October 1944
Miklós Nagy is walking towards the Gellert Hotel. He glances behind him, and often ducks into side streets to avoid the Arrow Cross gangs who roam the streets at night, searching for Jews whom they bash, torture and kill. Now that men of military age have been conscripted, any able-bodied man on the streets of Budapest is suspect, and he knows that if stopped and searched, he wouldn’t have time to explain that he was on his way to meet a leading Nazi. The fascist thugs would kill before asking any questions.
The thick wad of notes in his inside pocket makes him more cautious than ever. So much hinges on this meeting with Kurt Becher that he needs to consider the best way to broach the subject. As he walks, he weighs up options, possibilities and probabilities. Everything depends on the right approach. Except that in this case, it isn’t only his life, it’s the lives of all those still being detained in Bergen-Belsen that hang in the balance. And among them are his lover and his wife.
*
Initially, Ilonka resisted his entreaties to join the group on the train. ‘If I leave Budapest and Eichmann finds out I’ve gone, you’ll be in danger,’ she said. There was another reason. She and Miklós had agreed to divorce their spouses as soon as they reached Palestine so that they could get married, but knowing Judit would be on the train, she said she would feel uncomfortable travelling with his wife, especially as people were already gossiping about their affair.
‘There will be more than fifteen hundred people on that train, so you probably won’t even see each other,’ he reminded her. ‘And you don’t need to worry about me. Eichmann won’t have me killed as long as we can keep stalling and let him think that the Allies are considering his proposal. I’ve told him that Gábor is making progress. But as we know, Eichmann can change his mind at any minute, especially when he finds out that the negotiations in Istanbul have stalled, so you have to take this opportunity and get out now. There may not be another chance.’ He became so overwrought as he spoke that all the muscles in his neck stood out, and he grasped her shoulders in a vice-like grip.
Despite her misgivings, in the end she agreed. ‘But I do worry about what will happen to you, and how it’s all going to work out. Sometimes I feel my head is going to split open with all the things I worry about. I wish I knew what was happening to Gábor in Istanbul,’ she said.
What she didn’t know, and Miklós didn’t tell her, was that Gábor was no longer in Istanbul. He was in Cairo, being interrogated by the British. According to the latest coded messages Miklós had received from Klein, Gábor had left Istanbul for Syria to meet the representative of the Jewish Agency, but even before he stepped off the train in Aleppo, he was arrested by the British, taken to Cairo, detained and interrogated.
In his cable, Klein reported that the British had made it clear to Gábor that although Churchill sympathised with the plight of the Jews in Hungary, he forbade his ministers from negotiating with the Nazis in any way, no matter what was at stake. Klein reminded Miklós that the British, who had the mandate in Palestine, had made their own deal with the Arabs, and it involved a commitment to prevent Jewish immigration. He mentioned that Gábor’s overheated response was received with distaste by the British, who valued cool understatement more than red-hot emotion, and added that his outburst would only reinforce their belief that Jews were an unstable, overemotional lot. In any case, it seemed to Klein from what he’d overheard in the corridors of power that the British suspected the whole plan was some kind of devious Nazi ploy, perhaps to split the Allies.
Klein’s presence at these supposedly clandestine meetings puzzled Miklós, but he didn’t spend much time worrying over what he considered a side issue. The depressing news about Gábor made him even more determined to get Ilonka out of Budapest before Eichmann found out that at least one major western power had refused to go along with his scheme. As Eichmann regarded her as his hostage and wouldn’t allow her to leave Budapest, Miklós arranged false papers for her. She would be travelling as the sister of one of the Neolog rabbis on the train. And if Eichmann demanded to see her, he would say that she was ill.
After raising the money that Eichmann had demanded for the journey, Becher demanded even more, and to cover the shortfall, some Jews from the affluent Budapest district of Lipotvaros had agreed to subsidise the passage of those who couldn’t afford to pay the exorbitant cost of staying alive.
When Miklós and Ilonka made love on their last night together in Budapest, the intensity of their passion had brought tears to his eyes. He had a presentiment that he would never experience such rapture again, and it crossed his mind that if he died in her arms right now, he would have the best death possible.
They wept when they parted, she to set out on an uncertain journey, he to an unknown fate in what had become the murder capital of Europe.
‘No matter what happens, we mustn’t lose hope,’ she said. ‘This must end soon and then we’ll never have to part again. I can’t wait till we can be together for the rest of our lives.’ He nodded, and cradled her head on his lap, relieved that she couldn’t see the despair in his eyes.
