Gratitude (45 page)

Thirty

Budapest – January 13, 1945

THE HORSE STOOD
in the middle of Ulloi Street and nickered. He was harnessed to a cart on which there was a cannon, but had been left there by the retreating Germans. A passerby saw the animal and cart. The man ducked into a building, thinking at first the Germans couldn’t be far away, but then came out again into the cold sun. Lili noticed the animal through the chink in the shutters of the Dutch insurance building. And then a second man, in a uniform, stopped to stare at the horse. The animal was a beauty, a shiny chestnut colour, and it stood tall. The man wore the uniform of an Arrow Cross guard. He detached the cart from the horse, giving the animal a couple of affectionate slaps on its haunches as he did so. Then the man removed the canvas satchel from his shoulder, took out a long knife, petted the horse’s head, smoothed down its mane and plunged the knife straight up the horse’s neck into its head. Lili’s hand went to her own neck. The guard held the knife there, tried with all his might to twist it. The horse showed the whites of his eyes, then the eyes rolled back and he fell forward to his knees. The guard pulled the knife from the horse’s neck, which seemed to take equal effort, walked to the far side of the animal and with his shoulder gave the horse a heave. He fell to his side, upending the cart altogether. People who had hidden themselves to avoid the Germans now emerged to watch the spectacle. The guard felt the flanks of the horse and the stomach, took out his long knife again and with some skill began to carve out chunks from the rump and place them in his satchel. He did so until the bloody satchel bulged and dripped. He picked up the bag, hung it from his shoulder once more and walked off. The first man advanced. He had a pocket knife at the ready and had acquired a good-sized pan from the building he’d stepped into. A woman and a man followed him from the same building. Each had a pan, and one carried a cleaver while the other had a carving knife. Lili was not far behind. She rushed out with a large stewing pot and knife. By the time she finished cutting out as much as the pot could hold, her arms were steaming and scarlet up to the shoulder. People around her were eyeing the pot—a woman looked ready to make off with it—so Lili thought she’d be better off stopping and letting someone else in. Three men shouted for everyone to stop and tried to turn the animal over to get at the meat on the other side, but they were too weak. Two women and a boy joined them, and they managed to flip the carcass. The frenzy began all over again. A woman with four girls stopped to look at the horse, but she hadn’t brought a knife or a pot. As she lingered to see what might be left, her four girls surrounded a waiting boy and danced in a circle around him. He was pleased to be the centre of a carousel and raised his arms and spun as they danced. When it was all over, less than ninety minutes after the Germans had left the horse and cannon behind, the street was a bloody mess. Someone looking down from an upper storey window would have thought the horse had been dropped from the sky and splattered on the street below. Only the horse’s head remained, some of it, and the small part of the rump that held the tail. A crow and a scrawny dog were now fighting over the head as if they were battling for their lives. The dog growled fiercely, but the crow continued to peck at the dog until it mewled and retreated to the horse’s tail.

When Lili came in with her pot full of red horse flesh, Rozsi met her at the door. The nuns were huddled down the corridor in front of their room, and one was rubbing her hands together. They were surrounded by several residents who regarded the pot with interest.

Rozsi looked at Lili distractedly and said, “The Lord turned on the light and has now switched it off. Do you suppose He will be happy when the light comes on again?”

Lili shrugged her bloody shoulders.

“Do you think the light was a good idea, Lili?” Lili stood paralyzed with her pot. Still others had come into the hall and were watching Lili from a distance. Rozsi said, “Do you know about the ancient forbidden city of Hué in Viet Nam? Do you know the name of the river that flows through the city?”

“No,” Lili said.

“It’s called the Perfume River. Imagine that—imagine the rosy rain there, the pink clouds.”

Lili said, “It must be lovely.” She hesitated. “But I think you’ll feel better once you eat something, dear Rozsi. We’re going to have stew—look!” She held up the pot, and Rozsi stepped aside.

THE GERMANS
were on the run from all parts of the city as the Russians moved in. Eichmann’s troops had blown up two of the primary bridges over the Danube, linking Buda with Pest, the Erzsebet and the Chain bridges. There was no water or electricity in several parts of the city. The thousands of advancing Russian troops needed places to hole up, so they indiscriminately took over buildings themselves, took the residents’ jewellery and watches and sent them into the winter streets. After the Swedish embassy staff were relieved of their watches, they, too, were cleared out of their makeshift offices on Ulloi Street.

Paul called together all the people in the building. When they were crowded into the front hall, just inside the entrance, he said that they all had to be very careful still—nothing was certain, nothing could be taken for granted—but the Germans were leaving Budapest. It would only be a matter of days.

