Two hours have already passed, and court is adjourned for lunch. The prosecutor is drumming his fingers on the table. ‘Alon is dragging this out. He knows his client hasn’t a leg to stand on.’
But Miklós feels anxious, and his mind drifts to something that happened the previous week when a policeman stopped him and asked for his driving licence. He knew he hadn’t committed any infraction, but just the same, he wondered nervously if he had broken some rule, and, irrational though it was, he felt guilty. He senses something insidious lurking behind Amos Alon’s tone. Part of the act, he supposes, and reminds himself that he has nothing to fear. He will emerge triumphant with his reputation reinstated. In fact, by the time this case is over, even those who didn’t know anything about his daring rescue will find out about it. Fleischmann is the one on trial here. He’s the one who should be quaking in his shoes.
The questioning continues in a similar vein during the afternoon, and by the time the day is over, Miklós is feeling more relaxed. Amos Alon’s manner has become less accusatory. While he is giving evidence, the judge occasionally looks up from his notes, and Miklós detects a flicker of what resembles sympathy in his usually impassive face.
He is almost looking forward to the next day when he will have the opportunity of describing how, against all odds, he managed to wrest so many Jews from Eichmann’s murderous grasp.
The following day, in answer to Amos’s questions about his encounters with Adolf Eichmann, Miklós begins to describe the meetings at the Majestic Hotel on Swabian Hill but Amos Alon interrupts him.
‘Why were you meeting with Eichmann?’
‘Because he was the man in charge. No-one else had the power to release Jews.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Amos says smoothly. ‘You were visiting this luxury hotel to negotiate with the man who organised the murder of millions of European Jews as dispassionately as if he was disposing of waste products from some manufacturing business.’
Miklós is seething. ‘You make it sound like a tea party, Mr Alon, but it was terrifying. You call it negotiating. Can a convicted man be said to negotiate with the hangman?’
The prosecutor leans forward and whispers, ‘Don’t react, Mr Nagy, he’s just baiting you.’
‘And why was Eichmann bothering to have these negotiations or whatever they were, with you? Did he need your help to exterminate Jews more efficiently?’
The prosecutor springs up to object to his comment, and the judge upholds the objection. He cautions Amos Alon to refrain from editorialising.
‘Mr Nagy, you said you found these encounters terrifying. So why did you persist with them?’
Miklós is relieved to have the opportunity to describe his reaction to the situation of the Jews of Hungary. ‘If you were a Jew in Budapest in 1944, you were doomed. Rather than being resigned to die, I knew I had to find the courage to assume responsibility. Ours was the last surviving Jewish community in Europe. In spite of the danger, I felt it was up to me to do whatever I could to keep at least some of the Jews alive.’
‘That’s very commendable,’ the defence lawyer says, and Miklós cringes at the condescension in his words. He raises his eyebrows at the prosecutor who shrugs.
When Miklós has stepped down from the witness box for the day, the prosecutor says, ‘Don’t take it personally. Alon is a right-wing bastard. I think he was a member of Irgun at one stage, and he has it in for the Mapai government and anyone who is part of it. But his political agenda has no bearing on this case.’
The long day’s questioning finally comes to an end, and as Miklós drives back to Tel Aviv, he feels frustrated. He had imagined that just telling his story would be all that was needed to convince the judge of the mendacity of Fleischmann’s accusations, but he wonders if he has succeeded in conveying the audacity of his confrontations with Eichmann. The words seemed to die in his mouth, dry and colourless as dust. They were just words, they had no power to evoke the terror or the danger. What’s worse, he suspects that he sounded boastful.
As he turns into his driveway, he wonders how to make Israelis in 1954 understand what it was like to live in Hungary in 1944, knowing that of the entire Jewish population of Europe, only the Hungarian Jews remained, and that if he didn’t make a superhuman attempt to rescue some of them, not one would survive.
He is shocked how little the Israelis know about what happened in Hungary, how little they understand about the power of the Nazis and the powerlessness of the Jews. He has been outraged whenever he heard Israelis talk about European Jews going like lambs to the slaughter, how they identified as victors, and dissociated themselves from those they regarded as victims.
‘It makes my blood boil, ’ he says to Judit when they sit down to dinner. She has prepared chicken paprikás, his favourite dish, no doubt to help him relax after the day in court, but he can’t eat, and pushes his plate away. ‘I look at the people in the courtroom, and I can see they don’t really grasp what I’m saying. I suppose I’m expecting them to imagine the unimaginable. There are times when even I can’t believe what I did.’
She puts her slim arm around his shoulders. It’s a friendly rather than a sensual touch, but he squeezes her hand, grateful for her support.
‘Don’t worry about it, Miki. The judge will understand, and that’s all that matters. Anyway, don’t forget, you’re not the one who’s on trial.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jerusalem, January 1954
Three days pass, and by the end of each exhausting day Miklós hopes that Amos has come to the end of his cross-examination, but the relentless quizzing continues.
‘In May 1944 you travelled to your hometown, Kolostór, did you not?’
Miklós assents.
‘How did you get there?’
‘By car.’
‘How was this possible? My understanding is that Jews were not allowed to travel around the country.’
