Café the first day they met. While Jansci is playing it, he looks at her with such an intense expression that she looks away in embarrassment. Then the concert is over, and the musicians bow and leave the hall while enthusiastic applause reverberates within the damask-covered walls.

  As Annika follows the Americans towards the bus, she keeps looking around, hoping to catch sight of Jansci, but the musicians have gone.

  She falls asleep that night with the melodies still dancing in her head. In the morning, she pulls aside the curtains. When she glances in the mirror she is surprised to see that she is smiling. The sun is shining, the sky is an enamelled blue, and she doesn’t want to waste a single moment of this perfect day. Without hesitating, she dials Jansci’s number.

  ‘Can I speak to the violinist?’ she asks as soon as he picks up.

  ‘You sound happy today, Annika.’

  An hour later, when they meet in a café near the hotel, she says, ‘You gave me such a surprise last night. I had no idea you were a musician. You played beautifully. It’s obvious you were meant to play the violin. How come you work as a guide?’

  He shrugs. ‘Is not possible to make enough money playing violin in Budapest unless you wear embroidered vest and have big gypsy moustache, so I must have other work.’ He gives her a shrewd look. ‘So you like violinist Jansci better than guide Jansci?’

  She decides to ignore the implied accusation of snobb
ery. ‘It’s the same at home. Most musicians struggle to make a living.’

  She wonders why she was surprised to find out he was a musician. After all, she knows nothing about him. For all she knows, he could be an axe murderer or married with five children like Ella’s Cairo guide. Suddenly she has to know.

  ‘Are you married?’

  He laughs and she blushes at her own bluntness. ‘Not now,’ he says. ‘My wife met man with money. Not musician, that’s for sure! I thought she went to gym to get fit, but she was doing different exercise.’

  She wishes she hadn’t asked, and decides to change the subject when he takes a photograph from his wallet. ‘My children. Tibor is eight and Margit is ten. They live with wife but I see them on Sundays.’

  He reaches across the table and takes her hand. He is looking into her eyes and she senses that his expression is a declaration and a question. She doesn’t remove her hand or look away.

  ‘Is really necessary to leave tomorrow? There are many wonderful things to do in Budapest, Annika. And very nice people to do them with.’

  This time she has no trouble coming to a decision. Prague and Vienna could wait. Budapest was turning out to be far more fascinating than she had expected.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  2005

  Annika takes a Mars bar from the minibar in her room, flops into the armchair by the window, and stares at the indigo waters of the Danube below. Peeling away the crackly paper, she closes her eyes with pleasure as she bites into the chocolate, at the same time berating herself for her lack of willpower. Her doorbell rings and she jumps up, expecting to see the housemaid with her cleaning trolley, but it’s the fair-haired bellboy holding out a large manila envelope.

  ‘The man who left it, is he still downstairs?’ she asks. The youngster shakes his head but continues to stand in the doorway. She doesn’t know whether she is supposed to tip him, and if so, how much, so she thanks him effusively instead, hoping that this will suffice, but his expression tells her she is mistaken.

  Back in her armchair, she tears open the envelope, pulls out the thin sheaf of papers, and starts reading. The first page is dated 1998 and titled My Memoir, by István Kovács.

  Before I start, I want to say I am not a writer, and this is the first time I have tried to write about my life, so I am sorry if I am long-winded but I try to write as if I am talking, this is the only way I can do it. The funny thing is, I have never thought I had anything worth writing about. You live your life hour by hour, day by day, always looking forwards, and you don’t pause to look back to examine what it all means or if it means anything at all. The clarity only comes when time starts to run out. And from what the doctor told me recently, it looks as if mine is running out.

  From what I have observed, our own lives seem shapeless and elusive, a succession of incidents strung together by chance. We are too close to ourselves to understand it all. We only glimpse a little bit at a time, so it’s not coherent.

  But I think one day Jansci you will want to know what happened to me when I was a boy, so I will write down whatever I can remember. And perhaps this will help me understand my life better too. I read somewhere that history is really biography, and if that is true, then maybe my story will add a small footnote to the events in Hungary in 1944.

  Annika rereads that paragraph, filled with admiration and envy. If only her grandmother respected her need to know more about her, and was willing to share the details of her life. She sighs, and reads on.

  But first I’ll try to explain why, unlike most survivors, I returned to Hungary in 1945. You know enough about botany to know that when you cut a root, you kill the plant. Well, in spite of everything that happened here before and during the war, I felt I was rooted in Hungarian soil. I had conveniently forgotten that at the end of the nineteenth century, my grandfather, like tens of thousands of other Jews, had changed the family surname to Kovács, to sound less Jewish. Perhaps I was a dreamer, longing for the vanished world of my youth, for flirtations on the promenade and endless summers spent on Lake Balaton. I was a socialist, and deluded myself that life under communism would erase racism and fascism. But as we all know now, we had merely replaced one brutal totalitarian regime with another.