A great cheer went up. People threw things into the air—caps, gloves, handkerchiefs—one boy threw a shoe. Klari kissed her nephew, and then the lineup formed. Rozsi kissed him; Lili kissed him; Simon shook his hand, but then kissed him, too; Robert only hugged him, but he did it hard. Most of the nuns came forward and bowed to Paul. Beata hugged him. And then she threw off her habit, and was dressed normally underneath. All the nuns then did the same and began hopping and dancing around.

“Beata, what are you all doing?” Klari asked. “Aren’t you going to stay dressed in your habits?”

“No, we’re not nuns,” one of the older ones said. The woman hadn’t spoken once. “We stole these habits from the Church of St. John the Divine. They’d just been laundered and nicely pressed and were piled on a cart just inside the entrance. Beata found them and brought them home to us in the ghetto. We’re Jews like the rest of you, but our husbands were taken to a labour camp. We haven’t seen a single one of them back yet. So we pretended to be nuns. We thought God wouldn’t mind.”

“No, God wouldn’t mind,” Klari said, as she looked over the bunch. “But why didn’t you tell us?”

“We were scared, you see. We didn’t know if it was wise to tell.”

People wanted to thank Wallenberg, too, but he remained closeted in the back.

WALLENBERG AND PAUL
and several of the staff soon left to take up residence at the offices of the Red Cross on Benczur Street at the invitation of George Wilhelm, the head of the organization in Budapest.

Two German soldiers still guarded the Red Cross building, an impressive villa near the City Park. The soldiers came courtesy of SS Colonel Weber because of his devotion to the charming Wilhelm. Wilhelm had studied at Cambridge, and had formed a natural bond with the other prominent English-speakers, Wallenberg and Paul. Wilhelm had not only attended Cambridge, like Paul, but had also been the son of a prominent Hungarian lawyer. He wore the black uniform of the SS commander, and, being more fluent in German than he was in English, he masqueraded as a senior officer about town, assisting in the Swedes’ rescue operation whenever he could, intimidating even the Arrow Cross on occasion to get his way, or bribing them when he could not.

The few days Wallenberg and his small team spent at the Red Cross were like the still point in the eye of a storm. The one-time chef of the Astoria was housed there also and cooked as well as he could for them, under the circumstances. After a meal one evening with Paul and Wilhelm of duck a hunter had brought, together with beetroots and fennel, followed by English brandy that Wilhelm had saved for just such an occasion, Wallenberg told them that they were not at the end of their operation but the middle.

“How so?” Paul asked.

“As I began to say before, you can’t just save lives, you have to restore dignity.”

Later, in his room, Wallenberg told Paul, “I want you to meet the King of Sweden after the chaos subsides. I want to get his blessing as well as the support of the government to establish an institution here for restoration—the restoration of property, law, peace and dignity. Dignity comes last, but it is foremost.”

Paul looked incredulously at his friend. He thought Raoul had finished what he’d come to do. The Swede said, “What did you expect? Did you expect me to go back into banking, or be an architect, or just a rich man about town, dropping coins into the cups of the poor? It’s not enough for me.”

“Of course not,” Paul said. He sat on the corner of Wallenberg’s desk so that he could look directly into the Swede’s dark and determined eyes. Wallenberg’s hair had thinned still more, it seemed, though he was only thirty-two, and he looked exhausted, though he steadfastly denied it.

Paul put his hands on the man’s shoulders. It was difficult to look at him the same way now. It was like looking at history itself, like looking at Churchill. And yet here Wallenberg was: close, human and vulnerable, his hair thinning, his weary mind racing to the place of the next mission.

The next morning, Paul got to work again, trying to seek Zoli’s release and restarting his search for Istvan. He couldn’t spend another minute in his sister’s company unless he had some kind of news. She had become inconsolable, distracted, and was turning darkly inward. She tore at his heart, got down on her knees, begged him. Not even Lili and Klari could calm her, not even Robert’s sedatives. She’d even got Wallenberg involved, got him to agree, as a special favour to Paul, to petition his own government to press the Germans to release the Swedish nationals they’d taken away.

So Paul was at it again that morning. He’d sent two telegrams, one to Sweden’s Ministry of External Affairs and another to the Wolf’s Lair itself, Hitler’s compound at Gierloz. Why not? What did Paul have to lose? Even in Hitler’s insane scheme there was logic. Even the Fuhrer had allowed that Swedes were not Germans and not Jews. He also managed a call to the mayor’s office in Szeged. The interim mayor could not be reached, Paul was told. “He’s taken a holiday.”

“He’s gone into hiding, you mean?” The man was a fascist, a Nazi sympathizer.

“Yes,” the man said. “A hidden holiday.”

