Miklós is so shaken by Alon’s words that his tongue is paralysed. He thinks back. All he knew was that Becher was chief of the Economic Department, nothing more. From what he had observed about the man, that role suited his avaricious nature and enabled him to enrich himself by appropriating jewellery and works of art from Jewish owners. But he didn’t suspect Becher’s dark past, or the fact that the name of his department was a euphemism, concealing the fact that it was responsible for divesting Jews of everything they possessed, even their fillings, their fat, and their hair, which were transformed into valuable commodities for the Reich.
He had no idea that Becher might have played a major role in this horrifying process, and he doubts if he did. He can’t reconcile the genial bon vivant who loved money, Beethoven and Goethe, with the ruthless cog in the Nazi machine that Amos Alon has described. But even as he considers that the lawyer is ruthless enough to exaggerate and fabricate, a reluctant corner of his mind suspects he might be telling the truth.
The courtroom is so silent now that when a woman drops a newspaper, it makes a loud slap against the wooden floor, making someone gasp and startling people around her. Miklós is so shocked by what he has heard that it takes him a while to gather his thoughts. When he speaks, his voice is unsteady.
‘I did not know the true function of the Economic Department, and I wasn’t aware of the ranks and promotions within the Nazi party. I did not know what Kurt Becher did before coming to Budapest, or if what you’ve heard about him is true. My only interest in him was getting his help in releasing the train from Bergen-Belsen. Without his help, I would never have been able to rescue that trainload of people, over fifteen hundred of them. Otherwise they would have been deported and murdered along with the rest of the Hungarian Jews.’
‘As you have reminded us several times. So naturally you were very grateful to him.’ Alon sounds affable but Miklós mistrusts his tone. ‘Was there anything you weren’t prepared to do for him in return?’
It’s another insidious question, and Miklós doesn’t know how to answer it without falling into his trap. He looks questioningly at the judge who advises the lawyer to rephrase it.
‘I’ll come to the point. Were you prepared to write an affidavit for Becher after the war so that he would avoid imprisonment?’
People in the courtroom are craning forward to hear the reply to this new revelation.
His reply is loud, clear and unequivocal. ‘I did not.’
People now sit back and breathe out, relieved that the tension is over. Miklós sees them nodding to one another and smiling. Their faith in him is restored.
‘Are you quite sure about that?’ There’s something in the way Amos Alon says this that makes Miklós uneasy, but he says, as firmly as he can manage, ‘Quite sure.’
Amos Alon nods, and his dark eyes linger on Miklós a few moments longer. Miklós hopes that he will accept his answer and let the matter rest, but the lawyer’s next question fills him with dread.
‘Mr Nagy, did you give favourable testimony for Becher to the German Denazification court?’
Miklós gives a sigh that seems to rise from the depths of his soul, and he tries to conceal it by coughing. This is a trick question, and there is no way of answering it truthfully without incriminating himself. It’s a question that assumes that actions can be judged in black or white, but he knows that the truth always lies inside a narrow crack in between. He longs to explain this but knows that isn’t possible.
In a strong voice he says, ‘I did not. The German Court of Denazification invited me to give testimony about Becher when I was in Nuremburg in 1947. This was at the invitation of General Taylor, who was the chief prosecutor for the International Court. I was in Switzerland at the time, and I was about to migrate to Israel, when Taylor asked me to assist him on matters pertaining to the Holocaust in Hungary. Ben-Gurion agreed that I should go, and the Jewish Agency provided money for the trip. I didn’t appear in person in that court, but I gave a sworn affidavit instead. But it wasn’t, as you mistakenly put it, testimony given in Becher’s favour.’
He notices that at the mention of Ben-Gurion, Amos Alon’s face twists into a sneer but he doesn’t have time to dwell on this because the lawyer steps closer, and asks, ‘Do you have a copy of that affidavit?’
Miklós shakes his head.
‘Why didn’t you keep a copy?’
Furious at being baited, Miklós risks a rebuke from the judge by retorting, ‘Why should I? Do you keep every piece of paper you write?’
