 
### A RETAKE ON WAR

RÜYA 2

### Neslihan Stamboli

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 Neslihan Stamboli

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### Table of Contents

June 2008: London

ACT ONE

Tableau One

Chapter 1

August 2008: London

Chapter 2

August 2008: London

Tableau Two

Chapter 3

August 2008: London

Chapter 4

November 2008: London

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

February 2009: Budapest

Tableau Three

Chapter 7

February 2009: Kengyel

Chapter 8

February 2009: Budapest

Chapter 9

February 2009: Budapest

ACT TWO

Tableau Four

Chapter 10

February 2009: Budapest

Chapter 11

February 2009: Budapest

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

February 2009: Budapest

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

February 2009: Budapest

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

February 2009: Budapest

Chapter 28

February 2009: Budapest

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

February 2009: Budapest

Chapter 32

February 2009: Budapest

Chapter 33

March 2009: Csopak

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

March 2009: Budapest

About Neslihan Stamboli

Other books by Neslihan Stamboli

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To the memory of my grandmother

Erzsébet de Kandó Egerfarmos Sztregova Marcali Bayındırlı

(4 April 1904 - 14 July 1966)

She dreamed that she was a butterfly.

When she woke up, she wondered

if it was her dreaming that she was a butterfly,

or whether it was the butterfly dreaming that it was her.

Chuang-Tzu
June 2008  
London

Rüya entered the restaurant, leaving behind the bleak coolness of the lachrymose London summer. She looked around and saw Michael waving at her from a crowded table at the very back. The maître d' had approached her with question marks in his eyes. She made a gesture with her hand in an effort to tell him that she could manage on her own as she walked towards the table. Everybody had arrived, and she, as always, somehow managed to be late yet again. She would probably be late even to her own wedding. If there was ever going to be one, that was. She was twenty-nine years old and, according to her grandmother Nili, was about to turn into a spinster.

Michael was beckoning her to come and sit next to him. She pulled the hem of her blouse down, trying to cover up her naked waistline, only to give up the idea the next second, annoyed at herself for being so fastidious. She straightened her back and liberated her belly. Something touched against the inside of her arm. It was the label of her blouse. She had worn it inside out again. She was not doing it on purpose as her mother claimed. It was only because she was always in a hurry. Could she tear it off? She pulled the label to no avail. Too close to the table now. Never mind, Rüya, leave it as it is.

Over the cacophony of voices rising from the group around the table, she heard a comment that sent her blood rushing to her temples:

"I think I've reached a point where I'm old enough to act in a simple love story."

She was treading her way between the chairs and the wall to reach her seat. Without turning her head around, she asked, "So you think it's a simple love story, do you?" As she turned around to sit down and saw the person to whom she had addressed her question, an uneasy feeling grabbed her stomach. No! Please, no. It can't be him. It can't be Paul Brechon. _The_ Paul Brechon she adored. The famous actor who, to her great amazement, had accepted the role of Rudolf Takács.

"Well, it is a love story, is it not?" she heard Paul ask challengingly. "And yes, I do think it's a _simple_ love story."

"Let me introduce you," Michael intervened. "Rüya Nevres, the author of _A Hungarian Rhapsody_. And Paul Brechon."

Rüya did not even hear Michael. Knowing that the best defence is offense, her mind had already taken out its claws. Without taking her eyes off Paul, she said, "Actually, you're quite right. It's so simple that it may become extremely difficult to see its deeper and more complex side if you don't know how to handle it."

" _Enchanté_. It's a great pleasure to meet you," said Paul with an ironic smile before continuing in a serious tone of voice. "It seems so simple that it takes a lot of courage and years of experience behind you to act in it."

"The pleasure is mine, Monsieur Brechon. I had no doubt as to your profundity even though you pretended not to have any."

"Please ... not Monsieur Brechon. Paul."

"Now that we're all here, we can drink a toast," cut in Michael, rising from his chair with his usual sense of responsibility; knowing Rüya rather well, he must have guessed that she would not drop the subject unless interrupted. "Let's drink to the beginning of a project that I hope will be successful, enjoyable and," raising his glass and eyebrows even higher, he concluded, "profitable."

As she picked up her glass, Rüya noticed Paul's piercing blue eyes looking straight into hers. He had extended his glass slightly towards her. "Most importantly, to a project that I expect to be most engaging," he said, almost in a whisper.

She averted her eyes in panic.

"Now we would like a few words from Matthew," said Michael, addressing the director of the film.

Matthew stood up and started a speech. Rüya's mind was somewhere else altogether. What an excellent choice, she thought. The casting team had done a great job. Paul was so much like Rudolf, especially when it came to the vicious expression in his eyes. Despite his forty-two years, he would easily portray the young Rudi as well, being so energetic and so very well built, with an athletic body, of which he apparently took excellent care. In his white trousers and white shirt – with one more button undone than custom might dictate – he looked like a white prince, even if not mounted on a white horse.

Rudolf had graduated from law school that year and was ready to take over his father's law firm. He was said to be very ambitious and very successful. A bright future awaited him and the wife he would choose – something that opened doors into young hearts all over Budapest. Rudolf, however, loved to enjoy life and had nothing but tennis on his mind. Everybody knew that girls meant no more than a fleeting pastime for him. Despite his notoriety, this was the first time Alex had seen him, and she had no difficulty in understanding why they all adored him so much.

" _Károly!" she whispered excitedly into her brother's ear. "Why don't you introduce us?"_

" _Are you sure you want to meet him?"_

" _Of course I'm sure."_

" _Well, I'm not so sure if I want to introduce you."_

" _What makes you say that?"_

" _You aren't deaf, are you? Or aren't you living in Budapest? Listen, darling. I don't want you to get hurt. Come on, let's get going."_

" _Come off it, Károly. I'm not a baby anymore. Don't forget that I'm seventeen years old; stop protecting me. You wouldn't want me to become an old spinster and pester you for the rest of my life, would you now? Besides, what is in an introduction? It's not like I would fall head over heels in love with him at first sight, and he'd make my life miserable forever and ever. You should start writing novels. I'm sure you'll be great in melodramatic fiction."_

" _Just a word of warning. Don't say I didn't tell you, all right? Please be careful."_

" _All right, all right."_

He held out his hand as he stood up. "Let's go then."

Alex practically jumped to her feet. She could feel her heart's thunderous hammering as they walked hand in hand along the court towards Rudolf who had finished playing and was wiping the sweat off his face with a towel. As they approached him, he wrapped the towel around his neck, leaned his head slightly to one side and fixed his eyes on Alex. His arrogant and perhaps somewhat ironic gaze, which nevertheless failed to hide his admiration, set butterflies flying in her stomach. His piercing deep blue eyes were so captivating that they threatened to draw her in where she felt she would be unconditionally lost. When their eyes met, her thundering heart skipped a beat, her knees went weak, and she held on tightly to Károly's hand. It was as if she had suddenly turned blind to the world around her, bewitched by Rudolf's eyes, which, despite their intimidating harshness, had a compelling attraction to them. When in the end she managed to tear her eyes away from his, she noticed his bony nose, irresistibly potent and dangerously overpowering in contrast to the soft curls of his short brown hair. A hesitant but sweet excitement grabbed her. His self-confident demeanour, fuelled by his raw power, made her twinge; her whole body was enwrapped by a consuming desire. Forget it, Alex, she said to herself, forget it! She tightened her hold on Károly's hand. And then Rudolf smiled. It was a smile that changed everything. His entire face lit up, and his features melted into a soft expression. He was smiling with his eyes. He had such a perfect set of teeth. Not knowing what to do, Alex looked away and turned to Károly, hoping that he would say something.

" _Hi there, Rudi." Károly let go of Alex's hand to shake Rudolf's._

" _Why, hello," he greeted Károly and swiftly turned to Alex. "Hi. I'm Rudolf."_

" _Rudi, this is my sister Alexandra," barged in Károly before Alex could open her mouth._

Rudolf had taken Alex's hand into his and was gently raising it to his lips. "It's a great pleasure to have met you at long last, Mademoiselle de Kurzón."

Alex wished that these few seconds would last forever, with Rudi's lips touching her hand and his eyes penetrating hers. "It's a pleasure for me too," she said faintly.

" _A Hungarian Rhapsody_ , Act One, Tableau One, Scene I.10, June 1927," thought Rüya. " _Lassú_ , the first part of the rhapsody, begins unruffled and leisurely with the languor of a golden summer day." She had memorised every sentence, every word in her book. She really had, although it seemed quite unlikely considering that it was a book of three hundred and eighty thousand words.

"Is it really the story of your family?"

"I beg your pardon?" Rüya started as her thoughts scattered. Matthew, the director, had finished his speech.

Paul rephrased his question. "Is everything you have written in your book based on reality?"

"Not exactly. Almost all of the characters are from real life. Mami, that is Alexandra, was my maternal grandmother's mother. However, I did use my authorial privilege to change some of the events."

"I would have thought so. There are so many disasters that it actually borders on melodrama."

Rüya found it very difficult to hold back the words that were waiting to jump out of her mouth. Sometimes she herself dreaded what she might end up saying. Calm down, Rüya, she said to herself. Calm down, girl!

"To be honest, all the 'disasters' – as you choose to call them – are the true bits," she blurted out, no longer able to hold herself back. "I had to use all my imagination to make the whole story a little bit more normal, more ordinary so to speak. Less melodramatic than it actually was. And I had to eliminate altogether," she moved the index and middle fingers of both her hands to put what she was going to say in imaginary quotation marks, "certain 'disasters' such as Gizella going blind."

" _Mais non!"_

"You might think that I'm joking, but some families are even less fortunate than they seem to be. Even fiction can't tolerate what has happened to them."

"This is your first book, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. And why on earth I took up such a venture, I have no idea. By profession and passion, I'm an artist, a painter. But I felt I had to write this book, you know. I doubt if I will write anything else. It seems as if I've used up all my energy. I feel utterly drained. It also affected my painting. I haven't drawn a single line for the last four years, ever since I started writing. In other words, I've been in an artistic coma in every sense of the word since 2004."

For the rest of the dinner, she made every effort not to talk to Paul. It proved to be a rather difficult task since he was sitting right opposite her, but she persevered. She did not want to fall prey to the cunning comments of this overly self-confident man, provoking her into an aggressive state of self-defence. Having listened to the suffocating monologue of a certain Peter seated on her left throughout the starter and the main course, she excused herself halfway through her dessert, saying that she would have to go. She hated being the first to leave a table, but she had to meet her cousins who lived in London and she was already unfashionably late. She had not thought that this dinner would last so long. She gave Michael a hurried kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you at eleven tomorrow morning."

"Good night, Rüya."

"Good night, everybody," she said as she rose to her feet. Several men around the table, including Paul, pushed their chairs and stood halfway up to bid Rüya goodbye and then sat down again. By the time she made her way to the other side of the table, the group was back in deep conversation. Nobody noticed her going around to Paul and bending over his shoulder to whisper something in his ear.

"I know that as soon as I leave, they will tell you that I'm a bitter broad who is spoiled stiff by the international success of her first book. Well, they might be right. Perhaps I'm a bit bitter and a little bit spoiled, but, no matter what, nothing changes the fact that I do adore your acting, Monsieur Brechon, and that I'm extremely happy that you accepted the role."

Paul turned his eyes to look at her from under eyebrows raised in surprise while his smile betrayed an impossible superciliousness.

"There could not have been a better match, you know. Even your ... how shall I put it? Even your self-confidence, not to say your arrogance, is exactly like Rudolf's."

Afraid of Paul's answer and of her own responses thereafter, she turned around and walked quickly away from the table. She felt her jaws tightening. She had managed to ruin everything at the last moment. Why did she attack him like that? Why could she never hold her tongue? She adored Paul Brechon's acting. Besides, he was extremely sexy, intelligent and mature, and she did not think he was arrogant at all. Why did she say that? Why? Why?

"Would you like me to hail you a cab, Miss?" she heard the waiter ask as she darted out of the restaurant. Ignoring him, she started walking on Fulham Road. She needed some fresh air. It would take her no more than a couple of minutes to reach Blake's Hotel where she was supposed to meet her cousins. Juli _néni_ would also be there. Juli _néni_ was her ... How were they actually related? Sometimes she could not figure out who was who since they addressed all of Mami's female relatives as _néni_ , which meant aunt in Hungarian. Juli was the elder daughter of Mami's brother Károly. Whatever! She was an aunt. Juli _néni_ wanted to celebrate the success of her book.

She could not deny Juli _néni_ 's help in finishing her novel. At a time when she had almost lost all her enthusiasm to go on writing and was ready to throw all her work away, Juli _néni_ had said something that had opened up a whole new vista for Rüya. At that point, she had been working on her book for a year and a half and was having great difficulty finishing it. "Have you been to Yad Vashem?" Juli _néni_ had asked and, without waiting for Rüya's reply, continued, "My father Károly was not just a mutinous and crazy painter, you know." She had then fallen silent for a brief moment before going on. "Actually, he was rebellious all right, rebellious and headstrong, so much so that, despite my grandmother's objections and threats, he never gave up on my mother, his beloved Ada, with whom he had fallen head over heels in love at first sight." She had taken out several photo albums, which she had not shown Rüya before. "This photograph was taken in 1927 during the picnic in Balatonfüred where my parents met. My father used to say, with an ironic smile, 'the picnic Alex had organised for no other reason than inviting Rudi.'"

Learning what Yad Vashem was and what it had got to do with her book, Rüya had started to write again with rekindled enthusiasm. She had swiftly enriched the first two acts with new additions and found the energy to plot the third act, albeit solely based on her imagination. Less than six months later her book was finished. They said two years to write a novel of this scope and length was a record. Well, two years might actually be a record for the purpose, considering that she had been to Hungary four times and each time stayed there for weeks shuttling between four different cities, visited Paris twice, Italy once and London thrice – or maybe more – digging, with irresistible curiosity, into the archives of quite a large number of sources from the Imperial War Museum to the Special Operations Executive. On the other hand, the same two years might prove to be too long for the purpose if one worked sixteen hours a day on the task, having nothing better to do in life.

She felt a sudden sense of uneasiness enshrouding her. It might have been a better idea to make up an excuse to avoid her cousins. She was not in the best of moods to celebrate.
ACT ONE

_Lassú_ , the first part of the rhapsody, begins unruffled and leisurely with the languor of a golden summer day.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act One, Tableau One  
1927

Tableau One

1

Károly could guess what was going through his sister's mind as she stared at Ada with an intense look.

"A girl in a black dress," he said without taking his eyes off Ada, standing under the trees over at the other end of the garden, "draws the attention to herself, not to her dress. And like her dress, she might not be stunning, but she's discreetly essential. She's minimalist yet elegant, not mysterious perhaps, but impeccably refined and sophisticated."

Alex let out an expansive laugh. "I didn't know you read such magazines as the _Femina_. Your appreciation of Mademoiselle Chanel's idea of a little black dress, or rather your awareness of such an idea, comes as an utter surprise. Now my dear _Öcsi_ , I'll be going water-skiing, and I strongly advise that you stop lazing about daydreaming and start socialising." She stole a passing glance at Ada. "And don't let yourself get carried away too much." She whisked away towards her friends on the pier.

Károly saw Rudi come out of the cabin and walk over to Alex. With a sense of foreboding, he watched him drape his arm over Alex's shoulders and whisper something in her ear, while caressing her hair, which shone with a beautiful coppery glow, occasional golden streaks scintillating in the sun. She shied away giggling and then followed Rudi, watching him with admiring eyes as he jumped into the water with an impeccable dive. As he put on his skis, she took Ferenc's hand and jumped onto the speedboat. The thunderous sound of the engine sent the swans waiting to be fed by the beach swimming away in fright.

Magda, an adamant rower, had apparently forgotten about all rhyme and reason and, risking a cramp after all the food she had eaten, had jumped into the water and was already climbing onto one of the canoes swaying coyly there. Two young men were watching her from the other canoes, eager to show their irresistibly beautiful friend how athletic they were, while a crowd on the pier waited for their turn. "They stand no chance," thought Károly, seeing that her sister had no interest in any of them. Some of Magda's relatively audacious friends, who gazed hopefully into her eyes, trying to express their deeper emotions for her, misinterpreted the meaning of the intrepid look she gave them in response and ended up in disappointment. They could not understand the true meaning behind Magda's eyes forbiddingly fixed onto theirs, saying, "I can see in your eyes how madly in love you are with me, but I don't really care." They were unable to discern the mocking dismissiveness hidden behind her sweet smile. Magda had never been in love yet.

Alex passed by on the speedboat with her back to the wind, her face hidden behind her flying hair as she watched Rudi water-ski. Károly could not see Alex's eyes but could guess what they might be saying. Unlike Magda, she usually dared not look straight into others' eyes. Her pupils fluttered right and left, timorous of betraying her true emotions. Károly sometimes thought that Alex averted her eyes not because she feared betraying her feelings but because she was scared to read the emotions in those admiring eyes, as if she dreaded the idea that someone she did not fancy would fall in love with her. She seemed to be terrified to start a relationship with someone she did not love, just because of her inability to leave his advances unrequited. In fact both Alex and Magda, although they might be behaving differently, wanted to choose and not to be chosen. Károly could not see Alex's eyes now but had a strong premonition that she had already made her choice. The speedboat passed again with Alex waving at her friends on the shore, while the waves it created hit the pier, wetting its wooden planks.

Károly's gaze came to rest on Sándor, standing at the very end of the pier. His cousin's comportment somehow evoked feelings of compassion in Károly. He felt a deep sense of melancholy when he looked at his tall, emaciated body, drooped narrow shoulders, his chin shy of showing any sign of strength, his long and bony face, his feathery light brown hair and his green eyes slanting downwards as if they melted towards his cheeks, giving his face the saddest of expressions. There was always hesitation in his diffident eyes, and he spoke in a low voice hardly audible even to himself. Today he had prepared the sailing boat with unexpected ardour and was now helping Margit get on board. "Well done, Margit," thought Károly. Only she could save Sanyi. If she showed half of the care and attention she showed János, Sanyi would turn into a lion. Károly turned to János, who had just come over and lay down in the deckchair next to him. "Is there any chance that she might become your girlfriend?"

"Who? Ada?"

He actually meant Margit, but he did wonder about János's feelings for Ada as well. He turned to look at Ada, who was sitting on the lawn at the other end of the garden with a group of young men, engrossed in an apparently heated conversation. Although she tried very hard to hide her femininity behind a veil of extreme seriousness, as if she were afraid of being considered one of those women who used their beauty as a weapon, the transparency of her immaculately smooth pale skin and her sky-blue eyes accentuated by her brown hair were enough to melt Károly's heart. He felt an irresistible desire to push back the curl of hair dangling over one of her prominent cheekbones and to kiss her full lips. Throughout lunch, he had tried to catch her eyes. He did the same now. Ada replied to his searching eyes with a controlled smile, only to turn away quickly and carry on listening to the conversation of the group. The expression on her face told Károly that she was not interested in whatever they were talking about. He decided to wait for her next smile.

"I actually find it very difficult to see Ada as a woman, let alone as a girlfriend. She's no different than a male friend for me."

Ada was again looking at Károly. This time her gaze, which she did not hasten to avert, disclosed much more meaning than she might have conveyed in a polite smile.

"I meant Margit."

"Margit?" said János, slightly surprised. "Little Margit. She's only a child, Károly. She is, however, mature enough to listen to all my problems with patience and comprehension, more like a selfless sister who puts you above herself. I feel as light as a feather every time I speak with her. She alleviates all my troubles, leaving me with a sense of something I can't quite define ... elation, I would say." He paused as his eyes, darker than a pair of black olives, were suddenly hooked on Alex, gaily laughing in the motorboat as it passed by them. Without taking his eyes off her, he continued, "But that shouldn't be enough, should it?"

They both waved back at Alex, who was waving as though she wanted to share her happiness.

"Take care of Alex, Károly. Take very good care of her."

Rudi passed on his skis, displaying all the muscles in his body as he firmly held the ropes extended behind the motorboat.

"Your sister is so naive that she won't be able to protect herself from handsome men who, blinded by their arrogance, care less for women than for their own success in conquering them."

The abundant lunch and the blazing fury of the summer sun had compelled most of the guests to take refuge under the canopy of the trees. Lying on the lawn or in the deckchairs, they had surrendered themselves to a sweet torpor deepened by the leisurely vista of the sailing boats gracefully gliding over the turquoise waters of the lake that reflected the nearby volcanic hills. The motorboat carrying Alex passed by again. Károly's heart sank every time he bore witness to his sister's desperate efforts to keep herself busy. Neither he nor their uncle was able to fill the emptiness in Alex's heart left by the loss of their father. And little Alex was instinctively driven to live at an ever-increasing tempo, striving to bury the deeply felt pain of this loss deeper than where it already was, a pain she probably feared to admit even to herself. With a deep aversion to loneliness, she tried everything in a childishly courageous and irresponsible manner, unable to tolerate a single moment of idleness. She hung possessively on to her existing friends and continually developed new friendships with great enthusiasm. She was not as strong as Magda and did not know when to stop. She was still Károly's little baby and would probably remain so forevermore. She did not need to rush into the cold and ruthless world of adulthood. He would always be there to protect her. He would graduate from the engineering school, which he detested, and would take his father's place. "Shall I be able to replace him?" he asked himself. Shall I be able to graduate? Do I categorically have to become an engineer? Can't I be a father to my sisters if I become an artist like them? He looked at János lying in the deckchair next to him. He had no such obligation. He did not have to fill the emptiness left by a father. How lucky he was. He studied engineering not because he had to but because he loved it. What a great blessing it was to be free to make your own choices.

"Magda or Alex? How can you tell which one is which? It might even be hard to tell which one you're in love with." Rudi had finished skiing and come over to where Károly and János were. It was Alex's turn to ski.

For a brief instant, Károly thought he had misheard what Rudi had said. Did he insinuate that he was in love with Alex? He could not believe his ears. Rudi! Being in love! Two concepts impossible to mix, just like water and oil.

"Only those who don't know them well enough say so," said János, in an extremely frosty tone of voice. "But once they get to know them a little bit better, they realise how different their personalities are, and that their similarities are exclusively in their looks." His eyes were following Alex gliding over the water. "It would be enough to catch a glimpse of a subtle expression in their eyes or notice a tiny curve in their lips to be able to differentiate between them. You'll readily recognise in Alex's eyes the irresponsible cheerfulness of a sprightly little girl. Her soft gaze doesn't even have a trace of Magda's rational seriousness or harshness. Without Alex, Magda is utterly boring. Without Magda, Alex is impossibly exhausting. They're like the two halves of an apple. It seems like one would be incomplete without the other, and they always stay together as if they knew this."

"Except of course when they're doing sports," said Károly, cutting János short. "I do wonder what they will do when they're married. I'm sure that they'll continue to trick everyone, pretending to be the other one – something they have really enjoyed doing ever since they were little girls."

"It's unbelievable how strong she is for someone so slim," Rudi said, drying himself with a towel while keeping his eyes on Alex.

"Appearances might be misleading," retorted János, his gaze still loyally on Alex. "She's like a fragile crystal flower that could shatter to pieces at the touch of a wrong hand."

At that very instant, Alex, as if she had heard János's remark, lost control and fell. Rudi left Károly and János, and walked towards the buffet set out under the trees for teatime. He took a _pogácsa_ from the pile of cheese savouries on the table, which contained a generous display of various poppy seed turnovers, walnut cakes and marzipan rolls. He then moved on to the pier without taking his eyes off Alex, who was back on her skis.

After skiing back and forth a couple of times as if to prove her strength and competence, Alex returned to the pier. Seeing her taking refuge between Rudi's arms, who had been waiting for her with a towel, somehow worried Károly. She looked so vulnerable as they walked towards the lawn, with her body shrunk under the towel and her face looking tiny between the locks of her wet hair. Károly felt angry with János again for being so inept in winning Alex's heart all these years.

He watched Alex as she leaned back onto the sun-warmed trunk of a tree with Rudi standing really close to her, his breath on her lips. He had one of his hands on the tree trunk right next to Alex's head while with his other hand he caressed Alex's nose, cheeks and shoulders. How presumptuous he was! How self-assured! He obviously had no doubt that he would soon conquer – or already had conquered – the heart of this girl whom he had imprisoned between his arms. "Which Rudi is the real one?" Károly wondered. Was he the tender, refined and loving Rudi who gave the impression that he was betraying his most secret feelings hidden in the depths of his heart as he spoke to her? Or was he the adventurous Rudolf, the tough man who treated women as objects of desire to be used and abused, the womaniser who loved beauty and sex and preferred to keep his relationships short and strictly behind closed doors, having no time or energy to spend on serious long-term relationships which might distract him from his ambitious tennis goals? Which one was more credible? Could his friend Rudi be so cruel as to drag his friend's sister into such a relationship? And Alex ... sweet Alex. She was trembling like a leaf, despite the towel she had wrapped around her. Károly could see how right he was in his thoughts of a few minutes ago. Yes, Alex had made her choice. He could understand this from the way she fearlessly looked straight into Rudi's eyes as though she wanted to read his feelings until she had her fill of them, as though she wanted to shout out loud how very much in love she was. She looked at him with the window to her inner world wide open. How much aware was she of the truth behind the appearances? Was she able to see the nonchalance of this young man standing before her, who knew perfectly well that he could easily get anything and anyone he desired? Did she notice how his self-confidence bordered on narcissistic arrogance? Or was she blinded by an insurmountable degree of optimism, nourished by her hunger for love and happiness?
August 2008  
London

Rüya wondered where this flirting marathon with Paul would end up. It had been going on for two months, a taxingly long time, threatening to turn into Pheidippides's run to Sparta. You had better think about what you should be wearing, Rüya. For the nth time, she scrambled out of what she had just put on and flung them all onto the floor. She dug out her black shorts from underneath the mountain of trousers, shorts, dresses and shirts heaped up on the floor and hurriedly crammed herself into it. She needed a black t-shirt. Rummaging through the heap of clothes, she found none. She ransacked the drawers of her wardrobe. From the depths of one, she ferreted out a highly wrinkled one, which she threw on. She was going to be late; Paul should be here soon. Black sandals or black sneakers? She opted for the sandals, snatched her bangles from the bedside table and dashed into the drawing room.

During the month of July, Paul had come to London several times, each time staying a few days more than required by the preproduction meetings before returning to Paris, and, with his insistent blue gaze and subtle compliments, started taking Rüya's breath away and tugging at her heartstrings. On his last visit, just as Rüya was about to surrender the keys to her heart, he had suddenly disappeared into thin air without any forewarning, only to return three days later, saying, rather offhandedly, that he had been over to Biarritz for some windsurfing. "In two weeks' time," he then added hastily, "I'll be going to the Pyrenees to do some paragliding." He apparently ran after a new adventure before the thrill of the previous one showed signs of fading away. He obviously saw women as yet another adventure and pursued a new Gill before his interest in the old Gillian started to wane. However, those captivating eyes, despite being void of any kind of reassurance, somehow lulled Rüya to turn a blind eye to all that. They seemed to be playing a most bizarre game, or rather acting out the plot of a preposterous play staged by Paul – the leading man of easy victories – where Rüya was given a role she had not asked for. She gradually developed the unsettling feeling that Paul was toying with her. At the dawn of August, she went back to Istanbul, yearning for some sun and, more crucially, intending to snap out of the magical spell of the game she had been playing with Paul so that she could think with a clear mind. Contrary to her expectations, the geographical distance proved to be hardly sufficient to break the spell cast by their dalliance, which went on with undiminished vigour through Istanbul-Paris telephone conversations and electronic mail messages. Feelings expressed in the encouraging comfort of speaking without looking into each other's eyes, emotions mutely conveyed through a few impersonal taps on a keyboard began to take on a new, almost surrealistic, dimension for Rüya.

"Every so often, even peevishness might be oddly delectable as it betrays hints of the secret desires hidden behind it."

"The irresistible allure of a woman who is not aware of her sexual magnetism."

None of these was explicitly said or written for Rüya, but she could not help build castles in the air.

At long last, having enough of Istanbul after staying there for three weeks – or perhaps unwilling to waste any more time there upon hearing that Paul would be in London for a few days – she rushed back to London to continue wearing everyone out with her preproduction interventions. She was staying at Attila's outrageously untidy flat in Maida Vale. Her cousin, after having roamed the most godforsaken places of the globe as a war correspondent for years, had decided to settle down in London and was already bored to death, even though it had not yet been a year that he had been drifting in the doldrums. "As a war correspondent, I belong to the only group of professionals in the world that will never suffer from unemployment," he kept saying, musing about a precipitous return to active duty.

"Well, well, well! Your prince is here, my Lady, on a very red horse indeed." Attila was peering out the window, if one could call it that, with its glazing resembling frosted glass under the layers of grime left unattended in donkey's years and its frame undulating like a restless sea under coats of paint applied and reapplied for more than a century.

Rüya cast a fleeting glance at the ostentatious car while her indecisive mind oscillated between keeping on or taking off the bangles on her wrist, fearing that they might be too glitzy for the occasion. "I wonder what must have possessed him to drive such a thing?"

"Probably the simple fact that it's very difficult to get hold of a twenty-year-old Ferrari in such pristine condition. One could sell his soul to the devil for this."

Initially, Rüya found it very hard to comprehend the reason behind Attila's admiration for a car that offered a backbreaking experience while getting in it and, once that was achieved, rendered it impossible to communicate due to the thunderous noises it made. However, once in the countryside, driving along the narrow winding roads lined by huge trees at a speed so high it discouraged her from daring to look at the speedometer, letting her head back with the strong wind brushing through her hair, watching the canopy of the trees above rolling back like a fast forwarded film portraying a long stretch of emerald lace, she somewhat understood her cousin's veneration as a series of different pangs grabbed her stomach. She almost concurred with him about selling one's soul to the devil, albeit not for the car she was in, as her heart skipped a beat or two every time she reminded herself that the man sitting at the driver's seat was Paul Brechon. She could never have imagined that she would one day feel such exhilaration on the roads they once used on their way back to the icy embrace of the boarding school in the dismal Sunday evenings of dark winter months, journeys during which an unbearable sense of abandonment gripped her heart as they drove in Erzsi _néni_ 's second-hand car – which actually must have changed hands at least five times – arriving emphatically late after a series of attempts to use the shortcuts, unsuccessful attempts that ended up in roads that led nowhere.

"We should turn left here."

She had almost missed the turn. The pub where she had not been for years was still there and probably would be there for several decades to come. In a hurry to rid themselves of the mouldy and sour odour and the medieval darkness of the interior, they dashed out to the back garden after grabbing their beers and plates loaded with Shepherd's Pie, which Rüya ordered for both of them; she had not missed that greasy and heavy dish at all, but chose it for custom's sake only – it was one of the few British dishes that she thought Paul should taste. They settled down opposite each other at one of the worn out wooden tables.

"I had taken you to be rather fainthearted, Rüya, seeing you so scared of water. However, I now realise that I was mistaken. You seem to enjoy speed."

In the first week of July, when they had been to Henley for the Regatta, Rüya was justifiably alarmed as they punted away, rocking and wobbling in the arms of the River Thames on one of those long and narrow boats that reminded her of a Venetian gondola prone to topple over at the tiniest movement of its passengers – especially if they had had more than enough of that insidious drink called Pimm's, which unexpectedly went to the head of those who, fooled by its innocent-looking charm, had a glass too many. What had he taken her for, a pigeon-hearted old frump?

"And I had taken you to be rather mature. However, I suspect that it might not be quite so."

"Let's say that I'm mature enough to know that life is not to be taken too seriously. We must not forget to play."

"Is life a game for you?"

"Perhaps not, but if you kill the child in you, life loses its thrill. Some of the things that others take as childish teach you great lessons. More suggestively, they make you feel that you're alive. That sharp pain in your stomach when you venture into what is deemed hazardous or impossibly risky reminds you that you're living and makes you wake up to how valuable your life – and life in general – is. I can think of no words strong enough to describe the excitement triggered by the challenge one faces in a game where one finds himself not so sure of winning. And when one wins, one once again proves to oneself that one is invincible." He had turned his eyes away and was gazing vacantly at some invisible horizon. "I wish I could remain a child."

Me too, thought Rüya. "When the adult world forces you to suppress the freedom you had as a child for too long, there comes a point when you explode," she said, spreading her arms wide in an effort to lighten a conversation that showed signs of moving into painful areas. "And they readily mark you as a rebellious artist."

"The irresistible magnetism of a rebel!"

"Do you find me attractive because I'm a rebel, or are you talking about the attraction of being rebellious?" she thought. Castles in the air, Rüya. Don't you build any!

"Tell me," said Paul, pushing aside the chipped plate in front of him although he had eaten no more than two forkfuls of its contents. He rested his folded arms on the table and leaned towards Rüya. "Is this the countryside where you learned how to paint?"

"Not at all. Can you see anything around here that might be even vaguely inspirational? I learned it all from Mami." She went on talking about the details of her childhood. When it came to the wall in her bedroom she was allowed to draw or paint as she wished, she decided to change the subject, suddenly dubious of how much of all this gibberish would be of interest to Paul. "How is life in Paris?" she finally asked.

"Tiring," said Paul, averting his eyes. "Paris always wears you out, though in a sweetly satisfying way."

"Is it the night life?" she asked although the question she actually had in mind – but could not get herself to articulate – was about the women in Paris. "Women don't let you alone, do they?" she finally blurted out, and regretted it as soon as the words left her mouth. Aren't you ashamed to behave like a desperate spinster, Rüya? The women in his life are none of your business, are they?

"The promotion of the movie that will be coming out in October," he said, his intense eyes unblinkingly focused on hers, making her heart skip a few beats. "I do have a very busy schedule, you know." His lips curved in a subtle smile, betraying a sense of satisfaction triggered by Rüya's obvious jealousy. "Don't believe everything they say in the media," he continued. "They love to stick a label to all my lady friends."

Very cleverly put indeed! Not his girlfriends, not his sweethearts but his lady friends. Less than a girlfriend but definitely more than just a friend of the female gender. A relationship most suitable for Paul, nonexclusive, noncommittal, nonessential and perfectly short-term. Whatever! I can't possibly ask what the term actually entails in his vocabulary, can I? I would know if I met at least one of them. She had known Paul for two months now, and so far had not had the pleasure of meeting any of his so-called lady friends. They must be reserved exclusively for the photographs in the press or for a limited time between the sheets.

"My job doesn't let me allocate much time to women."

That's for sure. He could only allocate one night, she thought vehemently. No wonder he finds Paris tiring.

"Do you see Beatrice?" she asked.

"Sorry, who?"

She was about to say, "The girl you almost took in your clutches at Matthew's party and probably did take to your bed later that night," but forced herself to pose a gentler question. "We met her at Matthew's party. She's responsible for the casting in Paris."

Paul raised his eyes to the blue sky full of threatening clouds as though he were looking for some celestial help to remember whom Rüya was referring to. "No, I don't see her," he finally said, shaking his head. "What made you ask?"

Rüya was lost for an explanation. "Nothing," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

He was looking straight into her eyes again. "You are in fact very soft under that hard shell of yours."

What was he talking about? She vaguely heard Paul utter something else but could not quite catch it. Never mind, Rüya! It's probably better that you didn't, anyways.

"Would you like another beer?" he asked.

"No, thanks. You shouldn't be drinking either since you'll be driving. They're ruthless about drunk-driving in this country."

"You'll do the driving," he said, as he stood up. He went inside and came back with a bottle of beer. "Tell me a little about your life in Istanbul, would you?"

Perplexed, I stand at a threshold. When did I come here? Why did I come? I'm looking for something. I dash inside, my eyes fidgeting around. Panic-stricken, as if I would never be able to find what I lost, hasty, as if time would be ending soon, vehement, as if in want of cramming everything that I couldn't do in a life I wasted, into whatever remained of it. Suddenly I realise that there are others in the room. How come I haven't noticed them before? Or have they arrived after me? Whatever! A quick smile and a slight nod to each of them, an imaginary kiss accompanied by a blink to some others. I have no time to kiss them; I have to rush.

" _How did I end up here?" I wonder. "I must be dreaming."_

" _Yes, you are," says my sister, her lips like coral, "and you realise that you are. That realisation will allow the scars from your past to slowly reveal themselves. Eventually, you'll be able to cope with the fears that sequester your heart because it is you who is opening the door now. Don't give up!"_

When she arrived home in the evening, Rüya was looking forward to driving Attila mad with envy by telling him how drunk her prince with the red horse had been – or had pretended to be – and how she had taken the driver's seat for most of their journey back, but her dear cousin was out. She did not want to stay on her own, so she decided to pay a visit to her other cousins living across the street.

Juli _néni_ answered the door to their two-storey Victorian house. She was sorry that her grandchildren József and Gyula had gone out and would not be back before the early hours of the morning and ended her opening tirade in a sigh, "Youth." Rüya, well aware of the futility of an excuse such as "I shouldn't be bothering you then," surrendered to Juli _néni_ 's insistent pleas and went inside. They had knocked down the walls between the living room and the two adjacent bedrooms to turn it into a more habitable area. It was a strange space, with lots of corners, niches, and curves but nevertheless a very warm one. Rüya had always loved this house.

Juli _néni_ , who hardly stopped talking when she found someone who spoke Hungarian, had already started nattering away. Her daughter and son-in-law had gone to Sainsbury's to do the weekly grocery shopping but should be back soon. She insisted that Rüya stay for dinner since she had prepared some delicious Hungarian dishes. There was _Csikótokány_ , the beef stew her husband Teodor – may his soul rest in peace – used to love. It was an excellent recipe she had learned from her mother-in-law Éva. There was also _lecsó_ , rich in tomato and peppers, just as Rüya liked it. Following the menu and the recipes, Juli _néni_ started a long session of asking after the whole family. "How is your grandma Nili? And your mother Aslı? Lila, André? How are they all doing? Are they all right? Do they have any plans to come to London at all?" She talked about her sister Dóra, who would not be coming to London for Christmas this year as she would not be able to leave New York, giving a detailed explanation of why that was so. She lamented about how their family was scattered around the world just like seeds blown away by strong winds. "This is our familial fate," she complained. "We're part of an extended family whose members could never get together again after 1932 when my father took my mother – who was only his girlfriend then – and went to Paris."
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act One, Tableau One  
1932

2

"Spring in Paris. That must be the definition of paradise," whispered Károly as he folded his arms around Ada, who was enjoying her morning torpor, and pressed his lips against her hair. She looked incandescent in the sunlight pouring in through the high windows of the studio, giving on to the garden. "And early summer in Paris. Actually, 'Paris' is enough to define paradise." He extended his hand and opened the window a crack. The room filled with the fragrance of the flowers already warmed under the morning sun, irradiating their seductive perfume to attract the bees and insects of all kinds. The flirtatious twittering of birds looking for their soul mates followed the fragrances. Finally in came the strong smell of the coffee emanating from the studio next door occupied by Viktor and Karla.

It had been two months since Károly and Ada had moved to Paris, to the rebellious and crazy city that welcomed everyone with open arms, that open-minded City of Lights giving free rein to all desires and attracting artists of all kinds in search of freedom and inspiration, a dream city of unequalled vitality making its inhabitants feel at the epicentre of the world. For Károly and Ada, it was an avant-garde dream, offering a new reality. They lived in Montparnasse, where Picasso had moved twenty years earlier after having declared the death of Montmartre. This _quartier_ on the Left Bank, teeming with artists from all over the world, was the cultural hub of the city, where almost every dwelling was used as a studio. It was a haven for artists where bohemian, chic and simple mingled and created their own uniquely free style. Károly, despite objections from his mother Gizella, was living in a studio in La Ruche, one of the most popular artistic colonies of Montparnasse. Located in the Passage Dantzig near the large abattoir of Montparnasse, it was an oasis consisting of a three-storey circular structure resembling a large beehive, as its name suggested, and a series of rudimentary studios scattered in a lovely garden surrounding it. Designed by Gustave Eiffel as a wine pavilion for the Great Exposition of 1900, the structure was dismantled and re-erected as low-cost studios for artists, where the only luxury was an abundance of daylight. A refuge for young artists where they could share models and show their works in the exhibition space open to all residents, La Ruche had been home to a myriad of artists from Chagall to Modigliani, from Léger to Delaunay. Károly and Ada had rented one of the studios in the garden, which they had filled with the materials they needed for his painting and for her photography. Their furniture consisted of a bed and a small wardrobe crammed into the mezzanine they used as their bedroom and, on the ground floor, of two armchairs, a tiny dining table and two chairs. The counter that was meant to serve as the kitchen was invaded by paints, brushes, tins of thinner, bottles of turpentine and chemicals Ada used for developing her negatives, and the toilet served as her darkroom.

Károly looked at Ada lying on the bed, propping herself up on her elbows. He envied Füst, their two-month-old kitten with beautifully bluish smoky grey fur, who had curled between her arms and was staring at Károly with his bright yellow eyes as if to say, "Leave us alone!" Károly still found it hard to believe that he was finally here in Paris, in the city of his dreams, and, more significantly, Ada had made it there with him. He lost himself in the beauty of Ada's fingers caressing Füst's soft fur and in her eyes glittering with love. She was so beautiful. He moved his fingers through her dishevelled hair; it made him think of their lovemaking last night.

"I'd like to go to Montmartre today."

"To take photographs of the tourists?"

"No, Károly! I want to take shots showing the sorrowful streets of the deserted Montmartre. I have a series in mind that I want to call the 'Loneliness of Montmartre.' As a matter of fact," she said with an ironic smile, "what you've just said might be an excellent idea: to show its loneliness, its sadness, its pain while its streets swarm with tourists."

"Don't you lose track of time there. We're invited to the _vernissage_ of Picasso in the evening – at the Galerie Georges Petit. We can't miss it."

"Don't worry. Life is so easy with the Métro."

Although he was interested to hear the details of Ada's programme for the day, Károly was more intrigued by the curvaceous details of her body. The shadows of the rich foliage of the garden were dancing on her naked body, bathed in the sunlight streaming through the large windows on the wall and on the ceiling of the mezzanine. I must draw this dance, he thought, gliding his fingers along the shadows wiggling on Ada's warm skin.

"Are you listening, Károly?"

"Of course, I am, my love."

"I'm saying that you should take up Surrealism before it's too late. They are the new masters of the art world. It's as if Surrealism were created just for you. Logic surrendering itself to dreams. The glorious satisfaction of shocking the conventions. I find it quite surprising that someone like you, who turned his back on engineering and chose to become an artist, still doesn't feel close to such a trend. It's a declaration of independence against the measurable and graspable realities of the material world controlled by the engineers."

Animated with the excitement of what she was saying, Ada had turned sideways and was leaning on her elbow. She was stroking Füst, who had found himself a cosy little corner in between her legs, and every now and then was raising her hand to accompany her tirade, as if she wanted to accentuate the attraction of Surrealism. Károly, however, did not find Surrealism attractive enough to divert his attention from the curves of Ada's body. He held her hand, stroking Füst, who, with the premonition that his peaceful repose was about to come to an end, reluctantly left the bed as Károly leaned towards Ada, who was still heatedly saying something. As he took her full lips between his, their sweetness, something he could never have enough of, reminded him of the first time they had kissed.

After having met Ada five years ago at the picnic Alex had organised in Balatonfüred for Rudi's sake, Károly had chased her for almost a year, unable to climb over the cold and serious wall she had surrounded herself with. At long last, at the garden party he had given in Rózsadomb to celebrate his graduation from the engineering school, he had given up trying to climb the wall around her and decided to tear it down – right there and then in front of everyone – declaring his love for the whole world to hear. In the middle of one of their heated conversations, he had clasped her face between his hands, interrupting her in mid-sentence, and passionately kissed her lips, which he had been watching lustfully for months. Her lips, suddenly softening and opening like a new blossom, betrayed her willingness to readily let the wall around her crumble. He longingly kept her lips between his, ignoring her hands pressed against his chest, trying to push him away. Finally, the moment he felt the tip of her tongue on his lips, he knew that he would do anything to satisfy the irresistible desire that enslaved his whole body. Throughout that night, he tried to quench the flames of his craving for her lips by kissing her time and again under the weeping willow tree in a far corner of the garden, against the iron railings of the stairs leading up to the veranda, and in the music room while she moved her fingers on the keys of the piano. And one fine day when he touched her nude body, which had been embellishing his dreams, there was so much delight in what he saw and felt that he wanted that moment to last forever. However, driven by a frantic haste triggered by the excitement that seized his body, he impatiently conquered her secret world. His fire, which usually died down as soon as his desire was satisfied, rekindled at a speed that he himself found surprising, making him realise that his hunger for Ada was not to be easily satiated. Having tasted Ada's harshly sweet femininity, which she desperately tried to hide, Károly's carnal desire was divided into countless parts, permeating not only through his body but draping over his thoughts and emotions. He had felt from the very first day that Ada, with her intelligence overflowing from her slender body, was about to enslave his whole being body and soul. Even today, after so many years, he still felt his blood boil at the slightest move of her lips or with the most insignificant utterance that left them.

He gently touched her lips. He wanted to draw every single part of her body. His gaze and the tip of his finger moved along the soft curving line that extended from her chin to her neck, then moved on to her shoulders, quickly sliding down to her slim waistline before it climbed up again towards her round hips. He leaned over, took one of her feet in his hand and kissed the protruding little bone on her ankle. The fragrance of her skin was enough to arouse his whole body. Moving the tip of his tongue along her leg in pursuit of the wiggling shadows, he started drawing a wet design that stretched from her ankle to her hips. Ada lay down on the bed face down. His tongue rested for a moment on the end of the delicate line dividing her translucently white buttocks and then glided along her spine, tasting each vertebra up to her neck. He passionately buried his face in her hair against her neck and started kissing the back of her ear. She was tickled. Giggling, she tried to push him away.

"The window Károly! Shut the window."

Before lunch Ada went out, taking her Leica, the camera that was the apple of her eye. Once he was alone, Károly remembered that he had to write to his sisters, whom he had been neglecting for too long. He decided to give precedence to Alex. Rudi had called yesterday, complaining that he had quarrelled with her and that she had been avoiding him by refusing to answer his calls for the last three weeks. He beseeched Károly to speak to her. Why did he have to involve him in their affair? Alex was mature enough to make her own decisions. Károly did not know what to say to her. Perhaps he ought to say, "Just be patient, Alex. Rudi is the ideal husband for you. You're the most envied couple in Budapest. Rudi is one of my best friends. You love him. In fact you're desperately in love with him." However, would he be able to say that Rudi loved her as well? Did Rudi really love her, or was Alex right in thinking that he was stalling her? Was she waiting in vain? Would she be hurt? Should she, before it was too late, be looking around for someone else who might make her happier?

Montparnasse, Paris, 16th June 1932

My dearest and sweetest Alex,

I can't tell you how very uplifting it is to start a letter by writing the words "Montparnasse, Paris." I'm in Paris, Alex. In Paris! I keep repeating this to myself. I'm in Paris. I'm at the centre of the world. The whole world is here. When you sit at La Coupole, you hear not only French, Italian or Russian but many different languages of the world from English to Japanese. They say Montparnasse is the place with the highest number of artists per square metre. It's a paradise for the artist. I have no worries except for one, and that is not sharing all this beauty with you and Magda. You must come and visit me at the first opportunity. This might not be a realisable venture for Magda, for she won't be willing to leave her dear husband Miklós so soon after their conjugal union, but you must definitely come over. Your art needs to change its dimensions, must open up to the world. I don't know how we shall convince Mother, but I'm sure we shall find a way.

Last week I participated in an exhibition with a painting, namely _The Monk_ – the one I wrote about in my previous letter to you. I can't help but send you a section of the inflated rubbish scribbled by the Parisian critics, only to let you laugh a little at what your brother has been up to:

"His paintings are dominated by figures simplified into cubes. Something of the mood reflects Bortnyik's much more sourly metaphysical compositions in the 20s."

By the by, yesterday Rudi called ...

He paused, not knowing what to write. Besides, it would take too long for the letter to reach her, so he decided to give her a call.

He managed to get a call put through that afternoon.

"Rudi called me. He said you had a fight."

"We didn't have a fight, _Öcsi_. We broke up."

"Apparently, you haven't been answering his calls for the last three weeks. He said he would be leaving for Vienna tomorrow for a tournament. He wants to talk to you before he leaves. He must be really upset to have called me long distance."

"We have nothing more to talk about."

"Don't be such a child, Alex. There's no point in avoiding him. If you're going to break up, you should talk to him like a civilised person."

"I did talk to him, Károly. And we split up. Don't you get it? We split up. I've had enough. I'm sick and tired of feeling like a piece of rag that he thrashes about. You were right indeed in what you once told me. I'm no longer sure of my feelings for him. It's nothing but an unhealthy desire to possess him, a sickly craving that consumes me."

"We have to talk about this, and we shall do that when I see you next week in Italy."

They were invited to a ball organised by the Ganz Factory on the shores of Lake Como in northern Italy during the last week of June. It was given in honour of the memory of their uncle Kelemen, who had been the man behind the electrification of the Valtellina railroad extending from Sondrio to Lecco, the first railroad in the world to operate on a high-voltage three-phase electric current system. Hundreds of people from all over Europe and America were invited to the event. His mother had categorically refused to take no for an answer and even agreed to pay for all his expenses – including those of Ada. For Károly, the most pleasing aspect of it was that he would be seeing his sisters.

Another pleasing aspect of this ball was that Aziz had called the other day from Istanbul, saying that he was also invited. Obviously, what he actually wondered was if Alex would be coming. Károly was, in one way, happy that Aziz would be there, as his friend's tireless interest in Alex, which had been going on for months now, might help her regain her self-confidence and perhaps rekindle Rudi's jealousy, eventually paving the way to Alex's marital bliss.

"There's nothing to talk about, Károly. I wouldn't want to waste the precious time we'll be having together on such trivial matters." Her voice suddenly took on the tone of little Alex. "I miss you so much, _Öcsi_. These past two months have been hell, but this last week seems like eternity. I can hardly wait."

"Don't exaggerate, Alex. You can come and see us whenever you like. Actually, you must. You should stay with us for a while. It's not such a big deal, is it? Just a few days' travelling, that's all."
August 2008  
London

Rüya was giving short answers to Juli _néni_ 's questions, nodding her head slightly and flashing a meaningless smile every now and then to give her the impression that she was all ears, for her mind was somewhere else altogether. She could not understand Paul, who seemed intent on driving her out of her mind. What did he expect her to do? Was she supposed to listen docilely to the stories of his escapades with women? Was he trying to make her jealous? Well, if that was the case, he was certainly very good at it. She could not, however, quite grasp the meaning of his desire to arouse so much jealousy in her when nothing followed it. After all the things he kept telling her, he could not be expecting her to respond to his moves, saying, "You might have other women in your life, but that's all right with me. _Anything_ is fine by me." She certainly could not and would not say such a thing. On the other hand, she could not say farewell either. You ought to stop it, Rüya. Put an end to it! Why do you keep on seeing him? This is nothing but self-torture. It isn't going to get anywhere. He's playing with you like a cat playing with a mouse. Like all good hunters, he's setting up his trap and patiently waiting for his prey to fall into it.

Stop being ridiculous, Rüya! Try to take some lessons from what you've written in your book. Act One, Tableau One, Scene I.32, July1932.

Rudi grabbed her hands again. "Alex," he said, tightening his grip. "Alex, please try to understand me. Infidelity is very hard to digest. Sometimes your vanity makes you blow insignificant details out of proportion, and you burn with an irresistible desire to take revenge. Your pride prevents you from overcoming this destructive emotion. Consciously or subconsciously, you crave for it. You want to see the other person get hurt, suffer in agony just like you do."

He was now clutching at her hands so forcefully that he almost hurt her. Why was he telling her these things? To hurt her even more? To trample on her pride, which he had been tearing to pieces for months – for years actually? She already knew that Rudi had been and was still being unfaithful to her. She had no doubt about it. Why was he adding fuel to the flames? Had he not tortured her enough?

" _Unfortunately, you realise that you've been a slave to your vanity when something shocking hits you right in the face."_

She felt so low, so torn apart ... like a piece of rag thrashed about on the floor.

" _Alex ... I realised that I want to spend the ..."_

She had had enough of his infidelities. She had no self-esteem left. She could not tolerate such excruciating pain any longer. "Aziz asked my hand in marriage," she blurted out.

Rudi suddenly let go of her hands. "To win the heart of someone you saw months ago and only for two days," he scoffed, in a tone precipitously filled with anger before he continued ironically, "and to win it so very seriously can only be possible for someone as beautiful as you. Or is this the way in the East? Is it their habit to seek to marry someone they hardly know, especially if that someone is engaged to marry someone else?" He waved at the waiter to replenish their drinks.

" _Especially if that someone is fed up with her fiancé failing to fulfil his promise to marry," she thought. "I accepted his proposal, Rudi. I'm going to marry him," she said, trying to sound resolved. "And I'm moving to Istanbul."_

"Rüya, dear," said Juli _néni_ , interrupting Rüya's thoughts. "I guess it's your phone, darling."

She heard her mobile phone ringing in the depths of her handbag. As she rummaged through it, she felt her heart throbbing, which made her cringe at her eagerness; why such a headlong torrent of haste? You'll never learn, Rüya, will you? She finally found her phone, which had stopped ringing. Paul's number was displayed as the last missed call. Should she call back straight away? All ready and waiting. Cool down, Rüya! Get your act together!

Juli _néni_ was chattering away without a pause. "I remember the day I got married. It was exactly forty-five years ago." She had stood up and was gazing at the photographs clustered on the marble mantelpiece above the fireplace. She was holding a photograph that was taken at her wedding. "I hoped to be as happy as she was. I prayed to God that our love would last as long as theirs."

Suddenly Rüya was interested in what Juli _néni_ was saying. "Who are you talking about?"

"About your Mami, dear. She was so happy at my wedding. I remember it so very clearly."

