by Anna Porter
“Not much formal education, but he read a great deal. He read in Russian and English and French. Hungarian, of course. Russian was easy, we were all taught the basics in school, but he really had to work for the rest. I was his French tutor. That’s how I met him. My mother had taught me French. She had gone to a convent school. He learned quickly. He was interested in reading French writers in the original: Victor Hugo, Rabelais, Stendhal, Francois Villon. Did you know that Villon was a big success in Hungary? Translated by György Faludy. János was interested in how much Faludy had changed the poems from the original.”
“Faludy?”
“A great Hungarian poet. János was also interested how Faludy came to translate those particular poems. He told me that Faludy was not to be trusted, either as a translator or as someone serving the cause.”
“The cause?”
“Socialism. Communism. Whatever. Faludy was, I think, still in jail at the time. János suspected most Hungarians offered lip service to such politics but they were not engaged by the ideas.”
“Why did you leave him?”
Gertrude gazed at the low table between them for a few minutes before she answered. “He changed with the times. I didn’t. I prefer a simple life. János knew what was going to happen, long before they reburied Imre Nagy with all the pomp and circumstance fitting for a former prime minister. You know he was killed after ’56.”
“And you came here. Why?”
“Why here? It’s safer. János is a powerful man. I wanted to move my son out of his way, so he could be whatever he wanted to be. And my mother is buried over there.” She turned to face the churchyard.
“Did he ever talk about Géza Márton?”
“Maybe a couple of times. I was glad Géza had left in ’56. It was safer for him to be elsewhere.”
“Did he talk about Géza’s father’s trial?”
“Not to me,” Gertrude said. “I told him I had been to Géza’s home and met his parents. Géza’s father was not in the Party. He didn’t believe in it. He was the one who convinced Géza to leave in ’56.”
“But you knew János helped convict Géza’s father?”
Gertrude picked up her cup but put it down quickly. Her hand was shaking. “Not really. I knew he was involved in the trials, but I thought it was just about what he’d seen in front of Party headquarters. János was lucky he wasn’t inside that day and lucky no one recognized him where he was. Everybody knew about the killings. The ÁVO men coming out of the building with their hands up, shot all the same, then strung up by their feet and left to hang upside down from the trees. It was in all the papers. Even in America. But whether Géza’s father was there, I don’t know.”
“He wasn’t. But that didn’t matter. János claimed that he was there, and he was believed. Perhaps there was some unfinished business between János and Géza?”
Gertrude giggled, a bit girlishly, but it suited her face, and her sad expression lightened. “You mean because I had walked out with Géza? I doubt János would have cared, even had he known.” Helena liked the old-fashioned expression “walking out,” though it didn’t really work in French.
“He would have known everything about Géza,” Helena said. “There were files. State security collected information on everyone — you know that — and they were particularly interested in anyone who had been in a Soviet labour camp. When did you meet him?”
“A couple of years after he came home,” Gertrude said. “He was still emaciated, starved for human contact as much as food. We met on the street near the opera house, where we both lived. He helped me with a bag of coal. I thought he was too weak to carry it, but he insisted. Later, he would sometimes visit and hover in our kitchen while I cooked. He said he wanted to smell the dinner. It’s how we became . . .”
“Friends?”
“We were more than friends,” Gertrude said quietly, as if her son were still in the room. “But he was still so . . . damaged.”
“Did he ever mention anyone he knew in Vorkuta?”
“I don’t think so. But he didn’t like talking about his time there. He had suffered too much. He wanted a new start in life. How is he now?”
“He’s fine. We tend to get over things more easily when we are older, don’t you think?”
“Some of us brood,” Gertrude said, lightly. “I think he brooded too much. He couldn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried. He was never happy to be living in Hungary under the Communists. He didn’t say anything, but it was obvious. He must have decided to leave after the Revolution. He didn’t tell me. He sent me a postcard later, from Salzburg, saying goodbye and wishing me a long, happy life.”
“He waited for you until December, more than a month after the Russians came in.”
Gertrude nodded. “He may have thought I would go with him,” she said with a shrug. “But I couldn’t leave my parents. They were already old in middle age. They’d had a hard life.”
“Have you heard from him since then?”
“Not for years. It had been such a long time since I last heard his voice, but I recognized it when he called.”
“When?”
“When did he call? A few weeks ago. He wanted to know about János at the end of the war. Whether he had been sent to a Soviet labour camp. Such an odd question. Especially as I didn’t meet János until ’57.”
“Did you know?”
“What?’
“What happened to János in ’45.”
Gertrude shook her head. “He never talked much about the war. Only about the liberation and the Soviet army handing out food to the kids who emerged from the cellars after the siege. I thought his father had been in the Communist Party before the war. The police picked his father up in ’43 or ’44 and handed him over to the Germans. János never saw him again. He later got some kind of medal in recognition of his father’s bravery. He wore it sometimes — it had a five-pointed star, I remember that. He always marched in the May 1 parades, even after we didn’t have to. When barely anyone else went out to celebrate International Workers’ Day.”