Relieved to have the opportunity to enlarge on his usually brief answers, Miklós explains that Eichmann gave him permission to visit his home town. He goes on to describe how he had managed to organise for six hundred Jews — which he had expanded to six hundred families — to leave Hungary by train. ‘Eichmann agreed that I could go to Kolostór so I could let the people on my list know about their impending release.’
‘Ah, the people on your list.’ Amos Alon pauses for effect. ‘You mean your family and friends.’
The implication is unmistakeable. ‘That’s not true!’ Miklós exclaims. ‘For one thing, I wasn’t the only one drawing up a list. The other members of the committee were also involved. And as far as my list is concerned, most of the people I selected had no connection with me whatsoever. I chose a cross-section of the Jewish community — rabbis, teachers, scholars, craftsmen, tradesmen and orphans. Even a few lawyers,’ he adds, and a titter goes around the courtroom.
‘So, no relatives and associates?’
Miklós tries to suppress his exasperation. ‘Of course I included some relatives and friends. Wouldn’t you?’
‘What I would do isn’t the issue here, Mr Nagy.’
‘Well, I’d like to make it clear to the court that my relatives and friends formed a very small percentage of the people on the total list. And as I’ve already said…’
Here Judge Lazar breaks in and asks him to confine himself to answering the questions.
Miklós looks around at the people in the courtroom and his eye rests on a striking brunette with thick black locks, and his heart leaps. Ilonka! She was there after all! But a moment later he realises that his longing had created the resemblance. Ilonka had gone from his life forever, and the emptiness in his heart would never be filled. With an effort, he tries to focus on the defence lawyer’s words.
Amos Alon continues his cross-examination. ‘When you got to Kolostór to let your family and friends know that you were about to rescue them —’
This time, the prosecutor leaps to his feet. ‘Objection, your honour. The defence
counsel continues to imply that my client was only rescuing people who were close to him, which as Mr Nagy has already pointed out, was certainly not the case.’
The judge upholds the objection.
‘I will rephrase my question,’ Amos says. ‘Did you know the fate that awaited the Jewish residents of your town?’
‘Of course. That’s why I tried so hard to save as many as I could.’
‘And what was the fate that awaited them?’
Miklós is frowning. Why was Amos Alon going down this path when he knew the answer? ‘They would be deported.’
‘And where would they be deported to?’
‘To Nazi concentration camps outside Hungary.’
‘And what would happen to them in those camps?’
‘They would be murdered.’
Amos is nodding. For some reason he looks pleased with himself, when all he has done is to elicit facts that are only too well known. He steps closer to Miklós. ‘So, after you had informed the lucky few of their imminent rescue, did you then warn the less fortunate majority of the fate that awaited them?’
Miklós stares at him. So that’s where these apparently ingenuous questions have been heading.
‘Please answer the question. Did you warn them what was about to befall them unless they took action?’
‘Yes, I did warn the Jewish Council,’ he says.
‘How did you try to warn them? Did you explain exactly what the Nazis had in store for them? I believe two men who escaped from Auschwitz had written a detailed report about the death camp. Was that available in Kolostór?’
Miklós frowns. ‘It was, but most people hadn’t read it,’ he says. ‘And those that had, didn’t believe it.’ He knows his voice sounds unsteady. He senses that he is being accused of something.
‘But you read it. So did I. Those men described in chilling detail how, within a few minutes of arriving at Auschwitz, the women with their children and babies were sent straight to the gas chambers and soon all that remained of them was a handful of ashes and nauseating black smoke pouring from the chimneys.’
The judge is leaning forward, and, sensing that he is about to be told to come to the point, Amos Alon asks, ‘So did you tell them that? Did you urge them to tell the rest of the community? Romania was not far away. Did you suggest they should escape over the border?’
‘Escape? With German and Hungarian soldiers guarding them with machine guns?’
‘According to my research, there weren’t many German soldiers guarding Kolostór. The Jews could easily have overpowered the guards if only they had known the danger they were in.’
Miklós now understands the scenario the defence counsel is constructing. According to this vision of events, terrified women, children, babies and old people could have risen up against their captors, overpowered guards with machine guns, and run to safety if only he had warned them of their impending doom. The trouble was that in this distant country ten years after the event, to people accustomed to the heroics of Hollywood movies, this fantasy scenario probably sounded plausible.
‘Can you please tell the court how you tried to warn them?’
Miklos thinks back to the scene at the Jewish Council, and tries to recall his exact words. ‘The Jewish leaders I met mentioned the report that gave a detailed account of what went on in what they called the Nazi death factory, but they didn’t believe a word of it. They said things like that couldn’t happen in 1944. I told them not to trust German promises that they were being relocated to another town where they would be looked after. I warned them not to board those trains.’
‘Did you say why?’
‘I said the trains were going to concentration camps.’
‘But you didn’t tell them what would happen to them in those camps.’
Miklós sighs. ‘Not in so many words. In any case, they already had the information but they didn’t believe it. They wouldn’t have believed me either.’
