The small meeting room in the back-alley flat was crowded with men of varied attire. Some were dressed in smartly creased slacks, pressed white shirts, and colorful sweater vests. Others wore pants with worn hems and scuffed shoes that barely held together.
Patrik squeezed his way into the warm, overcrowded lounge where several women were as well, most dressed in simple wool skirts and plain blouses.
For the mass of humanity crammed into the tiny space, there was a remarkable lack of noise. And for good reason. If the Gestapo found out about this organization and its activities, they would all be as good as dead.
Flóra Simon, an elegant, well-bred young woman with dark hair, puffed on a cigarette in a long holder and leaned over to whisper in Patrik’s ear as he passed. “How is Zofia holding up?”
“She wants those papers, and not in a few months like Bram promised.”
Flóra widened her gray eyes. “She won’t do anything rash, will she?”
“She’s too sensible.” At least, that was his hope. He had no guarantee of it. Already, she’d sent that note. What might she do next?
He rubbed his aching neck as he threaded his way toward Bram. In the two nights since he’d visited Éva in the hospital, he’d slept very little. The paper mentioned the location of the accident. It had occurred just a few blocks away, about the same time he was at Bram’s. Had she tailed him?
Standing by her hospital bed earlier, gazing into her beautiful but bruised face, it had taken Patrik every gram of his willpower not to blurt out the truth. But to keep her from ending up in the hospital again, or worse, he had to keep his secret. He could not risk revealing who he really was or let Zofia see Ernő and put all the family in peril.
Saving Éva’s life might mean he’d have to spend his own life without her. Nothing but difficult decisions these days.
Before Patrik could reach him, Bram called the meeting to order. Today he sported a long trench coat and knee-high boots, his ever-present glass of pálinka in his hand. “Recent developments underscore the danger each of us faces, especially those who don’t possess Gentile identity papers.”
A murmur spread throughout the tiny space, grumblings from those who weren’t owners of the coveted IDs. Patrik patted the pocket of his light-blue dress shirt where he kept his false identity papers. They proclaimed him to be 100 percent Aryan, even though he was nothing of the sort.
Patrik stepped to the front beside Bram, raised his hand, and the group quieted. Then he turned his attention to Bram. “If we are going to be effective in our work, we all must be able to move about the city without worrying about being picked up. Because she didn’t have the right identification, Zofia is in peril. She’s only alive by God’s grace and her quick thinking.”
Bram swallowed a draught from his snifter. “I’m well aware. But we can only process so many papers at a time. There are limits to what our presses can do.”
“Then we have to do better.”
Bram nodded, a blond curl falling over his right eye. “I agree. Right now, the situation in the countryside is the direst. Almost all the Jews outside of the city limits have been rounded up into ghettos. The Allies have bombed the train lines to the extermination camps, but the Germans aren’t deterred. They’re forcing old and young alike to march into Poland.”
A pang gripped Patrik at the news. My sisters. He pushed away the thought. “How long before they start mass roundups here? Once they begin, it won’t take them long to cleanse the city. We all know about the yellow-star houses. Not ghettos, necessarily, but concentrations of Jews nonetheless.”
Bram drained the last of the liquid in his glass and shrugged. “With the Germans, who knows what their next move could be? They could start emptying Budapest tomorrow or next week or next year.”
Flóra swore. “God forbid this war lasts that long.”
Bram brushed the hair from his face. “Not likely. The Russians are already on the Hungarian border.”
Such news did nothing to calm Patrik. “That only makes the Nazis more dangerous. They’re staring defeat in the eye, but they’ll accomplish as much of their evil mission as they can before their downfall arrives.”
The meeting droned on, the discussion revolving around their course of action in the coming weeks. After hours of debate, Bram motioned for silence. “The best we can do right now is process as many false birth certificates and passports as possible, both for our own members and for those Jews outside the movement. Though it poses greater risk of exposure, we’ll have to bring in more people to work for us.”
The meeting adjourned, and at last, Patrik managed to corner Bram. “Is it wise to increase your staff?”
“The Germans believe I run a harmless little glassware company, nothing they look at too hard. The size of my employee roster isn’t a concern of theirs. Right now, their interest is focused on a single objective.”
“Ridding Hungary of each and every Jew.”
“Correct.”
“We may have a problem, though.”
Bram cocked his head.
“Éva was struck by a car the other night and sustained serious injuries. The accident happened a few blocks from your flat at around the same time I was there.”
“You think she came after you?”
“I can’t be sure. She couldn’t speak well, and her mother chased me from the ward as soon as she spotted me. But it’s possible.”
