Burning Cold

by Lisa Lieberman

  “Someday,” said József, “when we meet again under happier circumstances, I would like to hear you play it.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” my husband told him, returning to his project.

  The drive back took us through the university district, the site where the fighting had begun on October 23. József pointed out the radio station where his son, Péti, had been injured. He’d been part of a student delegation that had attempted to storm the building in order to broadcast their demands on the air. They had no weapons at first, making them easy targets for the ÁVH men who’d barricaded themselves inside and were shooting at the students, but army units sent in by the government to rescue them wound up defecting to the demonstrators’ side, turning over their guns and ammunition. They were soon joined by workers from the munitions factory, who brought more arms. By morning the revolutionaries had captured the building.

  “He sounds very brave,” commented Gray.

  József shook his head. “Young people have no understanding of the dangers they run.” Péti had been shot in the leg, and while the bullet missed hitting an artery, the damage was fairly severe. The boy would always walk with a limp, but there were larger consequences to the disability, he told us. Once order was restored, József envisioned the authorities going house-to-house, arresting all they suspected of having participated in the uprising. Anyone with an injury like Péti’s would be implicated. I felt selfish for having taken so much of József’s time and attention. He had enough on his plate without adding our fruitless pursuit of Zoltán to his problems. But maybe there was something we could do to help.

  “Why don’t we take your son with us?” I looked to Jakub and Gray, who both nodded their affirmation. It seemed the least we could do, after everything József had done for us. He and his wife could join us in Vienna—we could look after Péti until they arrived—and I was sure that Lázár would do everything he could to help them get settled in Paris. It was what he’d wanted all along, to bring his family to safety.

  “That’s very generous of you, but Péti’s in no shape to travel,” said József.

  He looked so discouraged, and it was evident he was still struggling to reconcile himself to the future that lay in store. I wanted to argue with him, but already he was getting that closed-off expression on his face, retreating behind his wall.

  “Turn left at the next intersection,” he directed.

  My brother did as instructed and, sure enough, there was the garage. The place resembled a 1930s filling station, with clock face pumps, the kind that showed the gallons but required you to calculate the price in your head. There were three pumps but only one of them seemed to be dispensing gas, and the attendant looked frantic. We joined the queue to fill up while József went inside to inquire about having the tire repaired, returning almost immediately with discouraging news. We were not the only ones in Budapest with a punctured tire. The wait to have it repaired would be even longer than the wait for gas.

  “Why don’t we just buy a new one and be done with it?” Gray reached for his wallet and pulled out his stash of forints. We’d purchased a large quantity of the Hungarian currency in Paris before setting off but had spent very little.

  “I already asked about that,” said József. “They ran out days ago.”

  We debated our options as we sat in line. We could pump up the soft tire—the service station had air—but we couldn’t trust it to get us to the border. Alternatively, we could leave the tire with the garage overnight and they’d have it ready the next morning. None of us liked the idea of spending another night at the Duna, but József argued that we’d be safest returning to a place where we were known, provided we remained vigilant.

  “We have to assume that you’re being watched. They’ll be looking for an opportunity to get you off alone somewhere. Pack up your belongings the minute you get back, all of them, and keep them nearby. You don’t want to return to your rooms for any reason tonight.”

  This struck Jakub as excessive. “Are you recommending that we sleep in the lobby?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend sleeping at all, unless you take it in turns,” said József. “And the last place you want to be is your hotel room. Privacy is a luxury you can’t afford. Listen to me: you must keep to the public areas of the hotel and be very visible. Go talk to that journalist friend of yours—”

  “He’s not our friend,” I said. If Gray could stand up for me, I’d return the favor by standing up for him.

  “Make him your friend,” József instructed. “Use him. Tell him what you learned at the embassy today. You want to expose Miner, don’t you?”

  My brother gave a pained smile. “A scoop like this will make Ames’s career. Just what I wanted: a friend for life.”

