Dov rests his large hand lightly on her shoulder and she leans into his firm, warm touch. ‘Be careful!’ he says. ‘This is how it starts. I can just see you in a long white robe blessing passers-by.’
As they drive back to Tel Aviv, they pass the overturned trucks, and Annika thinks again about Amos Alon and Miklós Nagy.
‘Next time we go to Jerusalem, I’ll take you to the Jewish Quarter so you can see what goes on at the Wall, but we have to go on a Friday,’ Dov says when he pulls up outside her hotel. ‘That’s if you’d like to.’
Annika hesitates. She was planning to leave in two days’ time, on Thursday, and spending a few days in Budapest before flying home. While she is wondering what to do, he leans over and presses his lips against her cheek, and as she sees the searching look in his eyes and feels the warmth and affection of that kiss, she realises that his interest in her goes beyond friendship. She had assumed that their relationship was platonic and professional, but now she senses exciting possibilities.
‘You never know, I might still be here on Friday,’ she says.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jerusalem, March 1954
Winter has been bitterly cold this year, and in March, when the trial resumes, large soft flakes of snow float down from the sky like feathers from a slashed eiderdown. They melt on Miklós’s hat as he walks towards the courtroom, head down, hunched against the cold. The trial is no longer being held in the small room of the District Court where it began two months before. All over the country, in cafés, kitchens, homes and offices, people are buzzing with gossip. Isaiah Fleischmann’s supporters are gloating, reporters are analysing the proceedings, and everyone is arguing over what is now referred to as the Nagy case. Because of the interest the trial has aroused and the ever-growing crowds surrounding the court to hear the latest revelations, it has been relocated to a larger courtroom.
Like the venue, Miklós has also undergone a change. The trial, which he thought would last only a few days, is now in its third month, and it has taken its toll on him. As he enters, those in the courtroom who have been observing him since the trial began nudge each other and comment that he walks more slowly, his face has become more lined, and he appears more weary. They note that a miasma of disillusion now clings to him like a second skin.
As he takes his place in the witness box, he is relieved that there is now more space between him and his legal nemesis, so Amos Alon will no longer be able to bully him by standing so close that he feels the unsettling force of his unforgiving eyes. Everyone rises as the judge enters, and Miklós notes that the judge now has two stenographers to record the proceedings, but, as before, he has placed his black fountain pen and sheaf of white paper in front of him. It could be that he doesn’t trust the women’s accuracy, or perhaps he just needs to make his own notes.
As Amos Alon approaches the witness stand, it seems to Miklós that his eyes look more dangerous than ever. In fact everything about him looks sharper and more threatening. For a few moments he stands in front of Miklós without speaking, no doubt for dramatic effect, and Miklós struggles to suppress the antagonism that threatens to overwhelm him whenever he looks at the man who, for reasons he can’t fathom, regards him with unconcealed contempt.
That morning before he left, Judit said, ‘He’s just doing his job, Miki,’ trying to reassure him, but he knows human nature well enough to sense that some personal agenda is driving Amos Alon, something darker and more powerful than simply a lawyer’s professional desire to win a case.
As he waits for the onslaught to begin, Judit’s advice runs through his head. I know it’s hard, but don’t be sarcastic or clever, don’t lose your temper or raise your voice, and be patient. Be polite, brief, and to the point. Don’t forget that these people weren’t in Hungary in 1944, so they can’t really understand. Getting irritated will just antagonise them. You’re right to feel proud of what you did, but don’t sound too proud.
She was in court last time he testified, and he knows she’s right, but he’s not sure he will be able to control himself. He keeps coming back to that last comment of hers which chafes like an uncomfortable truth. What did she mean by don’t sound too proud? He straightens his shoulders. After all, he has nothing to fear. He’s not the one on trial, he’s the one who achieved something unique, a feat that should not have been possible.
‘Mr Nagy,’ Amos Alon begins, ‘how friendly were you with the top Nazis in Budapest in 1944?’
