How was Patrik to answer Éva’s question? For years he’d hidden who he was. But to lie to her again would jeopardize any chance they had at reconciliation. “Listen to me.”
Éva turned her attention from the parquet wood floors to Patrik, her brown eyes shimmering. Ernő’s and Zofia’s stares weighed him down. Even Bram stilled the printing press.
“I joined because I want to help these people. Too many of my orchestra members fled Germany, Poland, and Czechoslovakia because of what was happening to the Jews there. The stories they told were horrific. We can’t imagine what happened to them, although Zofia’s story gives us a good idea. Now, in this place where they believed they’d be safe, they’re facing the same fate.”
“I didn’t think the organization allowed Gentiles to be part of it.” Éva breathed the question.
“We don’t.” Bram slurred his words.
Patrik shot him a black look.
Éva turned away.
He grasped her by the shoulder and spun her around. “You have to believe—”
“So you are—”
“All finished.” Bram slapped some papers on the small, rickety table.
“Thank you.” Maybe now Éva would let the question of his Zionist Youth involvement die.
“No problem.” Bram flashed a crooked smile. “I’ve done it for you before, Patrik. You get to be Orbán Bela this time.”
Patrik could only pray that Bram would be sober when the Gestapo discovered him. His tongue wagged far too much after a few drinks. Although without a doubt, he was the best forger the Zionist Youth had.
“Let’s get out of here.” Patrik nodded toward the small passageway.
“Best of luck to you.” Bram raised his glass. “A toast to your success.”
They wormed their way through the small opening and into the empty office. Éva pulled Patrik to a stop. “Before we go anywhere, I want to know what the plan is. Every detail.”
When it came to organizing the wedding, Éva’s obsessive planning was a good thing. Now, not so much. “The less you know, the better for you.”
“Does Zofia know what’s going to happen?”
Zofia held her suitcase in front of her. “I don’t.”
Patrik breathed a sigh as the two women and Ernő stared at him. “There isn’t a real plan. I know what to do. Others have been doing it for a while. But things can and do go wrong even when everything is laid out. We need to be flexible so we can deal with every contingency. We just can’t foresee everything.”
“No plan? You’re going to get us out of Hungary and to Palestine, but you have no idea how you’re going to do it?”
“The tiyul, this exodus across the border, has been well orchestrated by the Zionist Youth. You’re going to have to trust me.”
“Trust you?” Éva snorted.
“You don’t have a choice.” Patrik moved toward the door.
Ernő beat him to it and held it closed. “We can’t run into the streets. There’s this thing called a curfew.”
“Look at your identity papers.”
The other three flipped open the covers on the booklets Bram had printed.
Éva’s eyes widened. “I’m a physician.”
Ernő chuckled. “Same as me.”
“We all are.” Patrik opened the door. “It’s already much later than I wanted it to be when we got our start.”
Ernő and Zofia filed by him. Éva stopped. “So if the Germans question us about being out after curfew, we’re on some kind of medical mission?”
“Something like that. With all the bombings tonight, it’s not so far-fetched. The perfect cover, really. Either that or you’d have to be a firefighter. I thought you’d prefer doctor.”
“What about our suitcases?”
Good question. He hadn’t thought about wandering the city with their luggage. “We were on our way to the train station to go to a conference in Nagyvárad when the bombers came.”
“Let’s go, then.”
Good, she’d finally come to her senses. The four of them wound down the stairs and out the door to the deserted street. Off in the distance, the screech of ambulance sirens cut the stillness of the night. The putrid odor of cordite and death hung in the air.
Patrik led the way through the dark streets lit only by the fires burning throughout the city. For Éva’s sake, he’d made this sound like a simple proposition. Stroll through the city in the middle of the night past curfew while enemy planes flew overhead, take a train to the border, and before you know it, you’re in Palestine.
He turned left, in the opposite direction of the station, just in case someone followed them. What would the promised land be like? No longer was it flowing with milk and honey, that much was sure. Most of it had reverted to desert. He also understood from some clandestine messages the Zionists had received that there were oases, places of peace, tranquility, and beauty.
A sweet foretaste of heaven itself. No matter the outcome of this journey, he would end up in paradise.
After several minutes, Patrik doubled back, this time moving in the station’s direction. Glass crunched under their feet as they drew close to a section of the city hit by bombings.
The streets here were not empty. Rescue personnel bustled to and fro. Patrik and his group turned the corner and almost ran headlong into a younger woman holding a dirty rag to her eye, blood rushing down her face.
