HEDY AND TIBOR HAD an unspoken rule between them. When they were together, they talked about anything and everything except the war and the increasingly unbelievable events affecting their neighbours and community. In the American films they occasionally saw at the local cinema, elegantly dressed housewives waved to their well-tailored husbands as they drove off to work in the mornings. The sun was always shining and the housewife, with her tiny waistline and perfectly straight and bright white teeth, was forever smiling. There was always a happy ending. The charade they played, however, of not talking about what they were getting themselves into, of not being able to make any plans, of keeping their secret under wraps, was emotionally difficult.
Although Hedy and Tibor hoped that their lives would turn out like the ones in the movies, Hedy knew that, no matter how hard she tried to envision herself as part of that perfectly sunny, sanitized, happy couple, life in Nagyszollos in the middle of war-torn Europe was far, far removed from that scenario. Still, when she was in Tibor’s arms, Hedy felt insulated from it all. She knew in her heart that he would do anything to protect her from harm.
The world outside his arms, though, was harsh and increasingly frightening. Each day brought new laws, new regulations, and war hysteria. Curfews were tightened, rationing of sugar, flour, and coffee became even stricter. Cigarettes became a prized commodity, and “smoke-free” days were held to gather cigarettes for Hungarian soldiers fighting on the front lines. At night, air-raid sirens blared with such regularity that people who had initially been startled awake by them slowly started to get used to them. Newspapers carried more and more horrific stories, some reporting that hundreds of communists and Ukrainian terrorists had been arrested and incarcerated, and some were executed.
Extremist, anti-Semitic groups inspired by the Arrow Cross Party sprung up even in Nagyszollos. Their national leader, Ferenc Szalasi, had been imprisoned in Budapest in the early 1930s for fomenting hatred and violence. One of his followers in Nagyszollos was a captain in the gendarmes named Mezeredi. Tibor realized that the locals had begun to gossip, to inform Mezeredi about his movements and meetings with Hedy. To Mezeredi and his gang, the fact that Tibor Schroeder had hired a Jewish woman was shocking enough; the gossip surrounding a possible romantic liaison between Schroeder and his Jewish secretary was beyond outrage.
The intimidation tactics began with anonymous notes shoved under the front door of the Aykler family home. Finally, Captain Mezeredi’s frustration at not being able to do anything about the son of one of the highest ranking military officers in the region boiled over. One day, he boldly telephoned Tibor’s mother, Karola. He launched into a tirade against Tibor, calling him arrogant and conceited, a man without virtue. “In light of the fact that the colonel’s son is blatantly flouting the law and courting a Jewish woman,” Mezeredi said in closing, “the local gendarmes will not take responsibility for what might happen to him.”
Tibor always sensed when a threat had taken place but this time was different. Although Karola made her daughter promise to stay tightlipped about the incident, Tibor knew from the way his mother paced up and down in the parlour, wringing her hands and dabbing her bloodshot eyes with a handkerchief, that this threat had been more serious. On one of his rare visits home, Karola tried to broach the subject of Tibor’s love with her husband, Domokos. It was a perfect Sunday and they sat on the veranda enjoying their coffee and an apple tart dessert, Karola noticed how much greyer Domokos’s beard had turned since the last visit. As he sipped absently at his brandy, Domi had a distant, vacant look in his eyes and frequently withdrew into himself.
Karola relished this infrequent private time with her husband and although they tried not to talk about the war, she knew Domokos was under tremendous pressure. In the spring of 1942, Colonel Domokos Aykler had been named head of the press corps of the Hungarian army. Those who entered this elite branch of the military had to have already been established newspaper writers, film cameramen, and/or radio reporters. In addition to their skills as journalists, they had to undergo extensive combat training in case the unit came under attack. A small army onto itself, with their own cooks, medics, and ambulances, the corps operated and travelled independently of the rest of the army. The press corps didn’t even travel in army jeeps — they drove in large black Tatra sedan cars.