Miklós takes a deep breath. He resists making an indignant retort to this provocative question. ‘I wouldn’t say I was friendly with them at all.’ He speaks calmly and deliberately, and sees that Judit, who is sitting in the second row, is nodding approval.
‘But you were seen at least three times having convivial dinners with Kurt Becher in Budapest restaurants, and nightclubs, and gambling with him at the casino. Wouldn’t you describe that as being friendly?’
‘It was a necessity. I had to cultivate his —’ Miklos was about to say friendship but stops himself in time and says ‘company’ instead. ‘But to call it convivial is to misconstrue the nature of our relationship.’
‘And yet you were sharing jokes, laughing, smoking Havana cigars, eating Beluga caviar, and drinking French cognac together.’
At this point, the judge takes off his horn-rimmed glasses and leans forward. ‘Mr Alon, where are you going with this? Are brands of cognac, caviar and cigars relevant to your case?’
‘Your honour, I’m trying to establish the relationship Mr Nagy had with a top-ranking Nazi whose guest he was on numerous occasions at Budapest’s most expensive restaurants, which were frequented by the SS but were off-limits to Jews.’
With a resigned gesture of his manicured hand, the judge indicates that he can continue but adds, ‘Just spare us the epicurean details.’
‘Mr Nagy, did you ever wonder why the Nazis favoured you and accorded you special privileges? Not being Jew-loving philanthropists, they must have expected something in return. Were they doing it in exchange for your co-operation in keeping their murderous plans a secret from the Jews of Kolostór, perhaps?’
This time Miklós can’t modulate his voice. ‘You keep harping on about me deliberately deceiving the Jews of Kolostór, and keeping the Nazis’ plans a secret from them,’ he snaps. ‘There were many other provinces where Jews were living, and the Nazis didn’t send me to any of those, so how come they weren’t worried about enlisting my help to deceive all the other Jews of Hungary?’
The judge leans forward again and addresses Miklós, but his tone is sympathetic. ‘Mr Nagy, confine yourself to answering the questions, don’t ask them.’
Miklós continues in a calmer tone. ‘They accorded me special privileges because, as I’ve already said, Eichmann was waiting to hear from Istanbul about the trucks, and I was part of the chain of negotiations for them.’
‘Nevertheless, from what I’ve read, he still hadn’t stopped deporting twelve thousand Jewish men, women and children from the provinces to Auschwitz every single day. How could you possibly believe that he would keep his word?’
Miklós suspects the lawyer is mistaken about the date of the deportations, but he can’t be certain. ‘I had to believe it,’ he says finally, but he can’t resist a note of sarcasm. ‘For some reason Eichmann didn’t take me into his confidence about everything he did.’
Amos Alon consults his notes. ‘Let’s move on,’ he says. ‘From August 1944 to May 1945 you were travelling with Becher and some of his Nazi cronies to Switzerland and Berlin, is that right?’
Miklós nods. ‘That’s correct.’ He can still recall the perverse satisfaction he felt that despite his powerlessness, these high-ranking Nazis were treating him as an equal. It’s a contrast with the helplessness he feels in this courtroom whenever he hears Alon’s scathing tone.
‘We had to travel to Switzerland to meet the head of the American Joint Distribution Committee because we hoped that he’d provide the funds to ransom the passeng
ers who were still stuck in Bergen-Belsen.’
‘And the trip to Berlin?’
‘Becher wanted me to meet his boss Heinrich Himmler. But that never eventuated,’ he adds quickly.
Before this trial, no-one had heard of Kurt Becher, but at the mention of Himmler, a ripple goes through the courtroom, and people turn to each other, eyebrows raised, wondering if they had heard correctly.
‘So you didn’t get to meet Himmler, Hitler’s Reichsführer,’ Alon elucidates, obviously making the point in case someone wasn’t aware of Himmler’s exalted role in the Nazi hierarchy. ‘And I suppose that on these trips you were eating and drinking with Becher and his cronies, all nice and cosy, like one of the gang.’