“Be extra careful.”
“She would never knowingly do or say anything to put me at risk, especially since she believes I’m working with the Germans.”
“You just never know. Watch your back.”
The dim evening light streamed through the window at the end of the ward, near where Éva lay. Anya had gone home to make supper for Apu and Ernő. Éva was here alone with her thoughts.
Still no word from Zofia.
That could only mean one thing. Patrik, working with the Germans, had her. And likely Éva and her family would never see Zofia again. Éva’s physical discomfort didn’t begin to match the pain deep inside her. Patrik had betrayed her. Betrayed them all.
She stared out the window until the sun dipped behind the church steeple. Then she allowed sleep to overtake her and, for a little while, bring sweet release.
“Éva, dear, are you awake?”
Someone’s breath tickled Éva’s ear. Though she brushed it away, the sensation didn’t dissipate. She opened her eyes and rolled over, taking it slow, and found Reka hovering.
“Good, you are. I’m glad to see you are healing.”
“How nice of you to come.” But seeing Reka’s face only engulfed Éva in the memories of her last, awful visit. The pain in her soul ran deeper than any physical ache. An agony that played a melody in a minor key.
“I brought you flowers.” Reka held up a bouquet of yellow roses. Where had she gotten them? In a time of war, flowers were a frivolity few could afford.
“Thank you. Will you put them on the table there for me?” Éva pointed to a small nightstand between her bed and the one beside her.
Once she had done so, Reka seated herself at Éva’s side. “I was terribly sorry to hear about the accident. I had planned to visit you anyway when I was in the city, to find out how you were doing after that blow I was forced to deliver.” She opened her black patent-leather pocketbook, pulled out an embroidered handkerchief, and dabbed her dry eyes.
“You were right. I saw him.” Éva whispered the words, still so difficult to believe.
“He was part of it? What did you see?”
“Igen. Much as I want to deny it, much as I want to close my eyes and turn the clock back, I can’t. The day of the accident, I trailed him and caught him speaking and laughing with a German.”
“Oh, my dear.” With her pudgy fingers, Reka grasped Éva’s forearm, her red mouth open, almost in surprise. “This is one case when I wish I would have been wrong.”
“I have to thank you.”
“Whatever for? I wish I could have spared you the pain of the truth.”
“But you kept me from marrying a man who is involved in horrible, vile activities against the Jews, against Hungary. All along, he plotted against Zofia, even while he acted the part of a kind and loving Christian man. He used me to get to her.”
“They have acid in the nice apples.”
“That’s all too true.”
Reka straightened, and a smile lit her face. “Now I have a surprise for you.” She reached to the floor and grabbed a portable wind-up phonograph player. “A little music to cheer you.”
“Won’t it disturb the other patients?”
“Nonsense. We’ll keep it soft. Music has healing properties, you know, so it would be good for them too.”
In no time at all, she cranked it and placed the needle on the record. Brahms’s Clarinet Sonata no. 2 in E
filled the air, the melody washing over Éva like warm bathwater. She closed her eyes and reveled in the velvetlike smoothness of the sound. Her body relaxed, and the suffering subsided.
Reka kissed her on both cheeks. “I’ll leave you now to rest. There is a stack of other records here for you. When you’ve recuperated, you can return them to me.”
Éva flicked her eyes open and smiled at Reka. “You’re a good friend and a blessing to me in this difficult time.”
“You can always depend on me. Though there is one favor you could grant me.”
“I don’t know what I’m capable of from this hospital bed, but I’ll do my best, because I owe you a great debt.”
“I am troubled about Patrik. Do you remember where you witnessed him speaking to that German? There has to be something we can do to punish him for what he did.”
“Like what? We can’t go to the authorities, because the Nazis control everything. They would reward him for his actions.”
“If you’ll let me, I’ll investigate Patrik further. See what he’s been up to. Then perhaps we’ll come up with something. Maybe a way to warn other Jews to stay away from him.”
“I don’t know.” The music pulled her in, lulling her to slumber.
“Just tell me the location, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Right now, I truly can’t remember. While I followed him, I didn’t pay attention to where we were going. I need to sleep.”
“Of course, my dear. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Rest is the best remedy. We’ll talk another day, perhaps earlier when you’re fresh and can remember details. Focus on getting better.”
“Thank you for everything.”
“My pleasure.” With that, Reka left, the rhythmic tap of her shoes fading down the hallway, the cloying scent of rose perfume trailing behind her.
The phonograph played on, but the melody didn’t transport Éva back to sleep.