by Gaby Koppel
“So ladies, I must say, this is incredible.” He speaks English with hardly a trace of accent. “I don’t know where to start. It is a shock.”
“Really?” I say. “Maybe it was a shock you’ve been half expecting.” If he catches the anger in my voice, he ignores it.
“When you are my age, you think you’ve seen everything,” he replies. “But to meet someone again after fifty years, that is strange and unsettling, when we have all been through such a lot together. No?”
“You remember my mother, then?” He raises a sardonic eyebrow.
“What do you think?”
He says something in Hungarian to my mother, and they both laugh. And then turning to me, “As a young man, I worked for your mother’s family for many years. The children called me Kovács bácsi – Uncle Kovács”
“So I understand.”
“It was a big part of my life.” He takes a silver cigarette box from the coffee table, offers them round, takes one himself and makes an elaborate pantomime of lighting up. Still standing, he takes a deep drag, and blows smoke through rounded lips.
“We went through so much, you know. And I did my best to – I think – help your mother’s family in very difficult times. Dangerous times. I’m sure she will remember this. And of course, your mother was a very beautiful and talented girl. You must know this. How could I forget her?”
Mutti’s expression shifts. She usually loves compliments, but now she looks uneasy. Kovács starts pacing around as he talks.
“Your family survived the war. You know that three-quarters of Hungarian Jews were liquidated between March and July 1944 after Eichmann marched into Budapest? But your mother and grandmother always managed to avoid being deported. That in itself is remarkable, no?” I nod uncertainly, wondering what he’s getting at. Mutti’s shared very little of this history with me. Every time it comes up she gets drunk or bursts into tears, so I’ve never really got to the bottom of what happened to her.
Kovács stubs out his cigarette in a large marble ashtray. “And then suddenly I received a call from my sister, describing your visit all these years later. The last time I saw your grandmother and mother was the day before they got on the train to leave Hungary. At first, I thought this was a fantasy or a dream. It didn’t seem possible. And then, an hour later, her voice on the phone. Unmistakable. You read these things in the newspapers, but you never expect them to happen in real life.”
“But the war and what followed was so – disruptive – in Hungary,” I say. “These meetings years later do happen – when people find out by a series of coincidences what happened to their families, friends and…” I trail off.
“Servants?” Kovács finishes the sentence for me. “I must say I find your generation ridiculously reticent about the master-servant relationship. In my opinion it is a very honest transaction. And honourable on both sides.”
“But it wasn’t something that you pursued once you’d got to London?” I look around the room and its sophisticated décor.
“By the time I got here, I hadn’t been in that kind of position for many years. The comrades disapproved of servants nearly as much as you. But it turned out that my former profession was a very useful introduction to the workings of private enterprise. London has an endless appetite for chauffeuring and taxi services, and this was my passport into the world of business. Of course, luck played a large part.” He bends over to pick up another cigarette, turning it over in his hands and tapping both ends on the edge the ashtray, as if to allow us a moment to appreciate the lush furnishings.
Mutti colours up, a confusion of emotions rippling across her face, reflecting the internal battle that is taking place. But still she says nothing. He meets her eye with a quizzical glance. And for a moment, I could swear some kind of understanding passes between them.
“I’m not sure what my mother told you on the telephone,” I say. “But we came looking for you to discuss another business. My grandfather’s business in Budapest.”
“Yes, my sister mentioned this to me.”
“Do you remember his factory?”
“Of course. I drove your grandfather there every day.”
“My mother and I were in Budapest last week, and we discovered something very surprising to us.”
“Yes?”
“The ownership of the property was transferred to you in the 1930s.”
“Ah, yes.”
“So you don’t deny it?”
“Why would I want to deny such a thing. It is a matter of historic record, as you say.”
“How did it happen?”
“This kind of thing was very common at the time. Anti-Semitic laws prohibited Jews from owning companies, so many people transferred their businesses in name to a friendly gentile. I was trusted by your grandfather, and was happy to take this role on his behalf.”
“The problem is that my mother now wishes to re-claim that property. Before we can go any further, we have to establish prior claim.” I open the file of documents and photographs and spread them out on the coffee table. “Mr Kovács, I need to prove that it was ours.” He pays no attention to my photos, but lights the cigarette he’s been toying with for some minutes. He carries on pacing around the room as if thinking through a chain of consequences.
“And for that you need something from me?”
“We need you to confirm that the property was transferred to you as a formality. My grandfather did not sell it to you, no money changed hands. So morally, it still belonged to my grandfather, and not you.”
“Really?”Kovács gives a theatrical look of surprise. “Will that help? I mean legally it did belong to me, after all.” I can’t tell what game he’s playing.
“But after the war, the property should have been transferred back to my grandfather.”