“When was Jenci born?”
“In 1978. And no one marched as enthusiastically as János did, holding baby Jenci in the crook of his arm. He was so little.” She smiled. “János took him up to the top of Gellért Hill where the Soviet memorial stood and told him about the liberation, as if Jenci could understand. I think those two statues have been moved.”
“To the Communist statues park, in the 1990s.”
“I guess we were no longer grateful for being liberated.”
“Did János ever mention the Soviet labour camps?”
Gertrude seemed to be thinking. “I am almost sure he didn’t. That was a forbidden subject then. No one talked about the maljenki roboters. Not even people who had been there. Géza barely mentioned it, although he was there for more than three years. Once, we were walking along the river, and I asked him. We knew enough not to talk about it inside. Our homes were bugged, and there were informers everywhere — people we knew who sold other people’s secrets for personal gain.”
“And János?”
“He was a ranking officer in the service of the state. He wouldn’t have acknowledged they existed except to re-educate enemies of the regime. Fascists. People like Faludy, Rajk. Or to punish spies serving the capitalist conspiracy.”
“Do you think it’s possible János was in one of the camps himself?”
Gertrude shook her head. “I can’t imagine that. He was such a true believer. Why would they have picked him up?”
“The soldiers were not particularly choosy whom they picked up. They didn’t question them about their politics. János, like Géza, could have just been in the wrong place.”
“But, unlike Géza, János believed all the Soviet propaganda. He was not cynical like Géza was. He didn’t complain about lack of freedom. Had he
been in a Soviet camp, he would have had doubts.”
“Would you have known if he had doubts?” Helena asked.
“I think I would have known, if anyone did.”
“But you’re not sure . . .”
Gertrude gazed out the window for a moment before she replied. “Can you ever be sure of anything about another person? Why do you ask?”
Helena shrugged. “It’s important for Géza.”
“Now? Why now?”
Helena was not going to tell Gertrude the whole story, but she had to give her something or she would not help them. “There is something of Géza’s that János has and Géza wants it back.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a big painting of Christ entering Jerusalem,” Helena said.
“János has an eye for paintings,” Gertrude said. “Even works by foreign artists. Some were religious, although he doesn’t believe in religion. There were even a few he liked that the regime would not have found socialist enough. Abstracts. My mother had pictures of Jesus and Mary in our apartment. János said they made him feel uncomfortable. Too much religion, he said. We didn’t even have a church wedding.”
“But you do remember a large painting of Christ on a donkey with a bunch of people waving and cheering . . .”
“There was one painting of Christ. I didn’t much like it. It was too dark.”
“Had you ever seen it before?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe at Géza’s?”
“I didn’t go to his place.”
“And you have no idea when he got it?”
Gertrude shook her head.
“Did he use a dealer to buy his art?”
“I don’t think so. But back then, he invited a lot of people to our place. Some of his friends from work, some he had known for many years. One of them may have been a dealer.” She stirred more sugar into her cup. The tea must have been cold by then.
“Among János’s friends, do you remember anyone they called Bika?”
Gertrude shook her head again. Did she do it too quickly? “But sometimes I would go to my room and he would meet with his friends alone.”
“Are you quite sure?”
Gertrude looked down at her lap. “Bika?” she asked.
“Yes. Bull, in Hungarian.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. Helena didn’t believe her.
“Did you ever invite your own friends?” Simple curiosity, but Helena couldn’t resist.
Gertrude seemed to think about that for a while, as if it were a question that had never occurred to her before. Then she decided not to answer. Instead, she said, “Géza said you were an art expert.”
“Yes. It’s what I do.” Which was part of the truth. “Géza grew up with this painting. It has sentimental value. He wants it back before he dies.”
“Has he been ill?”
“No, but he is old.”
“Why would he even want such a painting? Has he become Catholic?”
“He has a collection.”
“Géza has an art collection?”
“A few pieces. But this particular one has sentimental value.”
“You want me to talk to János?”
“I don’t think it would help,” Helena said.
Gertrude gathered the cups and went to the kitchen. Her son appeared and placed the fake van Gogh on the table. He had stuck it in a brown frame but that didn’t improve its appearance.
“Perhaps Géza would like this one, as well,” Gertrude said when she came in, “if he has the money to buy art.”
“I told your son I would see what I can do,” Helena said.
“Please take another look at it. I want to send Jenci back to school. I think he would do well in Canada. He was a good student and he speaks English already.” She took a deep breath. “We need the money, you see.”
“How much?” Helena asked.
“Could you manage ten thousand euro?”
Not wanting her decision to seem too quick, Helena looked at the painting for a few minutes before she nodded. “We’ll have the money transferred to your bank.” Géza would surely send the money, and if he refused, she would send it herself.