Now Paul waited. He drank his espresso and smoked. He was at Wallenberg’s desk, and he looked across at the chair he himself usually sat in. Slung over it was the tie Wallenberg was going to put on that morning before he stepped out. The tie was baby blue and adorned with the golden crowns of Sweden. Paul spied a stain, coffee possibly, covering one of the crowns. He made a mental note to mention it to the Swede.

Wallenberg was in the front office, talking with some Russians who’d come that morning to ask him if he’d meet with General Malinovsky to discuss the complexities of the situation.

When Wallenberg returned to his inner sanctum, he described the proposed meeting with the Russian general as a debriefing.

Paul said, “Where? Here?”

“No, they have their base in the town of Debrecen.”

“Debrecen?” Wallenberg nodded. “All right,” Paul said. “I’ll finish up later. It’ll take me only a minute to get ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To go with you.”

“No need,” Wallenberg said. He took his tie from the chair. Paul wanted to mention the stain, but Wallenberg went on. “You just keep after the authorities, Paul. Work on getting people home again. Your sister is not doing well. You just keep after them.”

“I will. I’ll come straight back here and get back on it. But I think I should be with you. Your Russian is lousy.”

“And what about yours?”

“It’s lousy, too, but if we add the hundred words I know to your hundred, we’ll have two hundred.”

“I think they’re the same hundred,” Wallenberg said. “Vilmos will take me,” he added. “I’ll be back soon, and we’ll continue the struggle. I won’t be gone two days, three at the most. We’ll take the Studebaker. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the Alfa Romeo. Besides, if I do, the Russians will probably pull it out from under me.”

“
I’ll
take you. It’s no trouble.”

“My driver will take me. Langfelder will take me. Trust me.” Wallenberg touched Paul’s cheek with his dry palm. The place burned. Paul watched the Swede as he took an apple from a wooden bowl on the stand by the door and left without looking back. His tie was slung over his shoulder.

Thirty-One

Szeged – November 16, 1944

WHEN MARTA
turned up the walk of her little house in Szeged, she could faintly hear music. She also saw, suspended from the doorknob, a white tag fluttering in the fall breeze. She feared the worst. She snuck up to the window and peeked in. The two floorboards stood leaning on the wall opposite the window. She saw Istvan with Smetana curled up in his lap. At first they seemed lifeless, but then she saw the hand move, petting the cat. Istvan looked reasonably fit, as did Smetana. He was reading a book, and they were listening to Dvorak’s
Rusalka
.

She tapped lightly on the window, and Istvan leapt out of his chair. The book dropped to the floor and Smetana flew out of his lap like a crazed bird. Istvan turned and saw her, his mouth fell open, and then they smiled. He clearly still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He looked behind her, around her, but it was just Marta. His eyes filled with tears, as did hers.

He still hadn’t reached for the doorknob. He brought his hands up to his cheeks, and she went on standing at the window. He was wearing her Alpine sweater, and she giggled. He saw what had amused her and laughed with her.

He let her in, and they embraced for a long moment before speaking. He kissed her forehead and then the top of her head. “You’re still here,” she said. Tears poured down her face.

He took her face in his hands. “What happened?” he whispered.

“Do you have a minute?” she asked, and then burst out laughing again.

He joined her, and then he took her hand and led her to the bedroom. “Don’t leave out a detail,” he said.

“Not today. Today, the news is that I’m back, and that you’re still here—that’s all.”

“That’s enough.”

They sat down together on her small sofa.
Rusalka
continued to play. “The music’s nice,” she said. “Remember, no more news? I’m tired.”

“You must be.” He looked her over more carefully. “You came back to me.”

“We have to sleep in the cellar.”

“We can stay up here, now, in your room.”

“No, we can’t. I’ll feel exposed. We’re
both
in hiding now.”

“We have a tag on our door.
Abandoned—Forgotten
.”

“It doesn’t give us immunity,” she said, and took his hand. “Let me wash up and get some things, and we’ll go down.”

“The end is near, I think.”

“It must be,” she said.

So he got up with her and followed her lead. She switched off the music, took some things from the bedroom and led him down into their dark cellar.

IT WAS NOT UNTIL CHRISTMAS
that she told him she thought she was pregnant. He’d wondered about her morning sickness, and they’d both suspected. But he never asked her whose baby it was. He decided it didn’t matter and he never would ask.

On New Year’s Day, Anna Barta welcomed the Russians into Szeged as they rolled through the streets in tanks and in army trucks. She was so happy, she’d had a bit too much apricot
palinka
that afternoon and was close to toppling over as she spun and danced. She staggered toward a parked Russian truck, offered her
palinka
up to one of the soldiers, who took it and shot her dead.