“Sadly he perished, like so many others.”
“My grandmother did not perish. As you say, she survived. You probably know much more than me about where and how, inside the ghetto or out.
“I do know, of course I know. How many times did I intervene to save your grandmother and mother during the war, after the war? What do you think? I knew the right people, I knew what they wanted. I kept them happy, they all seemed to like the various goods I managed to procure. Unfortunately my influence was not enough to help your poor grandfather, and for that I will forever be sorry.
“But why do you think your mother and her mother were never taken to Auschwitz? Have you ever asked yourself that? How did they manage after the death of your father? Where did they get the black market papers your grandmother needed to get out of Hungary with Aranca?”
I’m not getting anything from Mutti, so I say, “I’m sure my family have a great deal to be grateful to you, Mr Kovács. But what did happen to the property after the war?”
“At first we allowed ourselves to hope that the old life would return, but when our hopes were dashed and the communist regime began to take hold of our country.”
Mutti looks crushed by the weight of the memories Kovácshas stirred up. There’s gratitude in her face – it sounds as though our family owes him a lot. But it’s at war with something else. I’m in the dark, but as she seems unable to say anything at the moment, I have to speak for both of us.
“I’m sure the family owed you a lot MrKovács, but not every last thing they owned. My mother is here now. She is the rightful heir to the property.” He shrugs, and sits down on his chair, bringing it close to me.
“Miss Mueller, we have to go back to what happened after the war. The Russians came, you must remember that Budapest was very chaotic for months, years. So much had been destroyed. Towards the end, everything ground to a halt. So many of the buildings were lying in ruins. Nothing was working – the things that we call infrastructure nowadays. Those were not in place. You couldn’t just look someone up in the phone book and expect to find them.”
“So what happened to it?”
“The factory? Ah yes, a good question. After the
so-called ‘liberation’ things began to get going again, though it was slow. I found my way over to the premises. And there I found things in a pretty poor state. The building had been shelled in a couple of places, so there was wreckage everywhere and a great hole in the roof. Even the sound parts were full of dust and debris. Some of the machinery had been taken by looters. But as I was looking round, I discovered that some of the other former employees were gathering there. They hoped to get the enterprise going again. And that’s what we did.”
“But my grandfather was dead, so who did it belong to?”
“Legally, as you say, it belonged to me. But we were not concerned with such things. It was more important to get into production. To get things going. We wanted life to get back to normal, as it used to be.”
“Did it?”
“By 1948, we were doing OK. It felt like an enormous feat. To build the enterprise back up from nothing, after what we had been through. And now we were creating something, and providing for over a hundred families. Quite an achievement, don’t you think?”
“Yes of course. But what happened after that?” He ignores my question and carries on with his story.
“Soon the Soviets were tightening their grip on the apparatus of state. Our factory was nationalised. No compensation. We were to continue working there, but now we were employees within a vast bureaucracy. And eventually, just as I had helped your mother and grandmother to leave the country – it was possible to get hold of papers if you knew who to pay – I managed to get over the border, and made my way to Paris.”
“But at the time it was nationalised, the property still nominally belonged to you.”
“Yes.”
“It’s a long shot. But we are hoping…”
“I understand, you want to claim the property back. I did look into the matter myself some years ago. You are very welcome to inspect the paperwork.” At the mention of paperwork, I turn to the documents that I’ve laid out, and try to pull out the most relevant ones.
“If you would just help us and, yes, any papers you have would be helpful.” He doesn’t look at the contents of our file though, but carries on.
“Miss Mueller, soon after the collapse of the Berlin Wall, the business was sold off to a Russian businessman, for just over $5,000 in today’s money.” He pauses, looking bored. “You were recently in Budapest, did you see the factory?”
“Just briefly. It looked very successful – sparkling and spotless.”
“Precisely. It is now a very successful enterprise manufacturing computer casings, as you probably know. In today’s money it is worth several million dollars.”
“But it is rightly ours, and we should be able to get it back, surely we are entitled to something.”
“You can’t get the property back, you can make a claim for financial restitution – and believe me there are many hoops to jump through.”
“It would be justice.”
“You would get a very small amount of money, not much worth to you. More of a token really – but it means a state struggling to overcome the dreadful legacy of communism loses just a little bit more? Is that what you want?”
“I’ve heard all those arguments before and quite frankly that’s not our problem. The Hungarian State didn’t do much to protect my family. We owe them nothing.”
“I see. Well, maybe that’s understandable.” His face says otherwise.
“Not everybody has been so lucky as you, Mr Kovács. My mother needs the cash, however little it may be.” Mutti flashes an angry look straight at me. We’re sitting in the sumptuous home of her former servant, and now I’ve admitted she’s broke. Humiliating hardly covers it.