The disparagement is insulting. Miklós looks around and catches Judit’s eye. She is nodding encouragement, but he feels at a loss. He realises how all this sounds, but the vital context is missing. No-one in this court can possibly comprehend the situation he was in, no-one can appreciate his determination to do whatever it took to rescue at least some of the Jews, despite the personal risk and the imbalance of power between him and these men.
The one person who really understood, who had shared the anguish and the terror with him, was Ilonka, and, suddenly overwhelmed by his yearning for her, he feels such an intense pain that he pales, totters, and clutches his chest. It strikes him that this is what being eviscerated must feel like. The judge asks if he’d like a glass of water but he takes a deep breath, collects himself, and shakes his head. Water won’t take away the ache and the regret.
‘Thanks to my association with Becher, Himmler eventually issued the order to stop all deportations.’ He says this quietly, remembering not to sound too proud.
Amos Alon smiles to himself. It’s a calculating smile that indicates he is withholding something, and Miklós holds his breath, bracing himself for the next question.
‘So those two exemplary humanitarians Becher and Himmler helped you to save some Jews. But you also met other top-ranking Nazis, did you not?’
‘Possibly. I can’t remember everyone I met.’
‘But I’m sure you remember Hoess.’
Miklós swallows. This is one encounter he would have liked to keep out of the trial but he supposes that Alon ferreted it out during the long adjournment. Lost in thought about the best way to deal with this awkward subject, he hasn’t heard the lawyer’s last question.
‘I asked where you met Hoess,’ Alon repeats.
‘In Budapest. In Becher’s office.’
The judge, who hasn’t shown much interest in the foregoing exchange, now takes off his glasses and leans towards Miklós. ‘What did you talk about?’
‘About the forced death march of Jews from Hungary to Austria. I told him about the inhuman conditions on the march. People were being herded along the road without food or drink, and were dropping dead from hunger or exhaustion, or being shot by the guards. He was shocked by what I told him, and agreed that it was dreadful. He promised he’d have it stopped.’
‘Who was this Nazi you’re talking about? What was his position?’ the judge asks.
‘Hoess was the Commandant of Auschwitz.’
There is a gasp in the courtroom and Judge Lazar repeats in an incredulous tone, ‘The Commandant of Auschwitz? Are you telling us you had this conversation with the Commandant of Auschwitz who had over a million Jewish men, women and children murdered in his gas chambers?’
There’s a terrible silence as the two men stare at each other in the courtroom. All eyes are fixed on Miklós, waiting for his reply.
‘Yes.’ He whispers so softly that the judge asks him to repeat his answer. Now, ten years later and in another continent, in a world that has the advantage of being able to pass judgment in hindsight, this sounds unbelievable even to him.
‘Yes, he was shocked. I know it sounds strange, but it’s true.’
The journalists scramble from the courtroom and Miklós knows they are racing to file their sensational scoop of the day, which will undoubtedly make the front page. He can imagine their report, that the man who is part of the present government of Israel, who has been lauded as a hero, drank champagne with top Nazis and discussed death marches with the Commandant of Auschwitz.
Outside, the temperature has dropped, and the snow has turned to sleet which stings his face as he walks shivering from the courtroom, arm in arm with Judit. Some of the reporters crowd around him shouting provocative questions about Hoess until a friend bundles them into a waiting car which skids on the icy road as it speeds away from the court.
Back home, he slumps into his armchair without a word, and Judit pours him a tumbler of whisky. He downs it in one gulp, and she takes his hand without speaking. A heavy silence weighs on them until they hear the front door slam shut. The boys are home from school but when they poke their heads around the door to greet him, Judit shakes her head and leads them away. ‘Abba is very tired,’ she tells them. ‘Go and play.’
‘Can you see what’s happening?’ he says when she returns. ‘Alon has turned me into the defendant. I used to feel that the judge was sympathetic, but today, when Hoess was mentioned, I saw a change in the way he looked at me. Alon has got to him.’
For once she doesn’t offer any solace, and her acquiescence disturbs him just as much as her reassurance would have irritated him. ‘Judges aren’t that impressionable, but I don’t think the prosecutor is experienced enough,’ she says. ‘He lets Alon get away with too much. Can you ask for him to be replaced?’
