The Collaborator

by Diane Armstrong

  Alon has already moved on to his next theme. In line with his conspiracy theory, he now attempts to link Miklós’s actions with those of the Jewish Agency, which he accuses of co-operating with the British at the cost of rescuing the Jews of Hungary. He seems to be exhorting the judge to pass sentence on the Jewish Agency and, by implication, on its successor, the present government.

  Judit leans towards Miklós until their heads touch. ‘Isaiah Fleischmann didn’t even mention the Jewish Agency or the Mapai party in his pamphlet. This tirade has absolutely nothing to do with the case.’

  Miklós shrugs. He knows it may have nothing to do with the libel case but it has everything to do with Alon’s political agenda and the outcome of the trial.

  Perhaps aware that despite its sensational value, his attack on the government is irrelevant as the defendant didn’t make that accusation, Alon moves back to his strongest weapon, the Becher affidavit. Miklós grits his teeth and tenses his muscles. He has the unsettling feeling that any moment now his body will snap apart, spraying tissue and blood over the entire court.

  In conclusion, Amos Alon tells the court in a measured tone that he has been privileged to lift the curtain of lies and deceit from their eyes and rip it to shreds. Sounding like a humble David who has confronted Goliath, he says, ‘I have revealed the honest truth without any agenda or axe to grind, but from a sacred duty to all those who didn’t survive. The ancient Greeks believed that unpunished crimes brought plagues to the people who harboured criminals, and that punishing evil-doers purifies life. We don’t face a literal plague, but we do risk losing our decency and humanity. Honour doesn’t lie in forgetting mass murder or forgiving the perpetrators.’

  ‘He sounds as if he’s addressing a jury,’ Judit whispers. ‘This is all about him. I think he’s forgotten about his client.’

  Miklós doesn’t reply. In full view of everyone present, Amos Alon has performed a sleight-of-hand that most conjurors would envy. He has turned a desperate man who managed to wrest over fifteen hundred Jews from the clutches of Eichmann into a vicious, calculating demon, and transformed the leaders of the Jewish Agency from overwhelmed, horrified men trying to deal with the extermination of the last of Europe’s Jews into servile politicians who, instead of trying to save the Jews of Europe, collaborated with the British colonisers.

  The summations over, the judge thanks the lawyers and leaves the bench, and there’s a loud hubbub as people leave the court arguing heatedly about what they have heard. Miklós and Judit slip out of the courtroom to avoid the embarrassed glances of acquaintances and the accusing glares of strangers.

  As they drive home, Judit looks anxiously at her husband, who hasn’t uttered a word for the past hour. The lines on his face have become furrows, and his eyes seem to be covered with a dull grey film.

  ‘The judge will see through Alon’s political agenda,’ she says. ‘He won’t fall for his manipulations.’

  But Miklós doesn’t reply.

  At home, the boys want to hear about the day’s events. In an enthusiastic voice, Judit expounds on the prosecutor’s summation, telling them how he praised their father for his courage in saving so many people. While she speaks, Ben, their older son, doesn’t take his eyes off his father’s face.

  ‘But what about the other one?’ he asks. ‘What did he say? He’s the one the kids at school talk about. Even the teachers say how smart he is. Why don’t you tell us what he said?’

  There’s a nervous, angry edge to his voice, and in the silence that ensues, Judit hesitates, wondering how to answer in a way that won’t upset the boy.

  But Miklós speaks first. ‘He tried to make out I was a Nazi collaborator and a liar.’

  Judit shakes her head, wanting him to stop, but he ignores her and continues, giving Ben the gist of Alon’s speech, not sparing any painful details.

  ‘Miki, don’t,’ she says. She can’t bear to hear him inflict so much pain on himself, and on their son.

  ‘They might as well know the truth,’ he says brusquely. ‘They’ll hear all about it tomorrow when the newspapers come out. Anyway, the other kids will be talking about it at school.’

  There is fury in Ben’s eyes. ‘How can he tell lies like that after you saved all those people?’

  ‘He can say it because he doesn’t care that I’ve saved people. All he wants to do is convince the judge that I’ve done those terrible things so he can get his client off.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Ben says. ‘It stinks.’