If she remembered correctly, Juli _néni_ and Teodor _bácsi_ married in 1963. At the time, wasn't Mami already a widow? There could have been only one reason why she was so happy then, just like she had imagined. Or was it that Juli _néni_ confused everything? "Are you talking about my Mami – Alex?"

Without answering Rüya's question, Juli _néni_ took another photograph and handed it over to Rüya.

"I haven't seen this one before. Have you framed it recently?" asked Rüya.

"It was taken in Paris at La Coupole on a New Year's Eve – the first one my father spent away from his family."

"Which year was that?"

"1932." She smiled admiringly as she looked at the photograph in Rüya's hand. "My son looks so much like my father, doesn't he?"

Juli _néni_ was right. Gyula was a spitting image of his grandfather Károly, especially in the way Károly looked in that photograph.

"My mother used to say that Father, when he was young, held an allure, a sort of childishly innocent charm that went beyond masculine attractiveness." Juli _néni_ 's eyes seemed focused on some invisible horizon. "His hair was light brown and shone in blond streaks under the sun. It was very straight, often falling across his forehead and accentuating the tenderly loving look in his hazel-tinted green eyes, which touched the soul. His aquiline nose, however, although much finer than the aggressive predatory noses of the Kurzón men, reflected, in stark contrast with the tenderness in his eyes, his uncontrollably rebellious spirit; his readiness to erupt at the slightest provocation. That was probably the only feature he inherited from my grandmother, Gizella. He moved with the agility of a deer, something quite unexpected from someone with such a tall frame. He had endless energy; he never stopped moving. When he spoke, he expressed himself with his whole body, especially with his hands, which, despite their size, reflected the refinement of his creative disposition, and with his long fingers – a mark of his father's side of the family. It was rather tiring to watch him talk. There were times, however, when he suddenly cooled down, saying that it was time he poured all his energy into his creative and mental faculties. During such periods, which never lasted too long, he evoked a sense of compassion in others with his slim body, elegant posture and, if it happened to be wintertime, with his pallid skin. Then quite unexpectedly, as if he were determined to prove everyone wrong, he would snap out of his reverie and, with a big smile on his thin lips, show his perfectly white teeth, dazzling everyone."

Rüya was staring at the photograph in her hand. "Isn't this Rudi?" she asked.

"Yes, it is. My father said that it was on that New Year's Eve when he had realised what a true friend Rudi was – and always would be. He, more than once, told us how anxious he had been feeling about facing Rudi after all that had happened between him and Alex and, contrary to his fears, how their friendship remained intact because Rudi acted very maturely." Juli _néni_ shook her head as though waking up from a dream. "It's your phone again, Rüya."

The electronic jingle announcing the arrival of a text message made Rüya's heart skip a beat. She read the text on the screen in a flash:

" _Would you call me when you're ready to return your missed calls?"_

She jumped to her feet in panic. "I've got to go now. I'll be back for dinner. When should I be here?"
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act One, Tableau Two  
1932

Tableau Two

3

Károly looked at Rudi sitting opposite him at the table. He had assumed that they would never see each other again, that he had lost a very good friend forever, after all the things Alex had done to him. Apparently, he had completely misjudged Rudi. So far he had not reprimanded Károly – not even once – for not having taken good care of Alex and, what is more, acted much friendlier towards him, as if to show that he did not blame him for what had happened. Károly felt that a bond, stronger than ever before, had been created between them during these eight months although they had been living in different countries. Rudi had arrived in Paris three days ago and insisted that they spend New Year's Eve together at a location of Károly's choice. "I wouldn't want to carry coals to Newcastle," he had said, honouring Károly as being the one who knew Paris, although it was Rudi who knew it like the back of his hand; he had been frequenting the City of Lights since his childhood. Károly made a reservation for the last night of 1932 at La Coupole, where they were regulars, thinking that it would be a different experience for Rudi, who hardly visited the Left bank, showing him a snapshot of their bohemian lifestyle. Viktor and Karla had joined them for the occasion.

"I can't believe it's your first time at La Coupole, Rudi."

Unlike Rudi, the affluent Parisians of the Right Bank often came to this bohemian _quartier_ even if they did not altogether approve of its lifestyle. The cafés here overflowed with people who, bored of polished manners, looked for thrills and unheard-of entertainments, with art collectors who searched for new talents, with art critics who crushed veteran talents or created new ones, with wealthy artists who, after having made enough money to move to the Right Bank, fed their yearning for the carefree days of their youth, and with poor artists from the Left Bank who hoped to meet the art dealers – the dealers coming over to scout for undiscovered talents so that they could buy their works at far below their values. La Coupole was the liveliest of all these cafés.

"Would you believe me if I said that my workload doesn't leave me enough time for pleasure?"

"You should take the artists as your role models, Rudi. They spend their days, from dusk to dawn, in these cafés and still produce some work, although it's a great mystery when they do those paintings and sculptures. They're like crocodiles that follow the sun. In the morning they swarm the terraces of La Coupole and Le Dôme when they are bathed in the morning sun. You can see them multiplying like mushrooms. In the afternoon they migrate to Le Select."

"Good old Károly never leaves the honour of poking fun at himself or at the likes of him to anyone else."

" _Messieurs_ ... _Mesdames_ ..." The waiter had arrived with a large platter filled with oysters provocatively lying on a bed of crushed ice.

" _Les Fines Belon!_ Even the bohemian life of Paris is epicurean," remarked Rudi, as he inhaled the fresh smell of oysters redolent of the sea and, raising his champagne glass, looked at Károly with a pleasantly surprised expression on his face.

The Cuban saxophonist Heriberto Rico and his orchestra started to play. The huge hall of the café was packed with people. There was not a single empty place on the leather seats and chairs that filled up the hall, which was separated into sections by lemonwood panels. A soft light emanated from the Art Déco chandeliers and from the colourful glass dome that gave the café its name. Right under the dome in the middle of the hall stood a gigantic vase that resembled a huge bathtub. The paintings of various artists from Montparnasse decorated the five-metre tall pillars that supported the high ceiling. An army of waiters, impeccably clad in their snow-white jackets, black trousers and black bow ties (and perfectly groomed, with their hair carefully stuck into place with a generous application of brilliantine) hovered over the tables, practically gliding over the mosaics on the floor.

"However," Rudi went on, looking first at the menu designed in the form of a record and then at the paper spread over the white linen tablecloths, "I do find it in rather poor taste to couple such an excellent menu with these paper tablecloths."

"Don't underestimate their value, my dear fellow, these paper tablecloths serve a highly useful purpose."

Taking out his charcoal pencil from his pocket, Károly pushed his plate aside and began sketching on the paper. When he finished his drawing, he dipped the tip of his finger into the champagne in his glass and coloured some parts of the design. Following suit, Victor made a sketch as well. "We'll carry on with the colouring when it's time for the red wine," they concluded, returning to their oysters.

Rudi, with his head slightly to one side, was scrutinising Károly's sketch, apparently finding it hard to make any sense of it. "What is it?" he finally asked.

"A quirky part of a bizarre story that makes no sense."

Seemingly unsatisfied with Károly's reply, Rudi switched his gaze to Viktor's design and raised his questioning eyes to its creator.

"In Viktor's graphic designs," cut in Károly, before Viktor had a chance to explain, "I see an effort to exploit the handling of the line, textural effects and interactions of shadow and light. He has a very particular approach to perspective."

"Shapes shouldn't be outlined," Viktor intervened, "but suggested by deformed grills or weavings of juxtaposed contrasts."

Rudi was smiling. "I need a dictionary to understand what you, artists, talk about."

The waiter was back with their starters: duck liver pâté with truffles for Ada and Károly, blood sausages and little spicy pork sausages with tripe from Nancy for Viktor, double consommé with Port wine for Karla and raw sea bass marinated in vinaigrette and sprinkled with radishes and scallions for Rudi. They noticed the sommelier, who was ceremoniously filling their glasses, suddenly freeze. A brief silence reigned in the hall as everybody turned around to admire the half-naked woman who had just entered the café.

"La Sirène," Károly whispered, bending towards Rudi. "Or Youki. She's one of the most infamous nude models of Montparnasse. Her hourly charge rises with each passing day. I don't understand what people see in this woman." He turned to Ada sitting next to him and folded her in his arms. "My model is priceless."

"It's rather difficult to figure out who your model is, looking at your paintings," said Ada, smiling. "And therefore, it isn't that important who your model is."

"Come, come, Ada. These lips ..." Károly kissed her lips passionately. "These legs ..."

"Károly, stop it!"

Károly let go of Ada's legs and turned to Rudi. "I'm at the threshold of a brand new phase, Rudi. There was an exhibition of Picasso at the Galerie Georges Petit this summer. He painted portraits of his mistress, Marie-Thérèse Walter. I was terribly impressed. For months now, I've been painting Ada. Portraits with two noses ... vivid blues ... in all their different shades. I'm painting like mad. You all heard what Ada thinks." He threw a sidelong glance at Ada before turning back to Rudi again. "I can't even imagine what _you_ would think." He continued enthusiastically, using his hands to create a visual aid to what he was describing. "It gives me incredible pleasure to have the freedom to include both her profile and frontal view in the same painting and thus create a sense of movement. Depicting her different moods, her different looks at different times of the day, showing her transition from a young girl to a young woman on the same canvas ..."

"Picasso is at the apex of his commercial success, but there is no more place for young artists like you in the caravan he's leading," said Ada, cutting Károly short in an almost infuriated tone of voice. "You won't gain anything but the infamy of an impostor. Even Picasso is shifting towards Surrealism. Recently he not only uses Surrealist techniques when distorting his figures, but also includes emotive and even sensual colour harmonies and soft lines."

"I totally disagree with you," burst in Viktor. "It's absolutely ridiculous to put Picasso in the same league as the Surrealists. Michel Leiris made a remarkable comment. He says, 'It is a total misconception to overlook the fundamentally realistic nature of his work and place it in the sphere of fantastic hallucinations.' How very accurate."

"Let me repeat a comment made by Carl Jung," joined in Karla, apparently intending to kindle the heat of the conversation and, more likely, to fire up Viktor. "He might not be an art critic but the fact that, as a psychoanalyst, he digs deep into the subconscious is, in my opinion, enough reason to take his views into serious consideration. A few days ago, he called Picasso schizophrenic and branded his art as degenerate."

"You can't call him a schizophrenic. He's simply in love, madly in love," interrupted Károly and then continued, addressing Rudi. "Those who see my paintings say that I should give up imitating and find my own style. However, they miss the point that this _is_ my style, and I don't imitate anyone. I don't feel like painting in any other way. Art has always been nourished by art itself. There are artists who use other artists, and there are those who abuse them. What justifies their behaviour is the way they use the ideas and techniques they adopt." He turned to face Victor. "Isn't it true that even Picasso, whenever he found himself in a bottleneck, found his way out by adapting other artists' themes to his own objectives? Didn't he start _Les Demoiselles d'Avignon_ in an ambitious effort to measure up to the large canvases of Matisse and Cézanne depicting the human figure?" He looked at Rudi to explain. "This painting, which he made in 1907, really opened up a new era. It is considered the initiator of Cubism." He went on, turning back to the others. "Some even say that it's a rough imitation of Matisse's _Joie de Vivre_. One way or another, it did open up a whole new era, didn't it? Why? Because he used a different technique for the light and shadows, and proved that a painting doesn't need to use the same language in all of its parts. Just like an artist doesn't need to use the same language in each of his paintings." He was looking back at Rudi again. "Coherence in any artwork is a useful quality, because it gives clarity and tranquillity to it. However, if an artist has access to an endless number of creative tools, should he choose only one, pushing all the others aside? In the human mind, the beautiful mingles with the ugly, the old with the new, the reality with the dreams. Why shouldn't art reflect this eclecticism? A mixture of language purposefully designed is much closer to life than a coherent language."

"Say what you may, Károly! The long and short of it is, I insist on Surrealism. Surrealism – beyond reality." Ada started to praise Surrealism to Rudi as if he might have an influence on Károly's artistic choices. "Károly should move away from the plastic experiments of Cubism. There is a deeply felt need for poetic expressions in contrast to the exclusively plastic and intellectual worries of Cubism or whatever is left of Cubism. Urgently! Artists must try to express their inner conflicts instead of searching answers for stylistic problems. This is where we are at the moment."

Károly saw Gyula Halasz passing by their table. They greeted each other with a slight nod of the head, after which Károly bent over to Rudi. "A very famous photographer," he said, interrupting Ada's lecture. "You might know him. He's Hungarian and is known as Brassai here in Paris."

"I certainly have heard of him."

"Artists here are divided into groups," whispered Viktor, as if betraying a secret. "And they are viciously in competition with each other. They greet each other, but only from a distance. No one gets on a first-name basis. Never!"

"We, as La Ruche Group ..." started Károly.

"As a photographer," Ada interjected, "I understand that I'm a promising artist when I see even a master like Brassai feeling uneasy about coming to our table for a small chat, and this gives me tremendous joy." She pushed her hair back and raised her chin in an exaggerated gesture of feigned arrogance. "For the moment, my works are only sold in the cafés, but it doesn't matter," she said mockingly. "We gave three of my photographs in lieu of payment for our dinner party at La Rotonde. Not bad at all, don't you think?" She then turned to Rudi. "What was I saying?"

Their conversation on art was occasionally broken by Rudi's answers to questions about his business, posed out of sheer politeness, and by his comments on the political situation in Hungary. He mentioned how worried everybody was about the ascendancy of the radical right wing since October, after Regent Horthy's appointment of Gömbös as prime minister.

"We shouldn't be fooled by him appointing politicians of Jewish origin to the head of some key ministries. We can't turn a blind eye to the fact that Gömbös is a vehement anti-Semitic reactionary demagogue, no matter how strongly he tries to deny it. The right-wing has a very large platform of supporters – the small landholders, immigrants from our lost territories, civil servants who are now unemployed, soldiers ..."

"New university graduates," joined in Károly, completing Rudi's sentence. "It's so easy to poison young minds."

They carried on chatting throughout dinner, which continued with a marvellous turkey _aux marrons_ , a selection of red wines each stronger than its predecessor, various types of cheeses selected from the spectacular cheese trolley, and caramelised soufflé and exotic fruits. By the time the _bûche_ , the famous dessert in the shape of a log that was traditionally served at Christmas, but had become part of the New Year's Eve menu, arrived, Rudi was genuinely interested in art. He was showering Ada with questions about Surrealism, and Ada was delightedly taking advantage of this opportunity to go on promoting Surrealism.

"An image has a strange power if it is created freely, without the repressive control of reason, or when one's imagination is not limited by conscious direction – exactly like the images in a dream. Initially, Surrealism was like that: paintings without conscious direction. They used to call it automatism. Their goal was to create new and surprising coincidences. However, in the last few years they moved away from automatism. Nowadays they are doing 'dream paintings,' trying to give reality a new meaning by assembling the objects in startling combinations. Their paintings do tell a story, but a story that makes no sense, just like a dream that makes no sense."

As the delectable aroma of coffee and cognac emanated from the trays carried by the waiters, still energetically running about in their snow-white jackets, which miraculously remained creaseless despite the passing hours, Rudi was completely involved in the conversation on art, so much so that he wanted to meet the leading figure of the Surrealists, André Breton, who was nicknamed the Pope, and to read his manifesto, _Les Pas Perdus_ , published eight years ago. At three in the morning, pleasantly drunk after all the liquor and fun they had had, they left La Coupole behind in a thick fog of cigarette smoke veiling the tables crowded with champagne bottles, empty glasses, crumpled napkins and paper hats decorated with shiny tinsel. Under the neon lights of the café radiating into the dark of the night, Ada concluded her conversation with Rudi.

"Sooner or later Károly will join the Surrealists. It's impossible for him to resist the attraction of the unique effect created by a real object appearing in unusual circumstances. _Objet dépaysé_. Just like _homme dépaysé_. The unique effect created by someone who is alienated from his homeland. Károly's paintings may not be, for the moment, Surrealist, but they will be sooner or later, because Károly himself is surreal. He is beyond reality. He may not be aware of this, but I am."
August 2008  
London

As soon as she entered the lobby, Rüya called Paul on his mobile phone to let him know that she had arrived.

"Come up if you want to change. It's room 414."

She sat on the leather seat in the heavily panelled dark elevator, not because she was tired but because she simply felt like it. She was in a really good mood. The signs on the wall when she got off on the fourth floor told her to go right. As the door to Paul's room opened, a gush of light overflowed from inside, filling the dark corridor and blinding her.

"Hi there. I was about to go up to the gym. Please take your time. We'll see each other at the pool. It's on the seventh floor," Paul said as he left.

Feeling like an intruder on Paul's privacy, Rüya walked awkwardly to the window. It was an unusually sunny day for August; in London, summer – or rather Rüya's understanding of summer – came to an end in July. She took off her trousers and blouse. When she was about to pull her knickers down, a sudden pang of embarrassment possessed her. She felt uneasy about being naked in a room where Paul slept. Don't be ridiculous, Rüya! She carried on undressing until she was stark naked. She hurriedly took out her bikini from her bag and put it on. Looking at herself in the mirror, she cringed. She looked so pale. She should have tried to get a tan while she was in Istanbul. Suddenly horror struck at the sight of her armpits. Silly girl! Silly silly me. How could I have forgotten to shave! She rushed to the bathroom. On the marble countertop, she saw Paul's razor, sable shave brush and shaving soap. Are you going to use his razor? You must be out of your mind. Any other bright ideas? There must be a razor somewhere here, right? A complimentary gift from the hotel management. She rummaged through the little linen sachets in the basket placed on one corner of the glass shelf. Thank God! A tacky razor neatly tucked in one of the sachets made a most welcome appearance. Shower gel! She needed something to soften her skin before the harsh touch of the blade reddened it. She snatched one of the bath gels in the shower cabinet, took off her bikini top and hurriedly lathered her armpits. Why am I rushing? Possessed by an involuntary need for privacy, she locked the bathroom door. Taking care not to cut herself, she got rid of the hideous growth in her underarms. She had to put on some deodorant or otherwise risk a most embarrassing rash in less than a few minutes. Paul's deodorant was standing next to his sable brush. Don't even think about it! Do you want to smell like Paul? Paul would certainly like that. She looked around in panic. A disaster! Idiot! You're an idiot. Come on, now! Come on! The complimentary body lotion caught her desperate eyes. She dabbed it on her armpits, put her bikini top back on again and dashed out of the bathroom.

She took out her shorts from her bag and, as she was scrambling into them, her gaze stopped on the bed. It had not been made yet. Had he slept alone last night? He must have. All of the pillows were piled up on one side. How many pillows did he use, for God's sake! Four? Five? From the hollowness on the topmost pillow, she could imagine where his head must have rested. Did he sleep on his side? Or perhaps on his back? An irresistible urge to smell his pillow seized her. Rüya! Come on! Get going! Get out of here! While she crammed her clothes into her bag, Paul's trousers arrested her attention. They were flung away on an armchair. She slowly approached them, as if she were scared of waking them up. She bent down and pressed her nose against the crotch of the garment, which smelled of nothing in particular. Rüya! What on earth are you doing? She pulled back with a strong sense of shame. Feeling more self-conscious, she looked around. Her bra was negligently lying on his bed. In panic, she reached out for it, only to hesitate the next second. Should she leave it there? On Paul's bed! She was being preposterous. "Do you want to leave a mark to identify the territory you reign over? Like a dog." She grabbed her bra and stuffed it in her bag. Trying not to look back, she rushed out of the room.

The pool was on the uppermost floor of the hotel, where the roof opened like the top of a convertible car, letting in the sunlight. She looked around and saw Paul on the other side of the glass that separated the gym from the pool area. He was running on a treadmill.

"Rüya," she heard Jeremy's voice. He was waving at her from the patio, a green oasis amidst the concrete walls surrounding it.

"Hi," she said as she joined him. After slipping out of her shorts, she lay down in one of the deckchairs and, not being in the least of moods for a chat with him, gave brief and perfunctory replies to the casual questions he posed.

Jeremy, who had a minor role in the film but a major one in the world of movies, kept on talking. "The historical painting that had its peak during the Renaissance became obsolete with the invention of moving pictures. Or we might equally say that creative genius and philosophical trends, once directed towards historical paintings, now prefer the cinema. Am I wrong?"

After two glasses of fresh orange juice and eight more of Jeremy's unwanted questions, the indispensable Paul came into view through the windows between the pool and the patio. He had put on his swimsuit. Pausing in front of the glass door, he displayed his spectacularly muscular body, provocatively covered with a sheen of perspiration. He wiped the sweat off his face with the white towel he had around his neck. He gazed around, squinting against the strong sun, and smiled as soon as he spotted Rüya.

"So hot," mumbled Rüya, looking at Paul's body. "The sun," she reiterated in panic as she realised that her thoughts had turned into words. "It's too hot."

"Are you up for a swim?" asked Paul, throwing his towel on the deckchair next to Rüya.

Jeremy stood up.

"Come on, Rüya," insisted Paul.

"You two go ahead. I'll join you in a while."

Paul walked away towards the pool and plunged in with a perfect dive, making hardly a splash. Jeremy followed suit. Rüya watched Paul as he swam freestyle from one end of the pool to the other and back, his reflection weaving in and out of her sight through the windows, giving the impression of a sequence of shots in a film. She raised her eyes away from the water up along the marble columns around the pool, reflecting the dance of the sun's rays on the water, turbulent as Paul's arms hit the surface. She smelled the balmy fragrance of the jasmine clambering up the sidewall of the patio – something that reminded her of their garden in Istanbul. She decided to go inside. Taking another glass of orange juice from the bar next to the pool, she went back to sit on the marble stairs leading to the glass door. Her restless gaze fixed itself on the waves hitting the edge of the pool. The smell of chlorine filled her nose. There was no smell of iodine that might disturb her. She could even think of the pool as being like a big bathtub. She suddenly felt an urge to go in. Paul had swum towards her and was now resting his folded arms on the marble paving around the pool. His eyes, echoing the colour of the blue tiles, were fixed on Rüya. "Come on. You could at least dangle your feet," he insisted.

Rüya put her glass down, stood up and approached the pool. She knelt down beside one of the columns. Trying to avoid contact with Paul's arms, she sat on the wet marble and extended her legs into the water up to her knees. A chill ran through her. Paul raised his wet hand and let the water drip from his fingers onto her thighs. Then he gently touched one of the larger drops and slid it towards and over her knee to her lower leg, which was motionless under the water. He was now caressing her leg. Her whole body woke up with a distracting tingling. Not knowing what to do, she turned her eyes to the windows ahead of her that overlooked Hyde Park. Was she smiling? She tried to look serious and closed her eyes. Her whole mind concentrated on the spot where Paul's fingers were touching her leg. Her skin responded to the sensation. All of a sudden, her focus changed as she felt wet lips touching her neck. She was tickled. Involuntarily, she slightly bent her head sideways and smiled before opening her eyes. Jeremy! His face was right next to hers. She recoiled, wiping the smile off her lips. "Don't bother," she heard him say to Paul. "Didn't she tell you that she hated swimming?"

Paul pressed his hands brusquely against the edge of the pool and pushed himself back with all his might. He started swimming vigorously, without raising his head out of the water. He shuttled up and down the pool, his arms beating the surface. Rüya pulled her legs out of the water, went outside and lay in the deckchair. Jeremy had followed her and was saying something she had no desire to hear. She briefly peeped through her half-closed eyes towards the pool. Paul was still swimming. Like mad! She had better leave, go away. She ought to get away from him before he became an addiction, before she developed a compulsive need for the transient moments of bliss he sporadically bestowed upon her as and when it suited him.

"I've got to go," she said to Jeremy. "I should be getting ready. I'm already late." She did not know what she was late for. She pulled out her trousers and blouse from her bag and slipped into them. Raising her hand in a gesture of goodbye to Jeremy, who watched her with questioning eyes, she went inside. Paul was still in the pool. "You'll be late," she mumbled, knowing that he would not hear her.

The next day everybody including the actors, the director, the financiers, the producers, the art director and the studio executives met at Pinewood Studios for the read-through of the script of _A Hungarian Rhapsody_ , where Paul generously showered Rüya with his most sarcastic comments, while Rüya skilfully manoeuvred, not leaving any of his biting remarks unrequited.

"You're like an exceedingly hot red pepper. A true paprika."

"It's in my blood."

Did he know that some types of paprika only looked threateningly pungent but in fact were quite sweet, adding unequalled flavour to dishes?

"And there is more to you than a paprika. You're incredibly resourceful in your efforts to be worthy of the heritage of an unpredictable, controversial and rebellious artist."

He had to be joking. The one who was unpredictable in this game was surely not Rüya.

"You ought to be careful when dealing the cards of your heart, lest they all fall out of your hand. But then, have you any cards left at all?"

"This is a question I should be asking you, Paul."

At one of the intervals in the verbal duel between Rüya and Paul, Jeremy asked if they would be going to the party that evening. Paul said he had other plans. Rüya, on the other hand, was tongue-tied, furiously watching Paul betray hints of what other plans he had that night by hooking his mesmerising gaze on a young girl who looked like a hooker. The battle of words between Rüya and Paul went on all day long, gradually changing from a sweet and sour skirmish to full-fledged poisonous warfare. At the end of the day, Rüya was convinced that she was playing with fire and would very soon burn badly. "You still don't get it, do you?" she scolded herself. Give up! Forget about him! He's not for you. Stop torturing yourself. Focus on your work. They were reading a scene in the First Act: "Alex's Miscarriage, February1933." Tears welled in her eyes as her heart sank. Was it normal that she was so moved by the lines she had written and then read, perhaps more than a hundred times? Or was she crying for something else?

As she took one step, an excruciating pain grabbed her in the belly and she collapsed on her knees. She was suddenly bathed in cold sweat. What was happening? God, what's happening to me? She pressed her hands to her belly. She had to keep her baby! She wrapped her arms around her and folded in half. I must not move. I must stay put. I must hold on to my baby. I shall not let her go! She started stroking her belly. "Stay with me! Please don't leave me. Please. Please don't go!" She suddenly felt a warmth between her legs. She was bleeding. No! She pressed her hands in between her legs as strongly as she could. I must stop the bleeding! I'm losing my baby! Everything went dark. Her head was spinning. She felt her head hit the floor.

Rüya was not able to take it anymore. She stood up and walked to the window. Get hold of yourself, Rüya! Stop making a fool of yourself.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act One, Tableau Two  
1935

4

His sister was pregnant again. Alex, his little baby, was going to be a mother. She must be so happy. After her miscarriage, her whole world had been shattered; she had cut herself off from everything. Now, as he could tell from the telegrams that had arrived one after the other, her feet were hardly touching the ground.

All my dreams are coming true STOP I shall be a mother soon STOP

Going to Budapest for the delivery STOP You must come STOP

Károly had not seen his sisters since Alex's wedding, which was almost three years ago. He had not seen any of his friends in Budapest either for years, except for Rudi, who often came to Paris on business. His mother had been complaining that he had been away for too long. Perhaps it was time they went back to Budapest – only for a short visit, of course.

He loaded his brush with cadmium orange from his palette and started to paint the circle on the canvas, vacillating between touching and not touching the sharply pointed Prussian blue triangle that he had painted a few minutes ago.

"Excellent."

He had not noticed Viktor arrive. He had come with a friend of his who, together with Viktor, was scrutinising Károly's unfinished painting with his sinister-looking eyes, overshadowed by his dark eyebrows.

"Who can claim that the effect created by the roundness of a circle barely touching one of the pointed edges of a triangle is less impressive than the effect created by the two fingers almost touching in Michelangelo's fresco _The Creation of Adam?_ "

"Let's not exaggerate, Viktor, shall we? Your comment, however, is much appreciated, old chap."

"Let me introduce you." Viktor extended his hand towards his friend to present him. "Jankel Adler," he said, then shifted his hand towards Károly. "Károly de Kurzón."

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine."

"Jankel is of Polish origin. He has the honour of having been classified as a degenerate artist in Germany."

"After we published the 'Urgent Appeal' for communism against the Nazi policy, the Nazis displayed two of my paintings as examples of degenerate art. No doubt their decision was influenced by the fact that I am Jewish. Soon after, I had no choice but to move here. We shall, however, not be deterred from carrying on with our political resistance against the fascist regime."

Jankel, like many other avant-garde artists, had to leave Germany after having been blacklisted by the National Socialists, who had come to power two years earlier.

"Jankel has been living in Paris for two years now although, most unfortunately for me, I had the honour of meeting him only yesterday. He's showing one of his works at the exhibition organised in honour of Lajkó."

Viktor was talking about the group show of several artists who had fled from the oppressive reign of the National Socialists, including, in particular, a number of artists from the Bauhaus School who had immigrated to Paris after Hitler had closed down Bauhaus, announcing it the "Cradle of the Bolsheviks." The exhibition was organised in honour of Lajkó, a childhood friend of Viktor from his hometown, Pécs, and one of the old masters of Bauhaus, who was better known as Marcel Lajos Breuer, the creator of the _Wassily Chair_. After being exiled from Germany by the Nazis, Lajkó had been living in London and had arrived in Paris two days earlier for the opening. Tomorrow evening, following the opening, he would be having dinner at La Coupole with the artists participating in the show. Károly and Viktor were also invited, along with their spouses.

Viktor and Jankel were observing the paintings hung on the walls of the studio. "Károly is preparing for an exhibition as well," Viktor said before turning to Károly. "Which ones are you planning to show?"

"I haven't decided yet. I have to choose four."

"Abstraction-Creation," said Jankel without taking his eyes off the paintings. "The ultimate _amour fou_ of Paris."

A year ago, Károly had joined the Abstraction-Creation Group. In his paintings, he was rejecting perspective and accentuating the two-dimensionality of the canvas. In his non-figurative compositions, he used the interplay of contrasting geometric figures and bright colours.

"Károly no longer follows in Picasso's footsteps. I, on the other hand, have just found Picasso." A month ago Viktor had started to work at Draeger, one of the most renowned printers in Paris, and whatever time he had left from work, he had been allocating it to rediscovering the art of painting by assiduously creating Cubist canvases.

Károly put his brushes in the thinner-filled container on the floor. "If you ask me, you should learn whatever you need to from Picasso and then move on, Viktor. After the monochromatic limitations of Cubism, the bright and contrasting colours of Abstraction-Creation offer an incredible sense of freedom. I myself am surprised how very colourful my palette has become this past year." He turned to Jankel. "I'm searching for the mixture of geometric and organic abstraction or, one might say, for the mystic combination of the instinctive and natural impulses with the intellectual and scientific calculations. My starting point is, of course, Hungarian motifs."

"It would be more accurate if we said a conscious juxtaposition, including some elements borrowed from cubism," said Ada as she stormed in. "You're still under the influence of cubism, Károly." She swiftly turned to Jankel and, without waiting for an introduction, introduced herself. "Hi. I'm Ada."

"Jankel."

"I'm sorry," barged in Viktor. "Let me introduce you. Jankel Adler. Ada Görös."

"It's beyond my understanding how Károly can still resist joining a trend that holds that 'All of Europe's values must be destroyed.' I sometimes fear that Bortnyik's priority for design and education might have limited his imaginative power." Ada, without knowing Jankel's artistic tendency – or even whether he was an artist at all – carried on with her argument, evidently trying to convert their new friend to her side. "The Abstraction-Creation Group defends non-figurative abstract art, although they seem to contradict the essence of abstract art, just like their predecessors _Circle et Carée_." She paused for a second before asking, "Am I wrong, Viktor? Their values are most doubtful." Turning to Károly, she continued. "Your group embraces a wide variety of trends but fails to create a genuine platform for discussion. You don't set an example for the younger generation; they believe that anything is justified as long as it is abstract."

"My sweet Ada believes in nothing but Surrealism and desperately tries to make me fall in love with it. One small detail, however, seems to escape her attention: I have to smell each and every flower available to me before I surrender my soul to my true love. I know that once I plunge into Surrealism, I shall never leave it. Therefore, I have no intention of taking the plunge before I try everything else." He had taken Ada in his arms, staining her white blouse with the paint that smothered his hands. "Just like I know that I shall never leave you."

"Karla must have prepared our drinks," said Viktor, turning to Jankel; he must have guessed where this sweet and sour argument between Károly and Ada would end up. "Shall we go?"

Without taking his eyes off Ada, Károly called out after them, "We shall be at the Cantine this evening. Why don't you join us? Madame Vassilieff promised to cook her marvellous Borsch soup."
November 2008  
London

Rüya did not stop at the Whispering Gallery. She was out of breath, and her knees were trembling, but she wanted to reach the very top as soon as possible. Before going through the door opening to the narrow flight of stairs leading up, she briefly looked at the cold light of the November sun streaming in through the grilled windows around the impressive dome of the Saint Paul's Cathedral. She felt a timid smile at the corners of her lips. She could smile. A miracle!

For months now, ever since their flop of a rendezvous at the pool in August, Paul had not uttered a word that was addressed personally to Rüya, other than a series of stinging remarks that had very much hurt her. Apparently, he was far too busy – with his lady friends.

The rehearsals had finished the day before yesterday, and the studio shoot was well underway. The first scene to be filmed this morning was one of the final scenes in the second tableau: "News of Károly's Marriage, August 1936."

Alex was truly offended by what Károly had done. She did not know how she could ever forgive him for this. The cold and dry telegram he had sent in July, informing her that he and Ada had returned to Budapest, was curtly followed by another in early August, breaking her heart irreparably: "We married STOP" In her letter, Magda said that they had married without letting anyone know. Her mother wrote that she would never forgive Ada, bitterly concluding, "I wouldn't have expected anything better from that girl anyway." Alex felt betrayed and found it unbearable that he did not want to share the happiest day of his life with Alex and with his family.

Rüya recalled what Anastasia, Mami's closest friend for seventy-two years, had once said. "Alex had numerous men in her life," she had begun. "She could never forget the first man she knew, her father, who had gone away to fight in the First World War and left them forever, opening the deepest wound in her heart. Then she had Rudi, her first love, whom she could never forget. Her love for him went on for a lifetime. Her husband, on the other hand, had a rather different place in her heart. She fell in love with the way Aziz loved her. However, there had been only one man whom she really valued, and that was her brother Károly." She had taken out her impeccably starched white linen handkerchief from her pocket and cleaned her already clean nose before wiping her eyes, which were on the verge of releasing a flood of tears. "The most important person in Alex's life was her brother, Rüya," she had continued. "She loved him completely. He was her role model, the one she could never become – she never dared to become. Perhaps no one in her family realised this, but I saw it; I lived it with her. 'There is no nobler act than risking your life and sacrificing your freedom for the welfare of others,' she used to say. 'I couldn't even be a patch on him. I never dared to be,' she scorned herself. She felt utterly ashamed of not being able to do anything, to be sitting with her arms tied. At one point, she even developed a painful sense of self-hatred. She said she was going to go mad. 'I'm nothing but a coward,' she kept repeating. 'A coward! A weakling who dared not risk fighting either for her own freedom or for the freedom of her loved ones.' The protagonist in Alex's life was her brother, Rüya. All other men were chosen to fill up the void his absence created."

Reaching the Golden Gallery, Rüya saw a sign on the wall that said she had climbed exactly four hundred and thirty-four steps. She went out onto the tiny balcony. The sky. The endless sky. She took a deep breath. The cold penetrated her lungs and chilled her bones. She perched on one of the benches, stubbornly cold under the futile efforts of the weak sun. Things looked different from up here. The modern concrete buildings of the City, which she had always found hideous, seemed to have lost their repellent silhouettes. They still looked grey to the undiscerning eye, but some patient observation was soon awarded with a more cheerful view coloured by the turquoise windows, the green façades and even some pinkish walls. The buildings extended towards and finally melted into the green hills that looked like a thin line on the horizon. The eclectic sounds rising from the construction sites – a deranging cacophony whilst on the ground – sounded different now, more like the distant rumbling of peculiar percussion instruments adding zest to the loud urban orchestra and keeping up the tempo of the city's music in the merry accompaniment of the church bells. The ice-cold wind had swept away the clouds, stripping naked the raw winter sun. The River Thames, that stretch of turbulent waters, despite its efforts to reflect the feeble rays of sunlight, somehow looked tawnier than it usually was, especially from behind Rüya's sunglasses. She turned her gaze to the streets below, teeming with people who resembled ants – tiny, black ants. There were so many of them, running, hurrying, scurrying. They must be going back to their offices after their lunch breaks. Those who preferred to take their food away were carrying little brown bags, little white bags, little colourful bags. They were in a rush. It all seemed so pointless. She suddenly felt as small as an ant. Insignificant. She was nothing but one of the billions of ants on this earth. Everything was so meaningless.

The last time she had been here was fifteen years ago. After the disaster in 1993, she could not stay in Istanbul for too long despite her family's insistence, and wanted to go back to London. She was fourteen years old at the time. It was a very cold and windy day, just like today. She remembered feeling all alone, just like she did now. She had wished that there were a couple of hundred metres more to climb so that she could reach further up to the sky towards that Elysian peace. She wished the same thing could happen now. Her eyes burned. Why do I always lose? Why? Why do all my loved ones desert me?

She remembered what Mami had told her after she had returned from the hospital. She was lying on her bed, watching her rose garden that looked like a painting through the white window frames. She had recuperated at a speed that had surprised everyone including the doctors. Her appetite had returned; she was smiling and joking. Nobody could have imagined that two days later she was to leave them forever. By that time Rüya had organised Mami's diaries in chronological order and, losing a lot of sleep, had inquisitively read most of them – something which had made her start seeing Mami in a different light, seeing her as a young woman not much older than herself, who revealed all her secrets to her. They had talked a lot that day. Rüya had finally gathered up all her courage and, although not without hesitation since she knew she might be upsetting her, popped the question that had been bugging her.

"Mami, may I ask you a question?"

"You wonder why I broke up with Rudi, right?"

At the time, nothing she said would have surprised Rüya, and she had taken it quite naturally that she had read her thoughts.

"I wanted to possess Rudi. I wanted to own everything about him. He had to be mine with all his being – only mine and nobody else's. There came a point when I began to think that this was impossible. It seemed to me as though our relationship had entered an impasse. It was doomed to end this way or another. I felt that if I didn't end it, _he_ would have."

Rüya thought of her own relationships. "So you acted before him, thus saving the embarrassment and the pain of being deserted. But perhaps you were mistaken. Perhaps he would never have left you."

"I might have been. Sometimes you fail to see the reality as it actually is. Some unfounded fear blinds you. It isn't easy to look with an open heart."

The studio shoot was to continue the next day. She did not want to go. She did not want to see anyone, especially Paul. "I don't want to love anyone. I don't want to get hurt," she murmured to the frigid air. She was freezing. She took refuge in the small alcove in front of a window for some warmth. She could stay here for days, away from everything, away from everyone. Nobody could hurt her here.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act One, Tableau Two  
1937 - 1938

5

On the last night of 1937, they were gathered at Rudi's flat on Andrássy Boulevard for the New Year's Eve party. As he looked out the window at the illuminated façade of the Budapest Opera House, Károly was thinking of the Paris Opera House. Lately, he had nothing but Paris on his mind. He recalled another New Year's Eve that they had celebrated with Rudi in Paris, at La Coupole. It was five years ago. Unbelievable how time passed. He desperately yearned for Paris. It would probably be best if they moved back there, back to the city of freedom.

Standing behind the sofa Ada was sitting on, he started stroking his wife's hair. She looked irresistibly sexy in her black silk satin evening gown that so accentuated her femininity. He heard Fábián making preposterous comments about how marriage destroyed love, and could not help but cut him short. "Please don't listen to him. I stand as the living proof that he's absolutely mistaken. After eighteen months of marital bliss, I'm still madly in love with my wife and keep falling in love with her more and more by the day." He bent towards Ada and kissed her neck.

Éva looked at Károly as she touched Ada's belly. "Teodor needs a friend, Károly. Why don't you hurry up and have a baby?"

"We're not so sure of what we ought to be doing, Éva. We do miss Paris terribly and might move back there, so we don't want to rush it."

"The house in Rózsadomb feels a bit suffocating after the freedom we had in Paris," said Ada.

"There are many places you can enjoy your freedom other than Paris. Budapest is quite a large city. Do you need to run away that far?"

"To tell you the truth, it isn't only Rózsadomb that suffocates us. Budapest is mighty restricting itself. Károly is at a crucial turning point in his career. His Surrealist tendencies are becoming more prominent. His emotions, which he has been suppressing for years, are erupting like a volcano. At this juncture, it would be great if he were in a place like Paris – at the epicentre of the art world, so to speak. As a matter of fact, he _ought to_ be there."

"I'm so very frustrated for not having been there to see the International Paris Exposition." Károly was talking about the International Exposition of Arts and Techniques that had opened in May and closed in November.

Rudi, sitting on the sofa opposite Károly, stood up and flicked some imaginary dust off his smoking jacket. "It was well worth seeing. I was in Paris in November on business. The city seemed so different that I hardly recognised it. You all know how limited my interest in art is, but this exhibition proved to be impressive even for me. They had turned Paris into a huge spectacle, illuminating everything, so much so that you could be dazzled by the lights at night. The River Seine looked like a river of gold."

"At a time of intense anxiety, when the world stands on the verge of a big catastrophe," cut in János, "I think such an exposition can have only one purpose: to get the French economy, which is about to collapse, back on its feet and put Paris back to its place as the centre of the world after the crisis." His gloomy seriousness was quite inappropriate for the mood at a New Year's Eve party. He had perched on the armrest of the bergère where Margit was sitting and, with an irritated expression on his face, was trying to loosen his bow tie, which apparently was giving him great discomfort.

"I personally took it as an effort not to lose our faith in civilisation," Rudi continued, determined not to allow any pessimism at his party, "a display of what humanity can accomplish, a three-dimensional proof of what human beings can achieve. They had placed the Soviet and the German pavilions right opposite each other. As I stood between those huge podiums, I realised how very similar fascism and communism actually are."

"Now you're talking total nonsense, Rudi!" barged in János. "Perhaps it would be better if you told us about the art side of it all."

"All right then Jancsi, let's talk about art, shall we? Seeing how both the Soviets and the Nazis adopted realism is very indicative indeed. Oppression! Oppressive regimes. Shall we talk about the exhibition sponsored by the Nazis in Munich? All the paintings shown there; weren't they praising the physical features of the Arian race? Fundamentally, is it any different than Socialist Realism idolising the peasants and the working class? Don't they both dictate and impose the superiority of a certain group of people?"

Károly was pleasantly shocked that Rudi was aware of the existence of these trends and, more importantly, how very well informed he was about the intricacies of those trends. "We might not have turned you into an artist, but you're definitely an excellent candidate to become an art critic, Rudi," he said in an effort to relax the tension that was rising between Rudi and János. "Picasso showed a painting called _Guernica_ in the Spanish pavilion. As far as we can see from the photographs, it is an absolute masterpiece. Did you see it?"

"I certainly did. It was like a bomb of reality dropped into the dream world of the exposition."

The painting Picasso made in reaction to the bombing of the small Basque town of Guernica on 26 April by Franco, with the support of his Nazi allies, had shocked the whole art world.

"I'd very much like to hear your views on something that intrigues me," joined in Miklós, who usually showed no interest whatsoever in anything other than his wife Magda. Briefly tearing his eyes away from her, he continued, "In France, with the support of the country's first socialist administration, the pro-Soviet intellectuals have apparently become the new leaders of the art world. The leader of Socialist Realism, which they had been preaching for a year now, is Louis Aragon – a Surrealist. What do you say to that? Are they regressing from Surrealism to reality?"

"I seem to be the only one here with no understanding of this sophisticated discussion," said József, as he left his wife Éva and walked towards the drinks cabinet to refill his glass with scotch. "For me, painting is nothing more than family portraits or paintings of hunting scenes."

"Surrealism, Józsi, old boy, is above reality – beyond it. When an object is alienated from its usual environment and used for purposes other than those designated specifically for that object, it becomes surreal and creates unprecedented effects."

"Much like an artist who is alienated from his usual environment," joined in Ada, "creating unprecedented masterpieces." She let her head back to look at Károly. "We must go back to Paris. That's where your future is, Károly."

Vilmos, the head butler, appeared at the door of the drawing room. "Dinner is served, sir."

It was almost ten o'clock when, leaving their discussion on art in the drawing room, they settled down around the majestic mahogany dining table immaculately prepared for the occasion. Dinner started on a different note, with József finally taking the reins of the conversation and showering them with hunting stories, and continued with Ada's reminiscences of Paris; she was determined to kindle Károly's passion for the City of Lights. János kept on talking about politics, boring Magda and Éva to tears, until finally, upon his friends' unrelenting pleas for an end to his political soliloquies, at least on a night like this, he manoeuvred the discussion towards Alex and started talking about things that everybody – except Rudi – already knew. Trapped by János's witty steering, Margit elaborated on the fun they had had during the eight months when Alex was in Budapest for the birth of her daughter two years ago, on how lovely Nili was, on Alex's happiness about being pregnant again with her second child and on how sorry she was that she would not be able to come to Budapest for the delivery this time. Károly noticed that the more they talked about Alex, the more János's eyes glowed in sheer delight and the more Rudi withdrew into pensive silence. He found it hard to believe that in a city as small as Budapest, Alex and Rudi had not come across each other during those eight months. He wondered if Rudi had seen Alex. Maybe he had seen her but did not allow himself to be seen.

At midnight they drank to the arrival of a new year, followed by an exchange of wishes. Some wished for a healthy year, some for peace, some for a profitable year and some for a lot of action. At long last, they drank to the health and happiness of those not present. Rudi's dreamy eyes and bitter smile explained a lot as to whose health and happiness he was raising his glass.

6

Károly closed his sketchbook. It was getting dark very early now. He stood up from the bench he had been sitting on and tucked his sketchbook and charcoal pencil away in the inner pocket of his coat. He was cold. Rubbing his hands together for some warmth, he walked towards the gigantic gate of the park, heading for Rue Vavin. He would be meeting Ada at La Coupole.

He had been at Jardin du Luxembourg since early this morning, drawing quick sketches of the passers-by trampling over snow-covered pathways, walking their dogs or sitting on the benches to catch their breaths. He usually filled his sketchbooks, which he called _Stories of Today_ , with depictions of Ada, but from time to time he also did his self-portraits and sketches of Parisian life. He had already filled almost five hundred pages since he had arrived in Paris, although none of them had yet developed into a painting. He was not sufficiently satisfied with his preliminary studies based on these sketches to transform them into full-fledged paintings. In his approach to his subjects, he still saw remnants of the conscious form analysis he had learned at Bortniyk, and his inability to get rid of that formation, as well as his inability to free his subconscious, annoyed him immensely.

They had been in Paris for three months. After the two years they had spent in Rózsadomb, Károly took his wife and all his other belongings and rushed back to Paris in August, refusing to let his creativity be dangerously blunted any more than it had already been by the tense atmosphere created by Ada's failure to adapt herself to the lifestyle imposed by Gizella who, reciprocally, had no intention of getting used to her daughter-in-law's lifestyle. They had settled at La Ruche again, although this time they had hired one of the more spacious studios on the third floor of the beehive building instead of their old studio in the garden. Everything was as they had left it. Füst, now six years old, had stayed away for a couple of weeks, as if to make them understand how offended he had been for having been left behind, but soon had returned to nestle between Ada's welcoming arms. The majority of their friends and, most importantly, the freedom they had been aching for, were still here waiting for them. The only difference was the constant inflow of the most unsettling news from Hungary. János's letters were burning with fury and frustration as well as hints of some alarm he apparently tried to suppress.

Towards the end of August Hitler, who had been planning to dismember Czechoslovakia, had asked Horthy to give the German troops a helping hand by entering Slovakia from the south. This demand had set the bells of danger tolling in Hungary. "Our country is, of course, offered a generous prize presented on a silver plate for its efforts," had written János in one of his letters. "The territories it would be occupying." Just like Károly, he was also ashamed of the helplessness of the Hungarian Government and of the Hungarian Army, who strongly believed in the invincibility of Germany and showed unfaltering willingness to yield to Hitler's political strategy.

Horthy, somehow, had found the courage to refuse to cooperate, turning down Hitler's request and declaring that he did desire the restitution of the territories Hungary had lost after the Trianon Treaty, but restitution only by peaceful means. He was obviously scared of the outbreak of a great war, for he could see that Britain, France and even the Soviet Union would not sit docilely by, watching Germany enter Czechoslovakia. Hitler, however, was not of a disposition to take such a refusal lightly and three weeks ago, at the beginning of November, unable to hold back his frustration any longer, had dismembered Czechoslovakia. János had written in his letter about how extremely anxious Hungarians were after this adverse move, which was the proof of how determined Hitler was to gain control over Central Europe. "It is, nevertheless, a source of contentment to see the strongest member of the Little Entente go to pieces," he had added.

Southern Slovakia and Czechoslovakia's "tail" Sub-Carpathian Ruthenia had been awarded to Hungary as a prize. A few days later Horthy, heading his troops on his white horse, had crossed the River Danube at Komárom and made his entry into Kassa. Thousands of people from Budapest and other cities had flooded into this little town. The Hungarians, who had been living outside their country under the hegemony of the Czechs for the last twenty years, were exultant to have united with their fatherland without shedding a drop of blood, ignorant of the fact that Hungary was a much more backward and feudalist country in terms of its living standards, social services and land reform. They listened to Horthy's speech with tears in their eyes, filled with the enthusiasm of being "liberated" without firing a single bullet. Horthy started his speech, saying, "You're once again free. The days of sorrow and tribulation are past. Your sufferings, your unshakeable determination and our common struggle have brought victory in a just cause," and concluded, "May God bless our Fatherland!"

During the time when Horthy was crossing the Komárom Bridge, a young Jew named Grynspan, who had been infuriated by his family's expulsion from Germany, stormed into the German Embassy in Paris and fired five shots, injuring a diplomat, who died three days later. In the early hours of November 10, 1938, an orgy of destruction commenced in various cities and villages of the Third Reich, as Nazi supporters broke the windows of tens of thousands of houses and shops owned by the Jews, all in a single terrible night.

Károly, like many others, was terribly distressed in the face of these events and was anxiously thinking about what would happen to Ada's parents. He decided he would talk to Ada and that they would convince them to move to Paris.

Arriving at La Coupole, he saw Ada sitting at one of the tables in the back waving at him. As soon as he sat down, he went straight into the heart of the matter that had been bugging him since this morning.

"We must convince your parents to move here, Ada. The situation is getting worse and worse."

Ada's despairing little shrug and bitter smile reminded Károly of the futility of any such effort.

"You know how worried Rudi is because of his Jewish origin, despite his conversion to Christianity. The same thing goes for your parents."

In his last letter, Rudi had written that, after the atrocities of November 10, the situation had become extremely bleak and that he might sooner or later have to leave Hungary. He was seriously thinking of buying some property abroad and was asking Károly about the difficulties of living away from one's homeland.

"Rudi is indecisive, questioning his intention, apparently wondering if it would mean running away from it all. I guess he considers it a failure to abandon his country. It's rather the opposite, I should think. I would take it not as an act of cowardice but as an achievement, and a reward for having proven oneself in a foreign country – especially at such a young age."

"Have you read Alex's letter?"

"I did, Ada. The world seems to be turning upside down."

Istanbul, 16th November 1938

_Öcsi_ ,

We've just come back from the Dolmabahçe Palace. I don't know why, but I cried so much that even Aziz was surprised at my reaction. It isn't right that someone as perfect as Atatürk should die. Sometimes God commits a blunder in choosing whom to take away. I can't help but think that the best ones are up there with him.

Haldun called early in the morning on the 10th to say that they had seen the flag on Atatürk's yacht at anchor in Bebek at half-mast. We were shocked, frozen really. Listening to the news on the radio, I couldn't believe it, and I still can't. Some people ought to be immortal. It truly hurts to lose him.

We're extremely worried about all that is happening in Germany and Austria, mortified at the news. They say that the Jewish-owned shops were smashed and synagogues were burnt down. Is it really true that one hundred Jews were killed? Where is all this leading to, _Öcsi?_ What about Budapest? What is happening there? How about Ada's family? What are they saying about all of this in Paris? What is going on, for God's sake? What else is awaiting us? What is humanity paying for?

I'm so flabbergasted that I can't even rejoice at our approaching trip to Budapest for Christmas. Will you be coming too? Please do come. I miss you so terribly much, _Öcsi_. I await your letters with much longing.

Warmest kisses to you both,

Alex
February 2009  
Budapest

Rüya was freezing. It was so cold that she found it painful to breathe. They said the temperature went down to ten degrees below zero in February, but it felt much lower than that. Hoping for some warmth, she pulled up the collar of her long down coat, snuggling it up to her chin, and sneaked a furtive glance at Paul walking by her side. He ought to be freezing in that light coat. She had asked to go out for a walk on Andrássy Boulevard, and God only knew what had possessed her to venture such a thing in this weather. She remembered having been desperately in need of some fresh air during the filming of the scenes at number twenty-three, which had been going on since this morning.

"We could take a cab if you're feeling chilly, Rüya."

"I might survive a bit longer, I guess."

Paul put his arm around her shoulders, making her feel somewhat warmer, although her shivering persevered.

In November, a couple of days after the studio shoot had started, Rüya, no longer able to put up with the emotional torture Paul had been inflicting upon her, had left London for Istanbul. The last two months she had spent there had been hell, making her plunge back into the artistic coma that had just begun showing signs of terminating. Her mother, her grandmother, their house, Istanbul, every single thing had oppressed her, and, on an irresistible impulse to hope for the best, although such hope was marred by much trepidation, she had started waiting for the day the shooting in Budapest would commence, when she would be seeing Paul again. As the day drew nearer, an unbearable sense of panic, fuelled by an acute sense of apprehension about getting hurt again, had grabbed her and held her in its grip until she came to Budapest, when she was relieved to see how uncalled for her anxiety had been. Paul in Budapest was very different than the Paul she had left in London – the change being more than the short beard he had grown for his role. It had been two long days and he had not uttered a single word that would upset her or inflame her jealous streak. "Five whole months wasted away because of some stupid pride," he had said, smiling, as soon as they got the chance to be alone. Perhaps I was exaggerating everything, thought Rüya, although she still could not fathom what this man with his arm around her right now actually wanted. She was convinced that he might all of a sudden walk away right this instant, leaving her all alone in the midst of the freezing cold.