  Ames, as usual, was delighted to see us. We’d spotted him in the lobby as we left the dining room after our meal.

  “Here goes,” said Gray, grim-faced but determined.

  “Ah, the travelers have returned.” Hurriedly excusing himself from the sofa where he’d been gabbing with one of his colleagues, the tabloid journalist led the way to the bar and eased his bulk onto a stool. “What will it be, dearies?” The bartender had set a pink gin in front of him without being asked and now stood by, awaiting our orders. They were no longer making a pretense of enforcing the alcohol ban at the Duna and, looking around the room, I noticed a number of the patrons drinking hard liquor, doubtless fortifying themselves for what lay ahead.

  We ordered beers—the pilsner was more than acceptable, according to Ames—and launched into an account of our visit to the embassy. The British journalist heard us out, his interest sharpening as Jakub detailed his suspicions regarding Nicholas’s prior activities in Spain and France.

  “Hold on, I’d like the Reuters chap to hear this. It’s really his purview. He covers the diplomatic beat, might have run into this Miner character.”

  The Reuters chap, a bearded, red-headed Scotsman named Ian, proved rather cagey. When pressed by Ames, he admitted to having been inside the American embassy once or twice, but that was as far as he’d go.

  “A dinnae ken him.”

  “What did he say?” my husband whispered.

  “He claims he doesn’t know Nicholas,” I whispered back.

  Ames, however, was doggedly making the case for investigating our story. “You know the Yanks. Would they knowingly put a man with Communist ties in a sensitive position?”

  “A hae nae thochtie,” Ian replied unintelligibly, rising from his barstool. He offered the seat to Gray, who’d vacated it when the Scotsman joined us, taking himself and his glass of whiskey off to the nether regions of the bar.

  Just then, a group Ames’s compatriots entered the room. “He’s done it!” one of them proclaimed. “Nagy is pulling out of the Warsaw pact.”

  “Bloody hell!” said Ames. He hastily downed his drink and followed the other newsmen to an empty table in the back corner. We dragged a few chairs over and joined them. Someone had brought along a radio and tuned it to the BBC. After the pips marking the top of the eight o’clock hour, we all strained to hear the news on Hungary, but the majority of the broadcast was taken up with the Suez Crisis.

  “Gyppos asked for it, closing the canal,” Ames opined to general agreement. “Nasser has to be taught a lesson.”

  Toward the end of the program, the announcer mentioned unconfirmed reports that Soviet forces had surrounded the Budapest airport. There were also rumors of armored battalions crossing from Ukraine into eastern Hungary and making their way toward the city.

  “Rumors, my foot,” complained the Times reporter. “My photographer risked his life to bring back solid evidence of a troop build-up. Don’t they know what’s going on?”

  “Oh, they know all right,” said Jakub. He then surprised me by informing the entire group about the convoy. “We’ll be on it, and I wouldn’t linger too long in Budape
st if I were you,” he told the assembled newsmen. I realized he was doing exactly as József had instructed, making us the center of attention. My husband’s ability to converse in French, Italian, and Polish guaranteed him a good-sized audience of foreign correspondents, all wanting to learn more about the American view of the uprising, and he was soon at the center of a lively conversation being conducted in several languages simultaneously.

  Gray, meanwhile, was discoursing with the English speakers around the table on the upcoming presidential election in the United States. Eisenhower was expected to win a second term, but my brother let it be known that he supported Stevenson.

  “What, are you an egghead, too, then?” said someone with an Irish accent.

  “Not really.” My brother admired Stevenson chiefly for his stance against McCarthyism, as he proceeded to explain—a lecture I’d sat through more than once. His listeners grew outraged when he got to the part about how Richard Nixon had accused Stevenson of spreading Communist propaganda while governor of Illinois.

  “The vice president said that? He’s as good as charging Stevenson with treason, according to the Fourteenth Amendment: giving aid or comfort to the enemy.” The Times man had evidently studied our Constitution.