  ‘Where’s Gil?’ Judit asks suddenly. Over the past few weeks she has been considering taking him out of the school; the children’s name-calling has made him fearful and withdrawn. But Miklós disagreed. ‘Running away isn’t the answer. He should learn boxing so he can stand up for himself.’

  None of them noticed that Gil left the room as soon as they began talking about the trial.

  The following morning, Judit hides the newspaper from Miklós and the boys. On the front page the journalist reporting on the trial describes Amos Alon’s summation as one of the most brilliant speeches ever heard in an Israeli court.

  Just before setting off to school, Ben asks his father, ‘So what happens now?’

  Judit glances at Miklós, who is staring out of the window, but she can tell that he doesn’t see the street or anything in it. She takes a deep breath and says, ‘The verdict.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Jerusalem, June 1956

  Days stretch into weeks, and weeks drag into months, and still the judge hasn’t handed down his verdict. Despite the delay, the Nagy trial, as it is universally referred to, is still a burning issue, and rumours are flying about why it is taking so long. An election campaign is underway, and there is friction inside the Mapai coalition. Some journalists have suggested that the government has deliberately delayed publishing the verdict because it fears its impact on the voters. Other commentators wonder if the judge has collapsed under the strain of trying to reach a decision in such a complex case. Whatever the cause, gamblers have already placed their bets on the outcome.

  As Miklós awaits the verdict, his mind is full of recriminations, resentments and regrets. To add to his woes, he has been asked to relinquish his candidacy for a seat in the Knesset, and his job on the Hungarian-language radio program has been axed, ostensibly due to lack of funds. He isn’t fooled by the excuse.

  As he sits at home, waiting for the verdict and mulling over the events of the past year, he wonders if he should have taken his friends’ advice and tried harder to persuade the government not to sue. Perhaps he should have refused to be the first witness, or not testified at all. Why didn’t he push for a more competent prosecutor? Maybe he should have sounded less angry and self-righteous instead of unwittingly stepping into the minefield that Amos Alon had prepared for him. His friend Uri’s warning before the trial began echoes in his head: Don’t let them pursue this libel suit. No matter what happens, you will never come out of this with clean hands.

  He vacillates between hope and dread but he reminds himself repeatedly that, after all, he wasn’t the one charged with libel. He was only a witness, and the judge’s sole task is to determine whether Isaiah Fleischmann is guilty or not. He reminds himself that despite the excruciating accusations of the defence attorney, he achieved something unique, which no-one can ignore. He has to trust that the judge will see the important issues, and distinguish between fact, innuendo and falsehood.

  Just the same, he is restless, and sleep eludes him. Night after long night he paces up and down in their apartment. Like a sad lion locked inside a circus cage, Judit thinks whenever she wakes up and hears his slow footsteps. She slips out of bed to coax him back.

  ‘Don’t worry, Miki, it will be all right,’ she says, taking his hand. ‘The judge is experienced enough to see through Alon’s diatribes. He’s bound to find Fleischmann guilty.’

  When Miklós hears that at last a date has been set for the judge to hand down his verdict, he is reli
eved that the anguish of reliving the trial, of wondering, surmising and dreading will finally end, but he can’t bring himself to go to court. Going over the trial in his mind, he feels like a laboratory rat running endlessly back and forth along the same paths as he tries to find a way out of the maze. The pressure builds and sometimes he feels his head is about to blow off.

  ‘I won’t be able to sit through it,’ he tells Judit. ‘You can tell me what he said when you come home.’

  *

  Finally the appointed day dawns. It’s a bright morning in early summer, the kind of God-given day that makes you glad to be alive, but joy isn’t what Judit feels as she enters the courtroom.

  She holds her head high but her stomach is flipping somersaults. The courtroom is packed and the atmosphere is charged. As she sits down she feels accusing eyes stabbing into her back. ‘It’s as if the whole country is holding its breath for this verdict,’ a woman behind her comments, and her voice thrills with anticipation. Like bloodthirsty Romans assembling in the Colosseum to watch a fight to the death, Judit thinks bitterly.