"You're trembling."

"As a matter of fact, I hate the cold. It reminds me of my days in boarding school in England. We used to freeze to death despite our thirteen something tog eiderdowns."

"We're taking a cab," said Paul, looking around. "Oh, I've forgotten; you can't hail a cab in this city. Shall we take the underground?"

As they descended the stairs to the station, Rüya was still talking about her school days. "In wintertime, it used to get dark before four, and the gigantic plane trees in the garden, pitch-black at night, used to put us in an incurably depressive mood. When we woke up in the morning, it used to be still dark, so I detest the dark as well. In time, however, we sort of got used to it all – we gave in, so to speak."

The train had arrived. Once inside, everything around her gave Rüya the sensation that she had stepped back in time, well into the last century. "Despite my mother's insistence," she continued. "I refused to go back to Istanbul and finished my A levels there. My memories in that school didn't allow me to leave."

Paul gently stroked Rüya's cheek and then, softly holding her by the shoulders, pulled her towards him, finally folding her tightly in his arms as if to give her strength. They stood there in an embrace without uttering a word.

It was Paul who finally broke the silence. "Which scenes do you take as the most crucial ones, as far as the relationship between Rudi and Alex is concerned?"

"Their encounter in January 1939 is an important turning point."

The train had stopped at Földalatti Station. Paul took Rüya's arm and ushered her out of the train.

"What are you doing?"

"Follow me," he said, squeezing the tip of Rüya's nose between his fingers, "and stop asking too many questions."

The cold wind lashed their faces as they climbed up the stairs. They walked to the Royal Academy of Arts and, after admiring the portraits of Bramante, Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci decorating the magnificent _sgrafitto_ exterior of the building, crossed the road and went into Lukács Cukraszda.

"We have to make do with this café, since Japán Kávéház no longer exists."

"I see that you've got to know Budapest like the back of your hand."

"Only the important places. I paid a visit to the Academy the other day so that I can understand Alex a little bit better."

Walking past the counter where a rich assortment of chocolates, cakes, tarts and pastries were displayed like exquisite pieces of jewellery elegantly arranged in the window of a jewellery shop, they went up the few steps to the mezzanine to sit at one of the tables in the salon, where silver-coloured chairs hinting at how it used to be at the turn of the twentieth century coexisted in perfect harmony with the contemporary sofas reminding the visitors that the salon was still very much alive at the turn of the twenty-first. The gilded embellishments and silk-covered panels on the walls enhanced the warmth of the interior, making Rüya gradually forget the cold of the outside and loosen up.

"Now I need you to help me, Rüya."

"In what way?"

"Do you remember the script of that scene?"

"Of course."

"I would appreciate your comments on how close I get to being your beloved Rudi."

The waiter had arrived and was waiting for their order.

"One apple _rétes_ and coffee for two please," said Paul.

Rüya's thoughts hit a blank wall. She hastily tried to remember if there was anything threatening in that scene. No, there wasn't. She relaxed.

Their order arrived. Paul took one of the coffee cups and stood up. "Let's start from the beginning, shall we?"

She took a cigarette from the packet Paul had left on the table and held it between her fingers without lighting it. Turning halfway away from him, she started listening to the imaginary words of an imaginary László sitting opposite her. "Here, the Jewish people are quite assimilated," a voice said in the depths of her mind. Suddenly she felt Paul's hand on her shoulder.

"You shouldn't be smoking, Magda. You have a baby to think about now."

Her heart skipped a beat. It had apparently chosen to follow the script as well. But Rüya was not an actor. All of this was too real for her. All she could think of was that she ought to avoid being carried away by Paul's hypnotising blue eyes and his strong grip on her shoulder. Nervously, she took an imaginary puff from her unlit cigarette.

Paul was distracted. "Actually, you're doing very well for a person who doesn't smoke. Did you ever smoke?" he said with more than a little irony in his voice.

"No, never."

"Shall we start again?"

Rüya thought of Mami. She thought of how hungry she was for love, of what Rudi had meant for her.

"You shouldn't be smoking, Magda. You have a baby to think about now."

A wave of heat emanating from his hand kindled her heart. An acute sense of alarm gripped her. Millions of butterflies started fluttering in her stomach. Don't turn around. Don't look. Her head, refusing to listen to her plea, tentatively turned. She first saw his fingers, powerful and domineering, firmly holding her shoulder; then she slowly raised her head. An intense pang of longing seized her as she looked at his eyes, his deep blue eyes still tender in contrast to the sharp expression on his face. A quiver of desire thrilled through her. She could not utter a sound.

She did not have to anyway.

"Alex?"

" _Alex?"_

Was it a shadow of excitement that had just flitted across Rudi's surprised eyes? Had he momentarily tightened his grip on her shoulder? His touch sent shivers down her spine. In panic, she averted her eyes. Control yourself, Alex! With all the courage she could muster, she looked up again. "You've grown a beard," she said, the words streaming out of her mouth of their own accord. What on earth was she saying? Couldn't she find anything better to say after all these years? "Would you join us for a cup of coffee?" she asked, in an effort to efface what she had just said. Rudi slightly raised his hand to show the cup he was holding. Alex was so entrapped by his eyes that she had not even noticed it. He had come with his coffee. He obviously meant to stay.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act One, Tableau Three  
1939

Tableau Three

7

Károly could not stop painting since he had started his new series of canvases, which Ada christened _Dream Paintings_. At long last, he had torn himself away from the spontaneous Surrealist experiments of the 1920s. All his paintings, although they looked as if they appeared automatically, on a spontaneous urge without any premeditation, were based on a series of drawings and pages of explicit sketches that took him days and sometimes even weeks. Of course there was a certain degree of automatism when he grabbed his charcoal or stood in front of a canvas with his brush in his grip; he let his hand move freely with a minimum of conscious control, never pulling the reins when it started to scribble or dab the brush here and there of its own accord. Such freedom gave rise to an extraordinary creative drive that triggered his imagination to play amazing tricks, something that gave him huge pleasure. He aimed at creating different connotations in the viewer through simple signs, somewhere between drawing and writing in pictorial environments, often suggestive of a limitless atmospheric space. He was trying to give a profound meaning even to his most clearly depicted compositions. Ada was as excited as Károly about the _Dream_ exhibition he would be opening soon.

He put his palette and brush down on the table. Dawn would soon be breaking. He had woken up in the middle of the night with a revelation about what was missing in the canvas he had been painting for the last couple of days. He had run down stark naked and started painting. He was still naked. He looked at Ada sleeping peacefully in their bed on the mezzanine. He slumped into the armchair by the window. A chill ran through him. He had been keeping the window open to let the smell of turpentine out, but now it had become too cold. He heard birds twittering in the garden, a reminder of nature slowly waking up. He remembered Kengyel ... and his sisters. It had been years since he had last seen Alex. How long had it been, he pondered? Six years? No, more than that. He could not even recall her smell. He had never seen his nieces Nili and Lila. Nili was three and a half years old now, and Lila was one. He ought to see Alex. He ought to see his nieces. I must go to Istanbul, he thought. Or, better still, we might meet up in Budapest for Magda's delivery. Magda was about to become a mother too. Their family was growing. He raised his head again and looked at his wife. They should have children as well. Pregnancy would so become Ada. He wondered what sort of a mother she would be. Would their children limit their freedom? Would they be able to continue living like this? He looked around the room. This studio was larger than the previous one, and they could organise a corner of the room for their baby's things. Could we raise our children in a room smelling of oil paint and turpentine? Would he be able to look after them? Would he be able to support a family by selling paintings? What sort of a life would he offer his children? He remembered his own childhood. They had had everything they had wanted. They had grown up missing nothing, without even realising what poverty meant. They had been sent to the best schools, worn the best outfits. Would he be able to give his children a life like that?

"Károly! What are you doing? Come to bed."

Hearing Ada's voice made all his worries disperse. Everything was possible when she was next to him. There was nothing they would not be able to overcome together. He ran up the stairs and jumped into the bed warmed by his wife, who still, after all these years, evoked the most lustful impulses in him.
February 2009  
Kengyel

Rüya was sitting on the bench under the century-old plane tree. Everything was shrouded in white. She felt chilled to her bones as she watched the frozen lake, and folded her arms tightly over her coat. She did not know why she was sitting there in this weather, with her ears completely numbed despite her woollen cap and her nose most probably blue with the cold. She had better go inside. As she made to stand up, she heard footsteps crushing the snow behind her. It was Paul. He came over without saying a word and, with his hand, brushed away the snow on the bench before sitting down next to Rüya and clasping his hands in front of him between his knees. He looked lost in thought and, unlike his usual self, was not in high spirits. Leaning slightly forward, he fixed his blank gaze on the woods behind the lake.

"Is something wrong?" asked Rüya.

Paul remained silent.

Ever since she had come to Budapest ten days ago, they had been having a very good time together. The last couple of days they had been in Kengyel, where they had just finished shooting the hunting scene, and this evening they would be returning to Budapest. Rüya had two tickets for the opera for tomorrow night and could not decide whether or not to ask him to join her. "What of it?" she finally said to herself. It is not like I have never invited a friend to the opera. Besides, Paul occupied a rather different place from that of a mere friend. Had they not spent the evening before – Saint Valentine's Day, which they both claimed to be an utterly meaningless and commercial celebration – at a tête-à-tête dinner that eventually turned into a date heavily influenced by the romantic meaning imposed on the occasion?

"Sometimes," she heard Paul say quietly, almost to himself, "I wish we could turn the clock backwards, like rewinding a film, and start all over again ... to live the life we lost, to live it to our hearts' content, cutting away the mistakes ..."

"Don't worry, Paul," thought Rüya, encouraged by his words. "We might not rewind our lives, but we can live the rest of our film to our hearts' content." She pulled one of the opera tickets out of her pocket. "I have two tickets for the opera tomorrow night. Would you like to come?" What a banal way to invite him, she cringed. A total cliché.

"I'm so sorry, but ..." started Paul in a voice rimed with apathy, his eyes still hanging on the branches of the trees on the other side of the lake.

A banal reply to a banal question. Of course, he would not be able to come. Of course, he would be busy. Had he already found a lady friend here as well? "I get it," she cut him short, throwing the ticket onto the bench. She raised her hand to stop him from saying anything else as she watched the scrap of card swirling down. The ticket missed the bench and fell on the snow, instantly getting all wet. She did not want to look at his face. "All right, I get it. You're busy. I understand perfectly well. No need to make an explanation. The usual lady friends!"

It was a grave mistake to trust him. He was playing with her like a toy that he picked up whenever he had nothing better to do. She rose to her feet. His gaze was still lost in the depths of the woods but somehow looked quite frightening now, the dull blue of a stiffly frozen lake. I must keep away from him, she told herself. The uncertainty will kill me in the end. I'm scared; I'm terrified of being hurt. She turned her back and started to trudge through the snow towards the mansion.

"I'm sorry but," he heard Paul reiterate in an offended tone. "I'm sorry, but I need to fly to Paris tomorrow after the shoot. I need to say goodbye to my father before his last journey."

The treacherous forces of darkness are shrouding everything around me. I see the colours of the rainbow disentangle and detach themselves from each other. I reach out to catch them, but I can't. My hands and arms are tied. I must run away from here. My sister lets go of my arm. I stumble.

" _You must understand," she says. "You must listen with your heart. Open your heart and listen!" Her voice is getting weaker. "Do you remember the stone I threw in the water?" she asks. "One of the waves it created must have hit the shore somewhere on the other side, licking the beach and wetting the wings of a tiny butterfly resting on the sand."_

" _It will die!" I exclaim with apprehension. "It will never be able to fly again."_

" _Do not fret," she assures me. "Don't let your dreams die away. Listen to the voice of your heart."_

I close my ears. I don't want to hear anything. I don't want to see anything. I don't want to say anything. I'm unable to speak even if I wanted to. My lips are stitched together. Gradually, I sink into the deathly hush of darkness.

Rüya came to a dead halt. She slowly turned around and timidly walked towards Paul. The salty taste of her tears tickled her lips. How long had they been streaming down her numbed cheeks?

Paul stood up and, without even looking at her, walked by and away from her.

"Paul!" she called out after him, her voice almost inaudible even to herself. "Paul," begged her whispering heart in a tone laden with regret and guilt. "My condolences, Paul," was all that she could finally murmur, hoping that her wishes were not given too late.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act One, Tableau Three  
1939

8

"Alex!"

Károly was out of breath. Alex did not even hear him. She was leaning on the railings on the Margit Bridge with her eyes fixed on the River Danube below, her body shuddering as she wept and wailed. He went behind her, cloaked her fur over her shoulders and tightly wrapped her in his arms. She was shivering.

"Come, my love. Come on now."

She was shaking like a leaf in a storm in his arms. Her face had gone as white as a sheet. He tightened his embrace, showering her hair with kisses.

"Please, baby. Please don't cry. You've got to be strong. We all have to be strong. Please think of your daughters. Please."

She suddenly turned around and hugged him with all her might. "I'm scared, _Öcsi_. I'm so scared. Please don't leave me. I beg you, please. I don't want to lose you as well. Please. Please don't let me go to Istanbul. Let me come to Paris with you. I beg you, please."

"You're not alone, my darling. You have me. You have Aziz. You have your daughters. There is _Anyukám_. You're not alone."

"No! No, _Öcsi!_ I'm all alone now. She's gone. My Magda, my everything, my other half has gone. She just left me. She abandoned me. I'm all alone now. I shouldn't have left. I knew that something like this would happen. We were exactly the same. I knew that she was at risk of a miscarriage, just like I was. I could have saved her life. I could have warned her more. I could have been next to her. It's all my fault. She died because of me. She died because I couldn't take care of her as I should have." She was bouncing up and down on her knees in an agony of regret. "We always did everything together, _Öcsi_. We were always together. We were born together. We grew up together. And we should have died together. I should have been with her. I should have been by her side."

"Alex, my love, you couldn't have done anything. Please don't blame yourself. If we were to think like this, then everybody is to blame. Miklós is to blame because he met her, because he married her, because he let her get pregnant. Mother is to blame because she brought her into this world. Magda herself is to blame because she ... simply lived. Should we think like this? No, my love, it's nobody's fault. This is how life is, my precious."

"Hush. Please hush. I don't want to hear any of it!"

Károly did not know what to do or what to say. Alex's grief had made him forget about his own sorrow. At this moment, he wanted nothing more than to ease his sister's pain. She should not suffer any more. He ought to take care of her. He had left her alone for too long. He had left her and Magda alone for too long. You're an irresponsible fool, Károly, said his inner voice. You're nothing but an irresponsible idiot. You could not be a father to your sisters. You deserted them. Everything is your fault. All this misery is because of you running away from your responsibilities.
February 2009  
Budapest

Rüya was watching the frozen branches of the tree in front of the window of her hotel room. It was warm inside, but the frosted countenance of the city gave her a chill. She hugged her eiderdown. At this very moment, she thought, they must be shooting that most heart-rending scene in Act One: "At the Conservatory after Magda's Death, March 1939."

Rudi was holding the amber ring dangling at the end of a chain on his neck. "I want you to wear this, Alex. I want you to be able to wear it."

She stood up, ignoring what he had just said, dropped her cigarette in the ashtray and walked to the gramophone. Beethoven! She had to listen to Beethoven. Appassionata.

" _I'm scared, Rudi. I'm so scared."_

" _What are you scared of?" he said softly, extending his arms towards her. "There's nothing to be scared of. You should stay here with me. You shouldn't go back to Istanbul."_

" _That's impossible."_

He leaned over, held Alex's hand and made her sit down again. "Marry me, Alex."

These words she had waited for all these years, that utterance which was supposed to make her forget her pain somehow hurt her even more, reminding her, yet again, of her impuissance. "I'm already married, Rudi," she mumbled feebly.

" _Divorce him. Take your daughters and come here. Very soon I'll be transferring my business to London. It won't be long before it will become impossible to live in this country. I'll take care of everything. We can start again from where we left off. We can go on with our lives in a new country."_

" _What you're saying is only a dream, Rudi," she interrupted him, "an impossible dream."_

" _Anything is possible. You just tell me that you'll come."_

She was so utterly weak and crippled in her desolation that she could not find the strength to make a decision, whether to resist or to set up a new life. She felt deeply offended that Aziz – the man who supposedly loved her so – was out hunting some birds instead of being here with her at a time like this. What kind of love was it anyway? Should he not be the one who was by her side now? Or perhaps the man sitting next to her should have been her husband. She was feeling so frail, unable to think straight about what she should do. She looked at Rudi's compassionate eyes and silently thanked him for being here. "I wish I were a little girl again," she said. "I wish I could start everything from the beginning."

His fingers were caressing her cheek. "We can begin again, Alex. We really can."

It's pitch black around me. Not even a star in the sky. She shouldn't have died. She had a long life to live. Death out of time. Time out of joint. Time turning upside down.

Rüya had not gone to the shoot this morning, saying that she was sick. She was not sick, but nevertheless she could not go, for she was far too ashamed to look Paul in the face after the blunder she had committed in Kengyel yesterday. She did an excellent job acting out the role of a jealous, paranoiac and desperate bitch. She had successfully buried Paul's interest in her – if he had had any, that was – under a pile of snow in Kengyel. She had interred her hopes of love under the century-old plane tree at Erzsébet Manor. The majestic tree would stand there, most probably for another century, as the tombstone of her solitary existence. She once again cringed at the thought of what she had said to Paul. "All right, I get it. You're busy. I understand perfectly well. No need to make an explanation. The usual lady friends!" How could she have said such a thing? Was she so desperately possessive as to lose control over the words that streamed out of her mouth, even if it meant degrading herself to such a pathetic level? She buried her head under the pillow. She would not be able to drag herself out of bed to save her life. All she wanted to do was to cut herself off from the outside world, blocking all her senses.

Jealousy. The most self-evident sign of being head over heels in love. Head over heels in love! Love? Paul? Was she in love with Paul? Even the thought of such a possibility was enough to hurt her. Forget about it, Rüya! Forget about love! Forget about Paul! You'll make yourself fall in love with him if you go on thinking about him all the time, ruminating and imagining things. The more you mull over him, the more you'll be captivated by him. Don't think. Don't brood over it this much. Don't turn him into an idol greater than he already is. You're not in love with him. Your jealousy doesn't mean that you love him. "Jealousy is an insidious disease that shows, with indisputable clarity, that what you feel for that person is not true love," Mami had written in one of her diaries. "An incurable ailment that recurs unexpectedly in the most inappropriate moments, the most dangerous trap love could ever fall into." Was it love that provoked jealousy, or was it jealousy that fueled the feelings of love? Perhaps the emotions defined as love were nothing more than an ambitious desire to take exclusive possession of another person. To possess! To enslave the emotions that no one else could possess. A power game over someone else's feelings. When she reasoned like this, that single phrase she had uttered resounded ruthlessly in her ears, making her bitterly realise how deplorably she had behaved. She was furious, downright furious at herself. She was determined not to make an appearance until this evening, when Paul was supposed to leave for Paris to attend his father's funeral.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act One, Tableau Three  
1939

9

Károly took another long sip from his steaming coffee as he sat at one of the tables of Les Deux Magots that spread over the pavement opposite the church. He had ordered a _tarte tatin_ with an extra portion of whipped cream on it, although it was discouragingly expensive. "Why did I do that?" he asked himself. I simply felt like indulging myself, that is why. After Magda's death, he no longer cared about anything, living as though there were no tomorrow. Nothing was of any importance anymore. Everything was transient, everything was meaningless trivia. What existed today would no longer be here tomorrow. One could lose a loved one, one of his most precious beings, forever. Nothing, except for the present moment, carried any real meaning.

He looked at the pigeons scurrying around the square, suddenly taking off in panic, only to land on the ground again to pick up a few of the enticing pieces of crumbs that had caught their eyes. He was waiting for Ada, who ought to be here soon, while his gaze moved up and down with the flood of people passing by him. It reminded him so much of Andrássy Boulevard ... and of Japán Kávéház, of Budapest. A torrent of thoughts started rushing in again, as they had been doing these last few days. Would they have to go back to Budapest? Would he be forced to give up on Paris, leave this temple of artists, let go of the city of his dreams? The City of Lights was preparing for war. They had already begun closing down the museums and were even planning to move the works of art at the Louvre to the Chambord Castle. His heart sank. Don't think about tomorrow, Károly. Don't live on assumptions. Everything, other than what you're living right at this moment, is an illusion.

He did, however, have to think about the future, at least about some of its aspects. It had been almost a year since they had moved to Paris, and all he had managed to do so far was to show two of his paintings in a group exhibition. He desperately needed to get some graphic work; he did not want Ada to wear herself out so much. "We must survive in Paris, Károly. We must stay here. We have no other choice," she insisted and, despite Károly's objections, accepted whatever job she found. He could not understand how her pride let her do such degrading work. Did she not feel humiliated? There were days when he seriously considered going back to Budapest, only to give up on the idea the next moment, reasoning that it would not be the best of choices. János drew a most sombre picture in his letters, betraying how utterly demoralised he was. A new law had been passed in May, prohibiting the Jews from working as civil servants, whereupon János had been laid off from his position in the State Railways, where he had been working for the last nine years. After hunting for a job for a whole month, he had realised how exceedingly desperate his efforts were and decided to work at his father's smithy. He was bitterly enraged, saying that he had been treated most unfairly, though his ambitious nature gave him the drive to move on. He was writing about the novelties he was planning to bring to the shop. He was clever, resourceful and knew how to create great things out of nothing. He was too valuable a brain to let himself be wasted.

Károly's thoughts scattered as he felt Ada's lips on his cheek. She dropped an envelope on the table. He instantly recognised Rudi's hasty handwriting.

"He sent it by hand again. Is it really that critical, for goodness' sake?"

Ada ordered a _limon pressé_ while Károly impatiently ripped open the envelope and started to read.

Budapest, 10th June 1939

My dear old fellow Károly,

First and foremost, I would like to express my deepest feelings of sorrow, shame and fury for having to start my letter with my warmest sympathies from a very fascist Hungary. In the last elections, as you might have already been informed, the Arrow Cross Party, shepherded by Szálasi, won a quarter of the votes, which means thirty-one seats! Quite unbelievably, the majority of those who voted for these fascists belongs to the workers' class. Hitler's most ardent enemies are the conservatives, who are labelled as reactionaries by the National Socialists. They cry out that Hitler's policy is a great threat to everything that is decent and honest in the Hungarian tradition.

By the by, you must have heard about the new law that was passed in early May. Jews can no longer become members of Parliament. They are prohibited from working in public institutions and schools. They are being expelled from the bar. The positions they can hold at the newspapers and magazines are limited. To cut a long story short, it seems that they are only allowed to be employed as workers. This is nothing but a social and economic coup. I presume that our conversion to Christianity will no longer be of any use since, according to this new law, a person is to be considered a Jew if at least two of his grandparents are or were Jews. As you know, my maternal grandparents never converted. If you can bear to read any further, there is more: in order to be considered a Hungarian citizen, one needs to belong to a family that has been resident in Hungary since 1914. People are queuing to get the residency documents they never needed before in order to avoid the risk of expulsion from citizenship and consequent deportation.

You ask about my business. We're going through a very difficult period, Károly. Last week, Lajos and I were invited to a shooting party in Sweden thrown by a friend of Lajos, a certain Raoul Wallenberg, a blue-blooded fellow from a family that owns a financial dynasty and also does a lot of import-export business with Hungary. From a business point of view, it proved to be an extremely profitable event for me. I made a lot of contacts, including some from the British and the French embassies. The talk of the day was, of course, current world affairs. Wallenberg is an interesting personality with a fiery disposition brewing behind his apparently calm nature. He agrees with Lajos in that we shouldn't be subserviently accepting every single thing imposed on us. I've met an old friend of Lajos from the Piarist Boy Scouts, namely Jarek. I don't recall if you knew him. A Polish chap who is involved in setting up a resistance group against the Nazis in Budapest. He seemed determined, more than anybody else present, not to leave Hungary to the fascists. I met another interesting character called Cyril from British intelligence, who openly said that the British are supportive of all the resistance movements against the Nazis. Currently, my friend, I'm not an adamant supporter of such ideas. I need to remain invisible, avoid getting involved in anything controversial and try to protect my family and my loved ones.

I concur with your worries about János. I talked to him last week and told him that I could help him if he wished.

I shall conclude my letter, which I have commenced without even asking about how you all are, with the hope that Paris is treating you well. I beg you to give my most intimate wishes to Ada.

In true friendship as always,

Rudi

"The other day," said Károly as he handed the letter back to Ada, intending to tell her what he had read in the papers this morning, "Horthy gave a speech at the opening of the Parliament saying that Hungary was to avoid war and to keep out of it, should it break out." He paused, taking Ada's hand into his before he continued. "Our country will never yield to fascism. Whatever is happening in Germany will never happen in Hungary." He fell silent for a brief moment and then repeated, "Never!" with desperate vigour, as though he wanted to reassure himself that he did not say these words only to give his wife peace of mind.

The church bells started to chime. The pigeons took off in alarm. The sound of their fluttering wings rang in his ears, dispersing the unruffled and leisurely languor of that golden summer day.

Everything was about to change. Károly could see that the smiles on the faces of the passers-by were slowly leaving their place to expressions of melancholic hopelessness. He could almost see their _joie de vivre_ fading away as they lost their stamina and turned inwards. Another era was opening up in front of them, a ruthlessly destructive era liable to burn everything down.

All of a sudden he felt weak and alone in the middle of the crowded café. In panic, he took Ada in his arms. They had to be resilient. They had to give each other strength. Everything was changing.

\- CURTAIN -
February 2009  
Budapest

Rüya somehow managed to block off her senses but could not prevent her thoughts from gnawing at her mind. The blunder she had committed refused to leave her in peace. She was infuriated with herself, and this rage – the ire provoked by one's own actions – was much more malignant than any other kind of indignation. She looked at the digital clock on the television. It said 10:06. Shortly they would be starting to shoot the Second Act. Act Two: _Friss_. "The second part of the rhapsody marches in like an army. It roars. It is destructive. It ruthlessly burns everything down."

She was supposed to be at the shoot, but all she wanted to do was to sleep all day. That was the only way to get rid of the thoughts that drilled into her mind. She had to sleep, to numb her consciousness, to get lost in the world of dreams, in the world of illusions where she could amble without a care even if it were a nightmare, knowing that she would, sooner or later, wake up. But she could not. Sleep did not come readily. Perhaps she ought to take some sleeping pills. Where was she to find them? She cringed at the thought of getting out of bed, let alone going out to hunt for a pharmacy. A weak ray of sunlight penetrated through a slit between the curtains, blinding her. Rüya, a devoted lover of sunshine, found she could not tolerate even a single ray of it. She dragged herself out of bed and angrily pulled the curtains shut, before throwing herself back into bed again. Frustrated at her helplessness, she closed her eyes tight.

Alex took out a sleeping pill. As she swallowed it, a thought struck her. Freedom! A way out! She looked at her reflection in the mirror. I'm coming to you, Magda. I'll soon join you. It was so easy. Years ago, when she had lost her baby, she had chosen to live, to continue living this wretched life. What she needed to do now was to choose death, to take the voyage she had been yearning for, to get away from all this suffering, to go to where Magda was waiting for her, to where there was peace, to where there was happiness. This misery had to end. I must go. I must leave everything. She emptied all the pills in the box onto her palm. I should crush them, dissolve them in water and drink it all. All at once! In one single shot! I want to leave right away. Right now. Without any further delay. She pulled open the drawer again, looking for something to crush the pills. The handle of her hairbrush? The hand mirror? No! She had no time to lose. Aziz might come in any minute. She started to swallow the pills one after the other. A huge sip of water. Another pill. And another ... She finished all the pills in the box.

Her lifeless steps took her over to the gramophone. Liszt. Hungarian Rhapsody, Number Thirteen. Lying down on her bed, she took out her diary from the drawer of her bedside table and opened a new page. She could hardly hold her pen in her trembling hand. "Farewell," she began to write. "Farewell all my loves. Farewell all my sufferings. Farewell."

A cataclysmic silence. A clamorous thunderstorm at its heels. A flash of lightning! It strikes a tree.

" _Do not hesitate to contact Cyril in person in case you need any backing in your struggle against the Nazis."_

" _As a naturalised British citizen, you can ..."_

She woke up, soaked in sweat. Her mind was buzzing like a high voltage line. The thoughts nibbling at her brain would not let her rest, even in her sleep. Everything, including her dreams, led her to the same chimera. Her subconscious, playing tricks on her, transformed Rudi into Paul, who unexpectedly metamorphosed back into Rudi. Her dreams were no longer distinguishable from reality. She could not snap out of this self-imposed torture. She could not tear herself away from him, although she knew she had to. I must forget about him. I must get him out of my system. He isn't good for me. All he does is wake the dormant monster within me – the monster of fear. She was mortified at the idea of being deserted and left all alone. She had no strength left to survive the loss of yet another loved one. "Why are you so scared, Rüya? You push them out of your life before they have a chance to desert you anyway. You did everything in your power to push away the person you can't stop thinking about, the person who was about to conquer your heart. Do you have any more hidden treasures you might want to show him to crown your jealousy trips and bad manners? Make up your mind. What do you really want? You either need to forget about him and stop this relationship before it even starts, thus end up all alone, or you need to gather up your strength and surrender the key to your heart, love without any bounds, unveiling your innermost emotions without any limits, without any calculations, without fearing that one day you might lose him. Is it too difficult for you?" Her inner voice did not stop. "What do you want?" She did not know what she wanted, but knew exactly what she did not want. She did not want to suffer. She did not want a life inundated with grief like Mami's. She did not want to lose the man she loved and become a slave to someone she did not love. Her grandmother Nili's voice rang in her ears.

"I recall the day she was taken to the hospital," she had said once. "It was a few days before the war broke out. I was only four years old then, but I remember everything as if it all happened yesterday. 'She is deranged,' they told me. I thought it meant she had a cold. Poor soul. She had tried to kill herself. After that, she could never pull herself together again. With the onslaught of the war, her whole world turned into a nightmare. Unable to go to Hungary, she was at her wits' end; her separation from _Öcsi_ practically drove her insane. And nothing much changed after the war ended. She exasperated us, always slumped in deep dejection with an unbearably sullen face that went on and on for years. She kept complaining about how utterly lonely she felt and how her life had no meaning anymore. She isolated herself from everything. We didn't see her smile until 1959."
ACT TWO

_Friss_ , the second part of the rhapsody, marches in like an army.

It roars. It is destructive.

It ruthlessly burns everything down.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Four  
1940

Tableau Four

10

Károly and Ada had been back in Budapest for only a week, but their life had already changed drastically. Károly was sitting in the garden of the tennis club, waiting for Rudi, thinking that he had not touched a racket for two years – something that confirmed, yet again, that their decision to return to their home country had been the right one. He was in such good spirits. He leaned back and turned his face towards the warming June sun. He could feel his pale skin changing colour. It had never occurred to him that leaving Paris would so elate his mood.

On the first day of September last year, Hitler's Nazi Germany had occupied Poland, whereupon Britain and France had declared war on Germany. When, in early April, Germany invaded Norway and Denmark and the seven-month-long armchair war gave way to hot war, Károly and Ada still had not decided whether to go back to Hungary or stay in France. Even in May, when Germany invaded France, they still did not feel as if they were in the middle of a war. Finally, on the gloomy and overcast fourteenth day of June, watching the occupying German troops triumphantly march down the Champs Élysée from the Arc de Triomphe, cloaked in a shroud of Swastika banners, towards the Place de la Concorde, they decided that it was about time they went back to their country. A few days later they left the darkening City of Lights. Boarding the train at the Gare de l'Est to set off for Budapest in one of the straw-filled wagons, which were used to transport cattle at peace time, Károly was still unsure whether it had been a good idea to embark upon this adventure with his two-month-pregnant wife. Attached to the last of the passenger cars carrying the German troops, they were accompanied by a few chickens, pigs, goats, an unbearable stench and filth and, worst of all, by air raids. Reaching Budapest in one piece at the end of their arduous five-day trip, Károly's inner voice had changed its tune and was saying that they had made the right decision by leaving Paris. The instant he had stepped down onto the platform, a feeling of lightness, the weightlessness of a feather, had imbued him. The war had draped a new meaning over everything, turning all concepts upside down. Having stayed out of the war, Hungary suffered from no shortages, with shops abundant in food from duck liver pâté to a rich variety of salamis and a wide selection of wines, and all at very reasonable prices. Everything that was produced and grown in his beautiful country was waiting to be consumed, for exportation had come to a halt following the breakout of the war. No matter how much he wished not to admit it, life was much easier here, especially at such a time when his family was growing.

"Károly!"

He jumped to his feet, in a radiant mood, as he heard Rudi, whom he had not seen for more than a year. They hugged each other with real affection and expressed their utter joy in seeing each other again and in good health. Rudi said how selfishly happy he felt to have his friend back here, and Károly admitted that this time he was truly happy to have returned to his country.

"The war, after all, does have its upside, such as bringing old friends together."

"We're very lucky in that the war has not yet arrived in Hungary, Rudi. You can't imagine how painful it is to hear the thundering sound of the German tanks and boots trampling down the Champs Élysée. The curfew starts at eight in the evening, something that doesn't become Paris at all. It's heart-rending to see signs on the entrances to some of the movie theatres, restaurants and even the brothels that say, 'For German soldiers only!'"

"We don't know how long this will go on. We do nothing but apprehensively watch the Nazi atrocities. Everyone says such things won't happen here in Hungary. Lajos ... You know Lajos, don't you? He often travels to England on business and has a wide network of contacts. He says that the picture looks different when you look at it from there and gives the impression that things will not be calming down soon."

"We're really worried about Ada's parents; they haven't converted."

"One should take the necessary precautions when the time is ripe. We have to watch out, Károly."

"What can we do?"

"For the moment, we shall wait and see."

They started to walk towards the tennis court.

"How is business?"

"Not too bright I'm afraid. As I've already told you, I sold – though only on paper – my law office to a mercenary, so to speak, and use it as a cover to run my affairs. What about you? What are your plans? Will you go on doing graphic work?"

"If I can get any, yes. In fact, I've got to get some work." He proudly straightened his back and looked at Rudi in the eye. "I'll become a father soon."

They threw their arms around each other again in jubilation. Rudi said how happy he was to see a family like the Kurzóns grow before asking, quite out of the blue, "If Turkey enters the war, wouldn't it be better for Alex to be here? Have you written to her about this?"

"Yes, of course, I have. She says that all her Hungarian friends in Istanbul have already left, but her case is rather different, in that Aziz can't leave Istanbul."

"I think you should try and bring her here. Turkey's intention is not so clear, and it may enter the war precipitously."

"I don't think Aziz would agree to be separated from his wife and daughters."

"Doesn't he think about the wellbeing and safety of his family?"

Károly patted Rudi's back. He understood him so well. "Don't worry, old chap. Aziz says that the Turkish government has clearly declared its intention to stay out of the war. There is a strong belief that unless it is directly attacked, Turkey won't be entering the war, and the possibility of such an attack is very slim. For the moment, I'm sure Alex is in safe hands."

József and Éva arrived, and they went on to have a game of tennis. Éva and Rudi enjoyed a thumping victory over Károly and József although Rudi, the best player on the national team, modestly tried his best not to display all his expertise and skill. After the match, they went over to the back garden of the clubhouse to have a drink. A few minutes later Margit came with János, who had returned from Nyíergyháza that morning after paying a visit to his relatives. He was more hopeless and worried than his letters had suggested, saying that what he had seen and listened to in Nyíergyháza was not promising at all.

"There's an abundance of food, all right – vegetables, fruit, poultry, cattle, pigs, eggs, milk, you name it! However, what people are worried about is not the shortage of food. Life has become quite dangerous for the Jewish people. They can't move around freely and they are frequently attacked by the Christians." He lit a cigarette. "The other day, my uncle was beaten up pretty badly. He owns the local flour mill. He asked one of his gentile customers, who had not been paying his debts for quite some time, to pay up. He not only made fun of my uncle but wanted to get some more flour. My uncle refused to give him any. In the evening the gendarmes came and took away my uncle and his son."

Some other friends from the tennis club joined in, and the conversation picked up more steam, with everyone having something to say. They all complained about the situation in their country, and they each had an opinion, coming up with a variety of solutions for the problems the government seemed incapable of solving.

"Our government has channelled all its energy into redeeming the territories we lost at Trianon. I think they would be better off focusing on defending the territories at hand and protecting their people."

"The territories we lost must be sorted out one way or another, be it a revision of the borders or a treaty with our neighbours. It might go as far as a confederation."

"Gaining back our lost lands won't be enough. The problems around social justice and welfare policy should be brought to the fore. It's imperative that the autocratic character of the political structure is curbed. Nobody denies any longer that democratic institutions must be given greater substance."

"In my opinion, a reform in the public education system is indispensable. Democracy is not a system that the ignorant can handle. Ignorance is the executioner of democracy."

"Whatever they touch falls to pieces. They don't know where to begin. Land reform is desperately needed. On the other hand, the corruption in the public administration institutions should definitely be on the top of the agenda."

"It's all well and nice what you're saying," cut in János, his strong voice silencing everyone, "but what we, as the Hungarian nation, need is a Soviet-style transformation." He stood up, extending his arm towards some distant land. "The solution to all our problems lies there. It's the only system that would save us from these fascists."

These discussions went on at the tennis club, during the strolls along the embankment of the River Danube, in their offices, at receptions, during the shooting parties József and Sándor gave in Martfü and Kengyel, at the dinner parties thrown by Rudi at the Ritz and in the ironmonger's shop János had opened following the confiscation of his smithy. Károly's cheerful mood, which had faded away in his beloved Paris, persevered despite all the adversities. Life went on. The war did not deter the Kurzóns from moving to their summerhouse in Balatonfüred like they did every summer. Ada, with her baby rapidly growing in her, swam, enjoyed some sun and prepared herself for motherhood. Gizella mobilised all her servants to ensure that her unborn grandchild – hopefully a boy who would pass their family name Kurzón to future generations – lacked nothing and saw to it that both he and the person carrying him – despite being a converted Jew – were properly taken care of. The excitement of becoming a grandmother was equally shared by Aunt Etel, who had lost all hope of having any grandchildren, as she had given up on the idea of marrying off her son Sándor, and by Aunt Irén, who loved Károly as her own son. Károly badly needed a job; their income from the estates had recently dwindled to a pittance and might not suffice to look after his growing family as well as he wished he could. There were moments when he had his doubts about their decision to have a child in wartime but, seeing the happiness Ada's pregnancy brought to his family, he eventually concluded that it was not actually a bad idea at all.

The month of August brought in a wave of heat that weighed heavily upon them, especially on Ada, although more suffocating than the scorching sun were the devastating political developments. Nazi Germany and the Soviets had parcelled out Poland between them. Hitler was now demanding Horthy's support, offering in return a reward irresistibly enticing for Hungary: Transylvania, a large territory that had been awarded to Romania in 1920 with the Treaty of Trianon, a land that was still home to more than a million Hungarians.

On a chilly September evening following their return to Budapest after their summer break in Balatonfüred, they heard on the news that Horthy, on his famous white horse at the head of the First Army, had ridden into Transylvania, parading through the cities "liberated" by Hungary and thus claiming his country's reward.

Károly was filled with alarm as he pondered over what further demands Hitler might place on Hungary in return for such a prize and, more importantly, what Hungary was ready to do to meet those demands. He was also preoccupied by the possible consequences of what János had told him a while ago. "Lately," he had said, "the anti-Semitic feeling in the army is showing strong signs of an inevitable rise. The atrocities committed against the Jewish servicemen, the humiliation, the physical punishment know no limits." His cousin Dávid, an officer in the First Army, he said, was no longer so adamant about serving his country, and his patriotic devotion had rather deteriorated after a series of attacks. "One day, at the refectory, a Szálasi supporter shouted, 'I can smell a Jew even from a mile away,' before he started smelling those around him. He must have failed to smell Dávid well enough to realise that he was his enemy twofold – both a Jew and a member of the illegal Communist Party. He gave him a form to join the Arrow Cross, believe it or not."

And finally on November 20, when Hungary declared that it had entered the war by joining the Axis Alliance on the side of the Nazi Germany and fascist Italy, Károly's worries erupted like a volcano, for he could no longer suppress them like he had been doing for some time now by clinging on to his former lifestyle in selfish optimism and forced lethargy, trying to ignore the havoc war had been creating all over Europe.
February 2009  
Budapest

Rüya opened her eyes in panic. Her mobile phone was ringing. It was her mother.

"What a voice you've got there, Rüya! Are you ill?"

"I'm all right, but I can't get out of bed."

"It's eleven o'clock, dear. Isn't there a shoot today?"

"There is, Mother. There is."

"A certain Gertrúd called you. She said she was calling from Budapest. I thought you might want to ring her back while you're there. She left her number."

"Did you say Gertrúd?"

"Yes, Rüya. Wake up, sweetheart!"

She jotted down the number and hung up. She did want to call Gertrúd, and right away. Gertrúd was the granddaughter of Vilmos, Rudi's butler. At the time of her research, she could not get hold of her, rather unfortunately since she was one of her most promising sources of information. She had learned very little about Rudi's life in Budapest during the war. Dávid, the grandson of one of János's cousins, had talked a lot about János and Károly but said that he had not even heard of Rudi. Juli _néni_ , on the other hand, knew a few details about Rudi that she had heard from her parents, but these were not any different than what Rüya had read in Mami's diaries and Rudi's letters anyway. In the end, some of the questions that had been intriguing Rüya about Rudi were left unanswered, and she had to back up her narrative with her imagination. She urgently needed to meet up with Gertrúd to learn if the parts she had imagined had actually happened.

A sudden surge of energy filled her as she dialled Gertrúd's number.

She got into a cab in front of the hotel and gave the driver Gertrúd's home address on the Buda side. By now, she knew the roads well enough to see if the cab driver was making a long and unnecessary detour to raise the fare, but she, nevertheless, failed to figure out how they reached Városmajor Street, which should not be on their route. She was about to object in fury when the gate of the Budapest Tennis Club caught her eye and made her forget her anger. She saw the gate open, and Rudi, János, Margit, József and Éva walk out, engrossed in a heated discussion. A few seconds later Károly appeared, running to catch up with them. He was in excellent spirits.

"Would you slow down please?"

The cab driver braked to a halt. Károly disappeared along with the others.

I see the butterfly fluttering her wet wings. She wants to fly, but to no avail. There is no one to help her. Everything is black and white. I watch the colourless wings drift away from the shore with the next wave. Gradually, it dawns upon me that she's nothing but a reflection on the surface of the water, the reflection of the butterfly that flies away freely. I can't figure out which one is the real butterfly.

" _She didn't simply dream of the day she would be able to fly," says my sister. "She kept on flapping her wings to win over the fatally heavy weight of the water and realise her dream. She carried on trying instead of yielding to her fate in self-pity, blaming the wave that had wetted her or cursing the stone that had created that wave. She didn't let go of her dream even if it seemed impossible that she might fly. At long last, she took control of her fate and became the master of her dreams, not their slave."_

"It's seven thousand Forints, or thirty Euros, young lady."

Thirty Euros! For a distance of ten minutes! She had trouble with these cab drivers. Would she be able to avoid being ripped off, if only for once? Each time she took a cab, she realised a bit more clearly how these cab drivers could afford to drive Mercedes cars. She had no time to bargain as she could hardly wait to see Gertrúd. She docilely paid the fare and flung herself out of the cab.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Four  
1941

11

Károly was ashamed of Hungary, of his beloved country, which had become a puppet on strings held by Germany, whose demands knew no end. How far would the noble Hungarians go, running like a pack of famished street dogs after a piece of land the Nazis dangled in front of them? Did they, the proud bearers of a thousand-year-old heritage, deserve being dubbed the Jackal of Central Europe, the degrading epithet they had been given by the Western press? Was there anything worse than being ashamed of one's country?

In early April, they had learned about Prime Minister Pál Teleki's suicide, only to realise why he did so a few days later, when the glorious Hungarian army took part in the Nazi occupation of Yugoslavia, much like a scavenger of a jackal that showed the lion where the prey hid with the hope of taking its share of the pieces left after the lion took his share. Teleki could no longer tolerate the twisted political manoeuvres; the principles of honesty he had inherited from his noble ancestors strongly contradicted his country's determination to help an attack on a country, with which it had signed a Pact of Eternal Friendship, on the pretext of a change of regime in that country. He could not live with this shame. He had but one choice, just like his grandfather László Teleki: to kill himself. This was what his nobility asked for. "We failed to keep our promise because of our cowardice," he had written in his farewell note. "We trampled on our nation's honour."

Winston Churchill's speech, broadcast on the BBC after Teleki's suicide, brought tears to people's eyes:

" _An empty chair will be reserved at the future peace conference for the memory of Count Pál Teleki. And that empty chair should remind those present that Hungary had a prime minister who sacrificed himself for the justice for which we too are fighting."_

Károly suffered from an excruciatingly painful sense of degradation as he watched his country ignominiously helping the Nazis in order to win Hitler's approval. He felt a strong urge to do something. They _all_ had to do something – something to save their motherland, now an incapacitated marionette in the clutches of fascism. They had to save it from the shameful pit it had fallen into. We cannot just wait and watch, he kept saying to his friends.

"There must be something we can do, Rudi. We can't just bow to these fascists and leave our future in their hands." His breath spread into the chilly September night, mixing with the smoke from Rudi's cigarette as they sat on the veranda.

"Come inside now," they heard Ada call out through the French windows of the Green Salon. "János is here. And the news is about to start."

Károly slowly rose to his feet, his body heavy under the burden of his thoughts. Rudi took another deep puff from his cigarette, which had diminished to a small stub that he could hardly hold between his fingers, before he stubbed it several times in the ashtray he held in his other hand. They went inside.

"Has Juli's fever gone down a bit?" asked Károly, putting his arm around his wife.

"She's upstairs, finally asleep."

Their daughter Juli was eight months old now, making Károly realise more and more each day how lightly they had taken everything in bringing a child to this world in the midst of a war.

As had been their habit these last few months, late into the night behind closed doors and windows, they turned on the radio to listen to the Hungarian broadcast from the BBC, not to the Hungarian operettas and other music programmes that they greatly enjoyed but to the news – a criminal act equal to spreading false rumours and which was punished severely, but nevertheless an activity which had become an integral part of their daily routine. These foreign radio broadcasts were like feeble rays of light glimmering in the distance that sparked off hopes, especially among the Jewish community. It was a small act of defiance, a speck of resistance.

At the end of the news, they all left their places around the radio and went over to sit by the fireplace where a weak fire was trying to survive. János took the iron poker and started prodding the logs to kindle the flames. "No one talks about the last incident," he said, his eyes blazing. "They've already forgotten about it."

In July more than ten thousand Jews, mostly inhabitants of the areas annexed from Czechoslovakia, who had been unable to document that their families had been residing on Hungarian soil since before 1914, had been denied Hungarian citizenship, classified as "aliens" and consequently expelled to German-held Polish territory, where they had been handed over to the Nazis. Rumours had it that two weeks ago, they had been taken across eastern Galicia and into the occupied Ukraine to Kamenets-Podolski, where they had been shot to death by the _Einsatzgruppe_ death squads with the help of Hungarian troops.

"Those people, whom they mark as aliens and condemn to death, are probably more Hungarian than any of them," fumed Ada. "We've been Hungarians for generations. We've been proud to be Hungarians. And we still are. Now they want us to prove this with a piece of paper. I am – and my ancestors and the ancestors of their ancestors were – more Hungarian than those fascist puppets."

János was still trying to kindle the flames in the fireplace. "Of course, they wouldn't talk about it," he continued from where he had left off, ignoring what Ada was saying. "I think the easiest way to destroy people's desire to live is to hide the truth from them. Sooner or later the masses will find nothing to hang their hopes on, being shrouded in the lies fabricated by the ruling system and spread like an epidemic via all means of communication. Hope needs a light, albeit a faint one, a gleam that can hold its hand and show it the way. Totalitarian propaganda is one of the great inventions of fascist Germany."

"A very good night to you all, children," Irén said as she stood up, intending to retire for the night, for she must have guessed that there would be no room for art in tonight's discussions. "I'd better let Gizi and Etel know about the latest news." Aunt Irén and Uncle Filip had been living with them in Rózsadomb since November last.

Gizella, every single day after teatime, went upstairs to her room on the second floor and did not come down until the following morning. She said that she had somehow managed to get herself used to the idea of Károly filling the house with his friends almost every night for more than a year now, ever since he had come back from Paris, and that she could, to some extent, put up with János who, in her opinion, set a terrible example for Károly, inseminating his Bolshevist ideas in her son, but there was no way she could tolerate Rudi's presence in her house. She blamed Károly for being unscrupulous, regularly and vehemently expressing her amazement at her son's ability to remain friends with a person who had hurt Alex so much and, as if that were not enough, had recently added shamelessness to his uniquely egregious traits. Károly thought that his mother had become a slave to her narrow-mindedness and kept repeating that it was way past the time she became a bit more humanist in her views.

Uncle Filip, wrapped in a blanket, silently listened to the conversation, clearly determined not to go to bed until after everyone else, something of a habit lately since he suffered from an acute case of insomnia. He wrapped the blanket around him more tightly, shivering at the gust of the cold air that had flooded in through the door as his wife left the drawing room.

"There's nothing in the papers," Ada blurted out, crumpling the newspaper she had been fiddling with. "They should be burned at the stake!" she hissed as she flung it into the fireplace. "We can't expect them to write much about anything anyway, can we? It would be lovely, would it not, to read an article about the verbal and physical assaults on all Jewish-looking people on the tramcars – basically anyone who has curly black hair, not-so-snow-white skin and not-so-sky-blue eyes? I've witnessed so many times how they kicked and slapped people. It's incredible. You've got to see it to believe it. It all sounds like fiction. Horrendous! It's impossible to understand how a human being can treat another human being that way." She was shaking her head, her lips pursed in disgust. "They're revolting! Unbearably revolting! People do nothing but watch all that goes on and then avert their eyes, scared and embarrassed, trying to turn a blind eye to it all. They're like mice. They're dead scared of these thugs. On the tramcar the other day, there were dozens of people who could have stopped the two young Arrow Crossers, practically teenagers, but no one made a move. I could hardly hold myself back from getting up and shouting at them, despite having Juli with me."

Ada was obviously having a very bad day. Károly went over to the back of the armchair where she was sitting and started stroking her hair in the hope of boosting her spirits. With his hand buried into the comforting hair of his wife, he absently watched the feeble flames in the fireplace before his eyes glided up to the photographs on the mantelpiece. " _Noblesse oblige_ ," he said, gazing at Uncle Kelemen's photograph. "This was what our uncle used to drill into our heads again and again. In these times we are living in, not only the nobility – who are left with nothing but their titles – but everyone with any kind of privilege has responsibilities. They're obliged to use whatever means are at their disposal for the benefit of those in need. We can't just wait, doing nothing. It's about time we did something. We no longer have the luxury of thinking exclusively of ourselves. We have to put our hands in the fire." He turned to Rudi. "Being invisible is not a solution, old chap. Sooner or later someone will see you. Quite the reverse, we must unite and make ourselves clearly visible."

"Comrades from the as yet illegal Communist Party are organising a resistance group against the Nazis," said János, without taking his eyes off the ailing fire in the grate, after which he turned his proud eyes to Károly and then to Rudi. "As the Young Jewish Resistance Fighters, we shall be having our first meeting on Sunday."

Rudi stood up and flicked his cigarette into the fireplace. "Yes," he said firmly, "we must do something, but it's no use throwing ourselves blindly into a murky adventure, Jancsi. Who are these people? What are their plans? Who backs them? The Nazis will immediately swallow any little morsels of resistance."

"Well, well? I thought you liked adventure, Rudi. I assumed you enjoyed danger," János scoffed, raising his eyebrows in fake surprise as he looked Rudi up and down. "Or are your adventurous nature and courage strictly reserved for the games you play? Are these things too real for you?"

"My adventurous nature never prevented me from using my reasoning," retorted Rudi, his voice getting tenser. "And it's not going to prevent me from doing so now – _especially_ now. One ought not to confuse courage with idiocy. I totally agree with you in that we must do something. Yes, we must resist. We must fight back. However, if we are to fight, we, first and foremost, ought to stay alive, don't you think? Before anything else, we should be thinking of ourselves and of our loved ones. And we must remain invisible until the time is ripe. Where will you be going if you take uncalculated risks, I ask you? What point can you reach? Nowhere. We must use our brains." He took a sip from his wine and, as he put down his glass on the coffee table, turned his eyes first to János and then slowly to Károly before sitting down. "Do you think I enjoy waiting in limbo, doing nothing?" His voice was once again calm. "Do you think it doesn't drive me mad to have my life turned upside down, to have all my plans ruined? I shall certainly put my hand into the fire by joining an effort to stop the Nazis and put an end to all of this before we lose all that we are left with. However, the steps we take must be strong." He turned back to János and, in a forcibly soft tone of voice, continued, "Let them get organised. Let's see their true colour. You'll join them when the time is right."

"Now is the time, Rudi. Now is not the time to be a coward."

Thinking that it was time to change the subject, Károly stopped playing with Ada's hair and walked over to Rudi. "I need your help in something, my friend."

"It would be a pleasure," said Rudi, sounding surprised as he looked up at Károly.

"Come with me, please."