  “Damn straight,” agreed Gray, whose loathing of Nixon knew no bounds. “That lying red-baiter will use every trick in the book to smear his opponent. He’s angling for the presidency and heaven help us if he manages to get himself elected.”

  The conversation turned to the country’s new prime minister, Imre Nagy. Pulling out of the Warsaw Pact and proclaiming Hungarian neutrality was a desperate move, evidence that the new prime minister realized the revolution would fail. Austria may have gotten away with declaring its neutrality a year earlier, but Austria had never been a Soviet satellite.

  “Mark my words, mates,” predicted an Australian photographer, “this game will be over in no time.” There was unanimous agreement around the table, which wasn’t surprising. We’d been given the same prognosis by everyone, from Dr. Keller to the embassy official who’d told us about the convoy to the couple we met in Republic Square.

  My gaze wandered to the doorway. A man in a dark overcoat had just entered the bar. Was it my imagination, or was he watching us? Jakub squeezed my hand under the table to let me know he was also aware of our observer. I sipped my beer, sneaking glances at the worrisome man every few minutes. He’d moved out of the doorway but remained standing, crossing and uncrossing his arms, checking his watch. He appeared to be waiting for someone and as time passed without his pal showing up, his fidgeting increased. Then a familiar figure entered the bar: Frankie. I recognized him by his physique—he was easily the tallest person in the room. Nodding to the man in the overcoat, the stringer positioned himself at a center table, where we couldn’t avoid passing him, were we to leave. Gray stood up and went around to Ames’s side of the table. Putting a hand on the journalist’s shoulder, he leaned down to speak to him.

  “Do you see that man who just sat down?” He jerked his head in Frankie’s direction.

  “Aye, laddie.”

  Ian had materialized out of nowhere. Did he also suspect Frankie of not being what he said he was? He must have, for he pulled up a chair at the journalists’ table and stayed close by, silently sipping his whiskey. There was something gnome-like about him, a combination of the beard and his gruff demeanor, but I found his presence reassuring—I think we all did—and as the evening wore on he seemed to mellow toward us.

  Heeding József’s warning, our suitcases were packed and stowed with the bellman. All that remained was to settle our bill in the morning, but getting through the night was going to be a challenge. I could barely keep my eyes open, and it was only 10 p.m. Jakub was drowsy too, and even Gray was slowing down.

  “If yer tired, try fer a kip,” said Ian.

  “A kip?” Another word my husband had never encountered.

  Ames explained that “kip” was Scottish for “lie-down,” the British expression for a nap. “Go on then, up to bed with the three of you,” he prodded. “You’ll want to have your wits about you for the drive tomorrow.”

  We weren’t about to admit in front of the others that we were afraid to go up to our rooms. Not with Frankie there, nursing his single glass of pálinka and watching our every move. But Ian solved the problem by offering us the use of his suite. He had a story to file and would be working in the living room; the three of us could kip in the bedroom if we didn’t mind the noise of his typewriter clattering away on the other side of the wall. I assured him that I could think of no more comforting a sound. In fact, I’d grown used to falling asleep to the plinks of Gray typing in the next room when we were sharing a flat in London.

  “He’s an insomniac,” Ames confided as the Scotsman went to pay his tab. He himself wasn’t ready to call it a night, however. There might be more to learn from his fellow newsmen. “What time did you say that convoy was leaving?”

  “Seven o’clock,” said Jakub. “We’ll be getting an early start in the morning.” Of course we had no intention of joining the convoy. József would direct us to the outskirts of the city once we’d picked up the tire. He’d promised the mechanic a hefty bonus if it was ready for us first thing.

  “Oh, my. Much too early for me, dearies. I’ll just say goodbye now.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Ames.” I reached across the table to shake his hand. He’d grown on me. In his own way, he’d been looking out for us, and I realized that I wouldn’t mind one bit if our paths were to cross again. Beneath the bluster was a good heart and I thought that even my brother had warmed toward him.