When his mother went into the bedroom, Jenci took the painting out of the frame, rolled it up, and tied it with a ribbon. Helena told him to keep it until she came back to collect it. She couldn’t risk taking it on a train, she said. They might ask to see its papers. They both knew they didn’t bother with that sort of stuff now that both Slovakia and Hungary were in the European Union, but he let it go. Their interest was in getting the money, not in selling a painting.
“Have you ever met Géza Márton?” Helena asked him.
“Yes, of course,” he said with an uncertain smile.
“Here?”
“Not only here.”
“Where else?” Helena asked, but Gertrude came in just then, and Jenci stayed quiet.
***
Twenty minutes later, Helena was in an almost-new dark-blue Fiat Sport. She had rented it, paying cash, using her Austrian licence for identification in the name of Maria Steinbrunner. The photo was of a woman with black hair cut in a fringe, dark under the eyes, rimless glasses. It was not one of Helena’s favourites, nor had Ms. Steinbrunner been.
She called Géza before crossing the border back into Hungary. He wanted to know what Gertrude had said about the Titian, but he was even more interested in how Gertrude was and what she had said about Krestin. Were they still in touch? When she described the painting Gertrude had offered to sell, Géza laughed so hard he dropped the phone — at least that was what Helena assumed from the crash and scramble at Géza’s end of the conversation.
“We’ll give her the money,” he said when he had recovered. “I’ll have it transferred in the morning.”
Interesting, she thought, he must already have her account information.
CHAPTER 13
It’s easy for someone to disappear in a big city, people do, but that someone like Helena Marsh — obviously foreign, in need of a hotel room, or at least a car, or a bus, or a train ticket, or a flight out of the country — could vanish was ridiculously improbable. The police had checked every hotel and exit point. She was nowhere.
Tóth had left Attila a message on his cell phone, reluctantly confirming that the man found dead in the Gellért was, indeed, a Bulgarian national. Attila could tell just how loath Tóth was to tell him this from his bored voice, his sigh, and the lack of information. If he knew the man was Bulgarian, no doubt he also knew his name and maybe his quasi profession. Tóth would have searched the Interpol site for his mug shot, as Attila had recommended, but that would be too much for him to admit.
Attila was nursing an espresso at his usual table in the Gerbeaud and poring over the day’s news without the slightest interest. Another demonstration in Kossuth Square, with protestors demanding more say in the affairs of state — completely pointless. People wanting to change some government policies usually find that the government ignores them. Once when the government decided to tax internet use and were taken aback by the hysterical reaction of internet users. That was the last time the government had backed down on anything, but that single occasion encouraged people to imagine there was still democracy in this country, so they protested. There were photographs of an impressive turnout in front of the bust of Miklós Horthy in Szabadság Square. The flattering bronze had been installed by a Reform Church minister nostalgic for the bad old days when it was easy to pass anti-Jewish laws and there was hope that Admiral Horthy would reattach the lost pieces of the country, whatever the price. Well, the price had turned out to be the lives of half a million Hungarian soldiers on the Eastern Front and the murder of about the same number of Hungarian Jews. Perhaps for the cheering people who gathered around the monument, none of that mattered.<
br />
At the next table, two German women were reviewing the day’s shopping. Attila had mixed feelings about Germans. He resented their air of untrammelled self-confidence, but there was a time when he had appreciated their predictable response to established authority.
When asked by a policeman, they would hand over their passports, car registration papers, even their birth certificates, without so much as a raised eyebrow. Though they would never get their stolen wallets or cars back, they would spend uncomplaining hours at the Rakoczy Street station filling out forms.
In the old days, the cars, parts missing, were usually found, but the “market economy” had provided a market for stolen cars. Thieves had become more sophisticated. They ran smooth operations that included assembly lines for processing vehicles, erasing all signs of their origins, returning them to the streets and the eager arms of their new owners complete with fake registration, licence plates, new colours, changed interiors, no detail too tiny to overlook.
Attila had stumbled into one of these plants in Csepel, near the former automobile factory, once the pride of the Socialist Republic, now owned by Belgians. Unlike the old factory where his father had worked, the thieves’ plant was spotless, computer-run. Of course, the files had been erased and the documents vanished along with the criminals. It was impossible to determine the origins or destinations of the stolen cars. Someone had, obviously, warned them. A citation would be added to his own file.
Someone else had received more tangible rewards.
At a nearby table, two little girls in flowery overalls were spooning ice cream from a glass bowl and dribbling it down their pretty clothes. Their father was sitting way back from the table, one raised knee touching the edge, surveying the square. A divorced man with children for the weekend: Attila knew all about it. He booked his weekends with the kids way ahead of time to forestall the ex’s refusal to let them go at short notice. She always had other plans for them, and those plans were usually more interesting — and more expensive — than whatever he had in mind. Most of the time they included her new man (a few of them had become slightly used as time went on, but eventually each one outlived his usefulness). She was still an irritatingly beautiful woman with soft curves, well-muscled haunches, and a soft voice that belied her ability to deliver sharp verbal blows to a man’s sense of self-worth.