They went out into the cold and dark entrance hall. Károly turned on the electric switch, and a sad light spread from the four light bulbs left on the gigantic crystal chandelier pathetically illuminating the hall and the stairway leading upstairs. "There are a few paintings I'd like to sell," Károly said as they climbed up. "Not mine, of course," he added, looking at Rudi from under an eyebrow raised in self-mockery. "They would buy them only to burn in a stove. Nobody wants to see the ugly and dirty face of the war in his drawing room. They're not going to pay to see the fear invoked by those who have turned into monsters, or the pain of tortured people, their impotence, their defeatist surrender to their fate. And most of all, they won't pay anything for canvases displaying not a work in oils but in coal dust, earth and blood."

They crossed the Gallery and entered the library, which was once their playroom and was about to be used as a playroom again very soon.

"I want to sell several of the paintings that belong to my family." He paused briefly and reiterated, "I _have_ to sell them. I'm sure you have contacts who would be interested, so I would ask you to help me out on this." He extended his arm towards the paintings on the walls. "Whichever you think would bring in the best prices. Or perhaps all of them. You decide." He fell silent for a brief moment before adding, as if in consolation, "We have a lot more of these anyway."

Rudi was silently looking around the room. His eyes moved from one painting to the next. He must be thinking which ones would be worth selling. He then looked at the furniture, the sofas and the tables.

"We haven't yet fallen so low as to be obliged to sell those as well," said Károly, with a self-deprecating laugh.

Rudi did not answer. He was staring at the doll's house in the corner.

Juli's crying voice made Károly start. "She's very sick, poor soul," he said as he ran out of the library and into the bedroom where her daughter slept. It was amazing how much noise a tiny baby could make. He took her in his arms and started rocking her as Ada had taught him. Little Juli almost disappeared in his huge arms. He touched her forehead with his lips to check her temperature. She seemed to be doing all right. He kissed her, drawing in her smell. It will pass, my baby. It will all pass.

He carefully put her back to bed as soon as she fell asleep again. Walking towards the library, he saw, through the anti-chamber leading to the bedroom that was once Alex's, that Ada had left the light on in there. Such irresponsible negligence at such dire times, he thought, rushing towards the electric switch, only to stop short as he approached the bedroom door. Rudi was sitting on Alex's bed. He had pulled away the bedcover and was stroking the folds of the yellowed pillow. Károly could not see his face, but he was sitting dead still, with his back stooped and his head slightly bent to one side. Only his fingers moved among the imaginary coppery chestnut hair spread over the pillow. He slowly bent over and buried his head in it. His hand, clenched in a fist, fell beside the pillow. Afraid to disturb a dream, Károly silently stepped back and returned to his bedroom, then quickly moved on to the library. After waiting for a few seconds, he went to the door opening to the Gallery and called out, "Rudi?" before going back in again to stand in front of a painting. The thoughts he had been trying to avoid, but which nevertheless kept on gnawing at his mind lately, started to surface again. Alex could have been here with us, he thought painfully. Her children could have been sleeping here, crying here, playing here. If he had not introduced Aziz to her, if he could have been a better brother to Alex, if he could have shown her the right way, if he could have taken care of her properly as he should have ... everything would have been so different.

"I took a look at the paintings in the Gallery as well," said Rudi, coming into the library. He paced up and down, observing each painting again.

Finally, they decided to sell three of them.

Monday evening, they all met in Rózsadomb again. János shared with his friends the details of the meeting held on Sunday by the Communist Party. Given Károly's artistic talent, he was deemed suitable to help the organisation in the preparation of forged documents. Károly accepted the task with great fervour and enthusiasm, becoming a "cobbler" as they dubbed him. Rudi, on the other hand, said that he had decided to help one of the resistance groups for which a friend of his, namely Gábor Dobos, had been working for some time. He was to use all his financial sources and, if required, his contacts to support this group in their fight against the Nazis. At first, Károly was offended that Rudi, instead of trusting his old friends, had put his trust in this Gábor, of whom Károly was hearing for the first time, and in a group that did not even have a name, but eventually he was convinced that Rudi had devised a lie to stop them from insisting that he joined their group. He could not force him into such an undertaking. If he did not want to help, he would not. Perhaps János was right. Perhaps Rudi's courage was limited to games. Perhaps he was scared. How odd, he thought. War really draped a new curtain over everything, or perhaps it somehow removed all existing curtains.

After Rudi and János left, Károly sat at the writing desk in his bedroom to write to Aziz. He poured the few drops of the red wine left at the bottom of the bottle that the head butler Álmos had taken out from the cellar. "I could never have imagined that one day I would be drinking these exquisite French wines to warm myself up," he grunted, and emptied his glass in one gulp.

Budapest, 21st September 1941

My dear friend Aziz,

I do beg your forgiveness for not having written even a single line throughout the summer months, a period that proved to be rather suffocating – in all senses of the word. In April, the invasion of Yugoslavia was completed in no time at all, but Hitler's ambitions and Hungary's helplessness continued, seemingly knowing no bounds. A whole new era commenced in our country when Germany broke the pact with the Soviets and initiated an attack with Operation Barbarossa, opening the Eastern Front. We bitterly realised, yet again, that the war is not going to end but is only just starting. We, as Germany's supporters, not only declared war against the Soviets, but also agreed to send forty thousand soldiers to the Eastern Front. It is said that we've already sent thirty thousand men. We're sinking deeper and deeper into a nightmare, Aziz.

The most tragic side of this war, however, is that the victims are not only the soldiers at the front but the civil population as well. We hear about some of the things that are going on in the German-occupied territories, but we are also aware of the fact that what we hear is only the tip of the iceberg. Like us, you must be hearing the news about the atrocities committed against the Jews in Austria and in Poland; that they are herded to the ghettos by the tens of thousands. Although the refugees, fleeing from the Polish ghettos, speak very little of their experiences, due to the threats such as, "we shall send you back where you came from if you don't hold your tongues," they nevertheless whisper about how Jewish people disappear to some unknown destination. The anti-Jewish press is talking about a "Final Solution to the Jewish Question," but no one really knows exactly what that means.

The Arrow Crossers – some not even adolescents – who have already been proudly parading on the streets under the shadow of the freely displayed Nazi banners, are now – actually ever since Hungary declared its entry into the war almost a year ago – verbally attacking people whom they take to be Jewish, sometimes shouting loudly in their ugly voices, sometimes hissing in sinister tones. These are the least worrying of all the assaults they commit against the Jewish population, Aziz. And I shamefully admit that none of us is doing anything except for watching all that is going on. I do believe, however, that things won't go on like this for much longer. We can't take it anymore. We shall do something to save our country and our compatriots from the clutches of these murderers.

János says, much more optimistically than would be expected of him, that he and his family have seen no such adverse treatment from their Christian neighbours on Király Street. Quite conversely, he has noticed that they have been even nicer than before, as if they wanted to reassure them that these cruelly insane times won't last long and that they shouldn't be afraid. He says, "The loyalty of our concierge is heart-rending," as once, a fascist band marched into the building and demanded to know if any "dirty Jew" lived there. He told them that "he would never have stinking Jews in his building," like an experienced actor, enhancing his credibility by using a few swear words. After that, he came upstairs and apologised to János's mother for the language he had had to use. "It is heart-warming and reassuring to know that, at least in our home, we are offered some protection," is what János said. Such people are, of course, only a handful. Everyone is terrified.

In brief, my dear old chap, the situation doesn't seem too bright. These are most disturbing events. It's obvious that all that has been going on in Europe for years, and which we thought would never happen to us, is now at our threshold, if not already inside. I don't write about these things to Alex, for she's really disturbed by such news, and I would ask you not to tell her any of this either.

We are trying to feel optimistic about Ada now that she's married to me, although I can't say the same thing for her family. We're extremely worried about them. The government issues a new law every day. Someone who is not considered Jewish today might be classified as one tomorrow and lose all his or her rights. We have to watch out for János and his family as well. Recently they passed a law, which is nothing but a race protection law along the lines of the anti-Semitic Nuremberg Laws the Nazis issued in 1935. János's cousin Dávid lost his rank – like all other Jews in the army – and was "invited" to join one of the forced labour battalions in Budapest. Like a bad joke, he is forced to work at János's old smithy, which was confiscated two years ago. Mixed marriages between a Jew and a non-Jew are banned. Jews are no longer allowed to marry the non-Jewish. It is rumoured that even an emotional relationship would be considered illegal.

I do wish I could have written you a letter in a much cheerful tone, but that would simply be wishful thinking. I hope that your beautiful country manages to remain out of this terrible mess.

Please do convey my deepest respect to your mother, my most sincere feelings to your sisters and kindest regards to Haldun.

With much affection, as always,

Károly
February 2009  
Budapest

It was almost six when Rüya returned to her hotel room at the end of a stimulating day. Gertrúd, a professor of history at Budapest University, and her little flat in the neighbourhood of Várhegy, had proved to be a well of information. "I grew up with tales of war," Gertrúd began, after they had settled comfortably in the armchairs by the window, squeezed between two tall bookcases with shelves bent under the heavy weight of books of various sizes in various languages, mostly tattered from overuse. "Tales of war where the good always won, and the bad always lost. Initially, endings were always happy. As I grew older, tales turned into stories which eventually transformed into the bitter truth. And finally, thanks to my grandfather's urging, I studied history to dig a little bit deeper into the truth." Dishing out a photograph from one of the overcrowded shelves and looking at it with loving eyes, she continued. "He was ninety-six years old when he passed away, but his mind was crystal clear until the very last day." They talked through lunch and teatime, sipping cups after cups of coffee and tea against a splendid view over the Vérmező Gardens, and in the evening their absorbing chat continued in the company of several shots of _pálinka_ , which immediately went to Rüya's head. Gertrúd not only recounted the war memories she had heard many times from her grandfather Vilmos, who had passed away ten years ago, but also showed dozens of photographs that featured Rudi as well. The energy Rüya felt as she left Gertrúd's flat was not only triggered by the _pálinkas_ she had consumed. She could hardly wait to be back in her hotel room to examine the photographs more closely and digest all that she had heard during her visit.

" _Please, I implore you not to let anyone upset you. Very soon everything will be like it was before, even better. This war, which has ruined all our plans, is bound to end sooner or later. I do have my worries, however, and, although I don't want to push you too hard, I cannot but insist that you think again and think well. These recent developments – the United States entering the war and Britain having declared war against Hungary – have pushed the situation to a new level. I do hope that Turkey doesn't enter the war, and, in case it does, I do hope to have you out of there beforehand. Please rest assured that the instant you say yes, I will take you and your daughters out. All I need is your photographs. I will come and get you out of that country within a week. Please trust me. War teaches you a lot of things, Alex. There is a way out of everything, believe me, and there are many countries other than Hungary and Turkey where we can live in safety until this war is over._

In the last few weeks, there have been a lot of changes in my life. We sold everything we owned, including number twenty-three Andrássy Boulevard. From now on, I'm a tenant in my own property. The reason is, of course, not that we had any financial difficulties, but that we thought this was the most logical solution. Cash is movable, so to speak, something you can move from one country to another. The other day, we finalised the formalities for the sale of our mansion on Andrássy Boulevard as well, whereupon my parents moved in with me. Our butler Vilmos is still with us. His unwillingness to leave really touched our hearts.

Another change is about my business. Do you remember Lajos, my old friend who had a wine estate in Csopak, the one you thought looked like an English lord? A couple of days ago, he introduced me to a friend of his, a certain Dutchman by the name of Gerhard. He seems a patsy, a rather weird sort but was very useful, I must admit. He said that they needed a legal advisor at Tungsram and that he would be very happy if I accepted the post. (Tungsram, a subsidiary of a Dutch company called Philips, produces electronic parts.) Considering that I can run my 'mercenary' remotely, I thought this was a good offer at a time like this and accepted."

Rüya emptied the contents of her handbag onto the bed. She picked up the photographs, her tape recorder and notebook, before she stuffed the rest back into her bag. With renewed vigour, she spread the photographs on the bed, although she knew she ought to be getting ready to leave soon for the opera – for a lonely night at the opera. A young woman, all on her own at the Opera House. Sticking out like a sore thumb. She was not entirely sure whether she ought to be angry with Paul or with herself. Come on, Rüya! Stop brooding! You had a marvellous day. Enjoy what you have just learned. She grabbed a can of beer from the minibar and settled down on the bed, excited like a child finally in possession of a much-longed-for toy. Studying the photographs, she started taking notes in her black notebook as to what she would be asking Gertrúd in their next meeting. One of the photographs was particularly interesting for Rüya in that she had been taken aback by the inscription on its back. It showed three men standing arm in arm. One of them was Rudi. Next to him stood a young man dressed like an English lord, whom Rüya recognised to be Lajos, for she had already seen him in a few photographs taken at Mami and Rudi's engagement party. The third man standing on Rudi's left was not someone she knew. On the back was written, "August 2, 1933, Gödöllő," with a note right above it, saying, "Brothers."

"Did Rudi have brothers?" Rüya had asked Gertrúd, in surprise.

She pressed the start button of her tiny tape recorder. Gertrúd's weak voice echoed in the hotel room.

"No, he didn't have any brothers. My grandfather Vilmos used to talk about another kind of brotherhood. These two had been very close friends of Monsieur Rudolf Tákacs since school days. It was taken in 1933 during the World Scout Jamboree held at Gödöllő. All three of them had been boy scouts. They visited Monsieur Rudolf Tákacs quite often, especially during the war. The one on the right is Konrád. And the other one, if I remember correctly, is Lajos."

Rüya stopped the tape and threw herself back on the pillows. She lay there with her eyes fixed on the ceiling. A sweet thrill of excitement ran through her, raising her spirits. Gertrúd had said that she would try and find more information on Konrád.

Taking control of your fate. Frightening. It does, however, impart an irresistible sense of freedom.

" _Some of the embassies in Budapest need help. We expect all members of the group, some of whom are our Freemason brothers, to use all the facilities in their power to fight against the Nazis."_

This is not my sister's voice!

Rüya opened her eyes. She must have dozed off. Closing her notebook lying on her chest, she looked at the clock. It was eight o'clock. Opera! She was late for the opera. She jumped out of bed. Please, for once in your life, don't be late, Rüya! For once in your life! Can you do that?

A monstrous headache started as she changed her clothes in a panic.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Four  
1942 - 1943

12

A month earlier, in July, they had started to transfer the Jews in the forced labour battalions, irrespective of their age, to the Eastern Front near the River Don. Yesterday János and his father had also received their "invitations" and were asked to report to the authorities no later than within three days. Károly had come to János's shop on Király Street to talk to him one last time before he left for the front. It was slowly dawning upon Károly that he was fighting a losing battle against János, for he insisted that he should fight for his country no matter what the circumstances were, categorically refusing Rudi's help. Károly watched him take handfuls of nails from the bags on the floor, refill the boxes on the counter and put them back in their places on the shelves behind him.

"You might not give a hoot about your own safety, but you do have to think about your father, Jancsi. Let Rudi help you."

"For crying out loud, Károly! I don't trust that despicable rat of a convert." János dropped the box of nails he was holding. The nails scattered in all directions on the counter.

"What makes you say that, for Heaven's sake? Once a Jew, always a Jew. Isn't it what they say? He might have converted, but Rudi is still a Jew – only with better connections than the rest of you." He held János's tensed-up hand and helped him to pick up the scattered nails. "He says that Gábor's father would take care of everything in no time. Don't forget that once you report for duty, there is no return. If you change your mind later on, you'll be classified as a deserter, and we all know what that entails. Rudi knows the law like the back of his hand. He says that the penalty for not answering your draft papers would be much lighter. At least, it might not be death. Besides, you might never get caught." He pushed back the hair falling over his forehead in frustration. "It is of course a mystery how all these rules would apply to the Jews, but ..."

"I will serve my country if I'm asked to do so," cut in János, his black eyes shining with fervour. "I shall not desert my country. I'm not a coward. I will fight for Hungary."

"Yours is nothing but a foolish pride. There are many ways you can serve your country other than getting yourself killed. You act as if you didn't know who your enemy is, Jancsi, your real enemy. It's not the Soviet Union. The Soviets are to be our saviour. You should know this better than any of us. Can't you see that if you stay in Budapest, you'll be much more useful to our cause? It would be far better both for you and for our country if you didn't go. The resistance needs you. I truly don't understand why you insist on leaving."

"You're all cowards!"

"How do you judge bravery, if I may ask? Do you call sacrificing yourself like a fool, bravery?" He realised that he had said something wrong, but it was too late to take it back. He was surprised at János's calm and dispirited reply, for he was expecting him to explode with fury.

"You're right. I will be sacrificing myself like a fool, but what else can I do? What can any of us do? We can't collaborate with the traitors like some of us do, can we?"

"What the hell are you saying? If you mean Rudi, all he's trying to do is to help you. What you say is a very grave accusation, Jancsi. We might think of him as acting somewhat cowardly, but we can't say that he's totally wrong in acting the way he does. It may be that he's being very wise indeed. He's done nothing wrong except for being rather resourceful. Think, my friend, and think well. You're too precious for me, for all of us, and we don't want to lose you. You need not be unnecessarily heroic."

"I'm not so desperate as to ask Rudi for help," snapped János before turning around and disappearing through the door into the little area in the back they used as a depot.

What on earth is happening to my friends, thought Károly? He could no longer recognise them, neither János nor Rudi. The clever, smart, intelligent János. How could he be so blind, so unreasonable, so unnecessarily brave? Rudi was right. This was an ignorantly foolish act of heroism. In fact, it was not even heroism; he was simply being foolish. Could it be his eternal competition with Rudi that pushed him to refuse his help so obstinately? He was being a child. It seemed as though he was throwing himself into danger just to do something Rudi could not do and thus accentuate Rudi's cowardice.

János returned with two crates.

"I want you to think about it one last time, my friend. Rudi expects an answer from you no later than tomorrow morning."

With those final words, Károly went out of the shop onto Király Street, which was sizzling under the August sun. He had an interview at one o'clock for a position at Tungsram. Rudi had told him that they needed a technician at the office who would be responsible for the bureau equipment and asked him if he would be interested in such a job, although it was far below his credentials as an engineer. He hated to work at a desk in an office but was sick and tired of being unemployed and penniless. He was going to accept the offer whatever it was. He marched to the tram stop with grim determination.

13

Károly could not stop the shaking of his hand that held the letter from Alex. He was angry, frustrated beyond description. They were everywhere. When will this monstrosity end? What was happening to humankind?

"Is something wrong, Károly? Bad news, is it?"

"I don't know. I no longer know." He handed the letter over to his wife. "I'm afraid I'll soon lose my faith in the human race."

In her letter, Alex said how distraught her friend Anastasia was. In November a certain capital tax law had been passed that was binding on all Turkish citizens, although rumour had it that much higher tariffs were being imposed on the non-Muslim minority. "Anastasia and her brother Hristo sold their flat and their shop in Beyoğlu for an amount much less than their worth," Alex had written, "and this morning, they fulfilled their obligations as loyal citizens. Both Anastasia and Hristo are in a worryingly strange mood. They are heartbroken and offended. 'We feel betrayed,' they keep saying."

"It's the first time I've seen Alex so interested in what's going on in Turkey," said Ada, who had finished reading the letter. "She must have had Aziz write all this."

Károly stormed out onto the veranda despite the freezing cold. "What's happening to the world?" he thought, his heart sinking. Everything was turning upside down. Everything seemed to be falling to pieces. They had not heard a word from János since he had left for the front in August. It had been six months, and they did not even know if he was alive. He looked up at the sky lit with the stars. He found the North Star and then moved his gaze northeast. János was somewhere there, maybe a little bit more to the north, thousands of kilometres away. He could not even imagine how cold it might be there. He wondered, full of trepidation, what he might be doing at this very moment. Was he still alive? Of course, he was. He could not bear to think otherwise. How could he have let him go? Why had he listened to his foolish objections? He ought to have prevented him from leaving, even if it meant chaining him up. He could have prevented him. He had not been insistent enough. He would never, ever, forgive himself.

"You'll catch your death, Károly. Come inside."

He put his arm around Ada's shoulders. "Has anyone arrived yet?"

"Yes, they're all downstairs. We're waiting for László and Anna."

"Why don't you go to bed? It's getting really late. You should have some rest."

"I don't think _this_ has any complaints," Ada said, stroking her belly, which had grown a lot lately.

They went down to the basement. Since János's departure, they had been holding the resistance meetings in the basement of their house in Rózsadomb. Gizella, who had initially objected to the idea, saying that she would never allow such a thing in her house, had eventually realised the futility of her protests when she found her son to be much more rebellious than before. Consequently, each night, she silently withdrew to her bedchamber and pretended not to know anything of these clandestine late-night meetings.

Head butler Álmos had disappeared from sight after having prepared some food and drinks on the kitchen table for the guests, although he knew that Madame Gizella de Kurzón categorically disapproved of their presence. A few minutes later they saw László and Anna through the glass of the basement door giving on to the back garden.

It was three in the morning when their meeting was over. Károly needed to prepare two rubber stamps he would be using to forge false documents for the Jews. Greatly motivated by the satisfaction of finally using his creativity and artistic talent for such a noble purpose, he went into the pantry in the back of the kitchen and locked its door. Seating himself at the table behind the line of jars of pickled vegetables, he embarked upon his task. Every letter he engraved, every number he shaped was like a declaration of independence in the name of humanity. There were times when they were lucky enough to purchase the necessary identification papers through Rudi's connections, albeit rarely since it was not always easy to find someone whose age, physical attributes and profession would match the person in need of such documents. The Christian citizen who sold his "identification set" consisting of his identification card, marriage certificate and the identification cards of his parents earned one thousand pengős for being a Good Samaritan. All he would have to do afterwards was to go to the police and apply for a new set of identity papers, claiming that he had lost them. People were, nevertheless, scared to sell their documents, and in many cases Károly had to take over the task of forging them. He had started with the identification cards and eventually expanded his repertoire to include labour permits, death certificates and military papers. He had once even forged a residence permit. A friend of his working at the police gave him the empty forms used to file an application for a change of address, all duly signed and stamped. Some documents required photographs and that was Ada's job. Károly's work had eventually become more convincing. The rubber stamps were almost as good as the originals. Recently he had been working on the certificate of membership in the Order of Heroes. Rudi had had one made for his father, and Károly had been studying it very carefully as he intended to forge one for Ada's father. The Order of Heroes was an anti-communist organisation created by Horthy to honour those right-wingers who had helped him into power, and Jews were strictly excluded from this lodge. In one respect, they identified themselves with the knightly order of the Middle Ages. There were not many forged membership certificates yet, and, therefore, they were highly valuable.

When he was finished, dawn was breaking. He was not sleepy at all, a host of thoughts preying on his mind. He hid the rubber stamps in the secret section behind the wine cellar, next to the other rubber stamps and the false documents they would be distributing tomorrow. He went upstairs to the entrance hall and then walked up to the next floor to his bedroom. Quietly entering the room and kissing his wife and daughter, who were sound asleep, he tiptoed to the room that once belonged to Alex and sat at the writing desk.

Budapest, 18th February 1943

My dear friend Aziz,

I've received Alex's most unsettling letter today. I do hope that your beautiful country has not already been plagued with the monstrous epidemic, which has taken the whole continent in its tormenting grip. I haven't yet had the honour of meeting them, but do please convey my deepest sympathies to Anastasia and her brother.

I'm afraid that I won't be able to give you any good news in this letter either. We haven't heard from János since he left for the front. We're extremely worried and practically living by the radio, listening to the broadcasts of the BBC several times a day. Since Christmas, the news from the Eastern Front has been really alarming. It is common knowledge that the rifles supplied by the Germans are leftovers from the Great War, becoming useless in sub-zero temperatures, that the low-quality gasoline freezes, that the trucks carrying supplies are stuck in snow and mud and that soldiers are dying of hunger. As you probably know, upon the Soviet counter-offensive about a month ago, the German divisions started to withdraw without informing the Hungarian troops at the front. It is rumoured that our soldiers are fleeing westwards from the shores of the River Don in a fatally chaotic retreat. We keep our hopes up, praying that Jancsi will be able to make it back.

I totally agree with your comments on Kállay. He doesn't fancy either the Nazis or the communists. His objective is to pull our country out of this war by breaking away from the Germans without letting the Russians devour us. He keeps stressing the point that Hungary is exclusively fighting against the Bolsheviks and not against the Allies. Of course, the game he is playing is most dangerous, a bit like our folkdance, the Kállay Double. Two steps to the right, two steps to the left and a lot of turning and twisting around in-between might exhaust the patience of that maniac, Hitler. It certainly is difficult to steer the country between the Nazis and the communists, but I do hope his dance won't make Hitler's blood boil.

The only piece of good news amidst all these horrendous developments is that, thanks to Kállay's negotiations, the British and the American armadas crossing Hungarian airspace have not, so far, dropped a single bomb on our soil. We're truly lucky for the extraordinary privilege of having the stale breath of war kept a distance away from us.

You ask me if I'm happy at my new job. Let's say I am, although I find being a technician responsible for the bureau equipment rather unsuitable for me both professionally as an engineer and emotionally as an artist. The heart of the matter is, however, to earn a living, and that is what I've been doing these last six months. I believe that, as a father and a husband, this is what should be foremost on my mind. I really don't know how we dared to attempt bringing another child into this world in the midst of this terrible war, as if one weren't enough to put a grave responsibility on our shoulders. You might find it hard to believe, but Ada's instinctive urges have left no reason or rhyme in her. She insisted, and we all know that if she decides to do something, no one can change her mind.

I spend all my out-of-office hours (and even some of my time in the office) organising the activities Jancsi entrusted me with. We often meet with his young friends and search for a cure to the plague.

How are things in Turkey? How is business? Is your family well? I do wait for your letter with much anticipation. Please do give my kindest regards to your mother and sisters, and my most sincere wishes to Haldun.

Always your friend,

Károly

14

" _Boldog névnapot kívánok_. Happy name day, Rudi."

Károly and Rudi were sipping their soup in Tungsram's cafeteria. Rudi had been talking about how dire the situation was, his panic-stricken eyes carrying an agitated expression Károly had never seen before. Was there a faintly visible flame reminiscent of the audaciously daring old Rudi hidden somewhere behind that look?

"The intelligence gathered by our resistance group is most alarming, Károly. We know that Hitler has finally lost his patience and ordered Horthy to get rid of the Jews immediately, either through extermination or through deportation to concentration camps. He's not happy with the way Hungary has been handling the Jewish Question. He has increased his pressure for the immediate implementation of a plan that foresees the resettlement of hundreds of thousands of Jews living outside of Budapest, a plan he offers as the Final Solution to the Jewish Question. We're next in line. We're already right in the middle of it, actually. And none of us is doing anything about it."

"Kállay will continue to resist. It's his best suit: delay, play the idiot, procrastinate and never get involved in conflict."

"He seems to be ignoring one minor detail, however: Hitler is a maniac," Rudi went on, holding his half-filled spoon in mid-air. He seemed completely cut off from the food in front of him. "Sometimes you wish you knew none of this. You know it, but you also know that what you're doing is insufficient. You feel completely useless, nothing more than a drop in the ocean. I must do more, you say to yourself. Do you sometimes feel your palms itching?"

And how, thought Károly. When you try to extinguish that fire burning inside you, it erupts from your palms. A point comes when, no longer able to control it, you plunge forward, burning everything around you.

"I just choke sitting in an office in front of a desk, doing nothing other than giving financial support to the resistance or making available some of the documents in the files of my 'mercenary' every now and then to be used in forging identification cards. I'm going to explode, Károly." He suddenly fell silent and took a spoonful of his soup.

"Why don't you do more, Rudi?"

"I want to do more, but when I think of the people and the things I would be risking, I change my mind. Sometimes, risking your life seems to be a selfish act. You have the responsibility not to die, I say to myself. You can't abandon the people who love you, who wait for you, who depend on you. You must be patient. You must suppress your urges. Your responsibility is to stay alive, my inner voice keeps repeating."

Károly, as he often did lately, looked around him to check if there was anyone listening before lowering his voice. "I don't know what you're doing in your organisation, but if you feel that you're not doing enough, you can always join us. We do need your knowledge, courage and intelligence, you know."

Rudi remained silent, engrossed in his soup. "How is Ada?" he finally asked. "When will the baby be coming?"

"End of June."

What a great disappointment Rudi was. The lion-hearted Rudi. He could no longer recognise his friend. He could not get himself used to the idea of seeing him so scared of death. He could not tolerate the notion of him being so daunted. He wanted him to show his courage. He wanted to believe that he was brave, that he had not surrendered his soul to the fascists, that he had not bowed to them, that he spoke out for his rights and that he put his hand in the fire to protect other people's rights. That was what suited him. He looked for a sign of that fiery audacity, that blazing courage in Rudi's eyes. To his dismay, they revealed nothing.

"What about Sándor? Have you talked to him? Will he listen to reason?" Rudi asked. "Will he be moving back to Budapest?"

"Yes, yes he will be. He's finally convinced that it would be wiser to close down Erzsébet Manor, at least until the war is over. He'll presently be returning to Rózsadomb."

Károly stared straight into Rudi's eyes and, to his great satisfaction, unexpectedly noticed that what he saw there was not cowardice. What his old friend wanted to veil behind that frosty blue gaze was not his lack of courage but a smouldering frustration – at least that was what Károly hoped for.

"Whatever you do, Rudi, please don't give up on your urge to win," he said. "You can't afford to lose your freedom." He paused and then reiterated. "We can't afford to lose our freedom. Whatever the cost." Then, as if he wanted to lighten the conversation, he leaned back on his chair and, with a forced smile, said, "This is the most difficult match to win, old chap."

15

On a depressing Saturday morning in October, they heard a frantic knocking on the main door of their house in Rózsadomb. It was one of János's cousins. The instant Károly saw him, his pessimism – aggravated to a level of fatalism by the lack of news from János ever since his departure for the front – led him to believe that the bad news he had been dreading had finally arrived.

In May the Second Army, or whatever had remained of it, struggling on a deadly retreat from the Eastern Front, had been allowed to return to Hungary. Hitler had agreed to their return, saying, "They are nothing but a bunch of demoralised and angry men, uncooperative and mutinous vandals." All summer long, they had waited for János's return, but neither János nor any news of him had reached them. They were about to lose all hope.

"Jancsi is back," the young boy was shouting.

Did he hear right? Was he saying Jancsi is dead? No! No, he was saying, Jancsi is back. He was back. "Jancsi is back, Jancsi is back," the young boy kept repeating. Then he jumped on his bicycle and pedalled away to spread the good news to other friends and relatives.

Ada had come over to the door with their four-month-old daughter Dóra in her arms, and was standing next to Károly. They looked at each other in surprise, completely lost for words at the impossibility of this piece of excellent news, and then broke into a torrent of laughter in each other's arms. Dóra, squeezed in between them, let out a cry. As Ada rushed back into the house to announce the return of their friend, Károly was already busy, impatiently unchaining their bicycles.

Fifteen minutes later they were knocking at the door of János's flat on Király Street. He was in an appalling condition, totally unrecognisable. His thin face was nothing but skin and bones. He must have had a bath and was wearing clean pyjamas, sleeping like a baby between pristinely clean snow-white sheets, but it was not too difficult to guess what he must have looked like a couple of hours ago. The hardened skin on his hands, the peeled skin of his ears and the grime and dirt that had penetrated into his nails (which even his mother had failed to clean) explained a lot. His ribs, visible through the cloth, revealed how much weight he had lost. Károly and Ada, along with Margit, waited at his side all day. János did not open his eyes, not even once.

Early next morning, they went to see their friend again. Margit was saying that she had waited all night for him to wake up, but he had slept through the night. In the following hours, János slightly opened his eyes several times and, too tired to even move his head, shifted his weary pupils towards his friends, smiled bitterly and fell asleep again.

Károly took the day off on Monday and waited from dawn to dusk for the brief moments when János would open his eyes. Later that night, they heard him mumble something under his breath. "Serving your country," he vaguely whispered, his tired eyes fixed on Károly, his lips attempting a sardonic smile. "You were right, my friend. To be sent to the front without a gun ... carry a badge on your arm instead of a rifle ... be classified as a Jew ..." His anger, unable to manifest itself in his lifeless eyes, found expression in his nostrils tightening and widening as he breathed heavily, in silent fury. "Digging trenches without a rifle to protect yourself ... it is nothing but suicide. Unbearable." He fell silent. He was exhausted. "We didn't even have uniforms. What were we? We were nothing more than beasts of burden."

"Don't exhaust yourself, Jancsi. You need to have some rest."

On Tuesday towards noontime, he finally seemed to have gathered some strength and managed to sip at the chicken broth with noodles his mother had prepared for him. He chewed almost every single noodle as if he wished each spoonful to last forever. He was dead tired when he eventually finished it but nevertheless continued to tell the rest of his story in broken sentences, stumbling over most of his words and sometimes stammering with the agony of his painful experience.

The previous August, after being drafted into one of the labour battalions of the hastily improvised Second Army, he had set off for the Eastern Front in a jam-packed freight train. They were detrained at the border and were made to walk the rest of the way – one thousand two hundred kilometres to the frontline along the River Don north of Stalingrad. "To the east of Kiev," he continued, as if talking in his sleep, "the land seemed endless, evoking an intense sense of loneliness, an infinitely deep feeling of isolation that consumes you and drains all your strength. You realise how lonely, how vulnerable you are, despite the mass of people around you. It dawns on you that you're not fighting for your country. 'What am I doing out here?' you keep asking yourself. 'What on earth am I doing here?' The merciless truth hits you in the face: you're not there to protect your country." Still under the agonising burden of those days, he went on explaining what they had to do once they were on the frontline. "You don't tire of working without a rest to the point of exhaustion, until you can't even move your finger. You don't mind digging trenches and tank traps in thigh-high mud, chopping trees and carrying logs on your back like an animal. I'm doing all this for my country, you keep reminding yourself. You try to believe that. You try to convince yourself so that you can put up with it all, so that you can survive it all ... but ... but you can't survive the emotional burden of Hungarian officers sending you forward at gunpoint onto the mine fields ... like guinea pigs. You hear people, your compatriots, the people you fight alongside to protect your country – the same country – taking bets on how many of you will step on a mine and be killed. The pain it inflicts on you is intolerable, the pain of your honour – your honour as a human being – being trampled on like that makes you forget about your fear of death. Eventually, a moment comes when you wish you were dead. Death seems the easiest solution to all your suffering." He spoke in a voice void of all emotion, as though he were talking about a nightmare he had just woken up from. He recounted how they had been tied to trees and beaten with shovels for trivial reasons or for no reason at all. Neither allowed to receive any parcels from home nor issued any uniforms, knapsacks or personal gear, they were forced to wear what they had on since the very beginning of their treacherous mission. Their clothes had soon turned into tattered rags, their boots had started having holes, and lice, settling in the seams of their clothes, had become an integral part of their lives. "There comes a point when you lose your faith in human beings. You try to understand the reasons that would justify such acts, acts trampling over human dignity and driving human beings into misery. When you fail to find any explanation, you start thinking that what you're experiencing is not real, and thus you try not to lose your belief in life. You try to convince yourself that the justification for all this misery must be hidden in another realm, a realm that is above the reality you have known so far. You close your consciousness to the reality you're in, whereupon a brand new realm opens in front of you. Then they say, 'He lost his sanity.'"

He closed his eyes. He had fallen asleep.

A few hours later he woke up again and, despite his weakness, continued, "When winter set in, the cold was so intense that we could hardly move, all wrapped up in blankets. At night, the sky was so clear that we could read by the full moon. They said it was thirty-seven degrees Centigrade below zero." His eyes were fixed on Károly's. "The cold has a bizarre silence, you know. It's crisp, vivid but fatally silent. You just wait. You wait to die. You yearn for death. Death is your deliverance. You look forward to the day you will die."

He took one the biscuits his mother had dipped into warm milk. He slowly placed it into his mouth and held it there without chewing. His eyes were closed. Had he fallen asleep again? He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily from his nose. He started sucking on the biscuit, which lasted for minutes. At long last, he opened his eyes again.

"Finally in mid-January, we learned that our headquarters had packed up everything and left. We were retreating. Three days earlier, the Soviets had crossed the River Don in a counter-offensive against the Germans. The war was over. We were going back. We were going back home. We didn't care if we'd lost. We were alive. We had survived. A fatally chaotic retreat commenced, a retreat that lasted for months."

Károly dared not ask what happened to his father.

"My father," János said, without any prompting, "after having survived all that misery and suffering, died of dysentery in a quarantine camp in Ukraine." His voice was devoid of any emotion, his eyes blank. He carried on, with the same frozen expression on his face, to recount how his cousin Dávid had passed out as they amputated his gangrenous leg and then had died of haemorrhage. The bitter cold of the front seemed to have frozen his senses, and his soul had taken a gangrenous turn. Tears, pouring out of his lifeless eyes, were gliding over his face and wetting the pillow, tears he did not notice he was shedding, for they were the outpourings of his tormented soul.

Afraid to hurt him, Károly gently held his emaciated hand. Jancsi had survived, he said to himself. His most valued friend was alive. He would never let him put his life in danger again. Never!

16

Károly left the Swedish Legation building where he had started work three days earlier. Endré, an old colleague of his from Tungsram, had found him this job, a job that offered not only a much higher salary but also a rather more interesting working environment. Walking down the deserted road meandering between the elegant mansions scattered among the green parks on Gellért Hill, he was wrapped in dismal thoughts as darkness fell.

It was not even December yet, but winter had already settled in, a winter that seemed much drearier than usual with all the power cuts, blackouts, the unbearable cold and an unprecedented shortage of food. A diluted soup, a dish of vegetables and a loaf of stale brown bread were all people could put on their tables after waiting for hours in long queues in front of bakeries and grocery stores where they could find nothing more than some bread, beans, corn, dried peas or potatoes, all of which – like almost everything else – were rationed. Jews in particular had great difficulty in finding something to eat. A big Z adorned their ration cards signifying that they were _Zsidó_ – Jewish – and therefore entitled to buy less food than the rest of the population. Sometimes the shop owners, upon seeing the letter Z, handed back the ration card saying that they had no more food left in their shop. Károly was now forging ration cards as well, a very simple task but one that proved to be an extremely fulfilling and rewarding experience.

He arrived at the tram stop in front of the Gellért Hotel on the embankment and started waiting for tram number two going to the Pest side, where he would be meeting Rudi before calling on János. It had been more than a month since János had returned from the front, and, although still very thin, he was getting better by the day. His soul seemed to have recovered from its gangrene, and now it was almost ready to send out a spark that would rekindle his smouldering energy. Today he was supposed to be back at their ironmonger's shop, which his mother had managed to keep going during his absence. It should not be too long now before he was back in the resistance.

The tram arrived. It was half empty. There were several women standing in the open section at the back, carrying young children. They were obviously freezing but, being Jewish, were not allowed to sit inside. Actually, it was not any warmer inside, for they no longer had any heating in the tramcars. Even the bell of the conductor had long been silenced. Sullen-faced travellers, wrapped up in layers of clothing, grumbled as they blew into their hands for some warmth.

Rudi was already waiting for him at the Centrál Kávéház when he arrived. They had not seen each other for quite some time now, except for one brief encounter at János's house three weeks ago. During Károly's final weeks at Tungsram, Rudi had been too busy attending meetings outside the office and, in the evenings, had been avoiding Károly, claiming that he had prior engagements. He seemed to be full of energy now and much more animated than of late. Károly was happy to see that he was finally over his lethargic frame of mind.

"They do wear you out, old fellow. You've lost rather a lot of weight."

Rudi's cheeks were sunken, accentuating his cheekbones and somehow further harshening his expression. He obviously spent each night in different company.

"I prefer to be worn out."

"That's my man!"

"You've deserted us, Károly. Are you happy with your new job?"

"We used to freeze at Tungsram, as you know. Now at the legation we at least have some heating in the building."

"What was it you were doing there?"

How many times did he have to repeat it? "I'm responsible for the bureau equipment, a technician, as they call it." He shot a hurried look around him, something that had recently become an instinctive gesture with him, before he continued below his breath. "Whatever it is, working at a legation is surely most useful for my 'drawing' tasks."

"How is Jancsi, by the way?"

"His condition has improved a lot in these last few weeks. He's supposed to be at his shop today, and I'm sure that he'll be back with us at the resistance in no time."

"Watch out for him, Károly. This time, if I may say so, it was a very narrow call. We have difficult days ahead. They say that the Germans are pouring money into the coffers of the Arrow Cross. They're expected to turn Budapest into a Nazi encampment very soon. János's passion is an uncontrollably wild fire that might burn him down. You must keep an eye on him. And if I were you, I wouldn't listen to him and just get a set of false papers ready for him. By the way, you should also prepare a set for everyone in Ada's family."

"Don't you worry, Rudi."

Being responsible for János weighed heavily on Károly's shoulders, much more heavily than the burden of taking care of Ada's family did. Carrying the responsibility of a life, for which he could not define the rules, gave him the sensation of walking blindfolded on the edge of a cliff while trying to protect his loved ones from falling off.

"And you, Rudi? What are you up to these days?"

"As I've already told you, we're trying to do our best."

"Are you still determined not to join us? We're not worthy of your trust, I presume."

"It's not a matter of trust. All that ..."

"Another beer?" asked Károly, cutting him short. Why was he insisting? He would not be able to find the brave Rudi that he was looking for. His was a futile effort that would serve no purpose other than making Rudi face his helplessness and, although it gave him great pain to admit this, his cowardice. He had better leave him alone. If he wished to be invisible, he should do just that, womanising, going to the office just for appearance' sake and helping the resistance – most likely an invented story to show that he was not a coward. I ought not to try and mould everyone according to my preferences in life, he thought. Everybody has the right to make his own choices, and that is what Rudi chooses to do, that is what he thinks is the right course of action to take. He is an old friend and will remain so no matter what happens. I have to respect his choices in life. Otherwise, would I not be acting exactly like my mother?

They each ordered another beer.

"Let's talk about more cheerful things, shall we?" said Rudi. "Why don't we go to dinner _en garçon_ tomorrow evening? I'll talk to Józsi and to some other friends as well. Do please tell Sanyi and do please insist that he comes. After dinner, we ought to have a night on the town, push the boat out for a change." He tried to hide the naughty smile on his lips, like a small boy getting ready for some mischief. "I mean a strictly bacchanalian fling, of course. Nothing more. I promise. I do have deep respect for my married friends. You will come, won't you?"

He had to go. It was Rudi's birthday tomorrow.
February 2009  
Budapest

As her soul contracted under the oppressive hollowness inside her, Rüya willingly surrendered to the sweet tones of the violins and the caressing silky voice of the soprano:

" _Arde a Tosca nel sangue folle amor!"_

Tosca's blood is impassioned with love!

She felt her heart pound to the rhythm of the soaring passion Puccini expressed in his music. "Passion," she thought, "has hopelessness in its nature. Otherwise, it becomes calculated expectation." She touched the empty seat next to her, stroking its soft red velvet. It was probably the only empty seat in the whole auditorium, the seat next to Rüya, the symbol of the emptiness in her heart, crying out her loneliness for the whole world to hear. Just like her long black dress. She was very elegant tonight, but for whom and for what purpose? To attract the attention of everyone present and publicise her solitude? Was there anything more pathetic than a lonely young woman who is impeccably well-dressed?

" _Certa sono del perdono_

Se tu guardi al mio dolor!"

I'm sure that you would forgive me

If you understood my pain!

At the end of the first act, the voice of Attila Ferenc, the tenor, rather unexpectedly strong for a man of such a small frame, was still in Rüya's ears. She wanted to close her mind to all other sounds and mute the perturbing voice of her thoughts. She was worn out, floundering in the stormy waves of her state of mind, which had changed so many times since this morning. She threw her head back. Gazing at the angels, gods and goddesses surrounding the ceiling illuminated by the huge glittering chandelier made her head spin. "How did they paint these ceilings?" she wondered. The boxes around her, the heavy red velvet curtain veiling the stage from curious eyes, the golden embellishments all over the place ... Her vision went dark and stars appeared twinkling in front of her open eyes. She lowered her head, took several deep breaths and waited for her head to stop spinning before she stood up. She needed some fresh air. She went out to the foyer and then hurried out onto the terrace, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders against the freezing air. Scrambling to a corner away from the merry crowd, she leaned on the stone railings. Andrássy Boulevard was alive with people trying to make it home before the night became unbearably cold. She heard the cheerful laughs of a couple throwing snowballs at each other. A snowball hit one of the statues by the door of number twenty-three across the road, and showered down like icing sugar. Suddenly the snow melted, and Rüya saw Alex on a very hot August night, shrunk with apprehension in front of the imposing door, hopelessly ringing the bell and then hesitantly entering the building. Rudi's car was parked on the side street. She thought she saw a shadow at one of the windows on the second floor. At that instant, tears gushed out of her eyes. She wept silently, unable to control the tears coursing down her cheeks. She did not want to control them anyway. She wanted to cry, cry to her heart's content ... without a sound ... without a sob ...

" _The dice game of existence!" she says. I can't see who she is. It's pitch dark. I can't see anything._

" _Who are you? What do you mean?" I wish to ask, but I don't have the courage._

" _All that is happening now has happened before and will happen in the future," she says. "Humanity chooses to repeat everything it does again and again till eternity."_

" _No! It shouldn't be so!" My eyes search for my sister._

" _The past ought not to repeat itself," I hear her say._

Another voice, much subdued, reaches my ears. "In their last message, the Allied Headquarters in Bari requested the rescued Allied prisoners of war to be delivered to the Tito partisans on the southern border along with the monthly intelligence reports. The delivered 'cargo' would then be carried to Bari on the Allied planes that brought supplies to the partisans."

What is this voice doing in my dream? Or is this not a dream?

Gertrúd's voice kept ringing in her ears. Suddenly she remembered a detail she had come across in one of Mami's diaries, which she had then used in her book, a detail about an incident in late 1943 – in November 1943, to be exact. Some of the details she had initially taken to be trivial had been gaining significance lately.

Aziz and İskender were sitting comfortably in the leather armchairs in front of the window, smoking their cigars, which they said was their greatest luxury in wartime, and, as far as Alex could tell from the tone of their voices, were talking about serious things.

" _Photographer was in Istanbul again to call on the Special Operations' liaison office as a representative of the Hungarian Front," İskender was saying._

Nili and Lila, exulted by their mother's joy, dashed delightedly into the room, following Alex.

" _They secured a promise from the British to help organise the resistance against a possible German occupation," İskender carried on. "It's been said that they want to hand their country over to the British and to the Americans before the communists take over. Kállay is playing an undoubtedly dangerous game that might presently provoke Hitler."_

" _Daddy! Daddy! Jancsi is back!" screamed Nili and Lila, announcing János's safe return from the front, happy at this great piece of news for someone whom their mother said, "He's like an uncle to you."_

" _Aziz! Jancsi is back! He's back safe and sound."_

Rüya suddenly realised that the terrace had emptied. The second act must be about to start, but she had no desire to watch the rest of it. A story ending prematurely, just like her relationship with Paul, ending before it even began. She stared blankly at the little holes on the snow covering the railings where her warm tears had been falling. She had had enough of it all. She was fed up with everything and everyone and, more than anybody else, with herself. She wanted to leave everything. She wanted to run away from everyone. Her whole existence seemed to have slowed down to a dead halt. Her strength had diminished to such a level that she felt she was no longer able to carry even the weight of her body. What if I just surrendered to the comforting pull of gravity? She leaned over the railings. The weight of her head could easily pull her whole body down. She could just go. Leave. Free herself of all pain. Liberation. It was not worth waiting for the unhappy ending of her life. What if she just gave up ... gave up on everything ... gave in? What if she just left?
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Four  
1944

17

Four months later, on a cold Sunday morning in March, telephones were ringing all over Budapest, and bad news was spreading around the capital like a dark fog. March 19, 1944 was the day when everything changed in Hungary, a turning point announcing the imminent arrival of the fetid breath of bloodshed in a country not yet fallen completely into the monstrous clutches of a war that had been devastating the world for the last four and a half years. Hitler, uncomfortable with so many Jews living safely in a country so close to Vienna despite all the anti-Jewish laws, and suspicious of a possible declaration of neutrality by Hungary, had launched Operation Margarethe, to occupy Budapest before the arrival of the approaching Red Army. He seemed determined to make Budapest his headquarters.

The people of Budapest apprehensively listened to their radio sets broadcasting the details of the German tanks invading their city without firing a single shot, and the Gestapo taking up positions all over the capital while they watched the sky darkening with German planes. Unsure of what exactly was going on, they were lost as to what to do or rather what not to do. How were their lives going to change? Would they be closing down their offices? Would there be a curfew? The questions that intrigued the minds of the Jewish people, however, were somewhat different. Where can we hide? How safe are we in our homes? How can we escape if need be? Where can we hide our valuables? Utterly confused and panic-stricken, they waited in trepidation while a few others, ignoring the gravity of the situation or trying to convince themselves that it was less tragic than it actually was, carried on with their daily routines and went to work, to the tennis club or to tea parties.

Upon hearing the news of the occupation, Károly reacted neither in trepidation, panic, nor in confusion. With unbridled fury, he threw the glass of cranberry juice in his hand against the dining room wall. "Now it's really all over. We're finished!" he shouted with all his might, his voice mingling with the sound of the glass shattering against the wall and its broken pieces scattering on the floor. The Nazi occupation meant the end of everything, the end of his dreams for his country, the end of his wife, the end of his friends. "I failed to protect them," he thought in fury. "All of them. Just as I failed to protect my sisters once. All my efforts have gone down the drain. I haven't done enough. This is a defeat of the most shameful kind." He was furious, furious at his own failure more than at anything else.

Telephones kept on ringing all day and the day after. People called each other to ask for help and for information about their relatives and friends who did not come home last night. Many people had gone missing. In the afternoon, news spread that they had taken some Jewish people to the Dohány Street Synagogue, where they had been locked up for the night.

Unable to get a wink of sleep throughout the night, Károly continuously fanned the fire of his fury, sensing that had it waned, it might readily transform itself into a fatalistic sense of powerlessness. Finally, feeling bottled up within the four walls of the house, he flung himself out and roamed the streets, neither knowing nor caring where he went. Every street he turned into, each square he walked through was full of Nazis. As he witnessed these murderers raping his precious Budapest, his fury gradually surrendered to an irresistibly violent rage. You can't let these slaughterers seal the fate of your country, his inner voice shouted. You can't just give up. This is not the end. The real war is starting now. A much more arduous task was lying in wait for them. They would not yield. They would not give in to fascism. They had to continue resisting at all costs.

He set off towards János's house with determination in his steps.

18

At the end of the fifth day of the Nazi occupation, they were gathered at Rudi's flat on Andrássy Boulevard and, like many a Hungarian who had lost hope in their pro-German government, were sitting by the radio set, listening to the speech of the president of the United States of America.

As soon as Roosevelt concluded his speech, János, his face contorted with anger, stopped pacing up and down the drawing room, marched towards the radio set and turned it off brusquely. "You keep on talking," he roared, wagging the empty coffee cup in his hand towards the radio set. "After all these years, you still don't want to understand that this is not the way to stop the Nazis. It's too late now. Far too late! That swine, that murderer Eichmann has been here for only a couple of days but has lost no time in detonating the system the fascists set up years ago."

Károly's withered spirits revived a little and he felt reassuringly relieved as he watched János regain his long-lost angry energy and start to come to grips with life.

The German forces had occupied the whole country. They had seized all the strategic positions including the police headquarters in Budapest, and had placed their sentries on guard outside the Palace gates. Prime Minister Kállay had been removed from office and had taken refuge in the Turkish Embassy. The Hotel Astoria had been turned into the headquarters of the SS, with its beautiful Art Nouveau façade choking behind the swastika banners and the Arrow Cross flags draped across it from the roof down to the street. With its windows covered with blackout curtains, it looked like a castle out of a horror movie, haunted by phantoms. Eichmann had wasted no time and, on the day immediately after his arrival, had summoned the important and influential people of the Jewish community in Budapest, ordering them to set up a council made up of eight Jewish members.

"What do you think this council is trying to achieve?" asked Margit, sitting on one of the bronze chairs, fidgeting with the black tassel dangling from its cushion embroidered with a huge leopard figure. "There are posters on every wall in the city."

"Can't you see?" snapped Károly, his voice full of bitter irony. "They're protecting the interests of the Jewish community in Hungary! Apparently, similar councils are being set up outside Budapest as well – to help the organisation of the Jews living in those regions, as it were."

János almost flung his coffee cup onto its saucer on the coffee table. "This means only one thing, dear Margit," he said as he walked towards her. "The Gestapo will be controlling every movement of every single Jew in Hungary. Eichmann issues a new order every day. The intention of the Honourable Central Jewish Council _Zsidó Tanács_ is nothing more than to convey to the Jewish community these orders issued by the Nazis to solve ..." He raised his hands and moved his middle and index fingers as if to put what he was about to say in quotation marks, before he continued, "... the Jewish Question and to make sure that everybody complies with the rules." He turned brusquely on his heels. His face was reddened with rage. He started pounding the floor with his feet as he moved back and forth between Margit and Rudi who was sipping his cognac sitting on the zebra-skin-covered sofa. "Abusing the community's trust and respect, they reassure people that no harm will befall the Jews on condition that they obediently follow the orders. Their appeal sounds so earnest that they're either utterly shameless or they truly believe in what they're preaching." He grabbed his packet of cigarettes and his lighter from the coffee table and thumped down on the leather sofa where Ada was sitting. Infuriated, he started puffing on his cigarette. "They say that this morning they have reached the letter L."

Three days ago the Gestapo had ordered the rounding up of a number of well-known Jewish doctors, lawyers and journalists selected from a telephone directory in alphabetic order, to be put under surveillance for their own protection.

"It is rumoured that they have rounded up two hundred people," János said with indignation, "who are soon to be deported to the concentration camp at Mauthausen in Austria."

Was there a glint of delight in János's eyes, which he had fixed on Rudi, or was it Károly's imagination?

"I can't believe that they readily obey these orders like a flock of sheep," said Rudi. "There were a couple of my lawyer colleagues among those who were taken away. None of them objected, none of them resisted. They surrendered like docile lambs. Rudolf Takács would never reply to such a summon, should he receive one. They would never be able to find where Rudi is. I haven't the slightest intention of showing up like an idiot to be burned at the stake," he concluded as he nervously lit a cigarette.