  We took the elevator up to the third floor with Ian. When the doors opened, he insisted upon getting out first, motioning for us to stay a few paces behind as we followed him down the hall to his suite. Once inside, the Scotsman put a finger to his lips and went straight to the typewriter: What kind of trouble have you gotten yourselves into? In print, he expressed himself in plain English, I was glad to see.

  Gray took Ian’s seat and pecked out a response. We may have uncovered a spy at the American embassy. We were trying to tell you in the bar.

  The bar is no place for that kind of conversation. Tell me now.

  His name is Nicholas Miner. We think he was with Comintern in Spain—

  Ian nudged him aside. Wait a second. He put a clean sheet of paper in the typewriter and put a series of questions to Gray, beginning with how we’d met Nicholas, then moving on to our suspicions regarding the man’s Communist affiliations. The two of them went back and forth, with Jakub occasionally taking a turn at the keys to offer his insight into Nicholas’s activities. Ian collected the pages as they came out of the typewriter, numbering and dating each one before placing it inside a folder he’d pulled from his briefcase. By midnight, he’d compiled a full report on the alleged Soviet agent.

  I will make sure that this information gets into the right hands. Now tell me about tomorrow. You don’t want to go anywhere near the American embassy.

  We know. That was just to throw them off the scent. My brother typed out our plan to pick up the tire and leave directly from the garage. By the time Miner realizes that we’re not with the convoy, we’ll be well on our way to Vienna.

  Ian wasn’t satisfied. For your own safety, you must pay very close attention in case you’re followed. Take a roundabout route to the garage, double back, and make a note of any vehicles that stay with you for any length of time. Avoid narrow streets where you could get blocked in. Do you understand?

  We will be careful.

  I hope so. Now get some sleep.

  I didn’t expect to sleep, lying fully clothed beside Jakub on top of one twin bed, while Gray occupied the other, but I drifted off almost instantly in my husband’s arms. It would be my last untroubled night. Early the next morning, as we left the hotel, we found József lying face down on the sidewalk in a poo
l of blood.

  CHAPTER NINE

  November 2, 1956

  I might have screamed, but Jakub, who had seen the body first, quickly put down our suitcase and pulled me into his arms. “Shhh, it’s all right. I’m here.”

  Gray was kneeling by József with his back to us, searching for a pulse. “His throat’s been cut,” he said, straightening up and stepping away from the corpse.

  “Oh, God. No.” I buried my head against Jakub’s chest, sobbing into his camel hair overcoat. József was our friend. No, he was more than that: he was our compass, our light, guiding us through the morass.

  I’d been entertaining a little fantasy about rescuing him and his family. The idea had come to me the night before, while killing time in the bar. I was thinking about József’s despair over Péti—his terror, really, that his son might end up in prison. He’d refused my offer to bring Péti out of Hungary and seemed resigned to a dire future, but there had to be a solution. We couldn’t turn our backs on him and his family. What if we called Lázár as soon as we reached Vienna? The puppeteer would be on the next train, I was quite sure of it, and we’d be waiting for him with the Romanian playwright’s car in good running order. Lázár could drive back across the border and bring out his relatives as soon as it was feasible while the three of us proceeded to Paris by train, arriving in plenty of time to welcome them when they arrived. I imagined them stepping into the café. József, impeccable in his tweeds, ever the British gentleman. Would he eventually make his way back to England, I wondered? With his command of the language, he’d be happier there, and Péti no doubt could continue his studies at one of the British universities, once he’d mastered English. Gray would do what he could to help the family, and Jakub and I would be frequent visitors, in between gigs.

  Crazy thinking, but I was replaying this far-fetched scenario in one corner of my mind as I stood there crying over József’s body. Some part of me knew he was dead. I would never see him again, in Paris or anywhere else. Oh, but I did see him. Even with my eyes closed, the image of his body on the sidewalk was all too vivid. Gray was still kneeling, telling us that József’s throat had been cut. There was blood all around.