Authors: Vilmos Kondor
Stepping out of the Tick Bite, Gordon turned up his collar and lit a cigarette before hurrying toward the newsroom. He pondered his course of action. Knowing Skublics, the old man would laugh in his face if Gordon simply tried to tell him he saw him at a Communist meeting. No, he needed much more than this. He needed evidence. A photograph. Ideally, one in which Skublics could be seen in the company of other suspicious characters.
He could ask one of the staff photographers—maybe Flórián Sziráki—to help him. Gordon liked the man and often worked with him, but he knew that Sziráki wasn’t exactly renowned for his discretion. But he did know someone else, someone who took exceptional pictures.
On arriving in the newsroom, Gordon went straight to the telephone. Valéria looked up at him from behind her dark glasses but thought better of asking questions after seeing Gordon’s expression. Gordon checked his watch: it was nearly eleven. If he wanted to catch Skublics, he had to hurry. He looked up a phone number in his notebook and dialed. Half a minute later, he nodded in Valéria’s direction, then left.
As promised, the cab was in front of the building in five minutes. An Opel Regent that had seen better days pulled up to the curb. Behind the wheel was a man in his mid-forties, wearing a cabbie cap. “A fine good evening to you, sir,” he said with a partly toothless grin. “Where to?”
“Lövölde Square,” said Gordon, taking his seat. “And fast.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, looking back briefly to check traffic, shifting the car into gear, and stepping on the gas. At the end of Rákóczi Street he swerved onto Rottenbiller Street, where he sped right by the horse-drawn carriages worming their way forward. Gordon held on to keep his balance. Not even five minutes had passed, and already they were on Lövölde Square.
“Wait right here,” said Gordon, getting out. The driver nodded enthusiastically and began rolling a cigarette. “You won’t have time to smoke it,” said Gordon. “We’re moving on in five minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the cabbie, but he kept on rolling.
Gordon rang the bell for the super, who opened the building door with a tired face. Gordon pressed a pengő into his palm and asked him not to lock up because they’d be right out.
Krisztina was already in bed, reading. Freshly developed prints hung from the clothesline in the bathroom.
“Lucky you haven’t gone to sleep yet,” said Gordon, stopping in the doorway.
“What happened?” asked Krisztina, sitting up.
“If you want, now you can come help me out.”
“With what?”
“Taking some pictures.”
“Now?”
“Anything better to do?”
Krisztina shut her book and got out of bed. “Three minutes and we can be off.” She went into the bathroom, pulling the door behind her without quite shutting it. “Go ahead and fill me in. I’m listening.”
“Skublics is at a Communist meeting tonight on Mátyás Square. We need pictures of him there.”
“I don’t have a flash,” said Krisztina.
“You don’t need one, because I’ve come up with an idea.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you in the car.”
“The car?”
Gordon sighed. “I called a taxi.”
“Then there’s really no time to waste,” said Krisztina, appearing in the bathroom door dressed for the task: trousers, a short knit coat, hair in a ponytail. “I’m getting the camera,” she said, stepping past Gordon.
N
ot only had the driver lit his smoke, but he’d also rolled two more, parking one behind each of his ears. Having opened the door for Krisztina, he got behind the wheel. “Endre Czövek is the name,” he said, turning his head, “I’m at your service, and I kiss your hand. Do you mind, ma’am, if I smoke?”
Krisztina gave a wave of the hand. “Go ahead, Czövek. Don’t be shy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Flashing his toothless grin her way, he added, “Where to?”
“To Mátyás Square,” replied Gordon. When they turned onto Rottenbiller Street, he leaned forward and informed both Czövek and Krisztina of his plan. “We don’t have time to try it out,” he finished. “We’ll have only one chance; we’ve got to act fast, and we’ve got to get out of there even faster.” Czövek nodded somberly as Krisztina prepared her camera. By now the taxi was on Fiumei Street, with the cemetery to their left, but—wheels screeching as he turned—the cabbie took a right instead, not once easing up on the Opel, even on the cobblestones of Nagyfuvaros Street. But with a block to go, he slowed, rolling quietly onto Mátyás Square. Gordon showed him the address, and Czövek parked across from the steps to the cellar, between a ramshackle truck and a cart. He cut the engine and pulled his cap down over his eyes. Krisztina meanwhile took a place up front and slid down in the seat. She rolled the window down all the way, set the camera on the frame, noting its position, then put the machine in her lap and waited. Gordon slipped into a building doorway and lit a cigarette.