Miklós shrugs. ‘It could send the wrong message at this stage.’
‘The only wrong message we have to worry about is for Fleischmann to win this case.’
They look at each other and look away. They both know the implication of that.
In the adjacent room, they hear the boys scuffling and shouting. When Judit opens the door, they see Ben, the eight-year-old, grabbing Gil’s arm and twisting it so hard that his brother’s eyes are watering.
‘Stop it at once,’ Miklós says, pulling him away. ‘What’s going on?’
‘He called me a Nazi,’ Ben says.
The pent-up emotions of the day erupt, and Miklós shouts, ‘Don’t you ever let me hear you say that again to your brother. Ever.’
Gil shrugs. ‘That’s what the kids at school call me,’ he says in an aggrieved tone. ‘They’ve made up a ditty about us, that we’re Nazis because our dad’s a Nazi. What’s a Nazi anyway?’
Miklós glances at Judit. She sighs but he senses that she isn’t as shaken by this revelation as he is, and he wonders if she has heard this before but has kept it from him.
That night when he falls asleep, he dreams that a man with a bald head and piercing eyes is digging into stony ground, deeper and deeper, until his spade strikes a body. Suddenly the corpse sits up and Miklós wakes with a start as he recognises his own face. Despite the cold, he is drenched in sweat. Judit stirs, mumbles, ‘Miki, are you all right?’, turns over, and goes back to sleep before he can reply.
Too shaken to sleep, he gets up and paces around the apartment. He thinks about Ilonka, and the memory of her enchanting smile as she raised her arms to remove her silk camisole evokes such an exquisite erotic ache that he closes his eyes and buries his face in his hands. She had shared this ordeal with him, she alone could explain what they went through. If only he could talk to her about this trial, she would advise him what to say to make them understand, to stop them crucifying him. If only he could touch her again, if only he could discuss this with her, perhaps this terrible ache would go away. But he knows it never will.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jerusalem, March 1954
Like a starving dog that has clamped its fangs around a juicy bone, Amos Alon continues to interrogate Miklós about his association with the Nazis, especially with Kurt Becher.
‘What did you know about Kurt Becher’s career in the Nazi party?’ he asks.
Miklós shrugs. ‘I think he was the head of the Economic Depa
rtment. Later I found out that he was Himmler’s protégé. That’s why he was able to influence Himmler to stop the deportations.’ He can’t resist adding that, though he knows it’s an attempt to paint Becher in a good light.
Alon nods several times as though considering this information. ‘I have heard that earlier in the war Becher served as an SS major in Poland, and there were rumours that he was a member of the Death Corps that murdered thousands of Jews. Were you aware of that?’
Miklós wants to believe that Alon is fabricating all this. ‘How could I know that? I never heard that rumour, and even if it ever happened, it took place before I met him, before he arrived in Budapest.’
Alon is now in full flight. ‘It was also before they invented gas chambers, Mr Nagy. It was a time of the Einsatzgruppen, when murder was up close, personal, and horrific, when the brains of murdered Jews spattered the immaculate uniforms of the killers, and the screams of desperate mothers and dying children echoed in their heads for weeks.’
The judge is shaking his head. ‘Mr Alon, please stop editorialising. Just keep to the relevant facts.’
‘I’m coming to them, your honour, if you’ll just bear with me,’ Alon replies, and turns back to face Miklós. ‘I believe that this is where Becher performed with such distinction that he became the liaison between Hitler and his hero Himmler, who then made him chief of the Economic Department of the SS in Hungary.’
He fixes his rapier gaze on Miklós. ‘You just mentioned the Economic Department as if it was a harmless office in some insignificant plumbing firm. Were you aware that its real function was removing gold fillings from the dead, shipping bales of human hair to Germany’s mattress factories, converting fat into soap and inventing hideous tortures to make Jewish women and their children reveal where they’d concealed their jewels, their money and their last possessions?’
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