*
Miklós is the first to arrive at the Gellert Hotel. He hands his overcoat and hat to the platinum-haired hat-check girl, who is a dead ringer for Jean Harlow, the Hollywood star, and looks around.
Beneath the crystal chandeliers, waiters in tails and starched shirtfronts scurry around holding aloft platters of chicken Kiev and skewers of grilled pork and csabai sausage. The restaurant resounds with light-hearted conversation, laughter, the clinking of glasses and the lively sound of a three-piece band playing gypsy melodies. It’s as if nothing has changed, as if the occupation had never happened, and he has the surreal feeling that he has stepped through an invisible mirror into a parallel existence in a city where there is no war, no terror, and no sudden death.
His reverie is interrupted when the maître d’ comes towards him with a supercilious expression which changes to deference as soon as he asks for Obersturmbannführer Becher’s table. He is ushered to a banquette upholstered in burgundy velvet, situated a discreet distance from the central section of the ornate dining room. Miklós supposes this is the table Becher usually reserves for trysts with his Hungarian mistress, a nightclub singer whose white throat and slender arms always glitter with diamonds. He has no illusions as to how the Nazi lieutenant colonel has come by this jewellery, and the irony of the situation isn’t lost on him. Desperation created unlikely bedfellows, and he can’t ignore the fact that he is now hoping to benefit from Becher’s insatiable greed.
As he waits, he reflects on the extraordinary turn of events that has put this affable Nazi unexpectedly in charge of the negotiations about the train. Over the past few weeks, Eichmann has become increasingly volatile and erratic, breaking whatever promises he had previously made and threatening with a reptilian smile to send Miklós to Auschwitz along with the people on the train.
Determined not to appear cowed, Miklós unconsciously began to mirror Eichmann’s behaviour. He would pace around the room, chain-smoke, and retort to the threats in a mocking manner. ‘Yes, Obersturmbannführer, why don’t you go ahead and kill me and the Jews you haven’t managed to send off to Auschwitz yet? But if you do that, what will you have to offer the Western Allies in return for your trucks?’
At times during these macabre encounters, he felt as if Eichmann was treating him as an equal, but as soon as he left his headquarters, he realised the absurdity of this notion. He wondered whether his double life was causing him to become detached from reality.
Eichmann was a fanatic who made no secret of his determination to fulfil his mission in Hungary, and he couldn’t be trusted to keep any promises. Miklós increasingly despaired of his ability to arrange for the train to leave Bergen-Belsen, and he suspected that even in the unlikely event that the Allies agreed to his preposterous scheme, Eichmann wouldn’t keep his word.
‘Und wo ist die schöne Frau Weisz?’ Eichmann asked at their last meeting. Holding the Nazi’s cold gaze without blinking, Miklós explained that Ilonka had pneumonia, could hardly breathe, and was too ill to get out of bed. Eichmann’s expression indicated scepticism, but he didn’t pursue the subject.
Just as he’d been about to leave, Eichmann put him off balance again. In scathing language he usually reserved for Miklós in particular and for the Jews in general, he began attacking Becher who, he said, was an upstart who had been promoted to equal rank with himself despite his inferior talent and lack of experience.
‘Remember what I said, Nagy,’ he said, thumping his fist on the walnut desk. ‘The trucks deal is mine. If you want that train to leave Bergen-Belsen, you’d better keep Becher’s nose out of my business.’
This was an unexpected turn of events, and Miklós was relieved to hear that somehow, behind Eichmann’s back, Becher was up to his ears in this affair. How he had inveigled himself into these final stages was a mystery, but Miklós felt confident that dealing with the corrupt Becher would be far more straightforward than with the fanatical Eichmann.
With Eichmann in charge, the outcome was always in doubt. He was drinking more heavily, his outbursts becoming more volcanic, his language more vituperative. During their last encounter he leapt to his feet several times and pointed his pistol at Miklós.
He ignored the belated order of the Hungarian leader Admiral Horthy to stop the deportations, and every day so many Jews were being sent to Auschwitz its gas chambers were being stretched beyond their capacity for mass extermination.
So it was an enormous relief when Eichmann was unexpectedly recalled and Becher took over the whole operation. He was an opportunist, not an idealist, and Miklós knew that it was preferable to deal with a man who was motivated by greed rather than ideology. But who had put him in charge, and why, remained a mystery.
*
The mystery is solved over pâté de foie gras and roast duck at the Gellert Hotel. After the sommelier deftly opens a bottle of vintage Veuve Cliquot and fills their champagne flutes, Kurt Becher leans forward and says in a confidential tone, as though speaking to a trusted colleague, ‘Did you know that Eichmann was dead against releasing any Jews? If it was up to him, he would make sure every single Jew in Hungary — and that includes you, Herr Nagy, and that charming lady of yours — ended up on a train to Auschwitz. You have no idea how frustrated he was that his mission was being undermined.’