The courtroom titters and he senses that people are pleased that he has defended himself in what has become a compelling duel.
‘It wasn’t just a scrap of paper,’ Alon says. ‘It was a document of historical significance. Can you at least recall whether you wrote it in favour of Becher or not?’
Miklós pauses. In spite of the cold, perspiration beads his forehead. He clasps his hands to stop them from shaking. He scrutinises Alon’s face for clues. Is he fishing, or does he know something?
‘I didn’t write for him or against him. I kept to the truth, that’s all.’
‘So you were careful to avoid saying anything derogatory about a leading Nazi SS officer,’ Alon says, and lets the significance of his words sink in before he continues. ‘Let me get this straight: you just wanted to tell the truth about Becher without giving your opinion about him.’
‘That’s right. As I said, that’s what I was asked to do, and that’s what I did.’
Amos Alon is looking thoughtful. ‘So, in your opinion, did that affidavit have any effect on his release?
‘I don’t see how. I doubt it.’
There’s a pause, and Miklós breathes out, hoping that now his adversary will drop this line of questioning, but in a ringing voice Alon says, ‘I suggest to you that in fact it was on account of your favourable testimony that Kurt Becher was released from prison in Nuremburg.’
All attempt at control and restraint gone, Miklós shouts, ‘How dare you say that! It’s a malicious lie!’
Unmoved by Miklós’s outburst, Amos Alon takes a paper from the pile of documents that Miklós had brought to the court to disprove Fleischmann’s allegations when the trial began. He holds it up and turns to the judge. ‘Your honour, this is a letter that Mr Nagy sent to the Jewish Agency in 1948. I’d like to read two sentences from it, and I remind the court that these are Mr Nagy’s own words: Kurt Becher was an ex-SS colonel who served as liaison officer between me and Himmler during our rescue work. He was released from prison in Nuremburg by Allied occupation forces due to my intervention.’
He enunciates the last four words with great emphasis, as if putting them in capital letters. People in the court are gasping, some are murmuring Oh my God! Can you believe it? Some women are shaking their heads while others turn to their neighbours to discuss this shocking revelation, and the volume in the courtroom rises to unprecedented levels. The judge bangs his gavel for silence, and threatens to eject anyone who causes a disturbance.
Miklós is clasping his hands so tightly his knuckles are white. Now that it’s too late, he can’t figure out why he submitted that damning document to the court. Was it carelessness, boasting, or sheer stupidity? He knows he must think quickly to minimise the damage that he has brought upon himself, but a sense of panic overtakes him, and in his confusion he can’t think clearly.
Meanwhile, Alon is still firing questions. ‘You said before that you didn’t do anything to help Becher. So is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘But in your letter, you claim the exact opposite. You say that it was thanks to your intervention that he was released. So was that the truth?’
‘Yes,’ Miklós says, and adds, ‘but it’s not so simple.’
‘I’m afraid I’m a bit confused, Mr Nagy. You see, your two statements contradict each other. Simple or not, they can’t both be true. So can you explain to us, which one is actually the truth?’
There’s a long pause while
Miklós racks his brains for a way out of the quagmire that his hubris has landed him in. Finally, in a low voice, he says, ‘In making the claim that my intervention resulted in Becher’s release I exaggerated the importance of my role. When I wrote to the Jewish Agency, I was anxious to prove to them that the money they had provided for the ransom had been worthwhile.’
It’s a mortifying confession, but Amos Alon isn’t buying it.
‘But you had the effrontery to accuse me of telling malicious lies when it was your own words I was quoting!’
At this point, the prosecutor leaps up. ‘Your honour, I object. Mr Alon is harassing the witness,’ he says, but the judge overrules him. ‘You can’t interrupt the cross-examination just because your witness has been cornered.’
In the cold glint of the judge’s eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses, Miklós sees a new hostility and it chills him.