“You know, Miss Mueller – can I call you Elizabeth? Let us not forget that there are many, many people in Hungary less lucky than either me or your mother.”
I’m not in the mood for a discourse on relative prosperity, and I’m not prepared to take lectures from this man, there’s something creepy about him. By his own admission he was supplying black market goods to the Nazis during the war. That probably makes him a collaborator, and in no position to take the moral high ground. “And what about the sanctity of the master-servant relationship you spoke of so highly,” I snap. “Wouldn’t my grandfather have wanted you to do your utmost to help my mother?”
“We go.” Mutti is standing.
“Young lady, there is nothing I can do.”
“We go,” Mutti repeats, but louder this time.
“But we’re just discussing—”
“Enough.” She adds something in Hungarian, andKovács raises an eyebrow. Her face is red, a tear threatening the corner of one eye, her breathing heavy. I pick up my coat and bag, and take Mutti by the arm. She looks fragile as porcelain.
“It’s all an act. It’s rubbish. He is a disgusting man. A thief, a spy, a liar. You heard what he did during the war – after. He had power, because of who he knew. You ask him. He thinks I don’t remember, but how could I forget what he did to. To me. To me.” Tears are streaming down her mottled face, cutting a path through her face powder.
“Your mother’s memory is playing tricks with her. I think she’s confusing me with someone else. I think it is indeed better if you leave.”
I start pushing the documents back into their tatty folder as fast as I can.
“You are getting above yourself,” screams Mutti at Kovács. I grab onto her to make sure she doesn’t fall as I hustle her down the granite stairs. The door slams, and we’re on the pavement holding tight onto each other, her body quaking with tears.
“Liar, liar, liar.”
I guide her into the car and back to my place as soon as I can. I make a pot of strong coffee. Instead of sweetener, Mutti loads sugar into her cup. She looks shocked. No, it’s more than that. She’s traumatised.
“What did Kovács do that was so terrible?” I ask.
“Ach…what does it matter? There’s no point talking about it now.” A sour late afternoon sun squeezes its way through the half open curtains. I put my hand on hers. I wish I could read her face, to work out what it is.
“He’s a liar,” she says.
“But what’s he lying about and what really happened?”
She shrugs.
“Mutti, we can’t go any further with this if you don’t tell me what’s going on.” She sighs. “It is a fool who trusts his servants.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Old Hungarian saying my mother used to use. It means you should always check up on your servants. They watch you and know you. You should watch them too, because they know too much about you. You don’t even notice them.”
“So that honourable master-servant relationship Kovács was talking about?”
“Rubbish – they are waiting for their chance. That’s all. If something’s missing, look in the servant’s quarters. My father trusted his servants too much. See what happened. My mother knew. She kept the larder under lock and key.”
“I think that’s rather patronising to people who have to work for their living. Some are trustworthy, and some aren’t.”
“Their interests are never the same as yours.”
“Yeah but Mutti, that’s the equivalent of the Daily Mail saying watch the nanny, she’s going to steal your husband.”
“Ja. You’ve never had to deal with such people.”
“Well, maybe it’s lucky that we can’t afford servants any more.”
She nods.
“What now? How are we going to deal with the troublesome servant?”
“Maybe it’s time to stop.”
“But we’ve come so far. We’ve found out so much.”
“Thank you, darling, for coming with me. It was lovely, really. Much nicer than I thought it would be. But I’m tired. I have a rest now.” It’s true that she looks utterly exhausted and hunched as she makes her unsteady way towards the spare room. Soon I hear her half-snore, half-shout in restless sleep.
It’s nearly six o’clock
but I drive back towards work anyway, to make up for the time I’ve lost. Passing through Camden Town, all that stuff about servants is re-playing round my head in a loop. What a different world my mother comes from. What was it she said? Your servants know you and watch you. Well we don’t have housekeepers, chauffeurs and maids any more. If only it was still like that, solving Bruchi Friedmann’s murder would be as simple as a game of Cluedo. It was the butler, in the pantry with the iron piping. Ha. They watch you. Who watches us nowadays? People have cleaners once a week – twice if they’re flash. A nanny perhaps, a child minder otherwise. I suppose you could always dial in the man who comes to mend the dishwasher, the service wash lady at the launderette. The modern day servants. I’m not sure if any of this helps. It’s about as much use as Mutti’s stock of trite Austro-Hungarian proverbs.
When I get home late that night, she’s doing a crossword at the dining room table, and finishing off the last of the coffee. The gargantuan suitcase is still there in my spare room. I was rather hoping to get her on her way to Cardiff, now that we’ve seen Kovács and there’s not much else to do. I’m going round to Dave’s later, there’s so much to catch up on.