by Diane Capri
Her hand rested on a thick briefcase, a discreet handcuff attaching it to her wrist. Morgan touched the leather, warm from her skin, as she had held it on her lap for the short plane flight from London. The briefcase contained two precious artifacts: an early painting by the Jewish-Hungarian artist Béla Czóbel and an antique Torah. Both had been stolen from the Gold Train during the Second World War and now they were finally being returned to the Jewish synagogue in Budapest. Their provenance had been determined beyond question by the ARKANE Institute, and Morgan had volunteered to return them personally.
Morgan was brought up in Israel, her father Jewish and her mother a Welsh Christian. Although she had never converted to Judaism, Morgan knew the pain of European Jewry and wanted to honor her father’s memory by being the courier who restored just a tiny part of the plunder. She had read of the history of the Gold Train, one of the many scandals of the aftermath of the war. The Nazi-operated train had been carrying valuables stolen from Hungarian Jews when it was intercepted by American forces in 1945. Many of the owners, nearly 600,000 Hungarian Jews, had been shipped off to Auschwitz-Birkenau to be murdered in the gas chambers, so the treasures had not been returned. After 1946, much of the valuable property was sold and the proceeds given to the International Refugee Organization, but two hundred paintings disappeared into personal collections. In 1998, the Hungarian Gold Train records finally became public and in 2005, the US government had settled with the Hungarian Holocaust survivors, with the money allocated to Holocaust charities.
The taxi pulled up in front of the Dohany Street synagogue and Morgan paid the fare, exiting into pouring rain. The smell of baking and fresh coffee made her stomach rumble, and she glanced at her watch. There was just enough time to grab a bite before her appointment with the Curator of the Museum at the Synagogue.
A few minutes later, Morgan was sitting in the window seat of a small cafe with a strong black coffee and a slice of poppyseed roulade in front of her. As she sipped her dark addiction, the rain eased and through a break in the clouds, the sun illuminated the stunning facade of Europe’s largest synagogue. Built in Moorish style, the architecture reminded her of the Alhambra in Spain, with minarets topped with onion domes and striped bands of red, gold and patterned brick. The facade was dominated by a large rose window with the Hebrew script from Exodus 25:8: “And let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” Morgan had read that Adolf Eichmann had set up his office behind that rose window in 1944, directing the establishment of the Ghetto as he orchestrated the horror of the Final Solution. She shook her head. This area had seen such suffering, but perhaps these objects could at least bring a touch of restitution.
As Morgan finished her coffee and the last crumbs of roulade, the door opened and she heard a faint chanting and shouting in the distance, sirens wailing. A man came in and spoke with the cafe owner in a hushed voice, before going back outside and starting to pull down shutters over the front of the windows.
“So sorry, Madam,” the woman who had served her said, with a rueful smile. “We close now. Would you mind … outside?”
“Of course,” said Morgan. “I was just leaving anyway. Has something happened?”
The woman glanced out of the window towards the synagogue, her gaze full of concern, fingers clutching the edges of her skirt.
“It’s difficult …” The woman searched for the words in English. “Today, murder at Basilica, there may be trouble …”
Her voice trailed off but her eyes were fearful. Morgan knew that look, for she had seen it many times in Israel as the sirens warned of an imminent attack. In her years of growing up there, and later as a military psychologist, that expression had blossomed dark on the faces of Jews and Palestinians alike, both sides locked into a Sisyphean conflict. Fear, she had discovered, had no nationality.
Morgan left the cafe as the woman bolted the door behind her and folded inner shutters over the glass windows. On the street outside, a stiff breeze made the election banners wave and crackle. Opposite the shop was a huge signboard advertising the Eröszak party where the handsome face of their leader, László Vay, stared out, his clean-shaven politician’s face portraying both strength and charisma. His dark curls were tousled perfectly, his mouth was a sensuous cupid’s bow and his eyes, the color of the Caribbean, offered depths of implied pleasure. But the beauty of the man obscured the dark politics of his right-wing political party, Morgan thought. Eröszak was calling for a national registry of Jews and their possessions, a hideous reflection of what had happened here within living memory.