Alon continues, ‘You claim you were merely boasting and exaggerating in your letter to the Jewish Agency, but I suggest that you not only saved Becher from the International Court in Nuremburg, but you also gave a sworn affidavit to the Denazification Court of the Germans, and that affidavit saved him from being punished as he should have been, along with the other top Nazis.’
In a strangled voice, Miklós shouts, ‘You’re lying!’
The prosecutor breaks in again. ‘Your honour, how is this relevant? Mr Fleischmann’s allegations that form the basis of this libel suit don’t mention any affidavit given to the German court.’
Miklós stares at the judge, willing him to agree, but the judge isn’t looking at him. ‘On the contrary,’ Judge Lazar says briskly, ‘it is totally relevant.’
‘What would you say about someone who intervenes in favour of a prominent SS officer to bring about his release?’ Alon asks.
‘First I’d want to know the reason, all the details, and the historical context of that intervention,’ Miklós retorts.
‘Be that as it may, would you agree that such intervention is regarded as a criminal act in this country?’ Alon asks.
Miklós bows his head. He is trapped and there’s no escape. ‘I suppose so, if you ignore the circumstances.’
Amos Alon opens a folder on his table and extracts a document from it. ‘In your sworn affidavit to the International Military Tribunal, you wrote, and I quote, Kurt Becher was one of the few SS leaders who had the courage to oppose the program of annihilating Jews, and tried to save Jewish lives. From what I observed based on my personal dealings with him, he did whatever he could to save them from the Nazi leaders. I never doubted his good intentions, and believe he deserves the court’s fullest consideration. I make this statement not only in my name but also on behalf of the Jewish Agency and the Jewish World Congress.’
Amos Alon says no more, and with a triumphant expression, sits down, allowing the devastating impact of the affidavit to hang over the courtroom. Desperate to defend himself, Miklós bursts out: ‘As I stated, I wasn’t writing a historical account or a biography. My testimony was solely based on what I observed and on my personal dealings with Becher. I didn’t say he was a saint, or excuse anything he may have done. But testifying as I did was the honourable thing to do because without Becher’s help, I wouldn’t have been able to save all those people.’
But looking around the courtroom he realises that no-one is interested in his explanation. The damage has been done and can’t be undone. He glances at Judit and sees that she is biting her lip. She stares down at her hands, avoiding the accusing looks, secret nudges, and shocked whispers of those sitting close to her. He looks at the judge and from his expression, he can see that the judge is shocked not only by the content of his affidavit, but by the fact that he lied about it while under oath.
The judge now takes over the questioning, and his voice is cold. ‘Why did you think you had the right to make your statement in the name of the Jewish Agency and the World Jewish Congress? Who in the Jewish Agency authorised you to do this?’
Miklós stammers out the names of Moshe Sharett and Ben-Gurion, and again he notices the contempt on Amos Alon’s face when he mentions the leaders of the Mapai party.
‘I’d like to know, did they specifically give you permission to intervene on behalf of Kurt Becher, and recommend leniency for him?’
‘At the time I believed they did.’
The judge looks sceptical and hands the cross-examination back to Amos Alon whose voice is deathly quiet. ‘So when you told this court that you never gave any testimony or affidavit to the International Court in Nuremburg, you not only lied to the court, which means you committed perjury, but you intervened on behalf of a leading SS officer, which as you yourself admitted earlier, is regarded as a crime in Israel. So that makes you a criminal, doesn’t it?’
Miklós shouts, ‘I deny that! All I did was to acknowledge the assistance of a man without whom I couldn’t have rescued all those people. Everyone knows I did the honourable thing. You’re twisting the facts to suit your case.’
Amos Alon shrugs. ‘I have one more document, your honour,’ he says. ‘It’s an affidavit signed by Walter Rapp, who assisted Brigadier-General Telford Taylor during the Nuremburg trials.’
‘How is this affidavit relevant?’ the judge wants to know.
‘It concerns Miklós Nagy’s responsibility in the release of Kurt Becher, who was listed as a Nazi war criminal in the American war criminal file for his activities in Budapest and later in the concentration camp of Mauthausen in Austria.’