"I don't understand," said Ada, sitting up straight, her voice trembling either from agitation or from a fear she was trying to hide. "Why would Jews try to impose the rules of the Nazis on other Jews?" she fumed, as she banged her raised hand on the armrest. "Why don't they leave it to the Germans or, better still, to the Nazi puppets our country has in abundance? What kind of a Jew would ever accept such a task?"

Ada's outburst obviously was not meant as a question, but Rudi replied anyhow. "Some of the members of the Council are said to be very close to Horthy. My guess is that they'll use their contacts to try to hang in there until the Soviets come to our rescue. They'll stall for time, so to speak. The approaching Red Army raises everyone's hopes."

"How can they trust Horthy?" János retorted. "It's a big question mark how long he'll have a say in all this. If you ask me, they're trying to lull everyone by unfounded optimism. Everyone knows that it's Hungary's turn now. I wonder how much they themselves believe that the Jews here might be an exception." He pulled his head back as if cringing away from something that turned his stomach, while one corner of his upper lip rose in disgust. "No matter how wholeheartedly the members of the Jewish Council claim that they aim to protect the rights of the Jewish community, I think they have no other purpose than licking German asses in a selfish effort to save their own. We all know that the families of the Council members and those who work for the Council will be held exempt from these sanctions." He was about to say something else, but Ada cut him short.

"What does the government say to all this?"

"Nothing! They do nothing but watch," joined in József from where he stood between Éva and Margit. He had been silently listening to his friends so far, and now it was his turn to give vent to his frustration. "They left everything to the Germans. We all know what Sztójay is. He filled the government with fascist ministers. They're far more eager to see the implementation of the Final Solution than the Germans are." He turned to János, and scolding him like a disobedient naughty boy, albeit he was only two years younger than him, he said, "Mind you, the solution lies neither with the Soviets nor with communism. It never will. However, they have put our country in the most difficult position possible. We're standing between the devil and the deep blue sea." He nervously took a pull of his cigar and turned his head to blow the smoke away from Éva and Margit, towards the panthers and the snakes embellishing the black lacquered screen behind him.

Éva reached out and held her husband's hand, stroking his fingers in the hope of soothing his nerves. Her sweet smile, an inseparable part of her face, had long vanished.

"You have no problems, of course," János burst out, as if he had not heard either Ada's question or József's remarks. He had fixed his eyes on Rudi, his stare further darkened behind a veil of cigarette smoke he angrily blew out of his nostrils. "You're no longer a Jew."

"We all know that converting to Christianity guarantees nothing," snapped Rudi before turning to the others. "As far as I can figure out, the Council's task includes gathering information not only on Jews but also on those of Jewish origin, and reporting it all to the Germans."

"What kind of information?" asked Ada with a tint of fear in her brave eyes, flashing under her frowning eyebrows.

"Everything," replied Rudi. "Their family structure, their background, their business, their assets ..."

"We shouldn't give in to pessimism," cut in Károly, trying to keep his voice calm. He walked towards János and Ada and, standing behind the sofa, held János's shoulders in a strong grip, as if to help alleviate the weight of the dark clouds hovering above him. This morning they had confiscated János's shop and called him up to join a forced labour battalion within three days.

"Are you joking, Károly? Do I have any choice but to be pessimistic? How are we supposed to make a living? What's my mother going to do?"

Rudi leaned forwards to put his cognac glass on the coffee table and, placing his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands, turned to János to repeat what he had already said several times this evening. "You don't have to go, Jancsi. We can arrange something. You know that. Thanks to Hungarian bureaucracy, the files in my office are full of personal documents of my Christian clients. Based on the information in those documents, Károly could forge the necessary papers for you and for your family in no time. We can also get you a tuberculosis report, and that would be it. Mihály Dobos is on the Jewish Council. They'll get your report ready in two days."

"Who is Mihály Dobos?"

"Gábor's father."

"I don't wish to take any part in your dark affairs. I have no intention of dodging my draft or living in hiding like a galley rat!" János's eyes were filled with hatred as he stared at Rudi.

At his friend's outburst, Károly suddenly lost it. He banged his hands on János's shoulders with all his might and, in a few angry strides, came over to stand in front of him. "You know that you're being ridiculous, don't you?" he yelled. "Get your act together, Jancsi! Haven't you had enough? You're not going to defend Budapest. It's Vienna you'll be defending. It's that swine Hitler you'll be protecting!"

"They don't give arms to the Jews. What are you going to fight with? Shovels?" went on Rudi, determined not to give up despite János's insults. "Please listen to me. Please let us help you, for God's sake!"

"Besides, you shouldn't be fooled by the promises they make about soldiers being exempt from deportation. It is nothing but a big lie. You seem to forget that the Jews are not classified as soldiers. You're going to work like a beast of burden for the fascists!" Károly could no longer control himself. He bent over, looking straight into János's eyes as he shook him violently by his shoulders. "Do you want to kill yourself?" he roared at the top of his lungs. "Do you want to kill yourself? What are you after? To prove what? And to whom? What are you trying to prove, Jancsi? That you're indestructible? That you're immortal?"

János shook himself free of Károly's grip and stood up. "Cowards!" he shouted in frustration. "All of you! You're nothing but a bunch of cowards!" he continued as he walked in resolute steps out of the room and out of the flat.

19

There had been no end to the number of people coming in and going out of the house in Rózsadomb during the four weeks since the Nazi invasion. The heated conversations between Károly and his friends started at dinner and carried on until the early hours of the morning, mostly in the basement, where it was much safer at certain times of the day. Gizella almost never left her bedroom, resenting the fact that her house had turned into the resistance headquarters, and avoided going downstairs even at mealtimes, eating in her bedroom. She constantly complained about everything, about the scarcity of food, about her house being freezing cold due to the coal shortages, about the blackouts making her nights unbearably bleak and about having no car, since all cars had long been confiscated. Going down to the basement – or to the shelter as it was called nowadays – several times a day exhausted her physically, but, more importantly, it left her utterly dispirited to descend to an area that was meant to be the servants' quarter where she had not been more than a few times all her life. Many of the servants had gone back to their villages, except for Álmos, the head butler, and several other loyal servants who had preferred to stay in Rózsadomb to work for their keep. Károly kept telling his mother that she should stop complaining and try to get used to this new lifestyle, cracking a few jokes in the process. Although he knew that the way he took everything so lightly, especially in such dire times, would only be exacerbating his mother's foul mood, he refused to give up on his sense of humour, for otherwise their house would be entombed in an aura of sepulchral misery.

Tonight, like most other nights, they were still at the dining table though it was well past midnight, and tonight, like most other nights, Gizella had not come downstairs at all. Etel, Irén and Filip had long retired to their rooms. Sándor, despite the presence of Margit, the source of his unrequited love for years, had given in to his deep aversion to staying at the table the minute he saw the end of his dessert and already left for the smoking room, where he must be smoking his cigar, lost in the depths of his inner world. János was also with them tonight on leave, since working in a labour battalion gave him exemption from the travel restrictions applied to the Jews. He was talking vehemently about the things he had seen and heard on his way here.

"Our country is going through a most shameful time. You can't imagine what's going on outside Budapest. What happened in Sub-Carpathian Ruthenia last week is not promising at all. Our 'Right Honourable' Prime Minister Sztójay reached an agreement with the Germans and approved the transfer of one hundred thousand able-bodied Jews to Germany to work in the factories there. Apparently the machinery they've taken away is not enough to quench their greed."

János's labour battalion was working at the dismantling of the machinery in a steel factory in Sub-Carpathian Ruthenia. The Germans, expecting an imminent Soviet attack on Hungary, had started to dismantle and transport everything of any value to Germany.

"They say that, so far, they've taken away eight thousand people," János went on. "Warehouses, hippodromes, stone quarries are packed with people waiting to be sent to Germany. There is one point, however, I find somewhat perplexing." The distressed tone of his voice had a bitterly ironic ring to it now. "The gendarmes are raiding the houses of the Jewish people and taking everyone including women, children, the old and the frail." He turned to Margit sitting next to him. "Any idea about what kind of job they might have in mind for the children and the elderly in a factory?" He spread his arms wide and then, with all his might, hit his clenched fist into his other palm. Clamping his hands tightly together, he started moving them up and down in frustrated anger. "This is nothing but ghettoization! Even if they don't formally declare it, ghettoization is what it is. They have started."

Károly involuntarily turned his head to Rudi. He was nervously circling his wine glass, watching the red wind whirling in it. He had said it. He had said it days ago. "Very soon, they will start ghettoization here in Hungary as well," he had said. "This is inevitable. I urge you to make sure that both Ada's and János's relatives move to Budapest." One did not need to be an Augur to see that. They all expected this to happen sooner or later, but no one had imagined that it would be so soon. He had thought that Rudi, like on many other previous occasions, was exaggerating the situation again, trying to cover up for his cowardice. He had been furious at him for not having any faith in their country. János, on the other hand, had gone much further. He had scolded Rudi, saying that not everyone was as spineless as he was and that they would not be hiding away like scared little rats. "He's much cleverer than all of us," thought Károly. "You were right, Rudi," he said. "None of us could have guessed that it was going to be so soon."

"Your relatives," said Rudi, as he turned to Ada, "they have moved to Budapest, haven't they?"

"We do have to get them over here," Ada said, grabbing Károly's hand for some moral support. "If Jancsi is not blowing everything out of proportion, of course."

"As soon as possible," mumbled Rudi, almost to himself. "Immediately!" he said more loudly and finished the rest of his wine in one large gulp.

"And those backstabbers in the Council," János carried on from where he had left off, "those fascist puppets who are supposed to be protecting our rights ... Guess what they are doing in the face of this dastardly attack on innocent civilians? They shamelessly try to instil a faked sense of security in people. They do nothing but sing the same refrain: 'Be calm. Obey the orders. If you abide by the rules, our community won't be harmed.' How can they act so cravenly? How can they be so despicably prostrate with fear? All they do is to write to the authorities to explain how 'Hungarian' the Jews are and how loyal they are to their beloved country. They could at least have the decency to object to the orders. No, sir! Their only act of defiance is to beg for mercy and justice, deluding themselves into thinking that their pleas might mellow the implementation of these orders. They simply bury their heads in the sand and write pretty letters to the prime minister as if they were unaware of all that's going on. 'What's going on, Right Honourable Prime Minister? Hoping, with due respect, that due care will be taken to investigate into the matter.' How very polite!" His eyes were blazing slits of anger under his furrowed eyebrows. "The Council has not yet grasped the fact that the Nazis don't actually respond to polite requests. It might claim that it's defending the rights of the whole community, but all it does is to protect the interests of its members and of their relatives. It doesn't help the Jewish people; it simply uses us!"

"We know that we have to survive until the Germans lose the war," Ada began, raising her empty glass from the table an inch and then dropping it, nervously picking it up again and letting it drop once more. "We know that. But the way to do it should not be how the Council tells us. We must refuse to be herded into the ghettos like flocks of sheep. We must resist. The Council must be disbanded. They could be of much better use if they sold their properties and spent the money to help the Jews. Their assets would, sooner or later, be confiscated anyhow. They would have made a clever move, at least in that respect. The real estate prices are so low now that I'm certain they would have no trouble finding a great number of Christian buyers flying in like vultures." She finally pushed the glass she had been fidgeting with towards the middle of the table.

Rudi grabbed the glass, which had toppled over and rolled towards him, and put it straight back on its base. He watched Álmos, the head butler, who, refusing to give up on centuries-old traditions and habits, was pouring the mediocre wine into Rudi's empty glass with utmost care and pride, as if it were a precious brandy that would be a finishing touch to a spectacular banquet. "I don't think they could do much," Rudi said, without taking his eyes off his glass. "They're facing a death machine that has been running smoothly for years."

"They could, indeed, do a lot of things," growled János, his face reddened with fury. "Or rather they could stop what they're doing. The situation of the Hungarian Jews is quite different than, for instance, those in Austria where they are concentrated in Vienna. In Hungary, they are spread all over the country, living in mixed communities with the Christians in small villages. It's impossible for the Nazis to find them without the help of the Council."

"There are so many other things they can do!" Ada shouted, banging her hand on the table. "They could stop taking people for fools, for instance. It took them weeks to pick up the courage to formally announce the existence of the Council, and they couldn't even be open about it. They shamelessly say that it was founded by the order of the Hungarian government." She pushed her chair back and stood up, laughing nervously as she raised her right hand. "Jews!" she bellowed as if she were addressing an imaginary community. "You're all safe. Be like sheep and rest assured that the wolves won't eat you. We, as the Council, shall protect you." She was fiercely slapping her hand against her chest. Then she pressed both her palms on the table and continued, looking at each one around the table. "Witnessing what has been happening in our country in these last few days – let alone what those Nazis have been doing in Europe for years – one could only be blind, deaf and an idiot to believe these palavers. If only I could understand how the obligation to carry a yellow star on our chests would help protect our interests!" She slapped the table with both her hands and straightened her back. "What purpose might it serve other than helping the Arrow Cross thugs mark their targets? They must have realised that the hunched-back Jew with a hooked nose, dark curly hair and a strange accent depicted in Hungarian literature was not true for all of us." Her voice, to which she tried to add irony, betrayed a deep well of bitter chagrin. She suddenly became quieter and collapsed onto her chair. "The other day, I was walking in the street with my parents. I was looking at the people passing by. Some of them averted their eyes, others looked straight at my mother with a sardonic smile and yet some others whispered their hatred against the Jewish race. One of them spat at our feet. This wasn't the worst, actually. They spat in the faces of many others, slapped them or threw their hats away."

Károly put his arms around his wife. "Please don't get upset, my love. Please." He stroked the deep lines between Ada's frowned eyebrows in an effort to soften them before he continued, turning to others, "Let me try and put a smile on your faces," he said, hoping to disperse the tension. "I've heard a new anecdote. One night, Salomon woke up to a series of heavy knocks on the door. He jumped out of bed, frightened. 'Who is it?' he asked in a trembling voice. 'Gestapo!' replied the voice outside the door. He took a deep breath of relief. 'Thank God,' he whispered to himself. 'For a minute, I thought they were from the Jewish Council.'"

"It's amazing that you can still crack jokes. I can't believe how you can take it all so lightly." Lately it had become impossible to make János snap out of his sombre seriousness.

"Why shouldn't I? Is there a problem?" asked Károly, not letting go of the satiric tone in his voice. "Don't you read the Jewish Council's official gazette? Everything is under control. Everything is fine. Or am I mistaken?" Opening his arms wide, he raised his eyebrows to feign an ingenuous expression. Then suddenly he went dead serious and, hitting the table with his hands, jumped to his feet. "What I find incredible is how people can be so pusillanimous! The Council might be a useless fascist puppet, but what about the tens and hundreds of thousands of Jews who acquiesce to the orders without uttering a single objection? I have no idea why they still listen to the bullshitting of these buggers! Why haven't they joined the resistance? Are they blind to all that has been going on in other countries for years? They can't truly believe that everything is just fine. Do they take those Polish refugees to be genuine liars? Do they think that the broadcasts of foreign radio stations are sheer propaganda or hearsay? Is it that they find it hard to believe that such inhumane behaviour can really exist? They have lulled themselves into oblivion in a deceptively peaceful sleep, which is likely to turn into a nightmare, and they still refuse to wake up. They have to be awakened! They have to be pushed! They have to unite and take action!"

"What happened to your optimism, dear cousin?" said Sándor, from where he was leaning against the door of the smoking room, surprising everyone with his interruption, for he never took any part in these discussions. "Why don't you try and see the positive side a little bit? Didn't they stop the deportations in Slovakia the year before last? You seem to forget that the same year Romania stopped the executions in its occupied territories and refused to deport the Jews in their lost territories. The Bulgarians decided to protect their Jews, did they not? Not everybody waits around, doing nothing. Some do take action. Even Horthy turned down Germany's requests, right? We can't say that the Council is wrong in putting their trust in Horthy." Sándor was clearly trying to raise Károly's spirits, but obviously, he himself was hardly convinced that what he had been saying would be enough to put anyone's spirits up.

"We must do something," retorted Károly, sitting back on his chair. "It's high time that we took action. Those who kept saying that what has been going on in Germany, Poland and Czechoslovakia would never happen in Hungary are committing suicide now. Unfortunately, 'such things' _are_ happening in our country. And they will continue to happen." He turned to Rudi. "And much earlier than we could have ever guessed. Hungary is no longer the Hungary we knew."

"They'll soon be transferring the Jews to the ghettos. And we all know what will happen after that." Rudi raised his hand to point at a faraway place, a gesture that was meant to express what he seemed unable to articulate. "That's what they've been doing everywhere, and to think that Hungary would be an exception to the rule is nothing but sheer blindness. Let's not fool ourselves. Ghettoization is already under way. They've divided the country into six zones. The sixth – and the last on the list – is Budapest." He turned abruptly to Ada. "This is not a joke, Ada. You must bring your relatives over as soon as possible. We don't have much time." Then he looked at János. "You too, Jancsi. And I'd say that ..." He paused and took a sip of wine, as if he were trying to brace himself for the havoc he expected his words to create. "I'd say that you shouldn't go back to the labour camp."

"I'd rather we didn't talk about this, Rudi. I no longer wish to repeat how proud I am to be a Jew."

Rudi roughly pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. His tightened lips, clenched teeth and twitching jaws made it clear that he had lost his patience. The anger he was trying hard to control erupted like a volcano in his eyes. He pressed his right hand on his chest above his heart. "I might not be carrying the yellow star on my chest, but it's always at the very core of my heart. And to be able to keep it there, I need to stay alive. I need to survive. Not only I but you, our families, all of us need to survive. And to this end, we need to do everything we can. And you need to ..."

Air raid sirens sounded.

"... get your act together!" concluded Rudi in haste.

They all jumped to their feet. Károly grabbed the candelabra on the table and ran to the hall. Hurrying footsteps were heard from the upper floor. A few minutes later Filip came into view at the head of the stairs with a book tucked under his arm. Gizella, Etel and Irén followed him in their dressing gowns, each holding a candlestick. In the dark, the flicker of the candle flames dancing on their faces made them look like ghosts gliding down the stairs. Károly found it hard to get himself used to his mother's descent into the lower floors in her dressing gown and slippers, with her hair undone, not minding making a social appearance in such a state of attire. The war was too powerful, so much so that it had even changed Gizella.

"Let's go up on the roof, shall we?" exclaimed János, thrilled at the idea of another chance to play Opening Fire from the Keep of the Castle – one of their childhood games that was strictly forbidden and, if played, severely punished. Then turning to Rudi, he insisted, "You like playing games. Come on! Why don't you join us?"

"Don't be so childish," Rudi snapped.

Károly followed János towards the stairs leading to the upper floor.

"You're acting like delinquent juveniles, Károly!" Rudi called after him. "Don't you care about your family at all?"

Gizella grabbed Károly by his collar as he whirled past her. "Come to your senses, son. Come to your senses, for God's sake! Please grow up."

Károly hesitated briefly before he broke free from his mother's grip and, without saying anything, ran up the stairs to the Gallery.

"Those Jews," Gizella grunted irritably, her voice loud enough for everyone, including Károly, to hear. "They're the reason behind all these bombings. Everything is part of an internationally organised Jewish plot. The Jews will continue to send signals to the planes and help the destruction of our beautiful Budapest until the killings come to an end."

As Károly climbed the stairs leading to the second floor, his mother's voice slowly faded away. "Everybody knows that they use the wireless to give information to the enemy," he finally heard her say. When he reached the top floor where Álmos had his bedroom, he could no longer hear his mother's voice. He blew out the candles as he put the candlestick down on the floor and pushed at the hatch opening on to the roof. János was lying down on the tiles of the slanted roof. He went over and lay down next to him.

Every single day since the beginning of April, British and American planes had been bombing Budapest as well as other cities, railroads and factories. At night the whole country went dark. The blackout included houses, offices and cars, even bicycles.

"Rudi was right about the ghettoization. We take him to be a coward, but he has a much better vision than any of us."

János perked up. "He has a vision, you say? He knows. He knows everything beforehand. He's very close to those traitors in the Council." He lay down again. "Don't be surprised if he sells us all one day to save his own ass."

"You're being ridiculous, János. Is it a crime that he warned us? Of course, he will use his contacts. He's not stupid, is he? We know that the Council is good for nothing, and for that reason alone it's a big advantage for all of us that he has connections there. You ..."

They started at a deafening explosion. Fire broke out in one of the buildings on the Pest side. The Allied planes aiming at the railroads must have missed their target. Would the pilots spot us in the moonlight, thought Károly? Would they figure out that Jancsi is a Jew and bomb our house? He smiled. It was a bitter smile triggered by a sense of disquietude. They just lay there motionless, pressing their backs on the tiles. Three smaller planes appeared. They were diving down towards one of the bombers. They had to be German and Hungarian planes. The hunters! A dogfight broke out between them. Swirling around each other, they disappeared into the dark sky, unaware of what they had left behind, oblivious to the fate of the families they had broken up, ignorant of the children they had murdered. Blinded by a ruthless dogfight, they just flew away.

Károly could almost hear the sirens of the fire engines penetrating through the sinister silence of the night, mingling with the smell of the burnt bodies crushed under the debris of the bombed building. He glanced at János. He had closed his eyes. Was he holding his breath? At that instant, Károly felt a surge of anger rise in him at the thought of his friend's insistence on going back to the labour camp. It was actually him who was being a coward by taking shelter in one of those camps, because these days they were probably the safest of all places.

20

Two weeks later, on a Thursday evening, when Károly came home from work, he was surprised to see his mother down in the Green Salon with Ada and the children. Perched on the edge of a sofa, she was sitting dead still and straight up, carrying a mournful expression on her sullen face.

"Well, well, well! What an honour to see you in the lower floors, _Anya_. To what do we owe this surprise?"

"Do I need to explain why I choose to sit in my own drawing room in my own house?"

Károly cast an inquisitive eye at Ada, making a slight gesture with his face meaning to ask what was wrong with his mother.

Ada, who was busy with Dóra toddling on the floor, had not even said hello. Obviously, there was trouble brewing.

"What's up?" he asked to no one in particular.

"There's someone waiting for you," said Gizella as she raised her chin to point at the staircase leading down to the basement.

Ada made to say something, but, before she could utter a sound, Gizella burst out, "You listen to me, son! This house is mine before anyone else's, and I shall not let him stay here. We're used to him coming in as and when he pleases, but there's a limit to everything. You should know where to stop. If you don't care about anything or anybody, do please think of your daughters and ..."

Károly turned around to leave the Green Salon before his mother could finish her sentence. It was clear whom she was talking about. János must have come back. It had only been two weeks since he had returned to the camp, and it was not a good sign that he was here now. Dóra started crying. She must have been frightened by the tone of Gizella's voice. Ada picked her up and followed Károly into the hall, dragging Juli behind her.

"Leave Juli and Dóra here with me, Ada," Gizella ordered.

As Károly descended the stairs, his mother's commanding voice slowly dwindled. "Do I need to tell you what they do to those who hide Jews in their houses?" he finally heard her shout.

When he was down in the basement, Álmos told him that, in line with Madame de Kurzón's instructions, he had served Monsieur János Fodor's dinner, prepared his bath and, using the linen he had brought down from upstairs, made the bed in the room that once belonged to the cook. "In line with the instructions of Madame _Gizella_ de Kurzón," he concluded, his voice betraying a certain pride that his manners would not let him express in words.

Ada had come down as well. They went into the room where János was resting.

"Jancsi," mumbled Károly at the sight of his friend looking so exhausted.

"I ran away," he heard János whisper meekly, almost speaking to himself with his eyes closed. "I was kidnapped," he said as he opened his eyes and slowly rose up from the bed, his blank stare gliding from the ceiling towards the whitewashed wall in front of him

Ada sat beside him and put her arm around his shoulders.

"Everybody was looking for a way to escape," János carried on, his gaze absently fixed on the patterns on the rug now. "We had heard that, at the end of April, they had deported one thousand Jews from the labour camp in Topolya and sent them to Germany. The rumour had it that it was to be our turn very soon. Everyone was panic-stricken." He raised his eyes to Károly standing by the bed. "Last night after work, we left the factory, exhausted, and were plodding towards the camp. As soon as we turned the corner onto the road that led to the huts, two men grabbed me by the arms, and, before I knew it, they were dragging me towards a side street. In the dark, nobody had noticed me leave the line. We walked away, just like that. Once we were out of sight, we started running. All I could think of was that I had to run. I could not even ask any questions. We ran for about ten, fifteen minutes, I don't exactly know for how long ... basically until we were out of breath. Suddenly a truck came into view, and they practically shoved me inside. The two men stayed behind. The driver evaded my questions, and showed me the clothes on the back seat, gesturing me to change into them. We stopped before entering Budapest. He told me to step out. I didn't see anyone until I reached the Margit Bridge, where two Nazi soldiers were patrolling the entrance to the bridge. I made to hide, but it was too late; they had seen me. 'Don't stop,' I told myself. Don't hesitate. Stand up straight. No matter how degrading you find it, try to think that you're not Jewish, and you have nothing to be afraid of. I walked on. I was unable to relax my clenched fist in my pocket. Come on, János! Do it! Come on! I took out my hand and, trying to forget who I was, gathered all my strength and raised my right arm, giving them the perfect Nazi salute. ' _Heil Hitler!_ ' I shouted. I still can't believe I said that. I felt like a traitor, a filthy backstabber who had betrayed his country, betrayed himself, betrayed the human race." He was shaking his head continuously, as if in objection to all that had happened. "They didn't even stop me. I just walked past them."

"I have no knowledge of any plans for your escape. I wonder who organised it. It might have been László. I have had no contact with him this whole week."

"Initially, that was what I thought, but our group knows nothing about it." He paused. "As I was getting off the truck, the driver said something, actually the only thing he said in reply to all my questions: 'You should be thankful to the Dutchman.'" He smiled, shrugging his shoulders. "They must have confused me with someone else. I would have understood if he had said the Swede." He fell silent for an instant and then looked straight into Károly's eyes. "Or the Swede has some connection with the Dutchman that I don't know of." There was gratitude in his voice.

Károly had no such connection nor had he any knowledge of such a mission. He meant to object, but János was already lost in thought, his bleary eyes glued on the black fabric draped over the window. Jancsi ... his brave friend Jancsi. Did he escape because he was scared? Was he too ashamed to admit it? This was impossible though, because if he had any intention of running away, he would have remained in Budapest after his leave two weeks ago instead of returning to the camp. The Dutchman? Tungsram! Endré? Rudi? It might have been organised by the resistance group Rudi was working with, if there were such a group, of course. But then, why would Rudi be so willing to help János?

"Jancsi must stay here," insisted Ada.

"Definitely. I'll go and talk to your mother tomorrow, Jancsi. She can come and see you here. You can't go home. It would be too dangerous considering that you're a deserter now."

"If I stay here, I'll be putting you in jeopardy."

"I'd like to see how they would dare to search the house of a Christian, the house of the nephew of the late Kelemen de Kurzón, who was a member of Parliament and the inventor of the electric train into the bargain." He patted his friend's shoulder. "Moreover, I would strongly advise that your mother move here as well. The air raids destroyed a great many number of houses, leaving a lot of people homeless and in need of a new place to live. There are hundreds of people filing with the police for a change of address. We'll put in an application, using a forged identification card, and that'll be it. We'll have no problems in getting them to move here. We'll be doing the same thing for Ada's parents."

"My mother will never leave her house. She doesn't even want to hear about hiding and categorically refuses to take on a false identity. She thinks that people are exaggerating things. I don't think she'll listen to me. And there is no way I can leave her on her own."

"You have to convince her, János. We have to make her understand. The situation is getting worse by the day. They ratified the decree and ghettoization is formally under way. Fortunately for us, Budapest is not yet included, but in other cities they've already started to mark the apartment buildings with yellow stars."

Ada took János's hands in hers. "The news from Nyíergyháza is not very encouraging, Jancsi. Your mother says that she hasn't heard from your aunt for a while now." She tightened her grip, trying to comfort her friend. "But this doesn't necessarily mean anything. The telephones aren't working. The post is no different. I'm sure they're fine. As soon as you feel better, you can go and bring them to Budapest. We'll find them a place to live, although they might have to live in different houses for a while."

János stood up, walked out of the room and disappeared into the corridor leading to the kitchen. Károly was thinking of what Ada could not get herself to articulate, of the things they all knew too well, of how in the middle of the night the gendarmes raided the houses where Jews were reported to be living and dragged them away without letting them take anything along except for some food and a few of their personal belongings. He was thinking of how the doors of the empty houses, allegedly sealed, were pillaged; how, during the last two weeks, more than ten thousand Jews had been collected and taken to the yellow star buildings; how difficult the living conditions in these buildings were; how some of these people, being physically and psychologically exhausted in the face of the atrocities that awaited them in the end, committed suicide; and how some of the people in Budapest, hopeless and defenceless, killed themselves in desperation and grief upon hearing of their relatives being taken away.

They followed János into the kitchen. He was sitting at the table, pouring himself a glass of water.

"Well, well. Couldn't you find any other newspaper to read than _Makói Újság?_ " asked János, glowering disgustedly at the paper on the table.

"The information we get from the right-wing newspapers is much more reliable; they are not censored."

János skimmed through the front page, and his eyes stopped short at an article on the bottom right corner. "What we've been hearing at the camp was true, then," he said raising his eyes to Károly. "I would have been deported with the rest of them, had I not been kidnapped." He turned to Ada with a smile on his lips. "My dear Ada, your husband is a true nobleman who never forgets the responsibilities his blood imposes on him – whatever the cost."

Károly said nothing. He took the paper and read the article on the bottom right corner.

" _The buildings marked with a yellow star will be encircled with a fence, and the Jewish Question will be finally resolved through deportation. Deportations from the labour camps in Sub-Carpathian Ruthenia will continue. The next camp to be emptied is ..."_

War was turning everything upside down, blurring the transparent relationships of peacetime and leaving questions unanswered, while innocent people whirled helplessly in its tumultuous eddies.

21

The following day Károly met Rudi for lunch.

"János is back."

"Has he taken another leave?"

"He escaped. Or rather he was kidnapped."

"That's a big surprise – him agreeing to desert. He finally came to his senses, did he now?" Rudi took a sip from his wine. "They shamelessly serve this as wine!" he complained, wincing, before he continued, "I'm happy for him, happy because the news is really most unsettling. The other day, someone from our group talked to a man who had escaped from Auschwitz. The postcards stamped Waldsee are actually coming from Auschwitz. They're taking everyone away. It is rumoured that, very soon, they'll be doing the same thing in Budapest."

"Another rumour is that they're planning a British-backed resistance. Have you heard?"

"Nowadays everyone is saying something. They talk too much. This city is like the cauldron of a witch," said Rudi, smiling before taking a spoonful of his soup. "Is Kállay still at the Turkish Embassy?"

"As far as we know, he is." There was something on Károly's mind that he was dying to ask. "Was it organised by your group?" he finally blurted out.

"How do you mean? What?"

"I'm talking about the kidnapping, Rudi. Jancsi's escape."

"Excuse my bluntness, but our resistance group has much more important missions to attend to than saving János. He should be wise enough to save his own neck. What he did was nothing but a pointless display of bravery." He extended his arm over the table and held Károly's arm. "Now, old chap. What about adding some sparkle to these dark days? I'm throwing a dinner party at the Ritz tomorrow evening. I insist you and Ada come. Józsi and Éva will be there. I called Sanyi too who, of course, said he wouldn't be able to make it. Do try to drag him along, please. Tell him that Margit will be there." He raised his hands. "I shall not take no for an answer because on Monday I'll be going away and I'm afraid it might be a long time before I return. Tungsram decided to send me to Switzerland. For a month or so. Please try to convince Ada to come. I implore you."

Károly found it amazing that he could, at such dire times, spend so much money so freely, or rather that he had the money to spend at all. But this was Rudi, the confirmed bachelor, the womaniser, the entertainer, the big spender. Even war could not change that. There was one thing that war had changed though, and that was how the brave Rudi he had known had vanished. He thought of what it was that he had once considered as bravery. Had Rudi ever been courageous? Perhaps he had never been valiant. Perhaps János was right. Perhaps Rudi only displayed his audacity in games, and life was too real for him. Perhaps he ran away from the reality, frightened to step outside the game he had set up for himself. Perhaps there had never been a brave Rudi, and that image was nothing but a creation of Károly's imagination.

When he returned to the legation building, he took out the letter that he had been trying to finish for days, unable to tell Alex the latest news. Today, however, he had at least one piece of good news: János had finally come to his senses. "12th May 1944, Budapest," he wrote and continued.

... Despite the bombings, your beloved lilacs are all in blossom.

Two weeks ago another kind of bomb, much more destructive than those dropped from the sky, fell upon us like a sledgehammer, when they issued the Ghettoization Decree obliging the Jewish people to mark their houses with a yellow star, in addition to their obligation of carrying a yellow star on their chests. Starry houses! László Endré, the Minister of State for Jewish Affairs (what a title), ordered the Jews to move to designated apartments within areas called the ghettoes and to mark their buildings by hanging a yellow star on the main door. There is nothing, however, for you to worry about, my dear sister, because for the time being Budapest is exempt from all these horrendous obligations. People are still living in their own houses. We all share your wishes in your letter of March 20th. Do please rest assured that we shall do, and are already doing, everything we can – and even the things beyond our power – to protect our loved ones. I beg you to keep your mind at rest.

I finish my letter with the hope that Eichmann soon finds himself drowning in the quagmire he is creating as he moves determinedly ahead to solve the Jewish Question.

With fondest love,

Your brother,

Károly
February 2009  
Budapest

Rüya could hardly believe that it had been only four days since those torturous moments she had been through on the terrace of the Opera House. It all seemed so far away now. After the opera, back in her hotel room, she had somehow pulled herself together and stopped brooding over Paul and being angry at herself for having acted like an idiot in front of him. Staying up all night, she had thought over and over again of all the things Gertrúd had told her. When the day broke, she had already made up her mind as to where to find some of the details she had been missing on Rudi and to clarify the truth behind certain events she had only imagined. Excited at the prospect of a new source of information she had not dug into during her research, she had taken the first flight to London and, without knowing what she might find out, or more to the point what exactly she was supposed to look for, dashed to the National Archives, where she had lost track of time among the piles of documents that had been recently declassified. In the end, she could not find the answers to the questions that had been gnawing at her mind, but a brand new window had opened in front of her. This morning she had come back to Budapest with her mind much clearer on certain events, on certain details that she had written in her book without implying anything but which now had acquired different connotations. The argument between Aziz and İskender in the last days of 1944, for instance, and the things Aziz wanted to explain to Mami after his heart attack in 1960.

The man of slim and small build rapidly raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. A bird was shot. Whirling, it fell among the bushes. He was not here to hunt birds though. He was trying to organise a team to help him in the arduous task he had been given. "Within a few weeks, I'll be going to one of the most dangerous cities in Europe – to Budapest. The deportations are already under way. They're vacating the labour camps. It's time to take action. I demand cooperation from all my brothers. We have to take responsibility and make a difference amid this pogrom."

One of the men in his company took off his spectacles and, with his handkerchief, wiped the rain off lenses as thick as the bottom of a bottle. "Our lodge is at the service of humanity," he said proudly.

" _You should contact Sister Salkaházi and Father Sztehlo in Budapest. They've increased their activities. The sisters have allocated the Social Services' building on Bokréta Street to the Jews. The priest's organisation carries on with its despatches of food and clothing to the forced labour battalions. However, as all of you know very well, his main mission is to save the children. As of today, he has, with a little help from the Red Cross, allocated thirty houses to children."_

Another gun shot. Another bird was killed. It was one of the other huntsmen in the group who had fired. "Kállay has taken refuge in the Turkish Embassy in Budapest," he said, raising his rifle again. "The letter, in which he announces Hungary's wish to surrender to the Allies, has reached its target." He took aim again and pulled the trigger. Another bird was killed. "On the other hand, we've heard that the situation in Rhodes has become most urgent. Our consul there, Mr. Ülkümen, is planning to talk to General von Kleeman. We must give him all the support he needs."

Walking in heavy, measured steps, they disappeared from sight, following their dogs as they rushed in and out of the bushes.

Rüya turned on her laptop. For days she had been rereading Mami's diaries, which she had scanned into her computer, looking for a hint that she had missed, a sentence that she had overlooked, a small detail that she had not noticed, an incident Mami had given no importance to. So far, she had not come across anything new. She opened the file where she had saved her diaries dated 1932. The details of the conversation at the ball on the shores of Lake Como ... Egypt ... the project for the alleviation of the Aswan Dam. Was İskender in training there? When she started reading the lines where Mami described how Aziz had asked her hand in marriage, she forgot about everything. She went on to read what she had written on the day she had broken up with Rudi. How painful it must have been. The tormenting clutches of having to make a decision, to shoulder the responsibility of taking that fatal initiative.

Suddenly she remembered that she had to talk to Matthew, the director, about one of the scenes to be shot tomorrow. Tomorrow! An acute surge of anxiety seized her. Her heart sank. Paul had returned to Budapest yesterday – he was supposed to; he must have. What was she to do? How would she be able to look him in the face? She was so ashamed of herself. The things she had said! Goodness gracious! It would be much better if she had found an excuse not to go. Yes. Yes, that was what she ought to do. She could say she was sick. Again? Are you sick again, Rüya? Yes, she was. She was very sick. Mentally. Find another excuse. Use your creativity. I have to go to Vienna for my research. For crying out loud, Rüya! You're being ludicrous. You're making a mountain out of a molehill. Don't start again. Stop being such a worry bug. Think of something else for a change. Read through Mami's diaries once again. Do something to divert your mind. Go out. Invite Gertrúd to dinner. Talk to people. Meet up with Matthew and Jeremy. Jeremy! Jeremy and his disgusting wet kiss in London. She felt her stomach turn. You don't need them. Go out and have dinner on your own. You're used to it anyway. She recalled all those trips she had made for her research. Days filled with exciting discoveries, flying by in an instant. Dining out all alone, indulging herself in her food, not having anything better to do with herself. Putting a threateningly serious expression on her face to beat back the gentlemen who seemed keen to fill up the empty chair opposite her. The question marks in the faces around her as they must have been wondering why a young woman of passable looks – even beautiful according to some – would be eating all alone. All of that crowned by long and sleepless nights. Pen yourself up in your hotel room and sleep, Rüya! That would be a much better option for you. Or better still, why don't you think of what you will be saying to Paul tomorrow? Her head started throbbing, giving her a sudden pang of an excruciating pain. What could she possibly say? "I'm truly sorry for having been so disrespectful at such an unfortunate moment for you. It was just a jealousy trip." Yes, sure, that's what she should be saying, if only to highlight her idiocy. No! She would act as if nothing had happened. She should sympathise with his pain and try to erase Kengyel from memory. Oh God, she didn't know. She could not figure it out. The more she tried to open up her heart, the more it snapped shut. She sank back into the bed.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Four  
1944

22

Károly was gazing out the window of the tramcar as they crossed the Margit Bridge. Budapest had been under siege for three months now. Despite all the bombings though, most of the buildings were still intact. He smiled when he saw several pictures of Christ stuck on electricity poles, with a yellow star on the left side of his chest. Once on the Buda side, looking at the wisteria in full bloom thriving in defiance of the war, he reminisced about Alex. In her last few letters, she had been imploring him to keep an eye on Rudi. "He takes risks fearlessly, but this is not an adventure. Please watch over him, _Öcsi_ ," she almost begged. "In the name of your long lasting friendship, I beseech you." Poor Alex. She did not know the true Rudi. Don't you worry, my sweet little baby! He knows perfectly well how to look after himself. He surely doesn't need my protection.

Rudi had called in the afternoon, saying that he had to talk to him. Unable to speak about it on the phone, he had asked if they could meet after work on the sun deck at the roof of the Rudas Hotel. He got off the tramcar at the park in front of the hotel. The sweet fragrances emanating from the flowers seemed completely out of place amidst the detestable odours of the war. That sweet smell belonged to another time, to another life. He walked into the hotel. The Gypsy music playing in the restaurant was spreading into the lobby. He took the elevator to the top floor and went out onto the sun deck. He looked around. It was almost empty. A couple sat in one corner. He could not see Rudi anywhere, so he lay down in one of the deckchairs.

Since the Allies' landing on the beaches of Normandy on 6 June, Germany's lucky star had been in decline, raising the hopes of all Hungarians. The Nazis, however, feeling the cold breath of prospective defeat at their necks, had started to implement the anti-Jewish laws much more strictly, and the atrocities against the Jews had considerably increased. For one month now the Hungarian Police, acting in collaboration with the German Secret Police, had been systematically deporting the Jews living in the countryside. It was said that every day more than ten thousand Hungarian Jews were being loaded onto the freight trains and deported. And not only the Church and the political circles but everyone else now knew what the truth was: these people were sent not to Austria to work but to the concentration camp in Auschwitz.

He saw Rudi come out onto the sun deck and hurry towards him. He had lost even more weight. His face looked exhausted, but his eyes were burning with energy. There was a scar under his left eyebrow. It had been exactly one month since they had last met. They threw their arms around each other with great affection.

"What happened to your eyebrow?"

"I didn't have to be invisible in Switzerland," said Rudi offhandedly, touching his scar. "All I had suppressed so far erupted like hot lava. I was involved in a fistfight in a business meeting. Me! I couldn't believe it myself."

Yes, it was rather unbelievable.

"As you can imagine, I no longer work for Tungsram. They apparently didn't fancy my fighting style. Well, anyway. We don't have much time. Our friends in the resistance have received some information. A train has just left Szolnok. A freight train. Ada's relatives are ..."

"Will it stop in Budapest?" cut in Károly, jumping to his feet before Rudi could finish.

"No need to rush. It will be arriving at the Józsefvárosi Station towards midnight. If anything goes wrong, you should go to Kassa, which will be their next stop. From there, we all know where they'll be heading."

He dashed towards the stairs but stopped short as he heard Rudi call out. "Wait! Wait a second," he shouted, running after him. "You'd better be dressed for the occasion, old chap," he said, handing him a package and an envelope. "You might also need a document or two. I thought you wouldn't have the time to prepare them. You do know what to do with these after the welcoming ceremony, don't you?"

"Will you be joining me?"

"I'm afraid I need to be present at another ceremony."

Károly could no longer tell how much of what Rudi told him was actually true. This one was definitely a lie made up on the spot, betrayed by the way he averted his eyes. Rudolf Takács, the audacious adventurer, could not say that he preferred not to come along, could he? How very sad it was to see him back away like this. How very disappointing. However, Károly was grateful for this invaluable piece of information, which was crucially important for him and for Ada. Well, whatever! This was not the time to muse about these things. He had to get going. "Thank you, my friend," he said as he moved backwards in increasingly quick steps.

"My useless resistance group finally did something worthwhile, I hope," said Rudi, following him. "By the by," he added quickly, grabbing Károly's arm. "You've heard about the new decree issued this morning, haven't you?"

"Yes, I have."

The dreaded decree had been signed this morning. The Nazis had demanded that the Jewish Council draw a list of the houses and apartment buildings in Budapest where Jews lived. This morning before dawn they were already busy putting up yellow stars on the main doors of the buildings in the Eighth District, predominantly a Jewish area. At about the same time, the governorship of Budapest ordered the Jews of the capital to leave their houses and move into the buildings marked with yellow stars no later than within three days.

"I presume Ada's parents would need to move in with you. You should convince Jancsi as well, since their building will definitely be marked, if it already hasn't been. It's clear what will happen to these buildings and those in them."

"What about you, Rudi? And your parents?"

"We're not moving anywhere for the time being. We are, as yet, not in any sort of danger."

Károly could not tell if what he saw in Rudi's raised eyebrows and the slight smile on the edges of his lips reflected a self-confident Rudi who had taken every precaution to save his neck, or a helpless one who was desperately trying to hide his cowardice behind a fake display of courage. Which one would he prefer? He surely would like Rudi to have taken every possible measure to ensure his safety. He could, however, not help but wonder what risks he might have been taking to that end. What was the price he was paying? Was János right in what he had said once? No, that was not possible! He quickly shooed away those cruel thoughts and opted for the helpless Rudi who desperately tried to hide his cowardice behind a fake display of courage. This option might be disappointing, but it certainly was more innocent, more correct.

"Your Aryan look, thanks to your blue eyes and pale complexion, can protect you up to a certain point, Rudi, but it only takes one person to betray you, you know that."

"Don't you worry, old chap. It seems to have slipped your mind that I was baptised as a Calvinist. I'm not even circumcised. Besides, Andrássy Boulevard is not in a Jewish neighbourhood, and number twenty-three – where not even a single Jew lives – is definitely not a candidate for the yellow star. Rudolf Takács sold his flat on the second floor of this building to Vilmos years ago, and the Takácses moved to a flat on Vaci Street. It is said that they decorated their house quite impressively but hardly stay there, for usually nobody answers the door. They also sold their law office some time ago, whereupon Rudolf started to work at Tungsram. His employment there didn't last long, I'm afraid. Nowadays nobody knows where he is. Vilmos, on the other hand, keeps renting his house to Christian families, they say, families who have roots that go back at least five generations. His last tenants ..." He furrowed his eyebrows and pressed his index finger on his lips, as if he were trying to remember their name. "Let me think. I guess the name is Tímár, Monsieur and Madame Tímár and their forty-year-old son Róbert Tímár. Robi." Rudi paused and then, with the ease of an actor well prepared for his role, continued, "I am Róbert Tímár. I come from a Christian family. It's a great pleasure to have made your acquaintance, Monsieur de Kurzón." He turned his head to look over the railings. He was dead serious now, with his gaze fixed on the turbulent waters of the River Danube flowing down below. "In fact, I no longer remember who I really am," he mumbled almost to himself.

Károly was pedalling as fast as he could down the hill in Rózsadomb towards László's flat, where they would be putting on the Arrow Cross uniforms before leaving for Józsefvárosi Train Station towards midnight. He had decided not to take János on this mission, for it was too dangerous for a deserter. The package Rudi had given him was in the basket in front of him. What would be the penalty if he were caught with the Arrow Cross uniforms? He checked his trouser pocket again, perhaps for the tenth time. The banknotes were safely tucked in there. If anything went wrong, they might have to finish the job through bribery. He had four fifty-dollar bills with him. A twenty-dollar bribe per head usually proved to be sufficient. He did not know how many people there were to be saved. It would, in fact, be safer if he carried pengős, but both the gendarmes and the soldiers preferred dollars or gold.

Towards midnight, they arrived at the station. Stretching out their right arms and shouting the Nazi greeting, they saluted the guards lined up at its entrance and wished Szálasi a long and healthy life. The most difficult part of this masquerade was to act like the Arrow Cross thugs they detested. They entered the station without a problem. On one of the platforms stood a train of covered wagons that were used to carry animals in normal times, with padlocks on their sliding doors and barbed wire on their small windows. The first and the last of the wagons had open tops and were full of armed Hungarian soldiers. He heard people locked inside the wagons shouting, moaning, asking for water, begging for a doctor. A cleaner approached one of the windows and, through the barbed wire, squeezed in a cup of water. He was lucky; the guards had not seen what he had done. He then bent over and picked up the pieces of paper thrown out by the people locked inside, shoved them in his pocket and carried on sweeping the platform. He would deliver these messages to their intended addresses once he was finished here. He would do it in the name of humanity. He would do it risking death. He would do it hoping to be of some help.

Usually, it was the gendarmes' duty to collect the Jews and put them on these trains. Today, however, there were Hungarian soldiers and a couple of German soldiers as well, helping to squeeze more people into the wagons, which had arrived at the station already overcrowded with the Jews collected from the countryside. Károly and László approached one of the German soldiers keeping guard next to the train that was ready to take off.

" _Heil Hitler!_ "

" _Heil Hitler!_ "

Károly handed over the false papers Rudi had had made. The Nazi soldier, used to obeying orders blindly, was apparently impressed by the documents containing a myriad of stamps and signatures, some of them quite out of place, and released, with surprising docility, Ada's relatives as well as all the others whose names were on the list. They accomplished their mission smoothly, without even having to resort to bribery.

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when Károly came home with Ada's relatives. As soon as he walked in through the garden gate, he saw five or six people jump out from behind the apology for a few bushes and run towards him.

"Please help us. Please, in the name of God," begged the old woman, grabbing Károly's hand and showering it with kisses. "My husband escaped from the labour camp. I beg you. Help us, please."

Ada was at the main door, beckoning them to come inside quickly. As soon as they had all gone in, she flung her arms around her aunt, who was emaciated beyond recognition, then around her exhausted uncle, her cousin Ráhel, trembling in her husband's arms and finally around little Jácob and Rózsi, who were clinging to their mother. She did not ask what had happened to her other cousin; there was no point in rubbing salt in their wounds. "You're safe now," she kept repeating as she ushered them towards the service stairs leading down to the basement. Once downstairs, she would note down the necessary details, tell everyone what they should and should not do and take their photographs. Tomorrow Károly would prepare their forged identification papers, which would show that they were Christians. And before long they would help these trembling souls to find a relatively safe place to live.

"I'm going over to Jancsi," Károly called out after Ada, who followed the others down the stairs. "I'll try and bring them over here, him and his family. Their building is bound to be marked with a yellow star. After the decree of yesterday, they shouldn't be staying there, not even a minute longer. Have you talked to your parents?"

"I'll go first thing in the morning."

"Don't take no for an answer. They must move here immediately. It's clear where all this is going to end. We must hurry." He turned his eyes to the stairs leading upstairs. "Wake Mother up, would you? Ask her to come down and stay with the girls. And tell Álmos to take care of our new guests. And go to your parents as soon as possible."

He stormed out of the house, grabbed his bicycle and started pedalling down the hill as fast as he could. He had been up on his feet for almost twenty-four hours now, but did not in the least feel tired, let alone sleepy. The wind brushing against his face boosted his energy, and when he arrived at János's flat, he was feeling more invigorated than before.

János's mother Rebeka listlessly said that she knew about the new decree because her cousin had already been forced to move to a yellow star building. She, however, had no intention of moving anywhere. "Thank you, Károly, but I shall not leave my home. I shall go nowhere, neither to Rózsadomb nor to a starred house nor anywhere else."

"They might mark this building any minute now. And then ..." Károly found it difficult to find the right words. "And then ... you know, Rebeka _néni_. Your relatives in Nyíergyháza ..."

"This is Budapest, my dear boy. There is no ghetto and no deportation risk. No such thing will ever happen here. They're doing nothing but simply moving people from one place to another. I prefer to live and – if it is to happen – to die in my own home, and until that very day I want to go on living as Rebeka Fodor."

Károly was barking up the wrong tree. He pulled János aside and insisted that at least he move to Rózsadomb. "You're a deserter, Jancsi. A Jewish deserter! This is like a death sentence. Think about your mother if you don't think about yourself."

"I can't leave her on her own, Károly. And besides ... " His face creased in an ironic smile. "You know how it is in Budapest, not so easy to pick out and 'clean' the Jews. There are so many mixed marriages and so many conversions."

"The Jewish Council," cut in Rebeka _néni_ as she came over, determined not to let them conspire behind her back, "shamelessly urges everyone to move to these starred buildings. Neither sickness nor Shabbat would stop those buggers!"

"They say that the members of the Jewish Council and their relatives will be held exempt," hissed János. "Scoundrels! They're buying their lives by sending their own race to death." He abruptly paused as if he remembered something. "What does Gábor say, by the way?"

"He has apparently disappeared."

"Don't be surprised if Rudi disappears as well."

"Disappear? I hardly think he would do such a thing. He refuses to move to Rózsadomb, let alone disappear. He says he won't move an inch away from his house. He's playing the hero. He has decided to prove that he's not a coward, but he is doing it at the wrong time and at the wrong place. I don't understand him at all."

"What is it exactly that you don't understand, Károly? He's not _playing_ the hero, my friend. He _is_ brave. He is brave, because he has nothing to be scared of. Because he has everything sorted out. He's under the protection of the Jewish Council, of those rogues that do nothing but lick Nazis' asses. Why should he be scared? He can, of course, go on living comfortably in his own house. He can, of course, travel. He can, of course, take a chick to a ball or to wherever the hell he prefers to take them. He can do whatever the fuck he wants to do!" He paused briefly before he carried on, as if spitting into Rudi's invisible face. "He will do anything he can to save his own ass. Nobody knows what he's up to. Do you know the cormorants? He's just like those birds, one minute disappearing under the water, the next unexpectedly surfacing. To be so comfortable at such difficult times, so to speak, one does need to be collaborating with the Nazis ..."

"Enough! Stop this nonsense this instant. Are you out of your mind, Jancsi? How can you say such a thing? Stop being such a paranoiac. If I didn't know you so well, I would say that you're jealous of his resourcefulness."

Rudi might have been a coward; he might have been doing a lot of things to protect himself; he would, however, never collaborate with the fascists. Never! He did not even want to think of such a possibility. He would prefer to think of Rudi as a helpless coward, hiding behind a display of faked courage.

23

Ten days later Károly, still preoccupied with the same disturbing thoughts, was sitting on the veranda with his eyes fixed on the dark sky. He had met Rudi for lunch earlier that day. "It's very close now," he had said. "In a few days, one of the neutral countries is expected to take action." He had then asked Károly about the situation at the Swedish Legation. Was he trying to squeeze information out of him? You're being ridiculous, Károly, he scolded himself. János's scepticism seems to have plagued you as well. You ought to be optimistic.

He went inside and walked to the desk in the far corner of the Green Salon. The house was dead silent as everyone had gone to bed. He needed to write to Alex.

Budapest, 28th June 1944

My sweetest Alex,

I beg your forgiveness for not having replied to any of the three letters you wrote in May and June, but please do believe me that time is rather scarce nowadays. You have good reason to complain although you need not fret. It's true that we're going through a very difficult time; we are not, however, helpless or powerless. Rest assured that we shall put everything back in order and stop worrying yourself.