  Judge Lazar enters, holding a thick volume that he places in front of him. Everyone cranes forward to see his expression and assess his mood, but his stern face gives nothing away. If he feels any emotion, he conceals it beneath a mask of inscrutability.

  ‘There must be at least two hundred pages in there,’ a man near her whispers, pointing to the tome. ‘We’ll be here all day!’

  After a brief glance around the court, the judge puts on his horn-rimmed glasses and begins reading in a voice so low that it demands absolute silence. Judit sits forward so as not to miss a single word.

  Soon she is clenching her fists. For several hours, as he reads his interminable judgement, he upholds Isaiah Fleischmann’s accusations, one by one. He pronounces that the Jews of Kolostór boarded the trains unaware of their fate because they were duped into believing the Nazis, who used Jewish agents to lull them into acquiescence. Because of that false information, they didn’t try to overpower the guards in the ghetto, to escape, or to organise any resistance. And the person responsible for this deception was Miklós Nagy, whose silence the Nazis bought by allowing him to rescue a few friends, relatives and prominent members of the community.

  Eichmann was afraid of another Warsaw Uprising, that’s why he made the deal with Mr Nagy, but the cost was the murder of the remaining six hundred thousand Jews of Hungary. Sacrificing the majority of the Jews to rescue a few of the prominent ones was the basis of the agreement between the Nazis and Miklós Nagy, who was collaborating with Hitler’s henchmen.

  Judit buries her face in her hands, unable to maintain the pretence of equanimity any longer. Doesn’t the judge know anything about Eichmann’s proposed trucks-for-Jews scheme? Hasn’t he listened to the evidence given by witnesses who explained that it was impossible for the Jews of Kolostór to escape or resist? Has he forgotten that they didn’t believe the information they’d been given about the trains and Auschwitz? Isn’t he aware that Miklós didn’t have the power to save the remaining Jews? The judge is repeating Amos Alon’s accusations as facts, and she is glad that Miklós isn’t here to listen to his hateful words.

  The judge pauses, pours water from a jug and takes his time sipping it. When he resumes reading, his voice is loud and emphatic. ‘The Nazis bribed Miklós Nagy and their bait was the rescue train,’ he says. ‘He should have remembered the Trojans’ warning: Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. By accepting the Nazis’ gift, Miklós Nagy became a collaborator who sold his soul to the devil.’

  If a bomb had exploded in the courtroom, it couldn’t have created a greater shock. People gasp, they turn to each other in consternation, disbelief, and also a guilty sense of schadenfreude at this sensational statement.

  They’ve forgotten that Miklós Nagy isn’t the one on trial, and assume that they have just heard the judge pronounce a guilty verdict. Judit can no longer control her disgust. She jumps up, glares at the judge, and shouts, ‘Shame on you!’ Before he can have her evicted, she pushes her way through the courtroom and storms out, slamming the door behind her.

  She hasn’t waited to hear the judge speak about the Kurt Becher affair but she supposes that he will accuse Miklós of interceding on behalf of a Nazi war criminal to save him from being punished, and then of perjuring himself by lying about it in court. She doesn’t need to wait for the verdict on the defendant, either. Having destroyed Miklós’s reputation, maligned his motives, and accused him of collaboration, she has no doubt that the judge will acquit Isaiah Fleischmann.

  She wanders the streets of Jerusalem in a daze, oblivious of crowds, cars, barrows and donkey carts. All she can see is the judge’s accusing face as he utters his scurrilous words. She dreads going home, and wonders how to break the news to Miklós that his worst nightmare has become reality. Bracing herself to face him, she starts the long drive to Tel Aviv, past a blur of olive groves, Arab villages and citrus orchards. By the time she swings into their street, she is relieved to see that friends who were in the courtroom are parking their cars outside their apartment block. At least she won’t have to face Miklós alone.

  He is at the door the instant he hears her key turn in the lock. He is pale and tense as he scans their faces.

  ‘The judge had no right to say what he did,’ Judit says.

  ‘This will be remembered as a black day for Israeli jurisprudence,’ says Uri, who is a lawyer.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Miklós shouts, ‘will someone tell me what he said? What was the verdict?’