Walking over to the synagogue entrance, Morgan lined up with the other early tourists at the gate for the security check. As the uniformed guards protecting the entrance searched bags, she noticed that they kept looking nervously towards the main road, where the noise of shouting was getting louder.
“I’m here to meet with Anna Bogányi,” Morgan said to the security guard when she reached the front of the queue. She was careful to keep her hands where he could see them, used to the rigors of security in Israel. She didn’t want to take the handcuff off until the briefcase was safe within the grounds of the synagogue, but she opened the case so that the guard could see inside. The man was distracted, his gaze flitting to the street where it met the main road of Karoly Krt, leading to the city. He glanced in at the contents, the rolled up canvas in the specially constructed box and the Torah.
“Wait,” he said, his voice curt. He turned briefly to call to one of the guards inside the metal gates in Hungarian and after a moment, he nodded.
“You can go through.”
Morgan walked through the gates into a narrow area that ran across the front of the main synagogue entrance. A thin woman with cropped red hair came forward to greet her, wrapped in a multi-colored patchwork shawl against the pervasive cold. Behind her legs, a dark-haired little girl peeped out, bright eyes shining with curiosity. Morgan was reminded of her own niece, Gemma, for whom she would do anything.
“Dr Sierra. Welcome and thank you for coming all this way. I’m Anna, the Museum Curator.”
Her eyes dropped to the briefcase.
“It’s my pleasure to be here,” Morgan smiled, noting her eagerness. “I’m thrilled to be the courier for this piece of history. And who’s this?”
Morgan squatted down so that her face was level with the little girl, who hid her own face in the folds of her mother’s skirts.
Anna laughed. “Don’t be shy, sweetie … this is Ilona, my daughter. She helps out in the Museum sometimes.” A shadow passed over Anna’s face. “Today, it’s safer for her to be here than at school.”
Morgan noticed that behind her the security guards were shutting the gates and instructing the remaining tourists to leave since the synagogue was closing for the day.
“Has something happened?” Morgan asked. “The lady in the cafe across the road said something about a murder.”
Anna turned and indicated that Morgan should follow her into the shelter of the museum staircase. There was an undercurrent of tension as Anna glanced behind her, out towards the main street. Ilona ran in front of them up the stairs, her little footsteps echoing in the marble hallway.
As they followed her, Anna explained.
“The news has been on the radio in the last hour. The custodian priest of St Stephen’s Basilica was brutally murdered there this morning, and not only that, but the Holy Hand of St Istvan, the symbol of the Hungarian nation, has been stolen. The shrine has been smashed and the relic taken.”
“But why close the synagogue? What has that to do with the Jewish community?” Morgan asked.
“There was a star of David painted in the priest’s blood on the wall of the chapel.” Anna’s eyes were hollow as she spoke, as if she saw back into the ashes of the Ghetto. “The Hebrew word nekama, meaning revenge, was scrawled next to it.”
Morgan frowned. “But surely that’s not enough for people to blame the Jewish population before a proper investigation can be carr
ied out?”
“It could be enough to spark the anti-Semitic violence that constantly simmers beneath this city,” Anna said. “But there’s nothing we can do, and right now I’d rather focus on the joy of the return. The items you bring are finally back where they belong, even though there is no one left of the family they were taken from. Come.”
She walked on through the gallery and Morgan followed, their footsteps echoing in the deserted space. The museum was a small collection of religious relics, mainly ritual items for the Shabbat. Morgan glanced into one case at an ornate silver Torah crown, placed on top of the scroll to symbolize its royalty and prestige. She paused to look in at the matching rimmonim, or decorative finials, that were etched with tiny pomegranates, reminiscent of the ruby fruit carved into the pillars of Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem. There were also a number of Kiddush cups, embossed with petals and tiny images of the tablets of the Law, used to drink the cup of wine on Shabbat.