The other day we celebrated Dóra's first birthday. We blew her candle out amid the rumblings of anti-aircraft fire and the sound of exploding bombs falling from the sky. Oh, and I shouldn't forget the buzzing of German motorcycles. A symphony, shall we say? A never-ending symphony!

I resolutely insisted that János and his family move here, but neither our stubborn friend nor his mother Rebeka _néni_ wishes to leave their home. Finally last week they marked their building with a drop-dead gorgeous yellow star. And two days after that, three Jewish families moved in, arriving with a few small suitcases and a couple of mattresses. Thank Heavens that two of those families happen to be János's relatives. They live under horrendous conditions, having only one room for each family. János sleeps on the floor of the room he shares with his mother and his uncle. A small ghetto, if you want. They all use the same kitchen and the same bathroom. The water shortages make it impossible to have more than one bath a week, he says. Three days ago another decree was issued, allowing those with yellow stars on their chests to go out of their houses only two hours a day. Can you imagine sixteen people living in that three-bedroom flat twenty-two hours a day? The other day Rebeka _néni_ was out to buy some groceries, only to find out that there was nothing left in the shops. By the time she finished checking the nearby grocery stores, the curfew had started. So, yesterday she went out early in the morning during the curfew hours without the yellow star on her chest. "We're not going to starve, are we?" she says. And she's right indeed. Men, on the other hand, are scared to step out during the curfew, fearing a trouser inspection. Children can't go to school. It's all too inhuman, Alex. Rebeka _néni_ tries to make a penny or two, sewing. Ada and I keep taking them food, but this is not a solution.

Ada's parents and her relatives from Szolnok – her aunt, uncle, cousin, cousin's husband and their children – are well settled in their new abode in our basement. We're jolly crowded now.

You shouldn't worry about Rudi, for he knows what he's doing and has everything sorted out in his life.

Please kiss Nili and Lila for me and do give my warmest greetings to Aziz.

Your loving brother,

Károly

He folded the letter and put it in an envelope. He would send it in the diplomatic pouch along with the letters from his mother, Sanyi, Ada, Margit and Éva. As he was about to seal the envelope, he heard a brief clinking noise from the window behind him, next to the conservatory. He turned around and thought he saw a shadow outside. Standing up, he approached the window. It was János! Or was it? Yes! Yes, it was him. What was he doing out in the streets in the middle of the night? He ran out into the hall and opened the main door. János was already there. He grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him inside.

"Are you mad? What on earth are you doing outside at this hour?"

János did not answer him. They went straight down to the basement and went into the kitchen. Károly closed the door; he did not want to wake up their guests, who were sleeping in the servants' rooms, but he was too late. Ada's father had woken up and come over to the kitchen door, his inquisitive eyes moving between Károly and János.

"There is nothing to worry about Monsieur Görös," said János, in a tone of voice that denied the truthfulness of his words. He gulped down the _pálinka_ Károly had handed him.

Monsieur Görös, who loved János as his own son, sat on one of the chairs around the table. "What happened, Jancsi?" he asked with consternation.

"Last night," began János, "last night we woke up to a thunderous noise. Someone was banging on the main door of the building."

For the first time in his life, Károly saw his friend's hands shaking. He poured some more _pálinka_ into his glass, which he finished in one huge gulp.

"My mother ran to the window and told us that there were several Arrow Crossers and two armed policemen downstairs. As is their custom, they had come in the middle of the night and were looking for Jewish deserters or for something to plunder ... I ran to my aunt's room."

Was he trying to keep his voice down or was it that he had no strength left in him? It truly burdened Károly's heart to see him like this. János continued. He had gone into the room where his aunt slept with her daughter and grandchildren, and lay face down on the bed, pulling the quilt over him. His aunt had helped her grandchildren Petra and Izsák lie down on top of János. "I could feel my breath shortening under the quilt. It was dead silent in the house. Then the door to our flat was flung open, and the place was full of shouting voices. I heard my mother yell, and then someone fell down. The thumping of the boots on the wooden floor were echoing in my brain. My heart skipped a beat every time I heard a drawer pulled open or the door of a wardrobe hit against a wall. Petra and Izsák were shivering on top of me. At long last, I heard the door of our room open, probably with a kick. I could guess that they had started to search the room, a search that seemed to go on and on. I was tightening up at the thumping sound of something thrown on the floor or at the deafening shriek of shattered glass. Then someone approached the bed. I could hear his heavy breathing. He started to poke around the bed with, probably, a truncheon. The children lay motionless on top of me, too scared to make a sound, their little bodies trembling under the sobs they tried to repress. 'There's nothing here. We should go and check the other flats,' said a voice. A few minutes later my mother liberated us. When I finally threw myself into her arms, I felt as if I were no more than a tiny child." His mother had recounted how the policeman who had poked the bed with his truncheon, probably had understood what lay underneath the quilt but had not said anything to the Arrow Cross officers. They had taken away everything they thought worth a few pennies and left after giving his uncle a good thrashing when he had objected to their plundering.

"You must move here, Jancsi. We have plenty of room to accommodate all of you. One of the bedrooms is still unoccupied, and the pantry is unsurprisingly empty. There is also the laundry room that we can use. We'll bring beds, wardrobes, whatever we need, from upstairs."

"I don't think I can convince my mother, but I can no longer stay there. I can't jeopardise their lives."

"I'll talk to our friends in the resistance and immediately prepare your identification papers – and a forged phimosis report so that you can prove you had no other reason than a tight foreskin for your circumcision if you ever get caught in one their trouser inspections, which have become rather frequent lately."

24

On Sunday morning, after hiding in the basement in Rózsadomb for four days, János climbed the stairs, somewhat apprehensively, to a free life as Gusztáv Tisza. His set of documents was ready. Rudi had dug into the files in his office, the office that he had allegedly sold to his mercenary, and prepared a list of his former Christian clients whose age, physical attributes and profession matched János. He had then purchased, through his mercenary, the necessary identification cards and the marriage certificates of those he thought to be the most reliable, whereupon Károly had prepared the work permit, the ration card, the tuberculosis report and the phimosis report of this "distant relative of his who had been forced to live with them due to wartime difficulties." János knew nothing of Rudi's involvement in this undertaking. They had decided not to tell him anything about it in case he decided not to accept it. János was most grateful to Károly and to his friends in the resistance for giving him the chance to live like a decent human being. Károly could not quite figure out the reason why Rudi had been so eager to help someone who had insulted him so much. Was it for the sake of their friendship, however bitter it had become, going back many years? Or was it the satisfaction of proving his power over his fallen rival by giving him a helping hand, despite the sworn competition between them in the undeclared and endless duel over Alex's heart since their early youth? Well, it was not important why. The only thing that mattered now was that János was safe.

Despite all the misery around them, Gizella had not given up on her Sunday luncheons. Although she rarely honoured the lower floors with her presence, she never missed these gatherings; she considered them to be one of the traditions that kept her connection with the past. She liked her table to be crowded, but recently had been complaining that it had become too crowded for her taste since, thanks to Károly, she was obliged to host people she detested. Today, however, she was in rather high spirits as they would be having a feast, in spite of the impossible shortage of food. Yesterday head butler Álmos had heard that they sold meat in a butcher shop on the Pest side and, after having waited for two hours in line, had managed to buy a kilogram of veal chops. They had not had meat for months, and the occasion called for a few bottles of wine – not the wine they occasionally found at the shops, which tasted more like vinegar, but some of the few remaining bottles in their cellar. It was not any of this, however, that had been the reason behind Gizella's exceptionally good mood this Sunday, but something that she found most exhilarating, something that caused her great joy and that she did not spend the least effort to hide: Rudi, the guest she detested the most, had sent his apologies asking their forgiveness as he would not be able to join them due to a business call.

The luncheon started off like a sacred rite, in slow motion. They were eighteen at the table, four being children, and they all took their time to enjoy this rare event, admiring the thin slice of meat on their plates for a few minutes before cutting a tiny piece and inhaling its mouth-watering smell several times. Eventually, they brought it to their mouths and chewed it for a while, unwilling to let go of this coveted pleasure by swallowing it too soon. Their ceremonial meal went on for hours, infrequently interrupted by conversations coloured by Aunt Irén's cheerful laughter, a rather scarce occurrence nowadays. It was towards the end of this gastronomic ritual when they heard a thunderous knock at the front door. Álmos stormed into the dining room, seemingly devoid of all his sangfroid.

"The Gestapo, the police and the gendarmes are at the door, my Lord."

A hair-raising bark joined the deafening sound of the knocks reverberating around the dining room. "All Jews, outside!"

Everyone knew exactly what they were supposed to do in such circumstances, but the panic in the dining room was nevertheless so dense that it made Juli and Dóra start crying. Ada's cousin Ráhel's children Jácob and Rózsi, on the other hand, had nestled in their mother's skirt, from which they had separated themselves with great difficulty only a few hours ago, and were trying to choke back their sobs in the realisation that this was one of those occasions where they needed to remain dead silent. Ada was already up on her feet and ushering Ráhel, her husband and children, whose papers were not ready yet, towards the stairs leading to the basement, where she would be taking them to the secret partition behind the wine cellar. Her aunt and uncle were shaking like leaves, anxiously whispering their doubts about the usefulness of their new identification papers. Károly told them to follow Ada downstairs, since they seemed unable to control their shaking. Sometimes it was the body language that gave people's true identities away. The Nazis had become very good judges of men. Álmos removed the plates, knives, forks and glasses of the six guests and took them to the basement. János, who had not as yet assimilated his new identity as Gusztáv Tisza, had instinctively jumped to his feet and taken a few steps towards the stairs, only to stop short, straighten his back and resume his seat at the table, grabbing his wine glass. Everyone sat around the table as still as marble statues, with their eyes glued on János. Károly noticed the slight shivering of the wine in the glass in his friend's grip. "Speak! Come on, laugh! Do something!" he whispered apprehensively as he raised his arms and moved them like the conductor of an orchestra before he turned to his cousin. "Come on, Sanyi! Talk about hunting. Tell us about Kengyel. Come on, for goodness' sake!"

"Come on, son!" burst out Filip. "It's not the time for silence. Speak!" he growled with all the casual bluntness of a seventy-year old. He then turned to Ada's parents and tactlessly opened a subject that was prone to dispirit everyone even further. "It was Schopenhauer who said, 'The reason we fear death is simply our desire to live, and this is nothing but an animal reaction,' wasn't it? Or am I mistaken? Well, in any case, what I actually wanted to say was ..."

Károly took a deep breath and made for the dining room door, leaving behind Aunt Irén's feigned bursts of laughter, the trembling voice of Aunt Etel, who started telling Gizella that the chestnuts were to be boiled well in milk and lots of vanilla before they were mashed, and the meaningless remarks Gizella made in response. He walked into the hall in quick but unhurried steps, taking great care to adopt a determined and self-assured posture. When he reached the main door, he paused briefly before opening it, raising his eyebrow as high as he could so as to muster the arrogance of a nobleman infuriated by this untimely intrusion into his Sunday family luncheon and impossibly vexed by the misfortune of not having any servants left in his household to answer the door due to this wretched war that had befallen them because of the Germans.

"What do you want? Have you any idea whose door you're rapping at? If you're unable to work out where to look for the Jews, I can readily call someone who might tell you where."

It worked. The Hungarian police officer, standing in front of him, began apologising as he moved back a few paces and continued to do so for some time after Károly had banged the door shut in his face. He peeked through the curtains in one of the windows on both sides of the main door and watched the police officers pound on the door of the mansion across the street. A few minutes later the whole household was lined up in their front garden. He could see from their eyes and from the way they tightly held each other's trembling hands and hugged their children that it was not only the young who were frightened. One of the police officers ordered them to go back into the house to pack their bags and be back in no more than ten minutes. Each one of them was allowed to take a small suitcase, which should contain nothing other than a few pieces of clothing and some dry food such as a piece of bread. Fifteen minutes later they had walked out of sight, probably on their way to a yellow starred building.

Upon his return to the dining room, Károly's heart sank when he saw János still sitting motionless, with his wine glass tightly clenched between his fingers. He wondered how many more Sunday luncheons they would be able to have together.

25

The following Sunday Károly could not join the luncheon at home as he had been summoned to attend an important meeting at the legation. The latest developments were devastating. In the last two months, the Hungarian gendarmes, in cooperation with Eichmann's Special Team _Sonderkommando_ and other SS officials, had deported the entire Jewish population from the countryside. It was known that most of these people had been sent to the concentration camp in Auschwitz-Birkenau in German-occupied Poland. The rumour had it that, very soon, they would be deporting the two hundred thousand Jews living in Budapest as well.

When Károly arrived at the legation, the meeting had not yet begun. He went to his office to go through the documents left on his desk, which included a copy of the _New York Times_ with a note attached to its twelfth page. It was the translation of an article about the deportation of four hundred thousand Hungarian Jews. A tiny article on the twelfth page! The first page was filled with the problems encountered during the 4th of July Independence Day celebrations. He angrily crumpled up the paper and flung it aside.

A few minutes later he was told that the meeting was about to begin. Walking into the conference room, he noticed some new faces, probably people from outside the legation. A woman of about forty was sitting on one of the chairs around the table closer to the fireplace. Her brown eyes shone through her round bone-framed glasses accentuating the roundness of her face surrounded by her dark chestnut hair, which she had pulled up in a low chignon. She was fidgeting with the tiny round black buttons of her grey cardigan, while every now and then she straightened the already pristinely pressed collars of her white shirt. She leaned over and said something to the priest seated opposite her. The priest's face softened into a smile, contrasting with the serious expression on his face and the harsh look in his eyes. Károly turned his eyes to the three men standing in front of the window. One of them, a man with a large frame, who was rather plump and sullen-faced, was listening most attentively to the young man next to him talking animatedly while moving his hands and arms about. "I'm neither a fascist nor an enemy of fascism. I'm simply an enemy of the Nazis." The young man's appearance, with his jet-black hair meticulously combed back with brilliantine and his perfect suit, denied that there was a war going on. He took out a starched white handkerchief and blew his bony nose before turning to the third man, a man in his fifties who was gazing out the window. He said something, tapping his back, which was most self-assuredly straight. The three men walked towards the table.

Károly introduced himself to each of these new faces, shaking their hands. As he heard who they were, he wondered what he was doing in this meeting. Why had they summoned an insignificant legation employee like him? Those sitting around the table included diplomats from the legations of Switzerland, Spain and Poland, the key figures of the Christian organisations who had proved their courage in helping the Jews and gained the respect of the entire world.

The ambassador entered the room with a small, light-framed man, whom Károly did not know. Before taking his seat at the head of the table, he gestured to his guest to be seated at the other end, opposite him. The small-framed man bowed his head in greeting to everyone, with a timid smile, and quietly took his appointed place.

The ambassador cleared his throat and announced the good news that, upon Horthy's orders, the deportations had stopped as of this morning, and a train carrying sixteen hundred Jews to Auschwitz had returned to Budapest. "It goes without saying that Horthy's philanthropy is based not on his affection for the Jews but rather on more intricate plans. After the Normandy landing, it has been getting clearer by the day that the Allies will soon be victorious. Hitler's promise for the return of all the territories Hungary lost through Trianon has no value anymore. Horthy doesn't intend to remain on Germany's side. He's seeking a separate ceasefire with the Allies."

The man who had introduced himself as Giorgio Perlasca, a Spanish gentleman of Italian origin, blew his nose again. Henryk Slawik, the Polish gentleman, raised his eyebrow as he condescendingly turned his sullen face towards the reckless owner of the starched white handkerchief trying to interrupt such an important speech.

"As the prospects for an Axis military victory dim," the ambassador carried on, "the Nazis are getting more determined to complete the Final Solution. The concentration camps are working at full capacity. The Allies, on the other hand, are powerless to put a stop to this massacre raging behind the enemy lines until a complete military triumph is secured. Therefore, it has been decided to look for a volunteer, for someone who can penetrate into where Allied aircraft and tanks can't, someone who will help put a stop to this merciless Nazi death machine." The ambassador extended his hand towards the small-framed man sitting silently across the table. "We think Raoul is the perfect man for the task. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce Raoul Wallenberg."

Károly had heard the name before but could not remember where or when. He had been appointed as the Third Secretary to the head of Department C of the Swedish Legation in Budapest. Coming from a wealthy and well-respected Swedish family, he was the sole heir of the well-established Wallenberg financial empire. His family name and strong political contacts were expected to provide him with a certain level of protection. As a man who had proven his courage and resourcefulness, he had been approached by the American War Refugee Board and the Swedish government to set up a team in Budapest. He had accepted the offer and arrived three days ago.

"Initially," Raoul started, in a calm and hardly audible voice, without leaving his seat, "in line with the instructions of the Swedish Foreign Affairs Ministry, we shall be issuing _Schutzpass_ for the Jews. This pass looks like the Swedish passport, but is somewhat different than the temporary passports we currently issue. Those who hold these passes will be entitled to diplomatic immunity under the protection of Sweden, which is still a neutral country. We hope that this will help us protect the Hungarian Jews against the Arrow Cross." His brusque sentences and determined tone of voice, betraying an inner strength, sharply contrasted with his small frame and calm disposition. Everyone in the room listened attentively, not only because he was speaking in a very low voice but also because of his serious demeanour, which accentuated the importance of what he was saying. "German and Hungarian authorities evaluate the validity of a document on the basis of how ostentatious the symbols and signatures on it are before deeming it to be official. Therefore, we had them printed in yellow and blue, the colours of the Swedish flag, put the Three Crowns of the Swedish coat of arms in the middle and added a lot of numbers, impressive looking stamps, seals and signatures, including that of the ambassador. Of course, this 'official' document has no value whatsoever in relation to international treaties, but we expect it to evoke respect." A vague smile flitted across his stern face before it completely disappeared. "For the moment we have the permission of the government to print fifteen hundred passes. Yesterday I negotiated for another one thousand, and I anticipate I will very shortly be able to scoop up a permit for four thousand five hundred passes. However, we don't need to wait for approval, which will surely follow." He turned to Károly with an expression on his face showing that he had been already briefed on those who would be attending this meeting. "We must print as much as we can as quickly as we can," he said, before turning his eyes to Sister Sára Salkaházi sitting on Károly's left and then to Father Gábor Sztehlo sitting opposite her. "We shall be working in close cooperation with one of the important local resistance groups who will be helping us in our operations, namely, the Boy Scouts. This organisation won't only be giving us a helping hand but it will also act as an intermediary between us and the British, and, therefore, the Americans. The Boy Scouts have a very wide courier system that functions smoothly. They'll be collecting information on strategic targets of military significance such as the German troops, airports and oil refineries, preparing microfilms and delivering them to the Allies. On the other hand, they'll be delivering to us the classified information they receive from British and American intelligence. In all these operations, our contact will be Orion. This, of course, is his code name." His gaze scanned those around the table. "Now," he said, pressing his hands on the table as he stood up. "I need a team to help me. I want you to contact Jewish or non-Jewish people who can be trusted. They will be working for the Swedish Legation. Please note that the Jewish members of the team won't be required to wear the yellow star. The duty of this team will be to distribute the passes to the Jews who need them." He paused briefly to clear his throat. "Since we don't have a military force and can't use violence, our success depends on our courage fuelled by our creativity, our ability to bluff and to intimidate. Any other tactic is bound to meet with crushing defeat. The Germans and the Arrow Crossers have a soft spot for absolute authority and official status. You should never forget this. Always try to be formal and authoritarian in your encounters." He paused momentarily before he reiterated, "You must be authoritarian!"

Those who did not work at the legation left in the late afternoon after having explained their activities, plans and suggestions, and discussed the areas where they might be useful. Raoul asked the legation personnel left in the conference room as to whom they could suggest for recruitment to the team he planned to set up. A list had to be prepared and necessary checks on the suggested candidates had to be finalised sooner than later. When it was his turn, Károly said, "I can suggest two friends," and gave János's and Rudi's names. Then he repented having suggested Rudi. Was he sure of him? Could he trust him? Of course, he could. He, most likely, would not accept the offer anyhow. Suddenly he remembered where he had heard the name of Raoul Wallenberg.

"I assume you already know Rudolf Takács. He once told me about you, about a shoot he was invited to in your estate in Sweden a couple of years ago."

Raoul hesitated for a moment before saying, "Oh, yes! Yes, of course. Lajos's friend. I remember now. It must have been before the war, if I'm not mistaken."

The following day Károly spoke to János and then to Rudi. He told them about Raoul Wallenberg and the _Schutzpass_ and that they needed reliable friends who could help them in the distribution of these passes.

He talked to János in the morning, who said that he would be most enthusiastically willing to join the team. Despite all that had happened to him over the years, his energy had lost none of its fire, as if it were fuelled by the hatred and anger that simmered deep inside him. He was extremely happy to have found yet another area of work where he could give vent to his dedicated fight against fascism. He said that he would try to convince his mother to have a pass but was certain that she would refuse, saying that she was very proud to be a Hungarian and did not wish to become a Swedish citizen. He thought it would be better if they issued her a pass in any case. His relatives would need some as well, if possible.

In the afternoon Károly met Rudi, whose reaction was very different than János's.

"I don't want a _Schutzpass_ , Károly. I don't see any sense in pinning a yellow star on my chest and attracting the Nazis' attention, saying, 'Look over here! I'm a Jew!' and then showing them my pass. It's far better to be invisible and blend in with the crowd. I'm rather happy as Róbert Tímár and," he paused as an ironic smile appeared on his face, "since I'm not a Jew, I don't need such a pass."

Rudi was right. Actually, it was the same for János. He, as Gusztáv Tisza – a Christian – did not need this pass. "Would you give us a hand then in the distribution of these passes?"

"I don't think I'll have the time, Károly."

"How do you mean you won't have the time? You don't need to work around the clock to distribute them. I can no longer recognise you, Rudi. I can't believe how you can be so passive! You really are a great disappointment. You can't go on living like this. Don't you think you have to take some sort of responsibility in the name of humanity or at least for the sake of those of your own kind, being a Jew?"

"We're rather busy ourselves, old chap," replied Rudi nonchalantly. "We help the orphans who are swept by the war to Budapest to seek refuge. Every day hundreds of them flock into the capital in trucks, horse carts or whatever means they can find. They have no food, no clothes, not even identification cards. We file them in as refugees, have the necessary papers issued, provide them with ration cards for food and let them live in safety – at least for a limited period of time."

Why was he telling him all these things? He must know that Károly knew about all of this. Only liars went into so many unnecessary details. He could not understand him. How could a person like Rudi turn down such a mission? This was something that would not hinder but rather further his activities in his resistance group – if such a group really existed, of course.

26

Lunch should be ready by now, Károly thought, as he walked out of his bedroom and went downstairs. Aunt Etel was in the dining room, standing by the table with her hands clasped in front of her. She was looking at the immaculately starched white linen table cloth and napkins, the porcelain plates carefully placed at equal distances from each other, the three sets of knives and forks lined up on each side of the plates, and the various sizes of glasses standing in their ordained positions, all set to perfection in an effort to make everyone forget about the war, even if for only a few hours. Károly's heart sank at the sight of the proud expression on his aunt's face. It was Sándor's birthday today, his thirty-fifth. Álmos, back from his village after a week's leave, had arrived yesterday, much like an untimely Santa Claus, with a huge fattened duck, a basket of eggs, a demijohn of fresh milk, mushrooms of every colour and shade and two large pots of fresh cream. Preparations went on all evening and throughout the morning, and finally the lunch was ready to be served. The household started to show up in the dining room one by one. Rudi was also invited but had excused himself saying that he had an appointment he could not cancel, and had sent over Sándor's present with his best wishes. Károly thought it rather rude of him not to come, but that was Rudi. It seemed that women did not leave him alone even in wartime. The number of ladies who had lost a husband or a lover to the war and needed consolation must have been increasing from day to day. Károly was rather happy for Rudi although, as Alex's brother, it was odd for him to think like that. The present he had sent was genuinely impressive and more than enough to serve as an excuse for his absence. When the theatre season had started, he had purchased two season tickets for the opera and now had sent Sándor two tickets for tonight's performance, a much more exciting occasion for Aunt Etel than it was for Sándor, who in turn, was happy to see his mother delighted. "I suppose that it's not so much _Tosca_ but the pastries from the Gerbeaud Patisserie offered free of charge between the acts that excite Mother," Sándor had remarked, seeing Etel's reaction to the gift.

A few minutes after they settled in their places around the table, Álmos bent over to Károly's ear and whispered that the runner from the legation had arrived and wished to talk to him. The boy told Károly that he and János were expected at Raoul's flat on Üllői Avenue immediately. Suppressing their rabid appetites, they left the table accompanied by a few disappointed comments from Aunt Etel.

Raoul, who was supposed to return to his country a month earlier, was still in Budapest. These last few days, he had been staying in one of the buildings of the legation on Üllői Avenue. Their team, which had initially consisted of forty people, now had four hundred members. So far, they had distributed five thousand _Schutzpasses_. Thanks to Raoul's efforts, the Hungarian government had classified the holders of these passes as Swedish citizens. Adolf Eichmann had left Hungary. It was known that Horthy was after a separate ceasefire with the Allies. Hopes were high, and people were carrying tentatively optimistic smiles on their faces.

Raoul had summoned only the ten group heads, who constituted the core of the team. Six of these heads were Károly's friends from Tungsram. Raoul's face, which hardly betrayed his emotions, showed signs of apprehension today.

"I'm still in Budapest because, in the last few weeks, events have taken an important turn. We all know that Horthy is seeking a separate ceasefire with the Allies. He's hoping for an intervention by the British and the Americans against the siege of Budapest before Hungary falls prey to the Soviets. We've been informed that a fortnight ago he contacted the Anglo-Americans and asked them to help Hungary break away from the Axis Forces. The British said that they could do nothing about it and that he should talk to the Soviets, whereupon Horthy sent his representatives to Moscow."

Raoul was scribbling nonsensical shapes on a piece of paper. "The meaning of all this has only one logical explanation: The Allies will occupy Hungary to push the German troops out of the country. The Nazis, on the other hand, won't give up their ambitions on Hungary so readily. Therefore, we do expect to have a lot of action here in the coming days. We're afraid that the Germans might launch a large-scale massacre before they leave." He threw his pen on the table in a terse gesture, unexpected from his calm demeanour, and raised his head to look at each one of the ten people around the table in turn, fixing his eyes on theirs. "I want you to get your groups together. Everyone should be ready for action. We might be required to accelerate our rescue operations." He lit a cigarette and continued, narrowing his eyes as if he were disturbed by the smoke. "I need at least thirty buildings on the Pest side." Without taking his eyes off the questioning faces around him, he went on to say that they would hang Swedish flags at the entrances of these buildings and declare the area beyond their thresholds Swedish territory, after which he planned to use these buildings to accommodate those holding _Schutzpasses_. He would ask, if need be, for the help of other neutral countries and of the Red Cross. "You need to contact your reliable friends and check if they have any buildings they can let us use for this purpose. We must transfer the Jewish population to these safe houses sooner rather than later. In fact, immediately! This week. The situation is much more dangerous than it looks. Horthy is playing with fire." His voice was too calm and seemingly listless for the critical nature of what he was saying, or for the perils of the task they were about to undertake. "Our sole weapons are intelligence, decisive action and courage, my friends. The victory we shall be seeking is, on the other hand," he paused as if to underline the significance of what he was about to say, "the deliverance of humanity."

Raoul was giving his instructions to everyone in person. Those who had been given their orders left the room one after the other. Finally, there were only Károly and János left in the room.

"Károly! János! The wireless set that arrived this morning in the diplomatic pouch is to be delivered to the Boy Scouts." He pressed his hand to the table and stood up. "You're expected to attend midnight mass at the Szikla Church again. Father Soos will be waiting for you."

The Szikla Church, secluded in the labyrinth-like winding alcoves of the caves on Gellért Hill, was only a few hundred metres from the building of the Swedish Legation on Gyopár Street.

"As usual, you'll find your priest's frocks at number ten."

The fathers of the Szikla Church rented the first floor of the mansion at number ten, further down on Gyopár Street. On paper, it was used as a guesthouse for the priests visiting Budapest, but in fact it was where Raoul held some of his secret meetings and where they stocked some of their materials. More importantly, however, it was where they hid the Allied prisoners of war rescued by the resistance with the help of the priests. The priests also allocated the caves of the temple to the Boy Scouts for their meetings and acted as intermediaries for the transfer of information and materials between the Swedish Legation and the Boy Scouts.

"That's also where you'll find the brown case," continued Raoul, before tapping János's shoulder and adding with a smile, "I hope you don't mind becoming a priest for a few hours."

Jànos and Károly left the building.

"Shall we meet at the legation around nine and move on from there? First, I need to go and talk to Rudi. I'm sure he has a flat somewhere he might let us use, or at least knows someone who might do."

They had taken a few steps towards Kálvin Square when they froze at the sound of a deafening blast that shook the earth beneath their feet. In fright, they threw themselves behind the dustbins lined up on the pavement. One of the apartment buildings ahead of them had been hit by a bomb. The wall on its left side had completely collapsed. The road was covered in bricks, pieces of furniture and human body parts. Károly smelled that same odour, the bitter and sour odour of burnt human flesh. He pressed his arm against his nose. The same sound, the screams, the moaning, the groaning, all followed by the ululating siren of the fire engine. For a month now the bombings had increased considerably, but he still found it impossible to get used to certain odours or sounds. They took a few hesitant steps away from the safety of the dustbins. A wave of heat hit their faces as flames rushed out of the broken window of a building that had managed to remain erect. Half of a bed vacillated back and forth on the edge of the uppermost floor before it finally fell down and went to pieces on the street. The iron rods sticking out of concrete walls, broken glass all over the place, pieces of wooden slats hanging down, people screaming ... That's how hell must be, thought Károly, only to correct his thought a second later, "Both hell and heaven are here on this earth."

When Károly arrived at Rudi's flat, his father György Takács told him that his son was not at home but was expected to be back soon, adding how happy he would be to have Károly join them for dinner, which they would be having with their "landlord" Vilmos. Károly was sorry that he would not be able to stay for dinner, but he said that he would certainly wait for Rudi.

Less than an hour later they heard the key turn at the door. Károly jumped to his feet and dashed into the entrance hall. He froze at the sight of what he saw. Rudi was in such a state that he would have hardly recognised him, had he passed by him on the street. He had a long black leather trench coat, which was soiled. His right hand was bandaged with a piece of dirty, bloodstained rag; his hair was dishevelled; his face was all in sweat.

"I can't believe a woman could do this to you, Rudi."

"You're too optimistic, old chap. Or your imagination is too wild," Rudi snapped without even a trace of a smile.

"Caught in action, were you? A jealous husband?"

"Not quite."

"Would you please come this way, Monsieur de Kurzón," said Vilmos at the door to the drawing room. Rudi had already disappeared into the corridor leading to the back of the house.

Half an hour later Rudi – the Rudi Károly knew – entered the drawing room. His right hand was dressed in a clean bandage. Károly said that he wanted to talk to him on an important matter and was rather pressed for time, whereupon they went straight into the library. Rudi, after drinking two glasses of _pálinka_ one right after the other, listened most attentively to what Károly had to say and told him that he would talk to a friend of his to whom he had sold his apartment building on Pannonia Street. He promised to make sure that the building was allocated to the use of the legation before asking, rather apprehensively, "What will you be doing with your friends in Rózsadomb? You're putting yourself and your family at great risk, Károly."

"I can't throw them out into the street. We need to find them work and accommodation before I can let go of them."

"A friend's mother is on the board of a couple of charities. She has very strong connections and can help us find work in these charities, at least for some of the women. They might work at a pensioner's house, for instance, and this way they would also have a place to sleep. I'll talk to my friend right away and let you know how many posts we can create. Are their papers ready?"

"Yes, they are. You need not worry about any of that," said Károly with great relief. "Actually, you need not worry about us either. The fascist thugs dare not search my house. Even if they did, they wouldn't be able to find any Jews there. The basement is like a labyrinth, you know. By the way, I must admit that I found your new dress code rather impressive."

"Bear in mind one thing, my dear friend. Black always invokes fear and respect. When you want to convince someone that you have authority or the power that you actually don't possess, wear black – a long black leather trench coat for instance – and you'll be surprised at the things you can make them do."

27

Károly met János at the legation building on Gellért Hill before nine. They went over a few last-minute details, after which they walked to the mansion at number ten to prepare themselves for that night's mission.

"Have you talked to Rudi?"

"He said that he would use his connections to ensure that an apartment building on Pannonia Street is allocated to the use of the legation."

"He's finally decided to be of some use then, has he?"

"You must move your family to one of these safe houses, Jancsi."

János remained silent for a few seconds before he said, with much consternation, that his mother would not agree to leave her house. "Besides, they're Swedish citizens now. And, most importantly, the Soviets are at our doorstep." He pulled the cap of his priest's frock over his head and very confidently continued, "We shall soon be free, my friend. Liberation is very near. Tomorrow we'll be reviving the Hungarian Communist Party."

They silently left the mansion in the protection of their frocks. Károly noticed that he was holding the brown leather case far more tightly than the circumstances required. He forced himself to relax his fingers. The leather case contained a B2, Type 3, Mark II radio transmitter, one of the most reliable and efficient radio transmitters developed by the British. It was the most important communication device between the resistance groups and Allied Headquarters, with coverage of one thousand five hundred kilometres, and could be fitted in a case not larger than one span of Károly's hand in width and two spans in length. The punishment for being caught with this small and seemingly insignificant case was not insignificant at all: death by instant execution or after torture.

It took them less than ten minutes to reach the Szikla Church. They both knew very well what they were supposed to do during the night mass, which they had attended many times before. As soon as they entered the temple, Father Soos met them as usual and accompanied them to the altar, after which he left them. Károly placed the brown leather case under the cloth draped over the altar. They crossed themselves. There was no one around to notice that János did not cross himself correctly. A few minutes later a priest appeared in the archway on the left and hurried towards them, taking his place on the other side of the altar. He crossed himself. Károly did not know this new priest who, with his pale complexion, looked extremely suited to his role. Perhaps he was a real man of God after all.

"Isn't Legionnaire here?" Károly asked.

"He's inside," said the pale-faced priest, as he slid the small Bible over the altar towards Károly. "This is to be delivered to the Diplomat. The information he needs is in Luke 10:19. Tell him that Uncle sends his kindest regards," he said and, bringing his hands together against his chest, continued, "Luke 10:19 says, 'Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy; and nothing shall by any means hurt you.'"

The sound of their breathing echoed on the uneven walls of the silent cave. After a few minutes another priest, a well-built man, came through the archway. It was the Legionnaire. He hastily crossed himself in front of the statue of a crucified Jesus Christ and moved silently towards Uncle. "Orion is here," he whispered, leaning towards his ear. They took the brown leather suitcase and disappeared behind the archway.

Károly placed the Bible in the inner pocket of his frock, and they left the temple without looking back.
February 2009  
Budapest

Rüya was gazing at the statue of the Virgin Mary placed in one of the niches on the walls of the cave housing the Szikla Church. The Virgin's eyes, almost alive under the light illuminating her head dolefully tilted to one side, were fixed on the crowd of people disturbing the peace and quiet of the church. She must have understood that neither the priests who had passed through the archway underneath her feet before disappearing into the depths of the cave a few seconds ago nor the two young priests who were leaving the church right now were real priests.

Other clergymen walked in through the archway on the other side of the altar for the next scene. Rüya thought them to be really awkward in their frocks, especially Jeremy. His every gesture betrayed that he was not a priest but an aristocrat. As a matter of fact he was neither a priest nor an aristocrat but an actor.

"Horthy asked the Anglo-Saxons for a separate ceasefire," said an actor playing the role of a priest. "The British, on the other hand, said that they could do nothing and that Horthy should talk to the Soviets."

This morning Rüya had gathered all her courage and, trying very hard to leave behind all the preposterous thoughts that had been gnawing at her brain for days, had come to the set before sun-up. She desperately hoped that the six days that had passed since that inauspicious day at Kengyel would prove to be long enough to erase the effect of her shameful discourse from Paul's memory. Her hopes, however, were shattered the moment she stepped onto the set, when Paul scolded her like a child before she could even ask him how he had been.

"Well, well! We shall, at long last, be able to learn the views of Her Royal Highness Rüya, now that we're honoured with her presence. The whole team is utterly delighted that you have finally completed your research and recovered from your illness."

After an exchange of views on the script that lasted no longer than fifteen minutes, during which Rüya tried extremely hard to keep her mind on the subject at hand, she decided that it was Paul's grief that had provoked his sarcasm and, risking another shower of insults from him, offered her condolences. She asked him how he had been and then tried to express her sympathy by telling him that she knew very well what an intolerable source of pain it was to lose a loved one in the family, before she finally stammered that he should be strong. All she got in return from him was an ice-cold smile and a very dry, "Thank you."

And then his frighteningly cold stare ... a cold war ... hours of silence. She hated cold wars. She just wanted to get out of there. The cave, the priests, everything was so depressing. What are you doing here, Rüya? Are you here to make a further fool of yourself? Get out of here! Go! Go to Eger. Go to Kengyel a few more times. Cry some more. That'll do you good.

I'm in a cave. Pitch-black. Freezing. Where is the way out? I can't see it. I don't even know if there is a way out of this cave. This is a weird dream. A very lonely dream. A dream doomed to be lonely for all eternity.

She suddenly felt Paul's gaze on her. He was staring at her with an expression on his face that might be ironic or angry but definitely not cold, an expression she could not quite interpret. What do you want of me, Paul? What do you want me to do? Leave me if you will or if you won't, then please reach out to me. Talk to me. Please help me.

Paul came over as though he had read her mute supplication. "Silence is golden, Rüya, but not always. You're great at speaking out when you need to remain silent and keeping mum when you need to speak. I really do wonder what I have done to deserve the distance you're putting between us. I'm beginning to think that you're only a friend when the sun is shining."

Me? Me, putting distance between us? Why don't you take a look at yourself, Paul? At your own conduct? "I had no intention of leaving you at a time like this, Paul, and I still don't. It's only that you seem to be in need of some quiet time on your own or at least a quiet time away from me."

"You don't understand, do you? You don't understand me at all." Paul took off his frock and sat down on the chair next to Rüya. "Jealousy," he began in an intimidatingly solemn tone of voice, more like a priest preparing himself for a sermon, "is the most clumsy and ugly way to show your love, Rüya. It's rather shocking that an artist like you can't be more creative than that."

"It's the shortest way to lose the one you love," thought Rüya. "The cold war is over, I guess," she said. "Now it's the time for heavy bombardment, is it?"

"I don't want to fight, Rüya. Do please pack away your bow and silver arrows and stop playing Artemis. There is no need to turn love into a tug of power. Love shouldn't be lived on a battleground."

"It's rather surprising to hear this from a warrior like you."

"You're excellent at pushing away the people you love. Why don't you try and show your emotions? It might prove to be more useful."

Stop it, Paul. Stop it right there. "You're too sure of yourself. Too sure that you're loved. Please don't be so sure." What on earth are you saying, Rüya? Stop this nonsense. Shut your mouth right now.

"Paul! You're on," said the director, his voice echoing on the walls of the cave.

Paul stood up brusquely. His eyes were stone-cold again and his face had tightened in a frigid expression. "You know what, Rüya?" he blurted out coldly. "At this particular moment in time, I don't have the energy to get involved in a verbal duel, nor do I have the spirit to decipher the deeper meaning behind your words, or the stamina to decode you. My grief is far too painful for all that. Can you understand me? Can you at least make an effort to do that? Or are you still lost in your own world of dreams?"
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Four  
1944

28

They had all gathered in the dining room for breakfast. Even Gizella had come down for some unknown reason. The children, miraculously capable of forgetting about their suffering from one day to the next, radiated cheerful energy to those around them, reminding everybody of the vestal beauty of a new day not yet tainted. The sun was shining in all its glory, without a cloud in the sky, but the cold breath of autumn reigned in places not beatified by the solar bliss. A myriad of questions kept crowding in Károly's mind as he heard the rumbling of the guns of the Red Army, only eighty kilometres south of Budapest now. Was their nightmare initiated by the Nazi occupation finally coming to an end? Should Hungary be waiting for the Red Army with open arms? Or was it the beginning of another nightmare waiting at their doorstep?

The national anthem started to play on the radio.

"I hope that means good news," whispered Gizella anxiously.

Horthy's voice echoed on the walls.

" _I have the obligation to undertake every step possible to avoid further unnecessary bloodshed. I have decided to safeguard Hungary's honour even against her former ally, which, instead of supplying the promised military help, meant finally to rob the Hungarian nation of its greatest treasure, its freedom and independence. I informed a representative of the German Reich that we were about to conclude a military armistice with our former enemies and to cease all hostilities against them. I hope to secure the continuity of our nation's life in the future and the realisation of our peaceful aims."_

"Is he joking?" said János, apparently delighted at what he had heard even though he seemed to doubt its truthfulness. "Are we supposed to believe him? Or is he trying to fool the Russians?" he continued as his eyes suddenly darkened again.

"At long last, His Blessed Self found the courage to do something. However, it's far too late now. We can't take Transylvania back, can we?" grunted Filip.

"To safeguard Hungary's honour, my foot!" jutted in Ada's father irritably. "He has no other desire than to be on the winning side. He's not blind. It's obvious that Germany will soon lose the war. It already has. Could there be any other explanation for such an anti-Semite as Horthy seeking a separate peace with the communists?"

Ada was hugging and kissing the children. She then flung her arms around Károly. "I don't care what his intention is. The war is over. It's finished. And that's what counts."

Everyone kissed each other in celebration before going outside, needing to share their happiness with others. The streets were full of people, some crying, others screaming in joy, yet others jumping around and hopping along in exultation, tearing the yellow stars off their chests. Everyone was in the highest of spirits. We're free, they shouted. Free at last. We made it. We survived. Thank you God, thank you.

They kept making announcements on the radio.

" _Keep your radio sets tuned in and wait for further announcements."_

The telephone was continually ringing. Shortly József and Éva arrived with their son Teodor. They opened one of the last bottles of champagne left in their cellar. Álmos was carrying whatever he could find in the kitchen into the dining room in an effort to prepare a table fit for such an occasion.

József exultantly raised his glass, inviting everyone to drink in honour of this very day. "October 15. I declare this day the Day of Independence, dear friends."

Towards noontime, they heard the national anthem being played on the radio again. This time, however, the voice that echoed on the walls of the house in Rózsadomb had a different ring to it.

" _Hungarian brothers and sisters! Horthy might have thought that he would get away from the noble obligation of loving and protecting our sacred fatherland. We, however, do cherish our country and readily shed our blood to defend it against enemy occupation. Miklós Horthy has been arrested and is no longer at the head of our state. The head of our government as of now is our great chief Ferenc Szálasi, the leader of our National Socialist Party._

We are now making our first announcement: As of this day, the Jews are ordered to stay inside their marked houses twenty-four hours a day. Each house marked with a yellow star shall be kept under strict surveillance by a guard to ensure compliance with this order."

The cheerful mood in the house died instantly. The Arrow Cross had seized power in a Nazi-backed coup. It was their response to Horthy's attempt to pull Hungary out of its alliance with the Axis Powers and broker a ceasefire by signing a separate peace treaty with the Allies.

"It's the end for us all," lamented Ada's mother, slapping her knees in desperation. "They'll send us all into exile. Please God, please let me die. Please take my soul and save me from all this suffering."

"Don't speak like that, Mother. Please. It's not very nice for the children to hear what you're saying. Please. Everything will be fine. Please don't worry."

They heard a knock on the door. It was one of the runners saying that Károly and János were expected at the legation building on Gyopár Street as soon as possible. They rushed out and, taking their bicycles, set off, pedalling as fast as they could. The silence on the empty streets was intimidating. All they could hear was the barely audible sound of the rumblings of an approaching thunderstorm.

The meeting at the legation began in a funereal mood. Raoul described, in a few words, how the Germans had taken Horthy into "protective custody" and, threatening to kill his son who had been kidnapped by the Gestapo, made him approve the premiership of Szálasi before sending him into exile in Germany. He spoke without a pause, explaining how the police and the gendarmes acted according to the instructions from the fascists and how the Arrow Crossers ignored the _Schutzpasses_ , viciously attacking the Jews in the streets. "We've heard that they shot a few people and threw them into the Danube."

Endré came with the news from the Pest side, saying that there were German tanks lined up along Andrássy Boulevard, and recounted an atrocious sight he had witnessed in one of the squares. "Young boys, no older than fourteen or fifteen years old, wearing civilian clothes with Arrow Cross bands on their arms, approached a jam-packed tramcar with a savage expression in their eyes and rifles in their hands, rifles obviously too heavy for them to carry. 'All Jews out!' they yelled and then dragged every Jew out, pushing them with their rifle butts. People were lined up on the roadside, pressing their hands to their mouths agape in terror, trying to stifle the screams that might escape. Unable to do anything, they impotently watched all that was going on. Yet on some faces I saw contentment, which they didn't even try to hide."

"Friends," said Raoul raising his voice. "We must be on the move day and night. Those of us who get caught shouldn't expect any help; those of us who do a good job shouldn't expect any gratification. We need to summon all the members of our team in the shortest time possible. Each one of us will go to every house within his or her area according to our plan, and help the Jews move to the safe houses. Try to make them understand that they have no time to pack and can only take their most valuable things. Our capacity is four thousand people, and we can't use the available space for anything other than people. Those who have completed their missions will help other groups." He looked at Károly. "We need to prepare as many signboards as we can before tomorrow morning. We need to hang them on the façades of our safe houses. Get some other members to help you and get going right away. Prepare as many as you can. Swedish Library, Swedish Research Centre, Swedish Cultural Centre and the like. Anything you can think of, really."

There were no more than fifty people there at the legation, and they needed to contact three hundred and fifty other team members. Everyone, including Raoul, got on their bicycles and spread around the city. Károly hoped to be able to prepare at least twenty signboards and, taking several others whom he trusted to be more talented than the rest, went down to the basement to get going on his task.

Next morning he woke up to the sound of air raid sirens. He had slept for less than two hours on a blanket he had spread on the floor after having prepared twenty-one signboards. Soviet and American planes were bombarding the city. Buildings, roads, tram lines were being destroyed. The news came that the Arrow Cross units, like Satan at the Battle of Armageddon before he was thrown into the bottomless pit, were storming into the houses on Teleki Square, forcing people out and shooting those who resisted on the spot. From the early hours of the morning, Raoul started having over-sized Swedish flags and the signs Károly had prepared hung in the doorways of these buildings, which he called "the safe houses," declaring them Swedish territory with diplomatic immunity. That night, János moved his mother and his relatives to a building on Pannonia Street, the building at number fifteen with a signboard on its front wall that said Swedish Library.

Two days after the coup Eichmann returned to Budapest. An intelligence report from Orion said that he had arrived with a demonically victorious expression on his face and the instructions to finalise his unfinished task to eliminate the Jews living in Budapest. His initial plan was to transfer, in two separate groups, fifty thousand people from Budapest to Austria and then to Germany.

The Arrow Cross units lost no time in implementing the orders from Eichmann. At five o'clock on Friday morning they started to storm into the yellow-starred houses and the safe houses, disregarding the fact that they were under the protection of the Swedish Legation, and took away every male between the ages of sixteen and sixty. Their claim was that they needed a labour force to build fortifications around Budapest against the approaching Red Army.

Raoul and his team continued to secure protective passes and shelter for the helpless people. Every day they carried food, blankets and medicine to the safe houses. In collaboration with the Red Cross, they converted one of the safe houses into a hospital and another into an orphanage, set up a soup kitchen in the basement of one of the legation buildings on Üllői Avenue and used buildings to hide clothing and medicine in different parts of the city. Károly and János ran from one safe house to another, trying to save the Jews taken away by the Arrow Cross. Having no time to go back to Rózsadomb, they sometimes slept in a basement for a few hours, sometimes curled up in a corner in a soup kitchen for a short nap or passed out on the floor of the orphanage at the break of day; sometimes they did not sleep at all. What gave them the strength to shoulder all the difficulties and perils involved in what they did was to see how their efforts gave these hopeless people some encouragement, a tiny flicker of courage and, most vitally, a chance to survive.
February 2009  
Budapest

Rüya was forcing herself to listen to the boring comments of the young woman sitting next to her, whose name she could not even remember. She desperately needed to take shelter in the numbing conversation of others, whether she liked it or not. They had been in this cave since the crack of dawn, and, although she had been trying not to be left alone ever since, she had been feeling, in some perverse way, incrementally lonelier. Those around her and their conversations were nothing more than white noise, interfering with her thoughts rather than subduing them.

The cold war between her and Paul had been going on for hours, occasionally kindled into a full-fledged battle royal by sporadic showers of salvos. She could not understand him at all. It was beyond her to decrypt the meaning behind his sometimes frigid, sometimes blazing eyes. He was playing with Rüya, like a cat plays with a mouse. She could no longer figure out what she should be doing. Should she show him some sympathy or should she stay away from him? The last thing she wanted to do was to be running after someone who did not fancy her at all. Come off it, Rüya! Stop being so silly. Concentrate on your work, girl. Don't you forget why you're here.

They were about to shoot a new scene.

"Scene 93, Take 4."

"Let me introduce Father. He is the new Passport Control Officer at the consulate in Istanbul, representing the group that is commissioned to set Europe ablaze. He's been through Lord Montagu's Palace House. He finished his training at Beaulieu a few weeks ago." The priest, who was obviously of noble blood, was introducing the new arrival.

One of the tall priests cut the introduction ceremony short and began briefing the others on the latest intelligence report he had received. "We've been informed that two days ago Stalin gave Marshal Malinovsky the go-ahead to occupy Budapest, and this morning the Soviet troops entered Szolnok. Within a few days the reconnaissance forces are expected to reach the outskirts of the capital. High-ranking Nazi officers are already withdrawing to the west with truckloads of plunder they pillaged from the deserted Jewish houses. They'll try to remobilise the forced labour battalions to the west of the country."

I'm still in this pitch-black cave that chills my heart, and I still can't see the way out of it. My dream is gradually turning into an oppressive nightmare.

" _Do you feel trapped? Are you stuck in knee-deep mud in murky waters, struggling to find a way out? Can't you do anything but daydream about a future when you will finally see the sun and find happiness? Have some courage. Have a heart. Open the door to your emotional world. You're not doomed to be alone. What sentences you to loneliness is your own self that has become a slave to your fears. It's up to you not to let the past repeat itself."_

Thank Heavens! This is my sister's voice. Or is it?

Rüya started at an unexpectedly nervous burst of laughter from the small-framed priest.

"Thanks to Eichmann, I have a new nickname now: the Dog of the Jews! Yes, my dear friends, we're rather successful as a pack of dogs. So far, we've distributed eight thousand _Schutzpasses_. As of yesterday our passes are deemed to be valid again. In the last two weeks, we've moved more than fifteen thousand Jews to the Swedish libraries, Swedish research institutes, Swedish chambers of commerce and Swedish cultural centres, all of which have been mushrooming at an incredible speed lately. One hundred and fifty Jewish people are living in the Swedish Library on Pannonia Street alone. The number of our safe houses increases by the day as the legations of other neutral countries take action following our example."

"Cut!"

The young woman sitting next to Rüya began talking again, either about another scenario or about a love affair she had had. It had no chance of becoming a movie if it were a scenario, or of having a happy end if it were a love affair. Rüya could no longer take it. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked and left her without waiting for her answer. She walked to the coffee machine to prepare herself a cup, although she had no desire for caffeine at that moment.

A hand touched her waist.

"To lose the person you value the most, to lose that person in an irrevocable way ... Do you have any idea what an intolerable pain such loss evokes, Rüya?"

It was Paul. He was behind her with his arm around her waist, his fingers pressing too tightly against her.

"I do, Paul. I do have a very good idea how it feels," she thought, turning her head towards him. She meant to hold Paul's hand, which had already moved away. "I understand you perfectly," she mumbled, facing him. Paul's eyes were frighteningly serious. Or was it hatred that she saw in his stare? Yes, it actually was. He hated Rüya, he really did. But then why, Paul, why are you still here, talking to me?

"Then I implore you, Rüya, to stop playing with my feelings and let me concentrate on my work."

Rüya let out an involuntary laugh full of sarcasm. "You seem to mix up who is playing with whom, Paul. You're apparently used to women becoming your slaves. I'm only trying to understand your feelings."

"I don't exactly know where to put you, Rüya."

"In your heart, Paul. Try to put me in your heart," she thought.

"I don't because you can't decide where you want to be put. If, one of these days, you do decide what you desire, I'm sure we'll get on a lot better. For the moment, I'll leave you alone," he said, taking a few steps back before he brusquely turned and walked away.

"I need you to help me, Paul ... to help me express myself."

Paul stopped short and looked back at her. Had he heard what she had said?

He walked back over to her. "Then in that case, you've got to let me into your heart. You don't need to be so scared, you know."
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Four  
1944

29

Károly was waiting for Raoul in the third-floor flat of an apartment building on Üllői Avenue, where Department C of the Legation had moved to recently. Raoul, who had been staying in a different house each night for the last three weeks since the coup to avoid being captured by the Arrow Crossers or by Eichmann, would be sleeping in his private flat here tonight. Károly smiled involuntarily when he saw the cover of the _Pesti Posta_ magazine on the side table. It showed an image of the Prime Minister, Szálasi, with his head turned unnaturally backwards with a caption that read, "Is he coming or going?"

Soon to be an arena for the power struggle between fascism and communism, the beautiful city of Budapest was vitally important for Adolf Hitler. It was the capital of Germany's last ally in Europe and the gateway to Vienna. One of the ways to prevent the Soviets from reaching Berlin was through a strong counter-offensive in Hungary. On the other hand, the Pearl of the Danube was also a highly precious political gem for Josef Stalin. He knew that conquering Budapest and Vienna would increase his bargaining power against the British in the future.