Amos Alon’s penetrating eyes are boring into his face. ‘So in 1944, when they were among the last surviving Jews of Europe, you took it upon yourself to decide that there was no point saving them because they couldn’t escape from the few Germans who were guarding them, because there was nowhere for them to go even though the Romanian border was not far away, and in any case, you wanted to spare yourself the discomfort of being disbelieved.’
‘I risked my life to save people, I didn’t condemn them to death!’ Miklós shouts, unable to control his fury at the implication that he was somehow responsible for the deaths of the people of his home town.
Amos Alon comes close to the witness stand and says in a low voice, ‘Tell me, Mr Nagy, what do you think was the real reason Eichmann sent you to Kolostór?’
Miklós knows that this question is hinting at something, but he can’t imagine what it could be. ‘I’ve already told the court that it was on account of the arrangement we had made, that he would release a certain number of Jews as a goodwill gesture.’
If a crocodile about to pounce on his prey could be said to smile, that was the expression on Amos Alon’s face. ‘A goodwill gesture from the man responsible for carrying out the worst genocide in history.’ He says it slowly, enunciating every word with great deliberation, for maximum impact, and turns to the courtroom with a knowing look as if to include them in his revelation.
Miklós sees that people are raising their eyebrows, shaking their heads, nudging each other, whispering. He feels like screaming at them not to be taken in by Amos Alon’s innuendoes and insinuations.
‘This idea obviously amuses you, but it happens to be the truth,’ he says when he can regain control of his voice. ‘Eichmann was hoping to show the Allies his offer was genuine so they would supply him with trucks.’
‘Mr Nagy, I’m not a historian but even with my limited knowledge of the Second World War, I’m well aware that Eichmann wasn’t a fool. He couldn’t possibly have believed that the Allies would supply him with essential equipment during the war. I suggest that Eichmann allowed you to rescue six hundred Jews as a reward for not alarming the rest, so he could proceed with his planned extermination.’
‘That’s outrageous!’ Miklós shouts. ‘You’re talking utter nonsense. Eichmann didn’t need me to continue his genocidal plan.’ He turns to the judge. ‘Perhaps defence counsel isn’t aware that by then the Nazis had managed to murder five million Jews without any help from me.’
The taut faces in the courtroom indicate that his sarcasm hasn’t met with approval, and he changes his tone.
In a quieter voice, he says, ‘Whether you believe it or not, Mr Alon, I have told you the truth. Eichmann was prepared to release one million Jews in return for ten thousand trucks. That’s why he sent my colleague Gábor Weisz to Istanbul, to negotiate with Allied leaders for the trucks.’
‘Ah, your colleague Mr Weisz.’ Another long pause, another knowing look. Miklós is wondering what lies behind this enigmatic comment when Amos Alon says, ‘I suggest to you that Adolf Eichmann sent you to Kolostór because he knew the Jews there would trust you. He didn’t want a repetition of what happened in the Warsaw Ghetto the year before, and he used you to put the Jews’ minds at rest so that they would obey orders and get into those wretched trains without making any trouble for the Germans. And that was the quid pro quo that enabled you to save your personal group.’
A hush has fallen over the courtroom. No-one is whispering now or unwrapping sweets. It feels as if everyone is holding their breath in shock, anticipating his response. Every eye is on Miklós, whose face is white as death. His hands are trembling. ‘How dare you accuse me of making such a preposterous deal! I’m here to defend a case of libel, but you’re the one slandering me with your lies.’
‘Control yourself, Mr Nagy,’ the judge warns him. ‘You are here to answer questions not to bandy words with the defence counsel. I won’t have outbursts like this in court.’
Finally the long day ends. Amos Alon has asked for a long adjournment to give
himself time to research matters he considers pertinent to the trial, but instead of being relieved at having a long break, Miklós is too worn out to feel anything but apprehension. No longer confident of a quick vindication, he is dreading what new absurdity the defence counsel will come up with next.
He can hardly speak when he enters his home, and when he glances in the bathroom mirror, he sees his father in old age. When Judit asks about the cross-examination, he waves his arm wearily to indicate he doesn’t want to talk about it, and sinks into an armchair. He can’t comprehend the crooked path by which rescuing a trainload of people has led to a preposterous accusation of mass murder. Because that’s what Amos Alon is implying, that by failing to forewarn the Jews of Kolostór about their imminent fate, he is somehow responsible for their deaths.
But his last allegation was the most scurrilous, the suggestion that he had been a willing tool of the Germans to engender a false sense of security among the Jews so that they would go quietly to their deaths. He can’t stop shaking. How can Amos Alon get away with such slander?
For a long time he sits staring into space, then pours himself a glass of whisky, empties it, and braces himself to give Judit an account of the day’s events. From the way she is looking at him, it’s obvious that she expects to hear something distressing.
When he has finished, she says, ‘That’s his job, to vindicate his client. It really has nothing to do with you.’
He shakes his head impatiently. ‘You didn’t hear his tone or see his self-satisfied smile. He was doing his best to provoke and vilify me. Can you imagine, he accused me of going to Kolostór on Eichmann’s errand? To facilitate mass murder? It would be laughable if it wasn’t so outrageous. And I have to sit there and take it. What he’s doing is unethical. It should be illegal.’
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