  Before I describe what happened to me during the Holocaust, I have to acknowledge the vital part that Nagy Miklós played in my survival and that of my dear parents.

  Annika’s eyes linger on that sentence. Perhaps now she would find out the truth about the man who seems to arouse such strong emotions whenever his name is mentioned. The speed with which Jansci’s friend translated István Kovács’s memoir has surprised her. So does his English. She expected a clumsy translation full of unidiomatic expressions, but to her surprise this flowed smoothly and grammatically. Once an editor always an editor, she mutters to herself as she resumes reading, drawn in by the writer’s thought-provoking words and engaging style. He seemed to be talking to her, and she could almost hear his voice.

  I remember June that year very clearly. It was so hot that I kept nagging my parents to take me swimming. I’m not sure how much you know about that time, Jansci, because you never asked me and I never talked about it, so maybe you didn’t know that we Jews were not allowed to use trams or go to the swimming pools. We weren’t even allowed to keep pets or sit on park benches. I’m sure I don’t need to explain why. Because that was the year the Nazis marched into Hungary. Their aim was to deprive us Jews of all our rights, to remove us from normal life, to isolate us from all other Hungarians, turn us into pariahs, dehumanise us and then deport us. Unfortunately our government did not resist their demands but acceded to them quite eagerly.

  Now I’ ll tell you something ironic: being Jewish had never been important to my parents or to me in any way, but thanks to Hitler it became the most significant and defining aspect of our lives. It was something we clung to after the war to prove that he hadn’t won.

  Annika puts down the pages and turns towards the window but she hardly sees the view. István’s memoir has evoked conflicting emotions. Why hadn’t Marika clung to Judaism, but instead chosen to discard it? Why hadn’t she realised that by erasing her Jewish heritage, she was letting Hitler triumph? Yet István’s son Jansci also lived a secular life, eschewing the traditions and beliefs of his parents and grandparents, just as she herself did. She stares out of the hotel window for a long time, unable to make sense of life’s confusing detours.

  On the pavement below, pigeons perch on top of a bronze statue depicting an artist in a dust coat and beret, standing at his easel. Looking at it, she recalls that other bronze installation spread out along the embankment a few metres away, the shoes that remind passers-by of the pogrom that took place here in 1944.

  István’s memoir takes her back to that year, and she reads on.

  One day my father told me to pack my things, just the essential ones, because we were going on a journey and would have to carry whatever we took.

  I couldn’t wait. I slung my rucksack on my back as soon as I was ready, and my parents and I made our way to a railway marshalling yard in Budapest with lots of other people. I kept running ahead because I was too excited to walk slowly — I had always liked trains, and it was exciting to be going anywhere — but when we saw it, we couldn’t believe our eyes. It wasn’t a normal train at all.

  It was made up of the kind of wagons they used to take cattle to the abattoirs. Before we climbed in, I ran along the platform and counted them. There were 35 altogether. The journey was horrible. There were too many of us crammed in there, and everyone was pushing and shoving, complaining or arguing. Young as I was, I realised that shared misfortune does not encourage mutual consideration. Quite the opposite in fact. It was everyone for themselves in those awful trucks. I don’t want to go into too many details, but you can’t imagine how it stank in there. There was one bucket for water and one for waste, and I was so embarrassed at having to use the bucket in front of other people, that I tried to hold it in until I thoug
ht I’d burst.

  From what I gathered listening to the adults, we were being taken out of Hungary thanks to a man called Nagy Miklós who included us in his list of people to be rescued. Who he was, where we were heading, and why our names were on this list, I had no idea. Much later my father told me that he had come face to face with Mr Nagy just once, in the town where we lived before we moved to Budapest. Apparently as soon as he looked at me, he just nodded, and said we could come on his train. People talk about fate and destiny but as you can see, my fate was decided by a chance encounter, a look and a nod. I never found out what it was he liked about me and I don’t think my parents did either.

  Annika puts down the sheaf of papers again as she tries to grasp what happened. So Miklós Nagy had a list of people he was about to rescue on his train. How did that come about and how had her grandmother come to be on that list? How was he able to organise a train to take Jews out of Hungary? In István’s case, the selection seemed arbitrary, but perhaps he was an exception. She picks up the papers and continues reading.

  We travelled all night, and in the morning we thought we must have come a long way but imagine our disappointment when we realised we were still in Budapest! You see, there were air raids that night. The Allies were bombing the city and apparently the driver just shunted the train back and forth between stations hoping to avoid the bombs. Of course we wanted the Allies to win the war, but we didn’t want them to kill us in the process, and there was no way of letting them know that we were on their side. We just hoped their bombs would miss us, and they did. Chance again.

  When we were close to the Austrian border, the train stopped for three whole days. It was so hot and uncomfortable inside the train that we all camped out in the open. The Hungarian militia were guarding us. I thought they were guarding us from the Germans but my father said they were protecting us from the locals who hated Jews and would probably attack us if we didn’t have guards. I found out later that they were ordered to guard us because we were under the special protection of Nagy Miklós.