The day Colonel Aykler took command of the regiment was marked by pomp and ceremony and the celebrations were widely covered in newspapers and newsreels. It was the middle of May and the chestnut trees in Budapest parks were bursting with delicate white flowers. A large crowd gathered to watch the impressive gathering and even young boys stopped playing in the park and stood in awe with their parents as some one hundred shiny black Tatra sedans were assembled next to each other in Vermezo Square. Some of the professional press officers stood on the roofs of their cars with tripods and cameras whirring while others stood at attention next to their vehicles as the corps stood for inspection. It was a grand media show of readiness.
The regiment held great fascination for Hungarians, who realized only too well the power of media in the world. They knew that the men in this corps could transmit stories in dozens of languages. Many newspaper reporters had speculated for some time now that Hungary had to become more politically and media savvy in order to gain worldwide sympathy for its cause. Even before they shot a single frame of film, the newspapers in Budapest were already reporting that, “This is the military unit; these are the men who will finally tell the world the story of Hungary’s suffering and fight for justice.”
These days, when he came home, he was mentally and physically exhausted. Still, even at home, military men continued to knock on the door bringing telegraphs, letters, and correspondence marked “Confidential” for him to read and acknowledge. Karola retrieved a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and dabbed her forehead a bit, then she took a sip of coffee and began tentatively to speak.
“Who is that Mezeredi man and does he have power over us?” Karola blurted out.
“Mezeredi?” Domokos asked quizzically. From the look on his face, Karola could see that he genuinely did not know this name.
“You know, of the gendarmes. He’s one of the Arrow Cross men.”
Suddenly, Domokos was paying attention. “Why? What happened?”
“He threatened Tibor,” Karola continued. “He told me on the phone that if Tibor didn’t stop courting Hedy Weisz, he would tell his superiors. He said they wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences.” By the time she finished the last word in her sentence, tears had welled up in her eyes as if a small dam had burst. She started crying, sitting there next to her husband, and it took several minutes before the flood of tears abated.
Domokos looked at her lovingly, with concern. “Dragam, don’t worry about Mezeredi. He can’t and won’t touch Tibor.” He wiped at her wet cheek. “I promise you, nothing will happen to Tibor.” Simply verbalizing her fears to her husband and hearing his reassurances calmed Karola and they sat together quietly for some time holding each other’s hands.
As the sun finally made its way to the horizon, their son, Bela, joined them on the balcony. Karola hugged her son close. He seemed to be growing into a young man at such a fast pace. “Bela is doing so well at military school,” she said as much to herself as to Domokos. “He is first in his class.”
Domokos eyes glistened with pride as he looked at his son. There was a growing sense of urgency in his voice when he spoke. “I have something on my mind that I want to share with the family.” He stood up, stretching a hand out to help Karola up. “Could we go back inside?”
Karola, Tibor, Bela, and Picke gathered around him in the parlour as Domokos lit a cigarette. He asked Picke to make sure the maids were all downstairs in the kitchen and out of earshot and then he began.
“There is a formula,” he said slowly, making sure they understood each word. “For every soldier who is fighting at the front, the military needs eleven men to support the infrastructure.” He paused, looked at the faces he loved gathered around him, and continued. “These eleven men provide for the needs of each soldier fighting on the front lines. They cook the food and transport water, move the ammunition and gasoline to the front, dig the latrines, provide first aid, and remove the injured and sick. These eleven also include the people manufacturing ammunition and organizing the transport of the ammunition to the front lines.” Domokos looked directly at Bela. “Undoubtedly you have learned about this in military school, son.” Bela nodded and looked seriously at his father.
“Presently, the number of men supporting the front-line soldiers is continuously diminishing while the territory at the front to be defended is always widening and increasing.” He put his cigarette in the ashtray, stared as it burned down a bit, then inhaled again. He wanted to give them all a few minutes to comprehend what he was saying. Then, lowering his voice, he continued even more slowly. “Unless the soldiers at the front are properly supported, the front lines will collapse. It is inevitable.” He waved his hand and was suddenly lost in thought. Then he looked up and continued. “Although the men under my command in the press corps continue to provide reports of glorious victories and the politicians continue to say what they will, based on what I have seen at the front, the Germans have already lost this war.”
They all sat in stunned silence as the smoke from his idling cigarette curled as it rose from the ashtray. No one spoke; no one responded; no one asked any questions. It was dusk and hard to see but no one reached to turn on the lamps on the side tables. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog was barking.