  When Uri repeats the judge’s words, Miklós sinks into the nearest chair, stares at the floor, and shakes his head, as though conducting a distressing inner conversation with himself. Finally he looks up. ‘He actually said that I sold my soul to the devil?’

  Judit nods. ‘I walked out at that point. I couldn’t sit there and listen to any more of his disgusting comments.’

  Miklós shakes his head again. He realises that despite all the signs of bias during the trial, until that moment he has still been hoping that the judge would find Isaiah Fleischmann guilty.

  ‘I can’t believe it. It’s unbelievable. Unbelievable. How could the judge say that about me?’ He lights a cigarette but tamps it out a few moments later and lights another as if unaware of his actions. ‘The injustice of it. Amos Alon must be celebrating. He wouldn’t have expected such an outcome in his wildest dreams.’

  ‘It is outrageous, a calumny, a travesty of justice,’ Uri says. ‘The judge should be censured for making such a comment. He sounded like a defence counsel addressing a jury, not a judge handing down a verdict.’

  But Miklós isn’t listening. The chaos in his head is threatening to overwhelm him. Judit goes into the kitchenette to make coffee, relieved to have something to do so she can escape from Miklós’s distraught face. But when she returns, he waves away the coffee and cake, and with trembling hands lights another cigarette.

  Alternating between anger and self-pity, he says, ‘What sin did I commit in rescuing all those people? Should I have let them die with the rest? Would that have made the judge and Amos Alon happy? What wrong did I do to anyone? How dare he accuse me of selling my soul to Satan!’

  White-faced, Judit sits beside him and takes his hand. She wants to comfort him but knows there are no words to take away this pain.

  Miklós stares into space, unable to come to terms with what has just taken place in the Jerusalem District Court. If Fleischmann is innocent, then, by implication, he is guilty. Guilty of the crime his country regards as the most serious of all.

  ‘You remember the Dreyfus case?’ he says bitterly. ‘He was cut down by a Hungarian anti-Semite and French anti-Semitism, but I’ve been destroyed by the political agenda of a fellow-Jew in Israel.’

  *

  For the next few weeks, Miklós sits slumped in his armchair, and the ashtray beside him overflows with cigarette butts. He hardly speaks, even to the boys; he refuses to g
o out of the apartment, can’t be bothered shaving, and eats so little that Judit watches him anxiously.

  ‘It’s as if you’re sitting shiva,’ she says one day, referring to the Jewish custom of staying home and eschewing ordinary activities during the traditional period of mourning.

  ‘I’m sitting shiva for myself,’ he retorts. ‘For the Miklós Nagy who died when he heard that he sold his soul to Satan.’

  Unable to help him and terrified of what he might do, she never leaves him alone in the apartment and hides the newspapers from him. Some she crumples and stamps on. The trial has provided journalists with a rich seam of gold which they mine with the insatiable greed of prospectors lured by early success. Newspaper headlines blaze with the judge’s words: Miklós Nagy sold his soul to the devil. Others present a jubilant Amos Alon as a hero, and quote him saying that the verdict was a triumph not only for Isaiah Fleischmann but for the country’s soul.

  Whenever she sees Alon’s photograph in the newspaper, she rips it to shreds, cursing as she does so. Isaiah Fleischmann gloats that he has been vindicated, that he has proved the truth of his accusations. She rips up his photo too. One journalist writes in Ha’aretz that Miklós should be brought to trial as a Nazi collaborator, or echoes of the trial will poison the air we breathe. This theme is echoed by several reporters. She tosses them all into the garbage before Miklós can read their poisonous words.

  She goes out as little as possible. She doesn’t tell Miklós that some shopkeepers refuse to serve her, passers-by hiss insults at her, and one of their neighbours has emptied his stinking garbage bin outside their door. She tells the boys that if they have problems at school, they should come to her, not their father. The boys have become withdrawn, especially Gil. Instead of running around in the park or playing football after school as they once did, they now spend more time in their room. They tell her they’re doing homework, but she knows they are avoiding schoolmates who taunt and bully them.