“They’re beautiful,” Morgan said to Anna, feeling a thrill of recognition at the objects, for they were similar to the items that her father had taught her about, reciting scripture as the nights drew in. He would throw his prayer shawl around his shoulders and draw her under it, so that she could settle into the crook of his arm as the Hebrew words thrummed inside her, resonating in his deep voice. She had watched him read from the Torah in the synagogue, using a similar yad to this one, the tiny hand with pointed finger tracing the words on the page so that the sacred text was never touched. She couldn’t help but smile at the memory.
“That set was saved and kept hidden in the basement of one of the houses designated as Swedish territory in 1944,” Anna commented. Seeing the question in Morgan’s gaze, she explained further. “The Swedish diplomat and architect Raoul Wallenberg rescued tens of thousands of Hungarian Jews when he was Sweden’s special envoy in Budapest. He issued protective passports and sheltered Jews in buildings he claimed as Swedish.”
“Did he survive the war?” Morgan asked.
Anna shook her head. “He was detained by the Soviets during the Siege of Budapest in 1945 and is thought to have died at the Moscow Lubyanka at the hands of the Secret Police. He is honored as one of the Righteous Among the Nations, a non-Jew who gave everything for the persecuted Jewish people. We honor him here within the synagogue grounds with the Wallenberg Holocaust Memorial. I’ll show you once we’ve secured these items.”
Morgan looked into another display case nearby, containing a silver breastplate decorated with birds, fruit and leaves in an ornate pattern. Worn by the High Priest in the Temple, it hung around the neck of the Torah, protecting the holy words. If only it could have protected Raoul and those who died during that time, Morgan thought, clutching tightly at the handle of the case she carried. It contained so little, but was still important as a symbol of restitution, and she knew that her father would be proud that she was part of this.
“I’ve got a place for them here,” Anna called from further down the museum’s long hallway where she was putting on a pair of white gloves. Morgan rested the briefcase on a corner table nearby, finally unlocking the wrist-cuff and opening the case. Anna lifted the Torah carefully and laid it into the padded display case. Her eyes grew wider as she took out the painting and unrolled it, revealing a portrait of a young girl.
“I just wanted to see it,” Anna whispered. “But I’m planning an official unveiling and a special exhibition about the Gold Train, so for now, they will just rest here, secure and safe, back where they belong.” Anna closed the case gently. “Thank you.” She turned and grasped Morgan’s hand. “Now let me give you a tour of the grounds. At least it will be quiet now the tourists have gone. Come Ilona.”
The little girl skipped ahead of them as Morgan and Anna walked back out of the museum and along a covered stone walkway towards the back of the synagogue precinct. On their left was a garden, mature trees with graceful branches hanging down towards gravestones propped against rectangular bases.
“Of course, it’s not customary to have graves within the grounds of a synagogue,” Anna explained. “But this area is a mass grave for over two thousand Jewish people who died from hunger and cold within the Ghetto. Perhaps they were lucky to die here, close to home, with those who loved them.” Anna continued in a soft voice. “My grandfather was sent to the camps and never seen again, along with so many other Hungarian Jews.”
Morgan felt the overwhelming sadness of the place seep into her as they stood in silence for a moment. Where the massive numbers of dead in the concentration camps were difficult to visualize, this intimate graveyard brought home the reality of that time. The names of the dead were engraved in marble and she silently read some of them, the Hungarian pronunciation hard in her mouth, a long way from her father’s Spanish ancestry.
The grave backed onto one of the roads at the side of the synagogue grounds and as Morgan and Anna stood there, a rattle and a shout interrupted them. A group of young men loitered outside, their hands on the bars protecting the synagogue’s land. A couple of others dragged metal pipes across the fencing, the hollow metallic clang a barely concealed threat, their eyes a challenge of violence.