The Arrow Crossers, who felt the cold breath of the Red Army at their necks, continued to treat innocent people like evildoers condemned to burn in hell and devised new ways, each one more monstrous than the other, to hunt them down with the avidity of a pack of hellhounds. The raids on safe houses and the looting had increased tremendously. People were ordered to leave all their valuables in the buckets and bins placed in front of the houses they were forced to vacate. A single one-dollar banknote forgotten in the depths of a pocket, an apology for a golden bracelet overlooked on the wrist of a small child, a golden wedding ring left on a finger where it had been for decades, literally becoming a part of it, provoked a serious threat of being shot. The city was full of rumours of people being taken to the embankment and shot down, so as to fall into the river and be buried unceremoniously in its icy waters.

An intelligence report delivered to the legation said that thousands of people had been gathered since the coup. The day before yesterday they had learned that all able-bodied females between the ages of sixteen and fifty, especially those who knew how to sew, were to be taken away. Károly had immediately thought of János's cousins. _Schutzpass_ was once again valid but there was no guarantee that it would continue to be so. The safe houses were no longer safe. János ought to talk to his relatives, and to his mother in particular, to convince them to move to Rózsadomb. This was the only safe solution at the moment. The basement was crammed with people, but they could surely create some space. Károly thought that he should talk to Rudi about the girl who had arrived yesterday, for he might be able to find her a place in one of the charities. He also needed to talk to Fábián about the poor woman and her two children whom he had squeezed into his over-crowded cellar.

Their friendship with Fábián had come to an end at the beginning of the war when he had joined the Arrow Cross Party. Two years ago he had left the party, saying that he was disappointed in their politics and had lost his faith in the system, but none of his friends had forgiven him, refusing even to see him. Finally a month ago, he had returned to his high-ranking position at the police force. "I want to help those whose lives are at risk," he had said in repentance and used all his contacts, doing everything he could to help the resistance in an effort to prove himself to his old friends. During the last two weeks he had been continually providing Károly with information on important documents classified by the German Headquarters in Budapest.

Károly remembered Fábián once mentioning that he could also provide him with a list of the Hungarian refugees flooding in from Transylvania and saying that Károly, as a Hungarian citizen, had every right to learn if he had any relatives or friends on that list. He should call Fábián and ask for that list as he might use the names of the refugees on it to render further credibility to the forged documents he prepared.

Raoul's secretary entered the waiting room and handed him a note.

" _József V.T.S. – IMMEDIATELY!"_

Józsefvárosi Train Station was swarming with Arrow Cross men, police officers and gendarmes with machine guns. Everyone was trying to find a way to escape from the station while Károly tried to devise a plan to go in. He went to one of the gendarmes and, doing his best to fake a credible Swedish accent in broken Hungarian, said, "I'm from the Swedish Legation. I'm here to see Raoul Wallenberg."

Inside, it looked like the hill of Megiddo; the gendarmes' barking and roaring voices mingled with the pleas of hopeless people screaming, wailing, howling and desperately knocking their fists against the wooden walls of the jam-packed and padlocked wagons. Faces distorted in fright peeked through the small windows blocked with barbed wire. Hundreds more waited in lines or were herded by the Arrow Cross officers, who pushed and shoved them with their rifle butts in an effort to cram a few more onto the already overcrowded train. In one of the wagons, Károly noticed two buckets, an empty one to be used as the toilet and another one filled with water, most probably not potable although it was meant for drinking.

Raoul's Studebaker was parked next to one of the wagons further ahead. His driver was behind the steering wheel, ready to take off immediately if need be. His photographer was in his usual place in the back seat with his camera hidden in the folds of his scarf, trying to take shots of this inhumane occurrence.

Raoul, sitting on his folding chair behind a small table placed on the platform with his black ledger opened in front of him, was shouting towards the crowd, "Swedish citizens, get in line here! Please prepare your passes!" There was not a trace of his calm disposition as he summoned people to the front of the table and, after taking a quick look at their documents, told them to move along and join the crowd behind him. Károly looked at the Hungarian soldiers lined up next to the crowd. When he spotted Izsák among them, he realised, with a shock of pleasure, that the uniforms had been stolen and the soldiers were actually Jewish resistance fighters. Then he saw Raoul beckon him to take his place before he stood up and walked towards the line of people.

"Your name?" he asked the one at the head of the line.

The man murmured something in a hardly audible voice. Raoul turned his head and looked at Károly, a gesture that meant he should pretend to check the black ledger. Károly slid his finger down the list and stopped halfway. "Yes, I've got it."

"Let me see your papers," Raoul ordered, turning back to the man in line.

Taken aback, the poor man started to empty his pockets, looking for a paper he did not have. Finally, not knowing what to do, he pulled out a letter. Raoul threw a cursory glance at the letter and gave it back. "Fine. Move please. Move over there. Next!" One more person joined the crowd behind Károly.

Every now and then Raoul shouted "Rosenbergs" or "Sonensheins" and pulled five or six people out of the line so that he could save as many people as he could before the gendarmes or the Arrow Crossers lost their patience. More often than not, he grabbed the tram passes, driving licenses, letters or ration cards they handed over in place of an identification card. Carefully hiding them from view between his hands, he pretended to check their validity and, without waiting for Károly's alleged confirmation, quickly ushered the perplexed people towards the crowd behind Károly. Those who could not produce anything from their pockets were secretly handed a pass that Raoul produced from his pocket.

A short while later Raoul left the line of people and walked over to Károly. He must have sensed that the gendarmes were about to reach the end of their patience. Taking a handful of _Schutzpasses_ from his briefcase standing on the floor by the table, he gestured to Károly with a slight movement of his hand and hurried away to climb atop one of the locked wagons. "Is there anyone under the protection of Sweden who has lost his or her passport?" he shouted as he shoved a handful of passes through the slats. Indifferent to the objections and threats from the gendarmes, he jumped from one roof to another with the agility of a deer, repeating the same thing on each wagon. "Is there anyone under the protection of Sweden who has lost his or her passport?"

Károly knew exactly what he was supposed to do at this stage. He filled his pockets with as many _Schutzpasses_ as they would take, moved around to the back of the train and started running along the wagons. He heard a few shots. He looked up in panic. When he saw Raoul still leaping from one wagon to the other, he continued running and finally jumped onto the step of one of the wagons close to the head of the train. Raoul's photographer was doing the same thing a little bit further ahead. He pushed all his weight onto the rusty bolt that held the door shut. It would not yield. He pushed with greater force. Suddenly the bolt gave in. He slid back the long door as noiselessly as he could muster. Men, women, children, the very young and the very old surged out of the wagon, blinking their eyes momentarily blinded by the bright light after the darkness of the wagon.

"Quick! Move! Move quickly!" Károly urged in a strong whisper. Perhaps a hundred people jumped out of the wagon. He told them to run quietly to join the crowd behind Raoul's table. He then rushed to the next wagon. As he was struggling to open the bolt, he heard Raoul shout, "I demand that those with _Schutzpasses_ be released!" followed by the sound of guns being charged. Upon Raoul's words, Izsák and his friends dressed as Hungarian soldiers must be acting their part in this crucial performance. A few seconds later came the sound of several bolts being pushed open. In the meantime, Károly had freed the people in another wagon and was climbing onto the third one. Raoul was shouting at the top of his lungs. "Now go to the Red Cross trucks waiting next to the station. All of you!" This meant that the gendarmes had finally lost their patience and their time was up. Károly, on the other hand, needed a few more seconds. Come on, Károly! Push the bolt! Just a few more seconds. A few more seconds to save another hundred lives. Open up! Come on, baby, open up! Don't be so stubborn!

"Hey! What do you think you're doing? Get down from there!"

He turned his head, and saw the two gendarmes standing by the next wagon raise their rifles towards him and towards Raoul's photographer. A few seconds later he heard Raoul's voice. "Károly! Tamás!"

The Studebaker had driven around to the back of the train and was waiting right behind Károly. Suddenly he felt the bolt give in. He should not open it right now, for if he did, the gendarmes would shoot everyone who stepped out. He pushed the door open a crack and threw in the passes he had taken out from his pocket. "Wait," he whispered before shutting the door. A shot was fired. A bullet whizzed by and hit the bolt right next to his hand, bouncing off and zipping past his head. The bullet from the gendarme's gun had just missed him. "Don't open the door until the train starts moving," he said before thrusting himself towards the Studebaker. He jumped into the back seat. Raoul was looking through the back window of the car, smiling at the gendarme. He smiled. He could actually smile.

"We're retrieving the Swedish citizens who have been illegally detained," he said before turning to Károly. "I don't think they will want to see us at this station for a long time to come."

They drove back to the other side of the train and saw the group of people, allegedly Swedish, walk out of the station and towards their freedom, their timorous steps slowly accelerating as they got over their initial incredulity at their luck and overcame their fear that they would be shot the moment they turned their backs.

30

The elegant ladies and fine gentlemen of Budapest, who once enjoyed the languid sweetness of summer nights as they strolled along the embankment lined with world-famous hotels, were now replaced by the soldiers patrolling the streets in the freezing cold, the pounding sound of their heavy boots reverberating throughout the dark and silent winter nights. The German soldiers patrolled on each side of the bridges connecting Buda and Pest, ready for combat, their guns in their hands rather than on their shoulders. Numb to all that, people swarmed the half-empty shops, anxiously preparing for a not-very-merry-Christmas, while those who dared to face the reality rushed to the movie theatres to watch the newsreels of the fighting going on just a few miles away. They carried on crowding the Gerbeaud, the New York and the other cafés around five o'clock and continued with their aperitifs towards seven, in denial of the bombings that riddled their beloved city, as though they were lulled into a listlessly apathetic lethargy that left them immune to the monstrosities that were going on in the Pearl of the Danube. The waiters respectfully continued serving dinner to their customers, albeit from a rather limited menu, despite the shrieking sound of the air raid sirens deafening their ears no less than four or five times a day, followed by bombs dropping from the sky forcing them to hurry down to the shelters.

However, things took a different turn and all that forced detachment gave way to a sense of panic, when the news reached the capital that the Soviet tanks were only twenty kilometres from the Royal Palace. Although people's hopes had been raised following the retreat of the high-ranking Nazi officers towards the west, they were still worried, unsure of what the Red Army was about to bring along, fearing that communism might not after all be their saviour but yet another oppressor.

"Don't wait up for me tonight. We have a meeting. It might be a long one, I'm afraid. I'll probably sleep here at the legation."

"When will you be back?"

He shrugged his shoulders in response, as if Ada could see him. He did not know. Tomorrow morning? Tomorrow night? Three days later? Ada said she understood. She must have asked the question already knowing that she would not be getting an answer anyway. Károly sent his love to his daughters and asked if Rudi had showed up. He had not. They had not heard from him for days. He hung up the phone.

Raoul had summoned not only the group heads of his team but also the representatives of the legations of some other neutral countries. It promised to be an important meeting.

"As all of you might already have noticed, all activity at Józsefvárosi Train Station has come to a stop. This is, unfortunately, not as good a sign as some might think." He was fidgeting with the unlit cigarette in his hand. His tired face was expressionless. Károly could not figure out whether the calmness in Raoul's voice was the result of his usual serenity or of his effort to hide his hopelessness. "When they allocated all the trains to the Germans to transport the Nazis retreating to the west along with the goods they had pillaged and the machinery they had dismantled from the factories, Eichmann took no time in devising another method of deporting the Jews." He reached for the box of matches and lit his cigarette. "The last four days we've been witnessing an increase in their activities to round up the Jews." He was up on his feet now. "We heard that they were to make them walk the two hundred kilometres from Budapest to Hegyeshalom on the Austrian border." He paced up and down the room with his eyes following his steps before he suddenly stopped by the fireplace and looked at each of the legation representatives in the eye. "I would ask you to send your delegates to the road leading to the Austrian border and distribute passes to the Jews to help them return to Budapest." After taking a few puffs of his cigarette, he sent it spinning away into the fire with a flick of his fingers. "I demand that you do so!" he reiterated and turned his back. Pressing his hands against the marble mantelpiece, he continued, "The other crucial matter at hand is that this morning the Hungarian Police issued an order obliging the Jews holding passes issued by foreign legations to move to the seventy-two buildings they had specified on and around the streets where our safe houses are located." With a swift movement, he turned back. His face had reddened. It was a much angrier crimson than might have been caused by the feeble fire burning in the grate. He was like a bomb about to explode. "In other words, they declared that they will be setting up a ghetto. In this case ..."

"Orion wants to talk to you, sir," broke in Raoul's assistant, Gáspár, as he stormed into the conference room.

"I'll be right back," Raoul said, following Gáspár out of the room. When he came back, the angry expression on his face had given way to the brave serenity of a determined man. His eyes said that a taxing night was in wait for them.

"They have raided the houses on Pozsonyi Street. Pannonia and the other streets are next. We've been informed that they're taking them to a brick factory in Erdöváros." He turned to János. "You and László, summon your group and start from Pannonia Street." Then he murmured as if to himself, "I hope our library has not been raided yet," before turning to others. "Endré and Izsák! Your groups will put on army uniforms and provide support for János and László." Then he reminded everyone which streets their groups should be covering. "Take American dollars with you. A lot of them! You must do anything and everything to stop these thugs." He hastily gestured to the head of the group consisting of blond and blue-eyed youngsters. "Jákob! You and your men will, as usual, be wearing SS uniforms. Take the cars. They might be taking anyone who resists to the embankment."

János, knowing exactly what to do, had already put on his coat before Raoul finished with his instructions. He ran out of the room with László.

Raoul carried on with his orders, addressing Károly and the remaining four group heads. "We'll be heading for Erdöváros. The march to the border might have already started. Károly! Go and get the passes! Two hundred, three hundred. As many as we can squeeze into our pockets." He turned to his assistant. "Gáspár! Send word to the Red Cross. They should mobilise their trucks. There must be a couple of them at the hospital on Üllői Avenue."

When they arrived at the brick factory in Erdöváros, Raoul jumped out of the car without waiting for it to come to a full stop. He resolutely stomped through the crowd towards the SS officer, who was shouting orders in German, while the Arrow Cross officer standing next to him translated what he was saying into Hungarian.

"You'll be going to the town of Hegyeshalom on the Austrian border, where you'll be met by German troops. You'll be working on the construction of the East Wall, the fortification that is intended to protect Vienna. You have an obligation to work, and everyone will, sooner or later, have to go. Sign up now. If you volunteer and go now, you'll travel much more comfortably. Later on it will be too crowded."

People were confused, uncertain of what to do. Some wanted to enlist right away, while others tried to work out a way to escape. It was total chaos, with babies crying and screaming, children trying to hold back their sobs, worried mothers seeking ways to calm them, and panic-stricken fathers lost about what to do.

Raoul, in his impeccable German and cold authoritarian voice, started listing his orders to the SS officer. "We know that you have Swedish citizens here who have been illegally detained. I order their immediate release. If my orders ..."

"Who are you?" retorted the German, looking at Raoul with haughty disdain, his eyebrows raised in arrogant surprise.

"Raoul Wallenberg, the third secretary of the Swedish Legation."

As Raoul carried on, Károly turned to the crowd and, with the self-confidence of a well-prepared actor on stage, shouted, "Please take out your passes or passports. Everyone! You!" He was pointing at an old woman looking around in bafflement. "I personally prepared your passport. Could I have it please? You can then go over there and wait behind that car," he said, pointing to Raoul's car. "You too," he continued, pointing at the young woman with two children standing behind the old one. "Let me have your documents."

His friends on the team were doing the same thing, squeezing through the crowd and secretly sliding passes into people's pockets or tucking them in their hands. After a few minutes people got over their confusion and realised what they had to do, like inexperienced actors finally grasping how they should act in this terribly difficult play being performed on the stage of life. They were waving their new passes above their heads and were told to join the slowly growing crowd of hopeful people behind the car on the other side of the courtyard. Those who did not have a chance to receive a pass soon understood what they had to do. They took out anything they had in their pockets that resembled a document and started waving them. Károly and his friends were collecting these documents so fast that they saved dozens of people from among the crowd before the German soldiers could understand what was going on.

Raoul was still talking to the Nazi officer, who was vehemently objecting to him. Károly's eyes were searching for János's mother. If they had raided the Swedish Library on Pannonia Street, there was a very high chance that she would be here. He thought he saw one of János's cousins, but he was mistaken. There were hundreds of people, and it was impossible to spot them. They, however, would see him. He looked around. There were a few bricks by the wall behind him, and a few more around the corner. He grabbed them, piled them on top of each other and climbed on top. He was scanning the crowd with his eyes, trying to spot the face of János's mother, his aunt, his uncle, his cousins, through a web of raised arms and hands waving documents. It was impossible to see the children, for they had disappeared out of sight amidst the crowd. He thought he saw Ernő Szép somewhere at the very back. Was it him? Yes, it was! And in such a terrible state! He must have been issued a pass, surely. "Szép! Ernő Szép!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "You are Ernő Szép, aren't you? Come this way, please." The aged poet squeezed his way out of the crowd and approached Károly. When he was close enough, he told him that he did not have his pass with him but remembered its serial number. He too was sent to wait at the back of Raoul's car. Károly carried on searching the crowd with his eyes while he pretended to check the validity of the passes and the documents handed over to him, ushering the beholders to the other side of the courtyard. János's mother, had she been here, would have seen him by now. Perhaps they had not been to number fifteen on Pannonia Street. Yes, that must be so, otherwise they would have been here.

The Red Cross trucks arrived. Upon Raoul's instructions, they moved the crowd of people behind the car onto the trucks under the dazed stares of the German officers. They finalised their operation as fast as they had started it, with hundreds of people safely loaded onto the trucks. As they took off towards Budapest, Károly, looking at the Studebaker following the truck he was on, thought what a big heart that small man sitting in the front seat had. He was helping to save the honour of a nation, a nation not his own, because what he was doing was, first and foremost, saving the honour of humanity.

Among the people on the truck, tightly holding each other in their arms, he saw the silent tears trickling down the emaciated cheeks of children who had long forgotten how to cry freely without fear. He saw women who had learned to control the shaking of their timorous bodies to avoid revealing their true identities shudder uncontrollably. He saw the permanently drooped shoulders of men exhausted by their efforts to encourage their families whom they were desperately trying to protect.

A young man was talking in a monotonous voice. "We put on the uniforms we had stolen from the corpses of two German soldiers, thinking that this was one of the safest ways to go out into the street in search of food. We started walking close to the remaining walls of the ruined buildings so as to protect ourselves from the shrapnel and the bullets whizzing about us. The moment we turned around the corner into Kárpát Street, we saw a group of Arrow Crossers walking towards us. Our first reaction was to hide. In panic and without a second thought, we turned into a side street and threw ourselves through an open door into a building. We were in a courtyard. We held our breaths and waited. The footsteps slowly approached us, and finally the door was kicked open. We were frozen. Raising our right arms, we gave the wretched Nazi salute, trying to control the trembling in our voices. Pressing their rifles against our chests, they shouted that they wondered why a German soldier would hide and asked to see our papers. They looked at the photographs on the papers and then at our faces, realising that those papers didn't belong to us. They asked where we got them. We could not utter a sound. One of them tossed off my hat with the end of his rifle while the other took off our belts and told us to pull our trousers down. We objected, saying it was too cold. They forced first our trousers then our underwear down. When they saw that we were circumcised, they started beating us, kicking, punching, slapping ... It was so cold that it almost numbed the pain of the beating. After a while, the tall one roared that we should get up and put our clothes back on. I hardly managed to button my trousers because of the shaking of my hands. This was the end, I was thinking. They tied our hands with our belts and took us to one of the Arrow Cross stations."

He suddenly stopped talking. His eyes were stock-still, as if rooted on an empty wall right in front of him. There was not a single tear in his dried-up eyes.

31

It was almost four in the morning when Károly returned to Rózsadomb. Ada had fallen asleep on one of the sofas in the Green Salon. She jumped to her feet as she heard Károly come in. He could tell from the expression on her face that something had gone terribly wrong.

"Is Jancsi back?" he asked.

"No, he's not. What's going on, Károly?"

Ada walked towards the stairs leading to the basement without waiting for Károly's answer.

"There's a lot of movement," Károly began, following his wife downstairs. "They're raiding buildings all over the city. Last night they went to the safe houses on Pozsonyi and Pannonia Streets. We're afraid that Jancsi's mother and relatives might have been taken away. We went to a brick factory in Erdöváros, but they weren't there. Thousands of people, Ada. There were thousands of people. However, I'm sure that they would have seen me, had they been there. Jancsi might have reached them before the raid." They walked through the corridor leading into the kitchen. "They say they'll make them walk to the Austrian border. Two hundred kilometres! In this weather, it's nothing but a death march. This time we managed to save only a few hundred people, but tomorrow ..."

Károly froze as they entered the kitchen. Ada's parents were sitting on the chairs they had pulled up next to the fireplace, with János's uncle Sámuel _bácsi_ sitting between them. Perched on the edge of a chair, that giant of a man was rocking back and forth, tightly holding on to the blanket wrapped around him. "The Blue Danube was flowing red ... it was flowing red ... red ..."

Károly ran towards him and squatted in front of his chair. Holding his arms, he asked in a soft voice, "What happened? Where are your sisters? Are they all right? What about the others?" He was hoping that his reply would not be what he dreaded.

The old man did not answer. He seemed not to have heard Károly. He continued rocking back and forth with his eyes fixed at a spot on an invisible horizon.

"We ought to take him to the hospital, Károly." Ada was standing behind Sámuel _bácsi_ , stroking his shoulders to give him some comfort. "He's running a very high fever. He's in shock."

"He says nothing," said Ada's father, Monsieur Görös, "but these same words."

"He was all wet when he arrived. It's most likely the Arrow Crossers ..." Madame Görös could not carry on as her words choked behind the silent tears flowing from her bloodshot eyes.

Károly could guess what had happened. A few seconds later they heard the dull and distant voice of Sámuel _bácsi_ , a voice that lacked in all emotions as though all that had happened had happened to someone else, a voice that was unperturbed, as though he were talking about a movie he had seen, a voice that was disinterested, as though he had been the silent witness of an eerie rite.

"'All Jews, outside!' they were shouting. Everyone followed the orders and went out like sheep, trembling in fright. My sister Rebeka just stood there. Solid as a rock. 'They will get my corpse out, if they have to,' she kept saying. There was no one left in the building. I was trying to convince her. We had to go. We both knew what they did to those who disobeyed the orders. I checked the street, peeping from behind the curtain, hoping that they might have forgotten us. They had joined the people evacuated from the other buildings and were already walking towards Katona József Street. I watched the last of our neighbours disappear around the corner. They had forgotten us, I thought. They had forgotten us! I could not believe our luck. Rebeka was right. Brave Rebeka. At that very instant, the door of our room banged open, and two Arrow Cross thugs stormed in."

He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders even tighter and carried on in his dull voice with his eyes glued to the feeble flames in the fireplace. A few minutes later they had been dragged out onto the street. Everybody had gone except for a couple of Jews from the adjacent building. The streets were deserted. The fresh snow lay on the asphalt like a thin layer of white muslin. The shutters on the windows allowed no light to escape. They walked in absolute darkness. In the lethal silence of the night, the thundering of their hearts mixed with the thumping of the Nazis' boots beating the ground. They were freezing, for they had not been allowed to take their coats. He could see Rebeka clenching her teeth in a futile effort to control her shivering. A few paces after passing by the Margit Bridge, half-immersed in the turbulent waters of the Danube, they ordered them to stop by the embankment and stand back to back before tying them together. Sámuel _bácsi_ remembered Rebeka trembling so forcefully that it shook them both.

"I closed my eyes," he said, closing his eyes. "I held Rebeka's hands. I was praying. I was praying non-stop. I was praying silently. Suddenly I heard gunshots. Then the sound of bodies falling into the water ... I closed my eyes tighter. And another ... then another ... I was waiting for our turn. With a sudden jolt, I felt the earth slide away from underneath my feet, and we fell into the water. I remember hitting a chunk of ice. I did not feel anything other than a burning sensation on my temple. I had been shot. This is how death feels, then, I thought. Rebeka was not moving at all. Had she been shot? Rebeka, I said. Rebeka? There was no answer. The rope that tied us together was loosening. I felt my sister sliding away. I freed my hands and grabbed her by the waist while trying to hold on to a piece of ice floating by me with all my might. Rebeka had lost consciousness. There was a pink patch in front of her dress. Those who had been shot before us were floating down the river among the chunks of ice. None of them made a move. I could see them slowly sinking. The current carried us away. I noticed that the wound on my temple was not from a bullet. I must have hit my head on a piece of ice when I fell into the water. Rebeka? Rebeka was still unconscious. The pink patch on her dress was growing rapidly. She had been shot! I was desperately trying to swim towards the shore. It was so cold that my body was slowly becoming numb. Then I felt my sister sliding away from my grip. I embraced her with both my hands. I could not hold her. She was slipping away from my benumbed arms. We were sinking. I could not hold her. I could no longer hold her. I could not save her. I could not save my sister ... I could not ..."

"You need to get some rest," said Károly, holding the old man's shaking hands, unable to find the words to console him. "We must put him to bed," he said, turning to Ada.

Ada's eyes were fixed on the window. Károly looked where she was gazing and saw János's face through the window. How long had he been there? He let go of Sámuel _bácsi_ 's hands and went to open the door. János walked in without saying anything, staring at his uncle. He must have heard it all or could guess what had happened to his mother from the expression on his uncle's face. It was of no importance to him how it had happened, or perhaps he could guess it. Károly had never seen such savage hatred silently, despondently, lethally brewing in his friend's dark eyes. János turned away and went out into the garden, his movements slow, like the silently rising magma of a volcano soon to erupt. He soon disappeared in the darkness behind the trees. Károly made to follow him, but Ada held his arm. "Let him go."

A few minutes later they heard a scream that not only echoed through Rózsadomb but seemed to shake all of Budapest, sending out vibrations that set the whole country quaking.

When János came back, Károly was waiting for him in the kitchen. The day had already broken. They hugged as if they had not seen each other for years. János was sobbing in great racking spasms.

"I can't hide in other people's basements, she said. I'm not going to hide like mice, she said. I shouldn't have listened to her. I should have forced her. I couldn't get there in time, Károly. Their room was empty. There was nobody there. I went to all the bridges. I checked the whole length of the embankment. Nothing. Not a soul. I couldn't make it in time. I couldn't save her. I couldn't save my mother."
February 2009  
Budapest

Rüya had no appetite left, but went out of the cave at around three in the afternoon to eat a tasteless sandwich anyway, knowing that if she did not, her blood pressure, or worse still her blood sugar, would soon plummet, draping a black veil of pessimism over everything. When she eventually returned to her post in the cave, they had started shooting another scene. This time a more crowded group of priests had gathered around the altar.

"Before they withdraw from Budapest, the Germans are planning to blow up the bridges," whispered the pale-faced older priest, who really looked the part. "They were here last night," he continued with an ironic smile. "The cave is full of nooks and crannies, as well as a lot of holes that let voices travel."

One of the priests pointed at a new arrival, saying, "I want him out of here," and as soon as the man called Adrian left the church, he began complaining, "How many times do I have to tell you that he's not the guy we were supposed to rescue from the Zugliget prison? We've taken out the wrong man. I'm positive about that. Adrian is definitely a German spy."

"All right, let's get down to business," said the small-framed priest in a hardly audible voice, pulling up his frock that was sweeping the floor. "The Allies' victory is imminent. They will soon have a government. We need to go over the final touches of the exit plan. If the Red Army occupies Budapest," he said before a brief pause. " _When_ the Red Army conquers Budapest," he reiterated and turned to look at the priest standing next to him. "Alfred! You will put on the British uniform and immediately go to the Soviet headquarters to demand assistance for the transportation of the prisoners of war." He was giving his instructions in determined and accurate phrases. "Orion! Dutchman!" he said firmly as he looked at the two tall priests across the altar. "Your exit orders will be delivered in due time." His eyes moved from one priest to the next around the altar. "Uncle will join the new government. Legionnaire will continue operating our wireless communication with Bari. Fish will cooperate with the Hungarian resistance fighters to help establish the civil order. From then on we shall be acting in line with the orders to be issued by our British friends in Special Operations based in Istanbul." He wiped the imaginary dust on the altar with the back of his hand. "With a little help from the British and the Russians, we shall swipe the Nazis right out of Hungary."

"And then the free elections, the return of Tibor Eckhardt from exile, and the Independent Smallholders Party getting the majority of votes."

"Nestor reported that the Pool is ready," said one of the taller priests, his emaciated face betraying no emotion. "They're waiting for our green light for Eckhardt's return."

"Bari still wants us to deliver the rescued prisoners of war along with the monthly intelligence reports, but the southern border is blocked and we no longer have access to the Tito partisans. From now on, the British want the 'cargo' to be delivered to our Russian friends instead of to the partisans."

"Cut!"

Rüya thought how smoothly the filming was going. Everything was perfect, everything except for her mood. She could not snap out of it. Her mind was in turmoil, and she had no tolerance left for anything. The cave suffocated her, its walls buckling onto her. The cold had become unbearable. She was freezing. Then came a few sweet words to warm her up, a tender blue gaze thawing the ice, her heart melting. Then another slap! This was sheer torture. She would no longer be able to put up with it. These ups and downs consumed her.

" _Please tell me the tale of Zeus! Would you please?"_

" _Daddy will tell you when he comes back from hunting,_ tatlım _."_

" _Did he choose this name?"_

" _No, it was Uncle İskender. You know that Zeus is the son of his dog Cronus."_

" _Let me tell you his story," said Anastasia as she put her arms around Nili. "Why don't you come and sit by me."_

Nili, bubbling over with enthusiasm, settled down on the sofa next to Anastasia.

" _Zeus was the greatest god of the Ancient Greeks, Nili. When he was born, he was miraculously saved from being swallowed by his father Cronus and hid on the island of Crete until it was time for him to dethrone Cronus and settle on Mount Olympus in mainland Greece. He was a furious god, thunderous like lightning and strong like a storm. His fury, however, was short-lived as he was a Samaritan at heart, protecting people and helping warriors in difficulty towards victory."_

Rüya forced herself out of the cave and took a deep breath. Would fresh air revive her emotions, drained of their energy in the long marathon of running after her thoughts? She moved to the other side of the statue of Saint István overlooking the Danube and leaned her back on its feet. She put the earphones of her iPod on and turned up the volume, hoping that the music would silence her thoughts. Even the soft voice of Ornella Vanoni seemed to be making fun of her.

" _La mia ombra si è stancata di seguirmi ..."_

My shadow is tired of following me ...

"Would you like to take a walk?"

Ornella Vanoni's voice weakened in her left ear. Paul had taken out her earphone. When had he arrived? He was leaning on the other side of the statue, his eyes ranging over the Pest side, where a few lights had already been lit.

"Is the shoot over?"

"Yes, it is. It's been a very difficult day for me. I've been finding it extremely hard to concentrate on my work these last few days."

Rüya took out her other earphone and put her iPod in her bag. Without saying anything, they went for a walk among the mansions of the Gellért Hill, surrounded by gardens of every shade of green. She was desperately searching for something to say that would not disturb the recently calmed waters, although it might be better to opt for silence.

"After the loss of my father, nothing seems important anymore. Everything feels so meaningless."

Yes, silence was the best thing now.

"His death has been a great shock for me. He had that special place in my life, you know, which I thought he would never leave. I guess I thought he would never die, that he was immortal. I can't accept that he has left me. I just can't."

Rüya squeezed his arm as if to give him strength. "You can't, Paul. You can't accept it even after many many years. That awful sense of being abandoned doesn't leave you alone. Loneliness ..." She suddenly forgot what she was going to say, for Paul has stopped and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her towards him and pressing his lips against her temple. It was more like inhaling her scent than kissing her. He then gently pulled away his arm and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. Her depressed thoughts scattered among the trees around them. She closed her eyes. The touch of his fingers on her cheek was so soft, so tender. She had been exaggerating everything, every single thing. If she could not understand Paul's feelings now, no one else could. She had to subdue the monster of fear creating havoc in her and trust him.

"Tell me Rüya. Tell me what makes you so scared? What is it that frightens you so much?"

Rüya was lost for words. "I'm scared of losing you, of being left all alone," she thought but, forcing a smile, could only say, "Do I look scared to you?" Their conversation was perilously pushing the borders of a sensitive subject, which she had to keep away from at all costs. She began walking again. They were at a point where the hill was about to get much steeper. She accelerated her pace.

"What is it that you try to hide behind your aggressiveness, Rüya? Why are you so self-defensive? Can't you see that you don't need to protect yourself from me, for I'm not here to hurt you."

No Paul, I can't see that. "Everyone is scared of something," she said, trying to suppress the slight quivering she feared her voice would have. "Aren't _you?_ Have you ever thought of the reason why you're so keen on such dangerously challenging pastimes? And what fears you're seeking to overcome by taking such deadly risks?"

"Are you saying that the best defence is counter-offensive? I'm not, however, attacking you. Quite the reverse, all I'm doing is to try to understand you. Or, perhaps, I'm trying to help you understand yourself."

"If you want to help me in any way, you ought to tell me about yourself first."

"You're a much more arduous challenge than climbing K2, Rüya. One can never know when he's going to slip and fall down an unexpected precipice."

"You do know that K2 is the world's second highest mountain, don't you? The honour of being Everest belongs to you."

A warm smile softened Paul's features. He was looking straight into Rüya's eyes.

"I consider myself rather lucky for being able to make you smile on a day like this."

"Failure," began Paul, after a brief moment of silence. His gaze had become absent. "I guess failure is my biggest fear. I'm not used to giving in ... being defeated. Sometimes, however, the price of success is too high, far too dear to dare pay. Giving up your freedom is a very high price to pay, Rüya."

The steep hill had taken a down turn. In silence, they walked towards the embankment where they took a taxi from in front of the Gellért Hotel. They rode without a word, surrounded by the uneasiness of having unlatched the windows to their inner worlds.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Four  
1944

32

In late November the government announced that another ghetto would be set up in Budapest in the area around Dohány Street Synagogue, an area mostly populated by Jewish families. The current ghetto where nearly twenty-five thousand "foreign" Jews lived became the International Ghetto, or the Small Ghetto; they called the new one the Big Ghetto. Supervised by the Gestapo, the Arrow Cross officers and the gendarmes lost no time in starting to move the Jews in the yellow-starred houses to the buildings in the Big Ghetto.

A few days later, when an order was issued obliging Jews married to Christians to move to the Big Ghetto, including those who had converted to Christianity, Károly decided that it would be much safer for Ada and the children if he took them to their summerhouse in Balatonfüred. Moving to the Ghetto was tantamount to accepting one's execution order. People would hardly be able survive the hunger, the plagues or the Nazi bullets, and even if they did survive, they would be deported to the concentration camps – and everyone knew what that meant.

On a snowy December morning, taking Ada's parents and relatives along, they left Budapest in a Red Cross truck provided by the legation. Heading south, they had to make a detour around Győr in order to avoid getting close to the German-Soviet frontline, and consequently the journey, which usually took three hours, lasted six. Upon their arrival in Lake Balaton, the snow, which had been falling incessantly since their departure from Budapest, suddenly stopped, revealing a clear sky. Watching the rays of the crisp winter sun dancing on the frozen lake, the burden of the war weighing so heavily on their hearts and souls miraculously lifted. Their summerhouse, hibernating under a thick blanket of snow, and their furniture, shrouded in white sheets, opened their loving arms to their owners and their guests, offering them a safe haven, untroubled by their untimely arrival. Ada's mother, much more relaxed now, even managed a few jokes, saying that after the basement in Budapest they would find it hard to adapt themselves to the luxury of this two-storey villa. Ada showed them to their rooms, where they settled in with the few pieces of clothing they had brought along. Before long, they all came down to look at the view through the dirty windows of the drawing room and, despite their bodies craving for some sleep after their arduous journey, sat down to nourish their souls, the long-forgotten serenity of the sunset offering them the peace and quiet they had missed. None of them spoke, for they did not want to disturb the silence they had been yearning for. Only the merry giggles of the children joyfully scampering about echoed on the walls. During such moments of serenity, it was as if the war ceased to exist.

Next morning Károly took his daughters to the beach by the lake. He had never been in Balaton in wintertime. Everything looked so different, unfamiliar in its white cloak, a cold and distant stranger almost. Life seemed to have frozen along with the lake. Where could they be, he wondered, all those water-skiers, rowers, swimmers, sailors? Where might the war have thrown them? Were they still alive? Were they trying to survive in one of those camps? Had they joined the Arrow Cross? Were they being killed at the front, helping the Nazis? He imagined the Soviet troops moving ahead in an offensive somewhere over on the other side of the lake.

"What's that buzz, _Apukám_ – Daddy?" Juli was almost four years old and as curious as a cat, always asking questions, and the first things she had learned in life were all about war, fighting, bombs, guns, losses and death.

Károly pointed at the tiny spots in the clear sky that looked like gold dust. "American planes, Juli. They're going to bomb Budapest."

"Why don't we stay here? I mean, always? Why don't the others come here as well?"

"Do you like it here?"

"Yes, I do. Very much."

"Your mother and I, we met here."

He recalled Ada on a hot summer day, smoking a cigarette under the trees. He saw the grim expression on her face, her little black dress, then her beautiful smile. She belonged to another time, to another realm.

"A girl in a black dress," he murmured, "draws the attention to herself, not to her dress. And like her dress, she might not be stunning, but she's discreetly essential. She's minimalist yet elegant, not mysterious perhaps, but impeccably refined and sophisticated."

"Did you say something, Daddy?"

"No, sweetheart. Nothing. I said nothing."

The transparency of Ada's flawless pale complexion and her sky-blue eyes still stirred Károly's deepest instincts, as they did on that first day. He remembered the irresistible desire he had felt to kiss her full lips at the picnic where they had met years ago. He smiled.

Dóra was trying to express her desire to get down by leaning over Károly's arm, extending her hands towards her sister. Károly let her down on the snow. She had just begun to toddle. She tottered towards the worn-out pier.

"Dóra! Stop!" Ada had arrived. "Juli. Go, get your sister. And don't go onto the pier."

Károly folded his wife in his arms, then gently held her chin and gave her a long, tender kiss before he lovingly embraced her again. "I'm as much in love with you as I was the first day we met," he whispered in her ear. The notes of the music playing on the gramophone at the picnic floated into his ears. He should not go back to Budapest. He should stay here with his family. They had to stay together.

Three days later Károly returned to Budapest. This was his first separation from his wife and his daughters. Struggling to steer away from the desolation his loneliness, worries and longing threatened to kindle, he set off to work with more fervour than before, shuttling between Budapest and the Austrian border every day with Raoul and other members of the team, carrying food, water, doctors and nurses. They sought to save as many lives as they could on the road to the border by reverting to every tactic they could think of, from asking help from the Red Cross to using Swedish passes, from convincing to bribing, to blackmail and to blind courage. People who were forced to walk twenty, thirty kilometres each day slept on the roadside on blankets they laid over the snow, hugging each other for warmth, and tried to curb their hunger by eating raw potatoes and other roots they dug out of the earth in the fields. Every day hundreds of them died of exhaustion, hunger or cold. Those who could no longer walk were pushed to move ahead, or, in severe cases, shot. Almost all of the Red Cross trucks were mobilised to transport those saved from this death walk back to the hospitals in the capital, sometimes making two or three rounds a day.

Károly spent whatever time he had left from his daily trips to the Austrian border preparing forged documents for those desperate people who came to his door seeking help, and arranging to accommodate them in the basement of his house until their papers were ready. The rooms in the basement that had emptied a while ago were full again, and the number of their alleged servants increased far more rapidly than might be expected given the dire economic conditions of wartime. He hardly slept at nights, despite being utterly exhausted, for he suffered greatly from being away from his wife and children, finding their separation more difficult to endure than any of the other hardships he had to deal with.

He was so happy when, ten days after their parting, he received Ada's letter that he almost hugged the runner who brought it. He had somehow managed to make it from Balatonfüred to Budapest in three days, an almost impossibly awkward journey for the runners due to the fighting and the mines around Lake Velence. Károly gave the boy a fat tip.

Balatonfüred, 16th December 1944

Dearest Károly and our beloved Dad,

I'm not very optimistic about this letter reaching you, but I'm giving it a try anyway. This runner boy is very resourceful. And daring.

The area around Balaton is constantly changing hands between the Germans and the Soviets. At the moment the Soviets are in control here. We are in the liberated zone, so to speak. Several Russian soldiers are stationed in a villa nearby. They are rather a weird lot, these Russians, drinking like fish – I've never seen anything like it. Illiterate – almost all of them – but peculiarly crazy about fountain pens. And watches. They think they are the miracle of our century. I've even seen some carrying four or five of them on each arm. This weakness of theirs is of course very useful for us. The other day we bartered one of my Dad's old watches for a whole sack of potatoes and two sacks of onions. And there is more to it. Yesterday a Cossack soldier stopped me on the road. He was no more than sixteen years old, or perhaps even younger. Timidly mumbling something, he pointed at my boots. Then, using the few Hungarian words he knew and showing the almost non-existent soles of his boots, he said he would be going to fight the Nazis the following day. I had to give him my boots, partly out of compassion and partly due to the convincing effect of the gun he was pointing at me. My Samaritan streak was rewarded with another sack of potatoes. By the way, they confiscated the rubber tyres of our bicycles as "loot." And nobody gave us potatoes or anything of the sort in return.

Our daily menu is unwavering in that it consists of boiled potatoes for breakfast, mashed potatoes garnished with grilled slices of onion for lunch and potatoes cooked with onions for dinner. Thankfully, someone invented the banquet game, which allows us to have caviar, duck, lamb, _palacsinta_ , you name it.

Please don't worry about our daughters. They're quite happy to be here. The only thing that upsets me is that we won't be together for Christmas. From the look of things, it wouldn't be a clever move for us to go to Budapest or for you to come here.

This is our first separation, Károly, which I find really hard. I'm so worried about you and try to call you every single day, but the lines are cut. I do hope that you'll find a way to let me know that you're well.

With love and longing,

Ada, Juli and Dóra

He read his wife's letter over and over, sometimes smiling to himself and sometimes with tears in his eyes. At one point, he remembered that it was his turn to go to the ghetto. They could no longer find any runners to send to the ghetto, and it had to be either Károly or János who performed the task. Ten days ago the Big Ghetto was surrounded by a wooden wall with only four gates, locked and guarded by the police controlling all entries and exits. The wall passed through the back garden of number fifteen Király Street, where János lived – or rather where he used to live.

As he pedalled down the deserted Vérhalom Street, the sound of the snow compressing under the rusty wheels of his worn-out bicycle pierced the silence. The basket of his bicycle, which had so far carried a wide variety of materials, was now filled to the brim with food. His heart sank as he looked at the Margit Bridge down below, one of the outstanding examples of the French Neo-Baroque style, with half of its beautiful structure buried under the water. One afternoon early last month, three of its pillars on the Pest side had collapsed, along with the stone statues of Thabar, after an explosion, most likely the outcome of a badly-timed bomb. Hundreds of people had died in the tramcars that had been passing over the bridge at the time. It had been standing there for a month now as a monument to the incompetence and cruelty of the Nazis. Like everyone living in Budapest, Károly was beset by mixed feelings, waiting for the arrival of the Red Army; they were approaching the capital from three flanks, having surrounded it from the east, the north and the south.

He crossed over the Lánc Bridge to the Pest side. His hands and feet were slowly going numb with the cold. Unwilling to go onto Andrássy Boulevard, for his heart could not take the appalling condition of the mansions there, he hurried into one of the side streets and, right at that moment, spotted a cigarette butt and braked. He picked it up. He was lucky; it was rather long. He ripped its paper and wrapped the unburned tobacco in the piece of paper he took out from his pocket before he carefully tucked it away. He did not smoke and had no desire to start smoking, but Ada, János and János's uncle Sámuel _bácsi_ did. At the thought of Ada, he sighed. Ada. When would she be able to come back home? He missed her terribly, even the scent of her skin. It was impossible for him to get used to being without her.

At the gate of the ghetto, he indifferently waved his forged identification papers at the guard and was allowed to enter without a problem. This time they did not even ask him where he was going. Fábián had given him the name and address of an old Christian couple who carried on living on Rumbach Street. Whenever asked, he said he was going to see that family.

Half of the hundred and forty thousand Jews of Budapest were living in the ghetto and were not allowed to leave the grounds. The Jewish Council was in charge of controlling daily life here where certain "crimes" – such as smuggling in food and medicine – were overlooked, but meetings that might be classified as educational or cultural activity, youth movements or religious practices were considered "a threat to security" and therefore strictly forbidden. The ghetto police, consisting of Jews, ensured that the Nazis' orders and Council's instructions were carried out to the letter. Anyone in the police force who failed to fulfil his duty was instantly shot by the Nazis.

Pedalling along Király Street, he looked around with a heavy heart, unable to believe what this street he knew so well had become. The garbage on the streets had not been collected for days, filling the air with a heavy putrid smell. Waste, dead mice and human faeces floated on the water running alongside the pavements populated by those who tried to make a penny or two by selling their books, cushions, clothes, typewriters and gramophones – anything they would not be needing in their new lives. A young woman carrying her aged mother or perhaps a neighbour in a pushchair passed by. Through the walls of a building ruined by a bomb, he saw a boy of no more than six or seven years old bending over the debris to pick up a few fallen pieces of bread and then stuffing his finds into his pockets. On the pavements, there were human corpses piled on top of each other; old people curled up in a corner, no longer able to move their hungry bodies; young mothers who tried to squeeze out a few drops of milk from their dried-up breasts, to feed the babies wrapped inside their coats. Those who could find no place to sleep in the overcrowded apartments were sleeping on the streets despite the freezing cold. The dead were buried in a hurry, with a rushed prayer, while those who died on the streets were taken away, without even informing their relatives, to be stacked on top of the other deceased in one of the parks in the ghetto or in the garden of the synagogue, where they froze and stuck to each other. He revolted against this misery imposed upon innocent human beings, forcing such respectable people to live like beggars in the streets. What was their crime? What had they done to deserve this? How was this their fault? How could the noble Magyar nation allow such a ruthless system to thrive?

After having distributed all the food in his basket, he left the ghetto. It seemed to belong to another time, to another century, a place right in the middle of Budapest that had forgotten to move ahead with time. The guard at the gate did not want to see his papers, neither did he respond to him when he waved his hand goodbye. He pedalled away, leaving all those helpless people alone with their destinies, hoping that he might have at least given some of them a tiny bit of optimism that would help raise their morale, perhaps a little bit of courage or maybe a little light of hope.

He speeded up, as though moving at a quicker pace would lessen the time needed to lighten the dark weight on his heart. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. He wanted to let the whole world hear his voice. These people are just like you; they are made of flesh and blood just like you are. They too have the right to live just like you do. They have the right to be human. Not knowing where he was going, he whizzed from one street to another, pedalling more and more fiercely, hoping that the wind lashing at his face would cleanse his soul. He finally found himself in Hősök Square and carried on pushing the pedals as fast as he could. He suddenly stopped in front of the imposing statues reigning over the whole square. He was right beneath the seven gigantic chieftains mounted on their horses, watching over Hungary. Árpád, the head chieftain, was at the centre. On his right stood Könd, who threatened the whole world with his huge sword and spear, a savage moustache and a helmet with intimidating horns. The great Könd, he thought, Kurzsán's father Könd. They sacrificed so much to found this country, and look what it has become. At the sight of these statutes, _he_ thought about what he was actually doing for this beloved land. Had he fought enough to defend his country, the country he had been given to protect? Was the fight he had been carrying on to save it from this shameful situation enough?
February 2009  
Budapest

As she looked at the tired walls of Mátyás Cathedral, Rüya tried to imagine what Mami, ninety-three years ago when she was a little girl, had seen at a coronation ceremony she had attended here in this holy place. She closed her eyes. Royalty, glamorous in their glittering diamond tiaras and brocade capes, embroidered with pearls and embellished with furs and feathers, made their way into the cathedral alongside the nobles from all the aristocracies of the world clad in gold and silver dresses, furs and an abundance of jewellery. Saint István's Crown stood there in all its glory. It was all so different from the cave where they had filmed the day before. She opened her eyes. Royalty and glory snapped out of sight.

Two of the priests from yesterday's shoot were dressed in ordinary civilian clothes today and were sitting side by side on one of the front rows of the cathedral, praying. What one of them was murmuring did not quite sound like a prayer.

"The Red Army will occupy Budapest in a few days. We've received your exit order, Orion. It's only a matter of days before Hungarian counter-intelligence discovers your true identity. Therefore, you need to take a short leave of absence 'for a therapeutic cure.' On Friday you're to meet the Russians in the usual wine estate in Csopak. Your password is, 'Nestor sent me.' We've been informed that you'll then be flown to Bari along with the cargo."

I notice a faint light at the end of the cave. I dare not approach it. A tentative step. Nothing beneath my feet. I freeze.

" _Don't fret!" says a voice. "You'll find your way out. Don't give up. Do you remember the rainbow on the beach?"_

It is my sister.

Of course, I do.

" _Do you also remember that light needs all the colours of the rainbow?"_

" _Yes, I do. But what has a rainbow got to do with all this?" I ask impatiently._

" _If you wish to realise your dreams, you must see that what you know to be the truth is not the only truth. You must open your heart to the truth of others and try to understand them. Think about the fight between the different colours of the rainbow. Think about how, for that fight to end, each of its colours must first get to know itself and then, opening its heart to the other colours, must try to understand them. Don't you ever forget that if we remove a colour simply because it doesn't please us, it would be impossible for the remaining colours to produce white light; and that if the colours continue destroying each other, one day all colours will be no more and we'll be left with nothing but a deep, impenetrable darkness."_

No matter how hard she tried, Rüya could not understand Paul. Yesterday during their walk after the shoot, he had opened his heart in a surprisingly sincere way, saying things that she had never heard him say before. He had opened up his inner world to Rüya. And this morning ... this morning he was a different person altogether. He did not utter a single word. He did not even look at Rüya, let alone speak to her. He was building a wall of ice around himself.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Four  
1944

33

Károly looked at his watch. For the last hour Fábián had been in there with Raoul, who had asked to meet him after what had happened yesterday. Last night the Arrow Crossers had raided a building on Kárpát Street and taken eighty-two people to the International Ghetto. With the help of the police force Fábián had sent, Károly and János saved them all from the ghetto and brought them back.

There was no sign of Fábián yet. He continued the letter he was writing to Alex.

... The electricity is almost always gone, but fortunately there is a new illumination system in our city: the "Stalin candle." They throw large balls of burning magnesium from the planes, which float in the sky and help the Soviet bombers to see where to bomb, what to destroy and whom to hurt.

We have no running water either, except for a trickle from the tap in the basement. It's still impossible to convince Mother to come downstairs other than during the air raids. We carry buckets of water up to her room. You can imagine how mad it makes her that we've been infested by cockroaches.

I'd better not tell you about what our beloved city looks like at the moment. You wouldn't recognise it, if you were here. It takes a lot of courage to go out into the streets. The Russians are slowly but surely getting closer. We all know that the Germans, on the other hand, have no intention of surrendering and are determined to fight to the last breath. Briefly, Budapest is soon to turn into hell. It's surprising, isn't it, how easily I articulate the word? One gets used to everything, given time. Well, almost everything; there are certain facts that we can never get used to. The atrocities committed against innocent people by the Arrow Cross killers roaming the streets in their filthy green uniforms, for instance, or the hopelessness of those who are incarcerated in the ghetto. The shameful ineptitude of our nation, to give you another example. I don't want to write all these things and upset you, Alex, but it's the bitter reality. It's not enough that our loved ones are safe and sound; our responsibility is much more than to protect and save only those dear to us.

I haven't seen Ada or my daughters for two weeks now and miss them terribly. Communication is almost impossible. The road to Balaton is closed due to the fighting. This will be the first Christmas we'll be spending apart.

Yesterday the Provisional National Assembly convened in Debrecen, and today they set up a provisional government. I hope the best for us all. The members are elected from among the members of the parties and organisations that supported the resistance. The majority of the seats are filled by the members of our phoenix, the Hungarian Communist Party. And János, being one of the oldest members of the party, is, as of today, an important politician. Their priority is land reform, and we all know what that means for our family.

Both I and Mother have received your letters of November. I do hope that you received Mother's reply, which she sent ten days ago bearing my note. Please do give both my little squirrels lots of warm kisses from me and do convey my kind regards to Aziz. I wish you all a very happy Christmas.

Your always loving,

Öcsi

Finally, Fábián came out of the meeting room with his shoulders much straighter than before and the expression on his face much prouder of himself than it had been for a long time. After seeing him off, Károly went in to see Raoul.

"Your friend gave us crucial information on various issues. Thank you very much for the introduction, Károly."

They both lit a cigarette. Károly was exhausted. Last night he had stayed at the legation building again. Air raids had continued all night long, and he had not slept a wink amidst the deafening explosions, the enervating whizzing of the planes and the anti-aircraft artillery.

"Is your wife still in Balaton with the kids?"

"Yes, she is. They're all right there."

"They should stay there for a while longer."

There was a hurried knock on the door and, before Raoul could answer it, Gáspár stormed in and handed him a message. As he read what was written on the piece of paper, his face went as white as a sheet. "Get ready! We're leaving," he said, extending the note to Károly.

"They will hunt the hunter," said the note.

They rushed out as Gáspár crumpled the paper and threw it in the fireplace.

Half an hour later they were out of Budapest. It was the first time Károly had seen Raoul lose his calm. He was obsessively wiping the fogged-up window with the back of his gloved hand. There was a trace of panic in his eyes, although he had acted as quickly and as determinedly as always, sending runners to five or six places to activate an emergency operation plan. Along with the two other teams, they had set off for Csopak, a village only a few kilometres away from Balatonfüred. They were going very close to where Ada and his daughters were. They would be crossing over the enemy lines. "What am I thinking of?" he said to himself. Enemy lines? The Russians were not the enemy but their saviours. He knew that he should not be asking questions, but Raoul's nervousness made him curious. "I guess we're off to save someone important?" he finally blurted out in the interrogative.