Behind her marched three soldiers, their dark green uniforms covered in dust, their rifles trained on the woman’s back. Patrik glanced away. It was wrong to leave her when she needed help, but he couldn’t save everyone.
If only …
He marched forward.
Zofia averted her eyes from the woman the Gestapo was leading away. How easily that could have been her. Should have been her. Smoke from the fires all about them clogged her throat. She coughed and stumbled.
Patrik hastened toward the station, Éva right by his side. Zofia held Ernő’s hand as they brought up the rear. How good it was to be near her husband once more. To have his flesh touch hers. They had been apart too long.
By the time they arrived at the railway, Zofia was panting from the brisk walk. Ernő squeezed her shoulders. “How are you doing?”
She mustered her best smile. “Fine. I have been sitting around and not going anywhere, so I’m out of shape. And growing our baby has taxed my strength.”
“Are you up to this?”
“I don’t have a choice. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.”
He squeezed her upper arm, conveying the strength of his commitment to her.
They burst into the station and descended the stairs to the public shelter, Patrik banging on the door as the air raid sirens wailed yet again. A warden admitted them. Once inside, Zofia drew in a deep breath and sank onto the end of a bench beside a rotund man who reeked of onions and sweat. Nausea, which she had thought herself past, swept over her. She fanned her face.
Ernő, who had no room to sit, leaned over her to speak to the man. “Could you please move elsewhere? My wife is pregnant and needs air.”
Some of her discomfort eased at her husband’s words. Even though they’d spent the last months apart, he could still read her, knew what she was thinking and feeling before she expressed herself.
How had she ever lived without him?
“I was here first. Find somewhere else.”
Ernő’s face reddened. “How can you—”
She touched his forearm. “We’ll find another seat.” At least she didn’t have that horrible star on her coat or dress any longer. Her new identity enabled her to rip it off. That action allowed her to enter the shelter, where Jews were not permitted. She smiled. Freedom, just a small taste of it. Down here, she could relax. No hiding underneath the piano wondering if she would survive the hail of bombs.
“Where? The place is full.”
Éva waved from farther into the shelter. “Ernő, Zofia, over here.” They wound their way through the narrow tunnel lined with benches and discovered a spot beside a woman with a sleeping baby on her shoulder. For the second time, Zofia settled into place. Now there was enough room for Ernő.
She rested against him, warm and secure for the moment.
He kissed the top of her head. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why leave without me?”
“Not here, not now. Too many prying ears.”
“Of course,” he whispered in her hair. “I didn’t think.”
“Let’s enjoy our reunion.”
Ernő rubbed the gentle rise of her belly. “You knew you were pregnant when you left.” Not an accusation as such, but a statement.
“There wasn’t a chance to tell you. Oh, how I wanted to. I was planning to make the announcement special. But then—” Were they saying too much? They spoke in low tones, and the mother beside them had her eyes closed, but she might be listening to their conversation. “Let’s not talk anymore. I’m exhausted.”
“Of course, szerelmem, you sleep now. I should have thought. But I don’t understand.”
“You will in time.” She sat up. “Do you hate me?”
A brief, heart-stopping moment went by before he answered. “Nem.”
“You’re angry, though.”
“Hurt, disappointed, grieved. All of those things.”
“I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”
“In time, I’m sure I will.”
“Not now?”
“I need to figure this out. Can you understand?”
“I can.” Though it didn’t ease the pain in her heart. All along, Patrik had believed and had convinced her that not telling her family was the right thing. The only thing to keep her husband and his family from harm. In the end, it was for naught, and the Germans had hurt and harassed her family anyway.
Whatever it took, she would mend what she had broken.
She pecked his cheek and resumed her position against him. Being near him for now satisfied her. No matter if the Lord gave them just this night together or fifty years of marriage, it was enough.
She must have dozed, because the next thing she knew, the all-clear sirens sounded. The shelter’s denizens stood and stretched and sauntered to the entrance.
The foursome brought up the rear of the group, making their way forward little by little. Éva stood beside Zofia, who caught her by the arm. “Don’t hate me for what I did.”
“Hate is too strong of a word for what I feel.”
“I know how I hurt all of you.”
“What I don’t comprehend is why Patrik didn’t tell us where you were.”
“He felt it was for the best so that I didn’t endanger you. He did it because he loves you.”
Éva nodded. “The situation is like a tangled ball of yarn that’s going to take time to unravel.”
Time. How much did they have? Zofia had heard about the tiyul, the exodus of Jews from Hungary to Palestine. Some escaped to Romania and beyond. Others did not survive.