CHAPTER TWO
“Ilona, come now,” Anna said, stepping away and walking quickly into the shelter of the stone corridor, out of sight. But Morgan remained, watching the youths as they began chanting something in Hungarian, no doubt some kind of racial slur. She stepped closer to the bars, smiling at them.
“What do you want here, boys?” she asked, her voice unthreatening, her posture open. They looked confused by her advance, obviously expecting her to be cowed and frightened by their threats. “Should I come out there and see if you want to play up close?”
Perhaps they didn’t understand her words but Morgan knew they could sense that she was unafraid. She felt a rising outrage and a need to challenge their behavior. Although she wasn’t Hungarian, these were her people and this was her land, even though she had never been here before. She would fight, even in a country that wasn’t her own, because of the shared history of suffering. This group of boys probably didn’t even know what they were chanting about. They were merely repeating slogans heard at the football pitch, or spouted by their parents, racial slurs that were indoctrinated without thought.
Morgan stood close to the fence. They could strike her from where they stood, but she felt strongly that they wouldn’t, that as yet their actions were just bravado. One of the boys looked at her, and she saw fear in his eyes, not of her, but of what the group might do. She tried to send him some strength, for it was individuals like him who could sometimes halt the violence of a group.
The cacophony of a police siren broke the moment and the boys looked around, then scattered. Some turned and shouted back as they ran off, making obscene gestures as they disappeared down the street.
“You have a way with these vandals,” a deep voice said, and Morgan turned to see a man in a tight brown leather jacket approaching her. He wasn’t tall, perhaps the same height as her, but he was stocky, and she recognized the power of a trained fighter packed into his taut muscles. Morgan sensed in him a reflection of her own tendency to favor action over retreat and she smiled in welcome.
“I’m Morgan Sierra,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m here returning some of the artifacts from the Gold Train.”
The man returned the smile, flashing white teeth, his jawline emphasized by a line of close-cropped facial hair. He wore a silver star of David as an earring in his left ear and his right cheek up towards his temple was scarred, a pitted surface of puckered flesh. Morgan had seen enough wounds in the Israeli Defense Force to know it was a grenade injury, and she wondered what his story was.
“I’m Zoltan Fischer. You could call me a security consultant for the Jewish community.” Zoltan’s grip was just a second longer than was necessary, flirtation in his gaze.
The sound of shouting and sirens suddenly intensified and drew their attention back to the entrance.
Anna waved to Morgan and hurried with her little girl back towards the Museum. She was clearly grateful to retreat from the noise and stress of what could touch them out here, preferring to conserve the treasures of the past than face the potential conflict of the present. But that had been the attitude of the community back in the 1940s, Morgan thought, before the Nazis shut them into the Ghetto. She thought of recent news reports in Eastern Europe, the rise of right-wing parties fueled by anti-Semitic slander. There was even a poll in Austria showing that the Nazi party could be re-elected if the ban against it was lifted. Worrying times indeed, and while Israel focused on the threat from Muslim fundamentalists, it seemed that European Jews had as much to fear from their own countrymen.
Zoltan led the way into a courtyard behind the main synagogue. A tree made of metal in the shape of a weeping willow shone silver in the sun, metallic leaves reflecting the light. Around the tree were small piles of stones, placed there in memory of the dead.
“Each leaf on this tree is inscribed with a name,” Zoltan explained. “In remembrance of the Hungarian Jewish martyrs. This park is a memorial to all who died in the Shoah, the Holocaust.”
“Are any of your family here?” Morgan asked. Zoltan’s eyes darkened and he reached forward to touch a leaf with gentle fingers, caressing the inscribed name. He nodded.
“You can read some of their names on the plaque by the mass grave, and there are many more in the lists of those who died at the camps.” He turned back to her. “This will always be my fight, Morgan, but what about you? Why did you choose to return our memories to us?”