Amos Alon reads out Walter Rapp’s affidavit. He reads it slowly and clearly, giving weight and significance to every single word.
‘To the best of my knowledge, Miklós Nagy arrived as a voluntary witness on behalf of SS Colonel Kurt Becher, and it seemed to me that the sole reason for his arrival was to help this man, as it was highly probable that he would be tried by us. This was the first and only time that anyone had come forward with proof that a high-ranking SS officer had been instrumental in saving thousands of Jewish lives at great risk to himself. Kurt Becher’s release was solely the result of Mr Nagy’s pleas on his behalf and the contents of his sworn testimony. His affidavit was the main, if not sole reason for our decision to release him.’
No-one in the courtroom makes a sound, they sit motionless, mesmerised by Rapp’s testimony, struggling to make sense of the extraordinary revelations they have just heard, and the contradictory statements made by Miklós Nagy. The prosecutor now rises, and turns to Miklós. ‘If you had a chance to write that affidavit today, would you do it or not?’
Miklós struggles to find an answer to this loaded question. He knows that the prosecutor is trying to extricate him from the quicksand into which he is sinking, but although he knows what Elman wants him to say, he finds himself unable to say it. In any case, it seems to him that Walter Rapp’s affidavit is a vindication, not an accusation. Rapp has acknowledged that he spoke on behalf of the man whose help in the rescue was pivotal.
He thinks back to his last few meetings with Becher, not only to the companionable meals but to the conversations they had, and the connection that sprang up between them. He remembers the handshake that sealed the implicit promise which has led to his undoing. Was he now willing to betray that connection and break that promise to denounce the man whose help had been crucial to the rescue?
After a long pause, he raises his head and looks straight into the prosecutor’s eyes. ‘I would write it again today, because it’s the truth, but I wouldn’t say I acted on behalf of the Jewish Agency because that wasn’t strictly true.’
The prosecutor still hasn’t given up hope. ‘Would you sign that affidavit in your own name?’
This time Miklós doesn’t hesitate. ‘Yes, I would. It’s a matter of principle. Any honourable person would do the same.’
The court empties in deathly silence. Dazed, people attempt to process the unexpected admissions that they have heard that day which have turned everything upside down, challenging their moral compasses. How
do you balance the merit of rescuing over fifteen hundred Jews against the crime of writing an affidavit to exonerate a Nazi? Can a man be a hero as well as a collaborator?
That evening, Judit tries to hide one of the newspaper articles from him but it’s too late. He crumples it up and hurls it across the room in fury. The reporter asks why, instead of prosecuting Isaiah Fleischmann, the government of Israel isn’t prosecuting the collaborator who helped a Nazi war criminal escape punishment.
*
The following evening, Judit has bought tickets for a performance of Gounod’s opera Faust. It’s a gala event in a city that’s hungry for culture. A world-famous Italian diva is singing the role of the seduced Marguerite, and a Russian bass is to sing the role of Mephistopheles. Miklós is reluctant to appear in public, but Judit persuades him that he has to hold his head high and ignore the gossip and innuendo.
As he suspected, the evening is an unending torment. In the foyer, strangers who recognise him from newspaper photographs slide away and whisper. After a few awkward remarks about the singers, and the hope that the new Mann Auditorium will be an improvement on the present concert hall, acquaintances find an excuse to leave them to buy a program, a drink, or to meet friends.
He feels heartened when several people step forward to offer words of support, and one couple confide that thanks to him, they have survived. ‘We’ll never forget what you did,’ the woman says. ‘It’s scandalous what that lawyer is doing in court. If there’s anything we can do to help, we’ll speak on your behalf.’
‘Do you know who they are?’ Judit asks. ‘Ask the prosecutor to call them as witnesses.’ He puts his arm around her shoulders. He’s touched by her undimmed faith in him and her naivety but knows that no witnesses can undo the destructive impact of Amos Alon’s campaign against him.
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