Before Miklós can ask the obvious question, Becher smiles, and Miklós is struck by his innocent, boyish expression as he says, ‘It was my boss, Reichsführer Himmler, who suggested this deal from the start.’
So the rumours he had heard were true: Becher really was Himmler’s man! For the next twenty minutes, Miklós listens in amazement as Becher extols the virtues of Himmler, whom he describes as the wisest, kindest and most intelligent man he has ever met. Miklós surmises that this admiration and affection must be mutual, as it was Himmler who had promoted him — ahead of time and talent, if Eichmann’s jaundiced view was correct.
But as he listens to Becher’s paean of praise for his boss, one question bothers him. Why did Himmler initiate this scheme? Why did he send a Jewish representative to negotiate with western powers on behalf of the Nazis for a deal that promised to release the Jews that Eichmann had been sent to annihilate?
It doesn’t make sense. Himmler is Hitler’s deputy, a ruthless killer and vicious anti-Semite. Moreover, he isn’t a fool. He can’t possibly imagine that the Allies would supply Germany with trucks. There has to be some underlying motive for this apparently crazy plan. Does he anticipate that his scheme won’t work, which would later enable him to blame the West for refusing to save Jews?
Over their hazelnut and chocolate palacsinta, the conversation turns to music, art and literature. Becher’s boyish face is flushed after three glasses of Château Margaux, his eyes are shining, and he enthuses about Bach cantatas and Mozart operas. It turns out that he is a connoisseur of Impressionist painters, and Miklós supposes that his appreciation of fine art has been a great advantage in plundering valuable paintings from Jewish homes. He loves poetry, too, especially the work of Goethe. ‘Have you read Faust?’ Becher asks. ‘A fantastic story about a man who does a deal with the devil.’
They look at each other for a moment without speaking, as if struck by the same thought. Then Becher breaks the silence with a loud recitation of a poem and says he wished he had written it in honour of Magda, his Hungarian lover. His voice resounds through the restaurant, and some of the diners, many of them immaculately coiffed Budapest women in elegant gowns who are dining with German officers, turn in his direction, smiling indulgently. ‘Du bist wie eine blume,’ he booms, quoting from Heine, and clicks his fingers for the sommelier to bring the finest French cognac and Havana cigars. Miklós smiles to himself. He wonders if Becher is aware that Heine was Jewish, and that his works, along with hundreds of thousands of other banned Jewish literary works, had been burned in the squares of Berlin.
After their brandy balloons are filled, Miklós takes a deep breath, clears his throat and leans forward. He has waited all evening for the right moment to say this, and now that Becher is sitting back, puffing his cigar in a haze of alcoholic bonhomie, he senses that the time has come.
‘I have a problem, Herr Obersturmbannführer, and if you don’t mind mixing business and pleasure, I’d like to tell you what it is,’ he begins, trying to sound relaxed. ‘It’s about my train. It has been stuck in Bergen-Belsen for several months now, even though I’ve already paid the ransom. The trouble is, our people in the West are beginning to doubt the sincerity of your boss’s offer. I wonder if it’s in your power to do anything to expedite the train’s journey to Switzerland.’
As he speaks, he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a thick envelope whose contents the Rescue Committee had managed to raise, and slips it under Becher’s starched linen napkin.
Without saying a word, Becher nods, and with one smooth motion of his beautifully manicured hand he slides the envelope into his pocket with a smile. He knows that the envelope contains twenty thousand American dollars.
‘You know I am doing this to help the Jews,’ he says. ‘I never had anything against Jews, not like some of my colleagues. One day you will remember that I helped to save them?’
His easy smile and jovial manner have disappeared and he holds Miklós’s gaze with a compelling expression. Miklós understands what he means. The war was drawing to a close, and Germany was facing inevitable defeat. When it was all over, judgements would be made, and retribution would follow. Nazis like Becher would need all the friends they could get.
‘I won’t forget what you have done.’
Becher is smiling again. ‘So, we shake hands?’
Miklós takes the hand extended across the table. He is aware that Becher will continue to exploit him and milk the situation for financial advantage as ruthlessly as possible, but he believes the Nazi officer will keep his side of the bargain. Whatever his motive, he is an invaluable ally.
Becher raises his brandy balloon in a toast. ‘To the train!’ he says.
As they clink glasses, Miklós knows that a promise has been sealed.