Hungary was supposed to be her safe place, her shelter after her flight from Poland. But she hadn’t awakened from the nightmare. Now her decisions might have spoiled the beauty that had come from that pain.
Patrik led the little group up the concrete stairs to the train platform, blinking against the early morning light. He rubbed his gritty eyes. Twenty-four hours ago, he had no idea this was how today would begin.
Hordes of humanity crowded the station—Germans fleeing the Soviets, businessmen in and out of the city, and probably a few Jews like himself and Zofia, doing their best to escape an impossible situation.
The four of them gathered near the top of the steps. “Éva and I will buy the tickets.” He fingered the money Bram had given him in his pocket. Enough to see them through for a while. “Ernő and Zofia, why don’t you get us breakfast?” He handed a few of the bills to Ernő.
Zofia took the cash, and they soon melded into the crowd. Patrik turned to Éva. “Are you coming?”
“How convenient you would send off the others so we could be alone.”
He shrugged. “Not my intention, but I don’t have a problem with it. Unless you do.”
“Actually, I do. After what you did—”
“What did I do?” He leaned over her, close to her. “Saved your sister-in-law’s life. And probably Ernő’s and yours. That’s what I did. You’re angry with me for that?”
She deflated a bit. “Not for that but for the lies that accompanied it.”
“This is neither the time nor the place to get into everything, but I can say it’s Reka who turned you against me. She twisted what she saw and made you believe it.”
“You’re crazy.”
He gave a wide shrug and sighed. “However we got here, the fact is that we’re here. We have to deal with the present. Rehashing the past will have to wait for another day. Let’s get those tickets.”
His chest heaving, he stomped off in the direction of the ticket counter. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice to Éva. None of this was her fault, except maybe believing Reka over him, her own fiancé. How had such a wedge come between them?
He slowed to allow her to catch up as they maneuvered through the maze of people. “My apologies for getting angry.”
She harrumphed. Not exactly forgiveness, but he’d take it for the time being.
A long line snaked from the counter, where multiple agents sat behind barred windows. More than an hour went by before they reached the head of the line. “Four tickets to Nagyvárad, please.”
With the slips of paper tucked inside his jacket pocket, he and Éva trekked in the direction of Ernő and Zofia.
“Stop.”
Though the German words sent a chill up and down Patrik’s spine, he moved forward.
“I told you to stop.”
Éva spoke low to Patrik. “I think he means you.”
“He may, but I’m not going to obey.”
“You. The tall one. I order you to halt.”
Not willing to have a bullet pierce his skull, Patrik stopped. “Keep going.” He nudged Éva forward.
“Nem. I’m staying with you.”
Before he could question her further, the square-jawed German came even with Patrik. “Identification.”
Concentrating on keeping his breathing steady and even, he produced the booklet from his pants pocket and handed it to the sandy-haired man who stood as tall as him.
The Nazi bit his lower lip as he examined the identification. He peered back and forth between it and Patrik. “Dr. Orbán?”
“That’s me.”
“What is your specialty?”
“Podiatry.”
“Hmm. Interesting. I know I recognize you from somewhere.”
Patrik stared harder at the man. He would remember someone as tall as himself, because they were an oddity. Wait a minute. Igen. He was the man from the Zionist meeting. Simon. He’d come only those few times. “We’ve never met.”
“I don’t forget a face. A non-Aryan appearing one at that.”
“You must have me confused with someone else.”
“Wait a minute.”
Éva grasped Patrik by the arm. “Sir, we must catch this train. We’re on our way to a medical conference in Nagyvárad, and since we’re both presenters, we cannot miss it.”
Patrik ground his teeth. What was Éva doing?
The officer glared at her, but she didn’t break eye contact with him. “You are?”
She retrieved her identity booklet from her black pocketbook and handed it to the Nazi. “You can see that everything is in order. Now, if you would permit us to leave.”
“And what is your relationship to this man?”
“His fiancée.” She flashed her hand where the sapphire ring he’d presented her on their engagement glittered on her finger. “And a colleague.”
“And you practice what kind of medicine, Miss …” he glanced at the card, “Molnár?”
She yanked it away from him. “That’s Dr. Molnár. I’m an obstetrician. One of the best in the country.”
“Are you now? And it’s my experience that such professionals are also Jews.”
Patrik piped up. “True that many are, but not all. There are a few of us Hungarians in the field of medicine.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Now, as Dr. Molnár said, we must be on our way.” He took three steps.
“Not so fast. I have just remembered where I’ve seen you before. You’ll be coming with me. Both of you.”