Raoul ran the back of his hand over the window, which had become misty again. "It's Orion," he said and looking at Károly, continued, "I hope we won't have to save him. I hope the intelligence we received is not true, although it has to be true, for it is from a Swedish source. They're never mistaken." He turned to look out the window again.

Orion! The giant hunter of Greek mythology. "They will hunt the hunter." Other hunters were to hunt the hunter. I'll be meeting Orion at long last, thought Károly. This was an indication of how much they now trusted him. From now on he would definitely be given more important and more extensive operations and finally get involved in something that would make a real difference. His heart skipped a beat in proud excitement.

"Since summer Hungarian counter-intelligence has known about the existence of Orion. Given that it's only a matter of days before they learn about his true identity, it was decided that he should go into hiding for a while until things settled down. For his own safety, of course." Raoul carried on without waiting for Károly's questions. "The plan was that he would meet the Russians in Csopak today to be forwarded with the usual cargo to the Allied Headquarters in Bari in southern Italy."

"What happened?"

"Swedish intelligence was informed that Orion was not to be taken on board the cargo plane. I'm afraid that the British might have changed their minds. They might presently be negotiating with the Soviets to parcel out Hungary." He let out a nervous laugh. "If they haven't done that already, that is. I suspect the British might have already started liquidating some of their agents. I hope we're not too late."

What was going on? Károly could not understand anything. Who was going to hunt down Orion? Was Orion British? The Russians were on the same side as the British. Why would the British want to liquidate their agents? "Why are they liquidating them?" he asked and immediately realised that it had been a question that would remain unanswered. Raoul had not even heard him.

They did not utter another word until they crossed the front line just south of Lake Velence. Nature was hibernating. Vineyards, empty wine estates, the lake, everything seemed to be frozen, as if on the canvas of an unnervingly calm landscape. Shortly after crossing the front line, they met with one of the other two teams in the operation. They all had rifles and handed one to Károly and another one to Raoul. A gunman since he was a small child, Károly realised that his index finger, always at ease in pulling the trigger, was, for the first time in his life, all tensed up. He looked at the gun in his hands as though he had never seen one before. Was he going to use it to kill a human being?

"I hope that we shall not have to use them," said Raoul, reading his thoughts.

Near the country house in Csopak they met the second team, which had conducted a reconnaissance and found no one on the premises. All was clear. An examination of the fresh tire marks on the dirt road in front of the house revealed that two cars had left the area no more than a couple of hours ago. Raoul wanted to take a look around, and they all went inside. Checking through all the rooms from the basement to the attic, they saw nothing out of the ordinary, nothing broken or tumbled over.

"Perhaps Orion received the same intelligence in time and did not come here," Raoul said almost to himself, his voice betraying a hint of supplication. "I want to take a look at the chateau as well," he said more loudly as he hurried through the main door.

Károly made to follow the others out but stopped short as something underneath the foot of a side table in the entrance hall caught his eye. He picked it up and put it in his pocket, checked around him one last time and ran out after the others. They all got into the cars and swiftly left the area.
March 2009  
Csopak

After the shoot in Mátyás Cathedral, Rüya had made up her mind on one thing: not to make up her mind on anything. Acting on her intuition, she had left everything to take its own course during the last two weeks. It would go wherever it needed to go. She was weary of trying to figure out Paul's feelings and intentions and how she should behave. Every now and then she had the feeling that she was running after someone who did not want her. The wall of ice Paul had started to erect between them stood intact in all its gelid glory, and Paul was about to become an obsession that Rüya had created. I should concentrate on my work, she kept saying to herself, especially now when my book is being made into a movie. I should enjoy it as much as I can.

"Action!" shouted the director.

Her thoughts scattered.

"Nestor sent me," said Orion to the butler who answered the door of the country house in Csopak.

"Nestor went to the Pool."

He asked where the old butler was.

"He had to go back where he came from, sir," replied the blond and blue-eyed new butler before ushering him into the drawing room to the right of the entrance hall.

Orion started pacing up and down the room, his impatient gait betraying signs of involuntary apprehension. He stopped in front of a window for a few moments and checked outside before walking into the library, where he opened the drinks cabinet and took the brandy bottle, seemingly sure of where to find it. He reached for a brandy glass from the top shelf, poured a generous shot of brandy and swallowed it in one big gulp. He lit a cigarette and returned to the drawing room. A thunderous knock was heard. It had to be the main door. He did not move. When he heard another series of knocks, he put out his cigarette in an ashtray and walked towards the door opening to the entrance hall. He opened it a crack. The butler was nowhere to be seen. After a brief moment of hesitation, he approached the main door and opened it. A Soviet officer was standing there with four soldiers behind him.

"Nestor sent me," he said, giving the password, which evoked no reaction from the officer, whose face remained expressionless. They pushed the door ajar and entered into the hall, forcing Orion to take a few steps back.

"Nestor sent me," he repeated. And at that very instant, he noticed one of the soldiers behind the officer take out the handcuffs from his belt. He made for his revolver, but he was too late. Others had already pointed their rifles at him. He raised his arms in surrender. The soldier with the handcuffs came over, grabbed one of his hands and pulled it towards his back. Before he could reach for his other hand, Orion swiftly grabbed the soldier's arm and took cover behind him, pulling out his revolver and pressing it against the young man's temple. Then he jerked from the impact of a gunshot and fell backwards onto the floor with the soldier collapsing on top of him. The officer had shot the young man. He freed his arm from underneath the corpse lying on top of him and tried to pull the trigger. He had no strength in his hand. Gathering all his strength, he tried to pull the trigger again. A terrible pain seized his shoulder. Had he been shot? Grabbing one of the legs of the side table by the wall, he dragged himself towards the drawing room. He pulled the trigger again. His eyes were going dark. His shoulder! The burning sensation was spreading. Something must have gone terribly wrong. He had to leave a message. A message that showed he had not defected, a message to prove that he had been kidnapped.

Rüya was reduced to tears as she watched these scenes, which she knew by heart. It was absurd to cry at her own words, but now they seemed to reflect reality much more vividly than they did when she had written them, making her realise much more clearly that the lives she had put into fiction were not fiction. She ran out and, standing with her back to the house, dug into her handbag for tissue paper. Why did she cry so much? Is it out of pity for yourself, Rüya? Of course, it was. Wasn't it, albeit in an indirect way, out of self-pity that one shed tears?

" _Zeus!"_

" _Why is Daddy shouting at Zeus?"_

" _You could have at least had the loyalty of your dog's litter, İskender! You can't play with people's fate. What are you? A God? You're despicable! A traitor! This is the deepest hole you could ever fall into!"_

Alex could not believe her ears. She had never before heard Aziz shout like this at İskender or at any of his friends for that matter.

" _No, my love, he's not shouting at Zeus. Now you go back to your room, close your door and play with your sister." In panic, she led her daughter to her room and shut the door._

" _What do you mean 'a star fell,' İskender? What the hell do you mean? How can you commit such a treacherous crime? This is inhuman! How can you be part of something like this? He is our brother, no matter what. Our brother, you remember? Someone we have to help whatever the circumstances are. You seem to have forgotten that you're obliged to hold out a helping hand to the fallen even if he is your enemy. And all you did was to strike the final blow. How could you have done that?"_

" _For you Aziz. I did it for you."_

" _Are you totally out of your mind? What do you mean, for me? This is not a game! Can't you see that? I do wish I could believe that you've used your power in ignorance of the horrific consequences your action was to trigger. Otherwise, you're to be damned as the darkest epitome of shame, not only for our friendship and for our brotherhood, but for all humanity."_

Alex could not make head or tail of it. What on earth was going on? What fury! He was going to shoot him. She darted into drawing room. Aziz had grabbed İskender by the collar and was howling at the top of his voice.

" _You won't be allowed to remain among us. Don't you ever think that I'll keep this a secret. I would never do that. Never!"_

" _Aziz! Aziz! What are you doing, for God's sake?"_

" _Get out, Alex! Get the hell out of here!"_

Alex ran over to Aziz and grabbed his arm, only to stumble back as he shook her off his sleeve. "You stay out of this!" he roared. "Don't aggravate me more than I already am."

İskender fled to the entrance hall, scrambled into his coat and hastily put on his hat. Aziz was still bellowing after him. "You traitor! You treacherous bastard! I neither want to see you nor hear your voice until you make up for your mistake. I no longer have a friend by the name of İskender."

Jeremy was standing next to Rüya. She involuntarily tensed up, cringing at the memory of the poolside episode in London. The poolside disaster, rather. Don't come near me, Jeremy! I only have one last card to play, and I don't want to waste it.

As Jeremy bent over towards her cheek, she instinctively pulled away. Christmas comes but once a year, dear Jeremy, she grunted mutely to herself.

"He's a great actor, isn't he?" he whispered to her ear.

"Yes, he is rather." She ought to keep away from him. The last thing she needed right now was a wet kiss.

"The most enigmatic inner conflict of certain men ..."

Jeremy was about to declare his love for her, was he? Don't listen to him, Rüya! Go away!

"... especially of men like Paul who are used to easy victories ... Do you know what it is?"

Suddenly Rüya's interest was kindled.

"Such a man is only interested in difficult victories. Easy conquests don't appeal to him. The challenge heats his blood. He has to win at all costs, and he has to win the most difficult battle. A taxing challenge will enhance the value of his final triumph. For him, failure to conquer the heart of a woman he's interested in or, more drastically, having to give up on her, to resign from the chase, to accept such a defeat is unthinkable. His pride would never allow him to submit to such a debacle. On the other hand, when his interest in that woman shows signs of becoming more than a fling, when he feels sparks of love in the depths of his heart, he's frightened. He frets because as much as he wants to win, his freedom is too precious. In panic, he realises that victory would mean losing his independence. Paul is vacillating between these two: victory versus his freedom. There are times when his desire to remain free weighs heavier, and he accepts defeat, resigning from the chase. He lets go of his love, ready to pay the price for his freedom. But then comes a time when his ambition to win takes the upper hand, and he risks losing his independence, carrying on with the chase."

Rüya remained silent. She turned her eyes back to the house again, searching for Paul. The shoot had finished. Paul was nowhere to be seen.

The feeble light at the end of the cave is gradually fading away. I'm falling down deeper and deeper into an abyss, dark and all-embracing. This has to be a dream.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Four  
1944 - 1945

34

The electricity had gone off at seven and was expected to come back on at ten o'clock. They were in for a candlelight Christmas dinner. Trying to turn a deaf ear to the approaching sounds of war, now far too close to ignore, they dressed up in their smartest outfits, which they had fished out from the depths of their wardrobes in an effort to make themselves believe that everything was normal, at least on this festive occasion. The men shaved; the ladies put on their make-up. For today they did not need to wear their coats or furs to survive the cold in the basement, at least for a few hours, since they had cut down another tree in a remote corner of their garden in honour of Christmas. The fireplace, in contrast to its dim wartime silence, had been gleefully crackling since that morning. There remained only a pile of embers now, but the kitchen was still warm. Álmos had placed four sprouting potatoes among the embers under the grill where a large piece of meat, which he had carved out of a dead horse on the street yesterday, sizzled, spreading its mouth-watering smell to the kitchen and beyond. Horse meat was much sweeter than beef or pork, and a little bit tougher. The slices of the stale bread that remained from the loaf they had managed to find two days ago were carefully placed on the lower rack of the grill so that they would catch the juices dripping from the meat. They had opened a few cans of food, whatever was left in the storage room, without knowing what they contained, for their labels had long been peeled off. Álmos had cooked a deliciously watery soup using the peas from three of these cans. The last can they had opened revealed a nice surprise that came like the great prize in a lottery; it contained slices of pineapple, something of a delicacy even in peacetime. They were placed on a plate and topped with the last few biscuits from Gerbeaud, to be transformed into a makeshift Christmas pudding.

Even Gizella seemed not to mind having Christmas dinner in the basement on the servants' dining table. She sat down on one of the chairs where she could watch the back garden through the small window. The head of the table belonged to Károly now, while Sándor occupied the other end.

Álmos, wearing his impeccably ironed tailcoat, albeit somewhat worn out, and his gloves – the miraculous whiteness of which he was tenaciously secretive about – poured out the wine with great care, proudly holding one of the last bottles left in their cellar.

Károly stood up, raising his half-filled glass. "I wish to drink to the health of those whom we miss on this festive occasion, although we should cherish the fact that they are now liberated. Let us drink in hope that we shall all share the same fate sooner than later."

They all raised their glasses, expressing their wishes for their relatives in Balatonfüred before they were cut short by Gizella's fuming voice, "I do hope they are well. We all know what the Russians are like. I can't believe you've left my granddaughters there all alone, Károly. I find it impossible to grasp the meaning of why they're not here with us right now." The anger in her voice gradually intensified as she glared at Károly and János with a fire in her eyes that the years had not in the least cooled. "You have no idea what you're hoping for. What you call your ideal is nothing but a dream. And one day, you will watch it turn into a nightmare." She let out a sardonic laugh. "One day when you grow up, that is." She never tired of treating Károly, almost forty years old now, or János, whom she had begun to consider as part of her household despite her strong dislike of him, like immature and good-for-nothing sons. "There is one thing about the arrival of these wretched Bolsheviks that makes me happy though," she continued in a scolding tone of voice.

Álmos, who was serving the soup, stopped short with the ladle in his hand and looked at Gizella in surprise.

"Yes. Yes, there is something that makes me happy," continued Gizella. "Let me explain," she said with her eyes glued on János. "You, the Jews, are the most powerful community in the world. We might find it hard to admit it, but unfortunately, you are demonically clever. Your connections are spread all over the world like a spider's web."

Here she goes again, thought Károly. His mother never gave up vomiting all her hatred against the Jews onto János. No one, however, including János, took any notice of her constant vituperations anymore. Her insults had become an integral part of their daily conversations, so much so that they would have felt something was missing, had she not said anything.

"You know very well how to hold both the Soviets and the West in the palm of your hands. It's common knowledge that there is a Jewish-Bolshevik-Plutocrat front."

"You shouldn't take too much notice of the propaganda of those Arrow Cross murderers, _Anya_."

"Therefore," carried on Gizella, either ignoring or not even hearing what Károly had said, "as soon as the communists invade Budapest, the first thing they will do will be to find out who helped the Jews and who treated them badly, and consequently bestow upon them the due rewards and punishments." She turned to Etel. "This is why I find some consolation in thinking that all this misery we've been going through for so long would at least serve one purpose. This is the only thing that makes me happy about the arrival of the Bolsheviks."

"No matter whom we might have helped, no matter how much we have sacrificed, we are doomed anyhow due to our aristocratic background, Gizi. We must be ready." Irén's lifeless gaze penetrated through the small piece of glass left unbroken on the window, half covered with a piece of carton, and was fixed on nothing in particular in the darkness of the garden. "We must be ready for the worst," she murmured as if to herself. Filip tightened his arm around his wife's shoulders, pulling her towards him as if to boost her morale. He almost always kept one of his hands on Irén, holding her either by the waist, by the arm, or by the shoulders, as though he were scared she might suddenly fall down.

Károly, upon hearing his aunt's last comment, was struck by the thought of a possibility that he had been trying to push back to the depths of his mind and that now surfaced, facing him like a ghost. He was well aware that his ideal might soon turn into a nightmare, as his mother had ruthlessly put it. His heart sank as he watched Budapest slowly turn into quicksand for him. The Red Army and the communist regime it would be bringing in meant the liberation of his wife and of his friends, but what would it mean for him, for his mother, for his relatives and probably for his daughters?

Álmos had cleared away the empty soup bowls and finished the service of the main course, consisting of meat and potatoes. They all inhaled the mouth-watering aroma emanating from the tiny piece of meat on their plates. Before taking their first bite, they would continue to smell it for a while so as to prolong as much as possible this pleasure which they had almost forgotten.

"Please excuse me for interrupting, my Lord, but I thought you might want to listen to the news bulletin." Álmos had approached Károly and, bending over, whispered in his ear almost inaudibly so as not to interrupt their festive dinner.

"Yes, of course. Do please turn the wireless on."

The voice of the commentator on the BBC spread into the basement, which was slowly regaining its usual frigid air. The voice said that the Red Army had occupied Budapest. The few candles left on the excuse for a Christmas tree in one corner of the kitchen flickered and burned out. They listened to the news, pretending that it was not their fear at the approaching thunder of the cannons but the gradually increasing cold that made them shiver. The tiny bites of much-yearned-for meat in their mouths grew into chunks impossible to swallow as they apprehensively wondered what might be awaiting them, even if the new arrivals were their saviours. With the Red Army tightening the circle around Budapest and the Germans trapped inside this circle with orders to defend themselves to the death, one thing was certain: whichever side won, Hungary would lose.

No one had any energy left to sing Christmas carols. In absolute silence, they watched Álmos collect the empty plates and serve the dessert. They consumed the Gerbeaud biscuits and the pineapple slices served as their Christmas pudding in a tensely mute atmosphere, sporadically broken by the sound of explosions from the falling bombs. The bombing went on all night, and everyone, including Gizella, spent the night in the servants' old bedrooms in the freezing basement, wrapping themselves in eiderdowns and blankets.

The snow started to fall heavily as the morning came. The bombing continued, and they could not go outside. Towards noontime they heard on the wireless an order issued by the Szálasi government, desperately gasping for some air before taking its last breath.

" _All males of sixteen years of age and older shall be enlisted in the army. Anyone who disobeys this general mobilisation order will be shot._

Anyone who stocks or overcharges commercial goods will be shot.

Anyone who hides Jews will be shot."

Károly instinctively looked at his mother, who was sitting on a chair by the fireplace with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and pulled up to her nose. She was holding a piece of wood that she used to stir the snow in the bucket placed close to the fire that was vacillating between dying down and staying alive. When the snow in the bucket melted, they would strain it and use the water to wash their hands and faces or boil it to make it potable. She firmly pulled down the blanket covering her mouth and, without taking her eyes off the bucket in front of her, declared, "Nobody is going anywhere. It's worse than hell out there." She then turned her head slightly towards Károly and, raising one of her eyebrows as high as she could, gave an order in an authoritarian tone of voice that she had not used for quite some time, "And I mean nobody!"

When the bombing subsided a little, they all went out to the garden. They could hear the distant clattering of the tanks. It must be the Germans leaving Budapest. In the afternoon Fábián came over, saying that the clattering was not only from the retreating German army. What they had heard on the BBC was true. Yesterday towards midday Budapest had been surrounded, and this morning the Red Army troops had filtered as far as into Rózsadomb. They were only a mile away from Vérhalom Street. There was no sound from the German anti-aircraft artillery, and the Soviet planes were flying very low. The Hungarian Army, the supporter of the German occupiers, was retreating towards the west. The Szálasi government and the high-ranking Arrow Cross officers had already started to flee in trucks, taxis or in anything they could confiscate. Rumour had it that Szálasi had long ago fled to the west in the "Golden Train," made up of forty-two wagons filled with the valuables they had plundered from the houses of the Jewish people who had been taken away. The reconnaissance troops of the Red Army were said to be gradually spreading around towards Vár Hill. They should be very close to the Royal Palace by now.

The people of Budapest waited anxiously, in the grip of mixed feelings. At long last, they were getting rid of the Nazis; their liberation was imminent. They could not, however, rejoice at the expectation, as question marks fanned the apprehensive thoughts gnawing at their minds. What price would they have to pay for the freedom to come? What would become of the Pearl of the Danube this time?

35

After Christmas the people of Budapest were practically imprisoned in their basements, for German and Russian soldiers were engaged in close combat in the streets of the city. The Russians, intent on capturing the capital, moved ahead in determined steps, invading street after street while the Germans, following the order of their Führer, were hell-bent on resisting till their last breath. No one dared go out, hearing the deadly cacophony created by the machine-guns in the streets incessantly rattling in mortal harmony with the brutal sounds of war rising from the buildings destroyed one after another by the bombs, the copious, ruthless bombs dropped from the low-flying Soviet planes and falling from the sky like hasty and heavy autumn leaves. Every once in a while someone ventured out into the garden or onto the street for some fresh air, only to storm back inside after an explosion or a burst of machine gun fire. Day and night they listened to the BBC to learn about what was going on in their city. There were those who, in blind desperation, risked getting killed and went out after dark, hoping to find scraps of food or something they could burn to warm themselves, as well as those who crept down to the Danube for a bucket of water and lost their lives. The Soviet planes dropped not only bombs but leaflets that read "The ravens of Stalingrad are here!" to demoralise the Hungarian and German soldiers who were on the verge of losing all the strength they had left. This psychological warfare tactic, which had no significant effect on the Germans, caused hundreds of Hungarian soldiers to desert their posts. Fleeing from the Russians, Eichmann and his garrisons had left the capital, but Arrow Crossers seemed determined to carry on with their atrocities day in and day out until the moment they had to leave Budapest.

During the course of the entire last week, Károly had been staying at the building that housed the logistics department of the Red Cross, on Benczúr Street parallel to Andrássy Boulevard. It had become difficult to commute to Rózsadomb and dangerous to stay in the buildings that belonged to the legation.

Budapest, 13th January 1945

Dear Alex and Aziz,

Like most of our neighbours, we celebrated Christmas and New Year's Eve in our basement thanks to the bombing. As for Christmas decorations, we had to make do with stale Gerbeaud biscuits since we had no _szalon cukor_ (they are delicious bonbons, Aziz) to hang on our Christmas tree – or rather an excuse for a tree that we procured by sacrificing one of the few emaciated pine trees that survived the war in a remote corner of our garden. We placed our candles on its branches and tucked our presents underneath it, presents that required a great amount of resourcefulness, mind you. Food coupons, for instance, were the most valuable presents this year. We drank rather heavily in an effort to survive the cold wafting in through the broken windows covered with cartons or through those that had miraculously remained intact but needed to be left open a crack so as to prevent them from shattering during the bombings. We tried our best to sing at the top of our lungs, hoping to suppress the ugly sounds of the war. You wouldn't believe it but people threw themselves into the streets as if challenging their fate, in denial of death. The festive season meant nothing without Ada and my daughters, but I'm happy that they're far away from this chaos.

Lately the air raids have increased tremendously, and I'm staying in one of the building of the Red Cross on the Pest side. Those in Rózsadomb are sick and tired of going up and down the stairs and have carried their few belongings to the basement. They're now sleeping in the old servants' rooms. The electricity has been gone altogether these last two weeks. Budapest is very romantic under candlelight.

There is heavy fighting in the Tenth District on the Pest side. Street fights. We fear both the Nazis and the Soviets. Sadly, whatever the outcome of this war is, our country will be on the losing side.

Hoping that everyone in your family is fine, I would like to extend my kindest regards to them all and my warmest kisses to my little squirrels.

Your brother,

Károly

He folded the letter and put it in an envelope. After a brief moment of hesitation, he took out the carefully folded newspaper clipping, along with its translation, out of his pocket and added it to the envelope. It was an article published in one of the Swedish papers a couple of days ago.

" _The man with the black leather coat was in action again:_

The day before yesterday, in the early hours of the morning, the occupants of apartment building number 3 on Kárpát Street – a building under the protection of the Swedish Legation – had been taken out of their houses by one of the Arrow Cross execution brigades and were being dragged to the embankment of the River Danube when a black car approached them. The car, bearing Nazi pennants, braked abruptly and its doors were flung open. An SS officer in a black leather coat jumped out and shouted, 'Halt! Put your guns down!' The orderly had got out on the other side and was now standing behind him with his machine gun pointed at the Arrow Crossers ..."

Károly recalled walking in hard and self-assured military steps towards the tall young man, whose attitude revealed that he had to be the leader of the Arrow Cross group, and shouting, as sternly as he could muster in his perfect German, "Halt! Put your guns down!" He was very much used to this role-play by now, knowing perfectly well how to make himself feel like a real Nazi officer for a few minutes. That sense of isolation, which used to cause his knees to go weak, had long disappeared. He did not even think about the fact that, had he been caught, there would be no one behind him to protect him, and that he would be shot along with the people he was trying to save and be buried in the waters of the Danube. It felt as if the whole world were behind him. His tall frame, his almost blond hair combed back with a tonne of brilliantine, his light-coloured complexion, his pristine uniform and pistols and, perhaps more importantly, his black leather coat evoking respect and fear, had created the required effect and immediately led to the sought result. The Arrow Crossers put their guns down, although they most probably did not understand what he had said. One of them, who apparently had some knowledge of the German language, began translating into Hungarian what Károly said in German. The leader of the group kept repeating, in Hungarian, that they were taking these Jews for execution on the embankment, while his voice mixed with the stumbling translation of the other Arrow Cross officer and the stifled cries of the people waiting behind him. Károly shouted at the top of his voice, scolding them for being nothing but idiots and throwing out threats that he would have them arrested as traitors for wasting their bullets on these people instead of using them to defend Budapest against the Russians. The Arrow Crosser did not seem very willing to throw in the towel easily and, without moving an inch, objected to Károly's orders. "The true traitors are these stinking Jews! And it is our utmost patriotic duty to wipe them off this land." Károly did not panic and, placing a shifty smile on his face, snapped, "We know very well what to do to these filthy souls without wasting a single bullet," before gesturing with his head towards Jákob, standing behind him pretending to be his orderly. Jákob, also well-experienced in his role-play, approached those defenceless people awaiting their death and pushed them towards where Károly was standing, pulling the beard of a few and touching a couple of others with the butt of his rifle. "Go back to your places and protect your homeland!" howled Károly at the Arrow Crossers, who, not quite sure of what to do, acquiesced to his order and walked away, though not with any confidence. Károly remembered how they had got back into the black car and moved in the opposite direction, following those poor souls trembling like leaves. They had stopped next to the ruins of a bombed building in one of the side streets, got out of the car and set those terrified victims free. "You're free to go," Károly had said, sighing in relief. They had watched him in apprehensive surprise before walking away in hesitant steps. A few had broken into a run despite their exhaustion, and they all disappeared into the darkness of the street. We liberated a few more people, he had thought, the burning smell of the city searing his lungs. They would be free for a few hours or perhaps for a few days or, hopefully, for a lifetime.

Raoul entered his room with two cups in his hands, containing a dark-coloured liquid pretending to be coffee. He handed one over to Károly.

"I'll be going to the Soviet military headquarters in Debrecen to try and secure food and supplies for the people under our protection." He seemed more pensive than usual as his calmness had given way to a forced silence. "I'm not so sure if I'm going to be Malinovsky's guest or his prisoner." He said they would be picking him up in four days' time and he hoped to be back after no more than a week. "Most likely, they think I'm secretly negotiating with the British for the capitulation of Hungary and would like to know what tricks I have up my sleeve."

Károly looked out the window. There was a poster on the remaining part of a wall of one of the buildings across the street. The Arrow Cross was decorating the city with anti-Soviet posters. A slain woman with blood all over her stood above an inscription written as if in blood: "They wanted to take my watch."

The following day the Germans left the Pest side and began their retreat to Buda. The deadly silence on the Pest side, waiting with its destiny in the hands of the Russians, was disrupted by the sound that broke all hearts in Budapest as the Horthy Bridge collapsed and was slowly immersed under the waters of the Danube following an explosion set by the retreating Germans. Two days later the Red Army liberated the people in the International Ghetto, immediately after which the Germans blew up the Ferenc József Bridge.

The day Raoul left for Debrecen, Károly decided that it was time he returned to Rózsadomb. Before crossing over to the Buda side, he stopped by Rudi's flat, where he found no one. God only knew where, in which basement, he was hiding. Some of the residents on the Pest side were still scared to leave the safety of their basements despite the arrival of their liberators, while the majority of people, knowing what the invading Russian soldiers would be doing, were trying to flee away to the Buda side. Both the Lánc Bridge and the Erzsébet Bridge were swarming with people. Ignoring the bombs continually falling on the bridges, they were trying to squeeze their way through the crowd to the other side as quickly as possible, carrying a few of their belongings on handcarts, pushchairs, worn-out bicycles, cart-like vehicles pulled by lifeless and emaciated horses or simply on their backs. The rattling of the anti-aircraft artillery firing at the Soviet planes from the Buda hills mingled with the frightened screams of the people falling into the Danube from the bridge following the explosion of a bomb dropped by one of the Soviet planes targeting the remaining bridges. Károly crossed to the Buda side over the Lánc Bridge among a crowd of crying children, wailing women and moaning, badly wounded soldiers.

Next morning at daybreak the Germans blew up the Lánc Bridge, the Erzsébet Bridge and finally the Margit Bridge or whatever had been left of it on its Buda side –a pointless exercise since it had already been closed to traffic after half of it had been destroyed. The Red Army had gained control over the whole of Pest and pulled down the walls of the Big Ghetto, liberating the Jews living there.

Two days later the Provisional Government signed a ceasefire agreement with the Soviet Union. Hungary was forced to abandon all the territories it had obtained in the final days of the Horthy regime. For many Hungarians, this was a much greater tragedy than the destruction caused by the war.

36

The street fighting amidst the mansions of Rózsadomb continued in all its fury. The sound of cannon-fire went on all day long; the clangour of the tanks travelling up and down the streets and the deafening sound of the machine-guns, resembling the hammering of angry woodpeckers, reverberated around their house, shaking their furniture and sending shivers through their hearts. Vérhalom Street had turned into a battlefield. A couple of days ago a group of German soldiers had placed a cannon right in front of their house and occupied the mansion across the street to use it as their headquarters. Károly had not gone out for almost a month now, while the others had been forced to stay indoors since Christmas. They were not allowed to cook or to light candles. Striking a match was strictly forbidden. János, who could not stop smoking, was dragging on a butt every now and then in the pitch darkness of the coal shed, evoking Gizella's wrath; she shouted that his smoking would be the death of them all. The basement was freezing, so they hardly left the relative warmth of their beds. Once in a blue moon, wrapping themselves in a blanket, an eiderdown or whatever they could get their hands on to protect themselves from the cold, they gathered together in the kitchen for a chat. Irén's jovial laughter, which used to add colour to any conversation, had turned into dry and meaningless giggles, and her cheeky smile had long surrendered to a bitter and broken twitch of her lips. János, inflamed with a passion that strongly contrasted with the numbing cold of the basement, talked passionately about the political programme of the MKP, the Hungarian Communist Party, which involved a three-year plan for the rebuilding and development of Hungary. He claimed that they promised a democratic parliamentary system and bragged about his treasured party, saying that they would respect freedom and put an end to discrimination. "All of the anti-Jewish laws will be abolished," he shouted with pride. Károly was no less adamant, excited or hopeful than his friend, but he did have his doubts on where MKP's programme would eventually take them. His uncle Filip agreed with Károly, articulating his scepticism in a voice muffled behind the blankets he had wrapped himself in, "One swallow doesn't make a summer. We ought to wait and see." Sándor, on the other hand, sat there with a sullen face, completely lost in thought, saying nothing except for one single phrase: "I must return to Kengyel at the first opportunity." János jumped at every opportunity to take the reins of the discussion in his hands again and carry on with his tirade, under the admiring gaze of his uncle Sámuel. "We shall surely turn against Nazi Germany and join the Allies. As to our foreign policy, our first aim will be to pursue reconciliation with our neighbours and to strengthen our friendly relations with our saviour, the Soviet Union." And he talked about how they envisaged extensive land reform, a subject that distressed Sándor so much so that he wanted to leave for Kengyel immediately to protect his beloved Erzsébet Mansion.

János was in the progressive wing of the MKP. Much to the consternation of the party's old supporters and against the calls in their ranks for a "Proletarian dictatorship now," this progressive wing preached a left-wing social democratic programme and declared themselves the firmest advocates of the new Hungarian people's democracy.

"We certainly don't deny the distant prospect of socialism," said János.

"Come off it, Jancsi. You can't deny that the ultimate aim of the MKP is to Sovietise the country."

"You're very well organised. They say that there are undeclared communist sympathisers operating in every other party. They call them the 'crypto-communists.' Some of them are said to be secretly joining the MKP. The rumour has it that you even take the former Arrow Crossers into your ranks. How can this be possible?"

"Sometimes the most loyal and fervent partisans are found in the ranks of former enemies."

"Fábián says that you've already reorganised the Ministry of the Interior and the police force. Your speed is truly remarkable. We heard that ten days ago the Political Police Department started to work under Gábor Péter."

"The summit in Yalta has finally come to an end. Whatever will happen should happen so that we know where we stand."

There came a moment when, too jaded to talk any more, they all fell silent, listening to the sounds of war. All of them were lost in thought. Some were captured in the claws of an incurable despondency; a few saw it as an auspicious turn of events; others waited anxiously, with mixed feelings.

Last night had been no different in that they mostly tried to stifle the sound of the artillery with their heated conversations, but could not help falling into daunted silence as the clattering came deafeningly close. In the early hours of the morning the cannon in the street suddenly went silent. After a series of shots from a machine gun, the whole street became apprehensively quiet again. There was not a sound except for the vague drumming of distant explosions. They could not figure out the date. Álmos, looking at the chart he had been diligently keeping, insisted that it was February 12.

Károly went upstairs to the ground floor to check what was going on outside. The soldiers around the cannon had disappeared, leaving their guns and ammunitions behind. Apparently, the Russians were about to liberate Vérhalom Street. He needed to find a way to cross over to the Pest side. He had not seen Raoul since his departure for Debrecen almost a month ago and wondered what had been going on. Just as he was about to turn back to go downstairs again, he saw the garden gate open slowly. It was Éva. Wrapped in her mink coat in the midst of the massacre, she looked like a ghost from another time. She ran towards the stairs leading down to the basement and slid away from view.

When Károly returned to the basement, Éva was in Gizella's arms, trembling in fright. "They've taken Józsi away," she stuttered as she ran to Károly. "They took both Józsi and Ákos away. They kept saying, ' _Malenky robot_ ,' as they left." She broke down in tears.

"For a small errand," murmured Károly, taking Éva in his arms.

"Don't worry Éva. We'll find them," János kept saying, trying to console her. "They're taking them to work on the repair of the bridges. I know where they might be. We'll find them in no time. Please don't worry."

As far as they could make out from what Éva told them among her sobs, a few days ago German soldiers had taken positions in their house and told them to stay in the basement. "This morning we heard some terrible noises upstairs, yelling, gunfire, heavy boots stomping back and forth. Eventually, the door to the basement was flung open and several Russian soldiers stormed in. They were clad in white snow-jackets with machine guns in their hands and no sign of pity in their slanted eyes. I hardly had time to throw myself into the coal shed. 'This is the end,' I was thinking. Had they seen me? Would I be one of those women they took away for potato peeling? I was shaking like a leaf. The footsteps thumped on the stairs. I peeked through a crack on the door of the shed to see what was going on. Teodor, Józsi, Ákos, Count and Countess Almás ... they were huddled together, standing dead still. Their frightened eyes were fixed on the soldiers, who kept shouting in Russian. One of them pulled Teodor by the arm. My mother-in-law threw herself on the floor, grabbing the legs of the soldier. 'Let him go. Take me instead,' she begged. They let out a callous laugh, saying in their broken Hungarian, 'You're no good to us. You can't even peel potatoes.' The poor woman returned on all fours to her husband's arms. Then they pushed Teodor towards Józsi. My poor son fell down by his father's feet and threw himself in his arms. Then they left. They took Józsi and Ákos and left ..." Her words faded away behind her sobs.

Gizella was stroking Éva's cheeks and hair. "Don't you worry, my dear girl. János will find them in no time. Don't you worry."

"Before they left, they ransacked the whole house. They took away everything. Everything! Even the eau de colognes ... Whatever they could not carry, they destroyed. Our books ... they bayoneted all our books, one by one."

They all started at the rattling of a machine gun. Someone was shouting, " _Igyi suda!_ " outside the door to the garden while shooting in the air.

"The Russians!" shouted Éva. Terrified, she tore herself away from Károly's arms and ran into the coal shed.

A Russian soldier kicked the door open and barged in. Károly did not have time to prevent his mother from taking a step towards the soldier and stand erect right in front of him, proudly arranging the blanket wrapped around her shoulders as if it were an exquisitely rare shawl. He could not have prevented her even if he tried. She would be protecting her house till her last breath.

"Get out of my house!" she hollered.

Although definitely inarticulate in Hungarian, the soldier undoubtedly figured out what Gizella had meant from the expression on her face and from her finger pointing at the door. He pressed his gun against her chest and, with his head, gestured her to move aside. Two more soldiers had arrived and were standing behind him. Károly proudly saw how his mother did not move an inch, standing there with her frame thinner than ever before and her glacial blue eyes staring unblinkingly at the equally gelid eyes of the soldier standing much taller than her. She stood there like a marble statue, challenging the whole world, declaring how brave she was and how nothing would deter her from defending her home. Suddenly János stepped forward and, pushing the gun pointed at Gizella's chest up towards the ceiling in one brisk movement of his hand, stood between Gizella and the soldier like a wall with his arms spread wide. He shouted something in Russian. As far as Károly could understand in his poor Russian, he kept repeating again and again that they were Jewish and that he was an active member of the Hungarian Communist Party. The soldier silenced him, howling in a voice that froze everyone's blood as he took a few steps back and, with his gun, motioned them all to line up by the fireplace. Leaving one soldier behind to stand guard, the other two went upstairs. It was no secret what they would be doing there. In the ignorance of what they could have found in the coal shed and with the disappointment of not finding any woman in this household whom they could take away for some potato peeling, they had obviously decided to make do with the valuables upstairs. Eventually, after only a few minutes that seemed to have lasted a century to Károly, they left the house with their arms overflowing with what they had pillaged.

It was a Monday. February 12, 1945. Their liberators had arrived. No one, including János, displayed the slightest sign of joy. They did not feel like kissing each other in celebration or throwing themselves in each other's arms in exultation. They spent the first night of their liberation in the coldness of their basement, in fear of going upstairs, wide awake and shivering in each other's arms. They had nothing to burn to keep themselves warm, nor had they anything to eat. Freedom, thought Károly, is this it? The longed-for freedom ... His mother was trembling in his arms, no longer able to control her emotions.

The next day they heard that thousands of German and Hungarian soldiers were retreating to the north. The Red Army had liberated the whole of Buda. Russian military patrols were policing the city, standing on guard at almost all exit routes. A great hunt had begun. The trucks were patrolling the outskirts of the Buda hills, picking up anyone who surrendered. Károly still sought a way to cross over to the Pest side. He had to find József and Ákos. He had to find Rudi. He had to find Raoul.

Mounting on his veteran bicycle, which had miraculously survived the war, he started pedalling down Vérhalom Street. Most of the mansions were in complete ruins. There was not a single window frame with its glazing intact. How would this city get back on its feet? Would they be able to put their house back into its former state? Where would they find the money to do it? Even if they did, how were they to replace their furniture and all those objects, some centuries old, passed down from generation to generation? They had a very difficult time ahead of them.

Almost all the buildings around Margit Square were in ruins, while a few that remained erect resembled cardboard models cut in half, revealing the heart-rending sight of the corpses of people frozen to death as they sat in their living rooms, of people lying down on their beds huddled together for warmth and of broken bathtubs in rooms that once served as bathrooms. The streets were filled with burnt cars, cadavers, dead animals and the rubble from the buildings, which looked like a set of teeth full of cavities. Pale-faced people tentatively walked along the streets, digging into the rubble in search of something edible.

When he arrived on the embankment, he stopped to look at the greatly damaged façade of the Parliament Building with a sinking heart. A barge approached him. It was one of those make-shift barges put together from the planks of wood that had fallen off bombed buildings and used as an effective vehicle to cross the Danube after the destruction of the bridges. Zoltán, its owner, charged him an abominable fee for the passage, and they navigated to the other side through the ice chunks floating towards the Black Sea. Further ahead, he saw some Russian soldiers jumping from one chunk of ice to another. What on earth were they doing? They must have been as drunk as skunks.

Once on the Pest side, he was appalled at the sight of the Buda hills. The mansions, apartment buildings, historic monuments, everything was destroyed. Those that had not been completely ruined were in deplorable condition after having been abused by mines, bombs and bullets. The magnificent buildings on Vár Hill looked beyond repair; the Royal Palace was in flames; Mátyás Cathedral lay in ruins; the Ritz, Hungáriá, Carlton, Vadászkürt and Gellért hotels, the jewels of the embankment, were in a lamentable state. Károly could not hold back his tears as he watched in agony his beloved Budapest suffering in tatters, the Pearl of the Danube now lying lifeless in a coffin buried under the snow.

When he arrived at Rudi's flat on Andrássy Boulevard, Vilmos answered the door. They looked at each other in silence before hugging, as if at a secret inner command.

"My Master," started Vilmos, only to reiterate presently, "I mean, my tenant," before he finally corrected himself. "I mean Monsieur Takács." He smiled. "What a great pleasure it is to be able to say Monsieur Takács again. He went out of town before Christmas, and we haven't heard from him since." He added that he expected him to be back soon enough. "He ought to return," he hoped, "given that Budapest is liberated now."

"Monsieur György Takács? Madame Takács?"

"They're gone, sir. And I wouldn't know where."

Károly, unwilling to let his hopes fade away any further, quickly left number twenty-three. He had to find Raoul. Where would he be staying? He had better check the flat on Üllői Avenue first. But before doing that, he needed to meet up with János.

As arranged, János was waiting for him at the corner of Király Street and Vasvári Pál Street. He had been to their old flat at number fifteen Király Street, which, he said, was intact except for a little minor damage. There was, however, nothing left in it, not even a wastebasket. Whatever the Nazis had left behind had been pillaged by the Russians.

"Have you learned anything about the whereabouts of Józsi and Ákos?" asked Károly.

"As I guessed, they say they might have been taken away to work on the repair of the bridges. There is an imminent risk that they might be sent to a labour camp in the Soviet Union along with the prisoners of war. I commissioned a couple of our comrades in the Party. They will definitely find them if they're still at the bridges."

Károly and János knew perfectly well how to save people from the hands of the fascists, but had never even imagined that one day they would need to save people from the communists and, therefore, did not quite know what to do. Their only hope was that the MKP would be able to exercise its power.

"I'm truly worried about Rudi, János. It's been almost two months since we last saw him. Vilmos doesn't know where he is, neither does he know the whereabouts of his parents."

"Why should you be worried, if I may ask? Isn't it clear to you that he fled?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Why would he have waited for the arrival of our liberators to flee? He could have gone away long ago. He was waiting for the Russians with open arms, like everyone else was. Don't forget that, although he might have converted to Christianity, so far as the Nazis are concerned he's still a Jew – just like you are."

They were walking along Király Street towards the river.

"Yes, he is. And despite that fact, he somehow managed to live in Budapest without a scratch on his skin, so to speak. Don't you find that rather odd? Don't pretend you're not aware of anything, Károly. He was always very close to the prominent figures of the Jewish community. I'm positive that he risked others' lives to secure certain privileges for himself and his family." He paused momentarily before he continued. "However, I don't think this was what got him into trouble. Everyone in the resistance suspected him to be a German spy. And he finally proved that he was. The mouse knows where the hole is because he has just come out of it. We believe that he either fled with the fascists or was killed by the Russians for being a fascist spy."

Károly stopped as if he had hit a concrete wall. "How can you be so ruthless? Are you telling me that Rudi is a traitor? Don't speak as if you didn't know him. He was not the kind of person who would have collaborated with the fascists." He paused before he reiterated, "he _is_ not!" He broke into a walk again, quickening his pace. "Never! He would never do such a thing. Never!"

37

Stalin had told his troops to do whatever they liked to the Pearl of the Danube. The atrocities and terror during the first week after the liberation of Buda were no less horrifying than those inflicted by the fascists, and the liberation presently turned into an ugly occupation. The Russians pillaged the capital of Hungary, a country that had sided with their fascist enemies, and raped its women as though they wanted to take revenge for the heavy losses they had incurred during those years. Upon barging into a house, the first thing they asked for was German soldiers, and then they went after watches, their biggest weakness. They took away the jewellery, if there were any left, the banknotes, coins, canned food, anything they could carry. They consumed everything that contained alcohol including eau de colognes. And finally, after much drinking, they dragged away all the females of the household for some potato peeling – the strange expression they used for rape – or did the job right there and then in front of their husbands and children. After a while, all the women of Budapest started to whiten their hair with talcum powder, smudge their faces with coal dust, scrub the skin on their arms and chests with stones and tell the Russian soldiers who attacked them that they suffered from a highly contagious skin disease. Károly, with his undying sense of humour which he tried to kindle at every opportunity, said that he realised once again, and with much more clarity, what an equalitarian nation the Russians were since they never discriminated between women on the basis of their physical looks. "Of course, the extent of their equalitarianism depends on how drunk they are," he bitterly concluded.

The war was over, but the agony continued.

In the first days of March his wife and daughters returned to Rózsadomb. After their three-month-long separation Károly swore that he would never stay away from his family again. Two days later Éva was at their door, telling them in utter joy that József and Ákos were back. They were lucky enough to be saved by János's comrades from among the pontoons of the Erzsébet Bridge where they had been taken to carry out their patriotic duty, just in time to avoid being sent to the Soviet Union. János and his uncle Sámuel moved back to their flat on Király Street. János, a veteran member of the Party, had been appointed to one of its higher ranks, and looked extremely proud in his new uniform, truly impressive with a leather coat and a gold-braided cap carrying a colonel's insignia. He said that their most urgent task was to distribute to the people the truckloads of potatoes and bread the Russians brought over and to bury the corpses piled up in the streets, parks and gardens.

"The news bulletin is about to begin," said Ada, turning up the volume of the radio.

The Soviet-controlled Hungarian radio kept repeating the same thing over and over again, listing what needed to be done to clean up the mess created by the war and put their country back on its feet, followed by a list of what not to do, eventually concluding on a happy note about all the democratic institutions to be established.

"The same thing again, as if there were nothing else to talk about. They're like parrots."

"What do you expect them to say, Károly? They're not going to tell us what Stalin really means when he talks about a democratic transformation in countries that used to be the enemies of the Soviet Union," said József, his voice brimming with profound hatred, his thin and pallid face reddened in anger and his eyes about to pop out of their sockets in fury. "They say they will be creating democracies in line with the principles formulated in Yalta. My foot! Stalin? Political freedom? One could only be blind not to see his true intentions," he fumed, as he raised his whip, which he had lately developed the habit of carrying with him wherever he went, and banged it behind one of the armchairs, an impertinent gesture rather unbecoming of a gentleman of his calibre, the more so since he was a guest here. "All he cares about is to safeguard the interests and well-being of Soviet imperialism."

Károly turned back to his newspaper without making a comment on József's angry remarks, quite a frequent occurrence of late, only to freeze the next instant. Had he heard it right? He flung the newspaper onto the floor.

"Have I heard it right, Ada?"

Yes. Yes, he had. The newsreader had just said that Raoul Wallenberg and his driver had been assassinated on their way to Debrecen on January 17. It was suspected that they had been the victims of a plan hatched either by the Arrow Cross or by the Gestapo. Suddenly he felt the whole world collapsing around him. He knew that he should not believe everything they said on the news, but even if Raoul were still alive, it was clear that he was not in safe hands. Perhaps he had been a prisoner and not a guest of Malinovsky, much as he had feared. "I have to speak with János. He might do something," he murmured to himself, "and I must find Rudi," he thought. "I'm off," he said jumping to his feet. Planting a quick kiss on Ada's lips, he ran out of the house.

"Do not despair, my love," Ada called out after him in consolation. "We shouldn't believe what they say on the news, you know that."

There was nothing much he could do now except for hoping that what he had heard was all made up and that Raoul was safe. And what about Rudi? He had to find him. The thought of him being in trouble oppressed him like a nightmare.

As he had done many times during these last days, he checked the lists of survivors and of the casualties in all the train stations and the Red Cross buildings in the city, but could find neither Rudolf Takács's nor Róbert Tímár's name on any of them. He did not want to give up hope. Rudi would surely find his way out of trouble. He was not so naive as to have fallen prey to the Nazis, after having survived through all that perilous existence for years. He should once again check his flat, although he knew that he would have called, had he returned to Budapest.

A man with a few days' of stubble and tousled hair answered the door. Károly had never seen him before.

"Yes?" he said, trying to stretch his yellowed sleeveless vest, almost in tatters, over his bloated belly.

Károly said that he wanted to see Vilmos. No one by that name lived here, was the response he received. They had just moved here and did not know its previous occupants.

"The greedy Jews are back to cause trouble again, aren't they?" he heard a woman's voice from the drawing room who apparently took Károly to be a Jew.

"Róbert Tímár? Do you know Róbert Tímár?" he asked with hope.

The owner of the voice came out of the drawing room, approached the door and pushed the man in the tattered vest aside. "What the hell do you want?" she shouted, wagging her hand in front of Károly. "We finally got rid of them all. The Jews! The capitalists! They're all gone. What else do you want?" And she slammed the door shut in Károly's face.
March 2009  
Budapest

After the shoot in Csopak, Rüya came back to her hotel room exhausted. The cold war between her and Paul, which had been going on for two weeks now, had drained all her energy. They had been like total strangers since the last shoot at the Mátyás Cathedral, not uttering a single word to each other except for a meaningless exchange of information every now and then. Why did he behave like that? Why did he have to torture her in this way? What did he want? This silence that killed her, would it ever end? Or would they be like two strangers for ever more? She recalled Jeremy's words in Csopak: "Failure to conquer the heart of a woman he is interested in or, more drastically, having to give up on her, to resign from the chase, to accept such a defeat is unthinkable. His pride would never allow him to submit to such a debacle. On the other hand, when his interest in that woman shows signs of becoming more than a fling, when he feels sparks of love in the depths of his heart, he is frightened. He frets because as much as he wants to win, his freedom is too precious. In panic, he realises that victory would mean losing his independence. Paul is vacillating between these two: victory versus his freedom."

No, Jeremy was wrong. Paul was not vacillating between anything. It was nothing but a dream to assume that she had kindled some sparks of love in his heart. "Even if that were the case, Rüya, are you so blind as not to see that someone like him would never give up his freedom for love?" she scolded herself. "Especially for someone like you."

She felt her knees give way, like a tightened rubber band suddenly losing its elasticity. She collapsed onto the bed. It was probably the after-effect of all those taxing shoots, which had lasted for four tiresome weeks. She closed her eyes.

" _The siege is over, Asiye Hanım. The siege is over. The Russians threw out the Nazis. My brother is free. Öcsi is free." She flung her arms around Asiye Hanım. "My mother is free. We're all free. It's all over. No more yearning." Her whole body shook as she cried and laughed by turns. She ran back to Aziz's study. She had to call Anastasia. She had to call Haldun, Ayla, Mehpare Hanım, Necla, Sema ... She had to make the whole world hear about her liberation. She was free. They were all free. Slavery was over. She could not believe it. "No more yearning, no more yearning," she kept repeating, as if to make herself believe that all that was happening was not a dream. She would finally, after all these years, see her country, her beloved Budapest. She would see Károly, Rudi, her mother, her home, her lilac trees, the Danube, Balatonfüred ..._

Rüya's eyelids were as heavy as lead. She could not open her eyes. Poor Mami, she thought, how happy she was, ignorant of the imminent onslaught of yet another nightmare. "Happiness is a moment's interval between desire and sorrow," she murmured.

Paul was to fly to Paris the following day. The filming of his scenes had ended. He had no further role in the rest of the Second Act. Perhaps his role in Rüya's life had ended as well. Perhaps? Definitely, Rüya! It has definitely ended. The curtain had fallen untimely in the play where Rüya and Paul starred. Paul had stormed in and out of Rüya's suffocating life like a brief breath of fresh air. For a moment she had felt her soul come to life. What would follow from now on was nothing but suffering, and to expect anything more would only be daydreaming. "I agree with those who think that novels without a happy ending are not worth reading," she thought. Just like my life. A life not worth living. What on earth would she go on living for? She wished she could create a happy ending for herself as she had done for Mami in her book. Real lives, however, were not like fiction, and endings could not be created. A happy ending for Rüya was doomed to remain only a dream.

" _It's not doomed to remain only a dream," she says. "Try to understand. Nothing is as it seems."_

As she was about to surrender herself to sleep, a sudden shiver rippled through her body, filling her with a mixture of feelings, a twitch of foreboding, a tremor of fear, perhaps a touch of hope. Was she about to dip into the embrace of a sweet dream or was it a nightmare soon to bury her in its abysmal darkness? She tried to open her eyes. Her eyelids were sealed. The dream – or the nightmare – was not willing to let her go.

She dreamed that she was a butterfly. When she woke up, she wondered if it was her dreaming that she was a butterfly, or whether it was the butterfly dreaming that it was her.

\- END -
ABOUT NESLIHAN STAMBOLI

Neslihan Stamboli is Turkish and Hungarian by birth, Italian by heart and English by formation. Her love of letters was not love at first sight. It took her a degree in finance, a brief career in banking, another degree in French Literature from the University of London and an attempt to study psychology, together with years of translation (and with three marriages and a daughter into the bargain) before she wrote her first book. White, portraying a contemporary psychological approach to Samkhya philosophy, was published in 2007. Rüya, an epic novel, followed suit in three volumes: Broken Rhapsody, A Retake on War and Csardas. She was a Faulkner-Wisdom finalist in 2017 for her last book, A Twist in the Tail.
OTHER BOOKS BY NESLIHAN STAMBOLI

Please visit your favorite e-book retailer to discover other books by Neslihan Stamboli:

**Fiction:**  
Rüya 1: Broken Rhapsody  
Rüya 3: Csardas  
A Twist in the Tail

**Non-fiction:**  
White
CONNECT WITH NESLIHAN STAMBOLI

Thank you for reading _A Retake on War_ , the second volume of my epic novel, _Rüya_. If you enjoyed it, there is more to come in the third and last volume of the series: _Csardas._ I would very much appreciate it if you would take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer.

The last but not the least, do get in touch with me on social media:  
Visit my website: http://www.neslihanstamboli.com  
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