But for the shouts of a couple of drunkards, the square was quiet and still. The weather was perfectly suited to their purpose: neither raining nor foggy on the square. Little by little, the lights behind the windows overlooking the square flickered off, the drunkards moved on, and the silent night was broken only by the cries of a cat in heat.
Around 1
A.M.
the cellar door opened, then closed. Gordon hurried over to the taxi. “Like we discussed,” he said in a muffled voice. “You pay close attention, too, Krisztina. We’ll have only a couple of seconds. When I wave my hand, go for it.”
He didn’t have to wait long in the doorway. After a couple of minutes the cellar door opened once again, and out stepped a large, grubby-faced figure in a disheveled outfit. From under the brim of his hat, Gordon watched the people exiting the cellar one by one. Finally, there appeared Izsó Skublics, talking with a thin figure as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Gordon gestured toward Czövek, at which the driver started the engine. Krisztina set the camera in the car’s open window, and when the headlights came on, Krisztina began rapidly clicking one exposure after another.
Skublics froze. As did the man beside him. Gordon turned around, and with quick steps he headed toward Népszínház Street. Skublics moved toward the car, but Czövek had already shifted into gear, and with wheels screeching he drove away. Krisztina hardly had time to shut the door. She gripped the camera tight as Czövek, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, rumbled toward Népszínház Street. Gordon was waiting for them at the corner of Conti Street. The driver slowed down and Gordon jumped in. A few blocks later they turned onto the Grand Boulevard, where they continued at a slower pace in the direction of Lövölde Square.
I
t was past two in the morning by the time Krisztina emerged from the bathroom. Hanging on the clothesline were the freshly developed pictures. Her eyes were red from exhaustion, but Krisztina pointed with satisfaction behind herself. “Only two didn’t turn out. He’s clear as day on the rest. Buying that lens was worth it.”
Gordon stepped over to look up at the pictures. Skublics’s expression was one of terror, whereas that of the man beside him was rather one of fury: cold, cruel, overwhelming fury. “This character looks familiar,” he said, pointing to the other man. “I’ve seen him somewhere, but I can’t say where.”
“You can figure that out in the morning,” said Krisztina from bed. “Now come on, come to bed with me.”
N
ow where did you take this? And when?” asked Kornél Kosik, looking up at Gordon. The political reporter was sitting at his desk, though it was Saturday. He had no choice: so much had happened during the week that he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of a rest. And so he’d been in the newsroom putting his notes in order when Gordon appeared. Kosik now shook his head in disbelief as he stared at the picture. “Do you know who that is?”
Gordon studied the picture once again. His wavy, greasy hair combed back, the man stared contemptuously into the lens with grayish burning eyes. This was a face that was hard to forget. And yet Gordon shook his head. “He somehow looks familiar. I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know where.”
Kosik ran his fingers through his tousled hair. He stuck a key into the one drawer on his desk that had a lock and pulled out a thin little book with a blue cover. Gordon tried reading the title, but it was covered by Kosik’s tobacco-stained fingers. Kosik flipped through the book, which was filled with photographs accompanied by a couple of lines of text here, entire paragraphs there. On finding what he was looking for, he took a sheet of paper, used it to cover the text, and showed Gordon the picture. “Is that him?”
“Yes,” said Gordon.
“In 1919, after the collapse of the Communist revolution here in Hungary,” Kosik began, “he was sought nationwide. Not only had he joined the Red Army, but he also edited the
Commune
newspaper. He managed to flee to Vienna and from there to Bratislava. He returned illegally in 1922 and was arrested in 1923, along with seventy of his comrades, and sentenced to fifteen years in jail. But then, in 1924, through a diplomatic agreement, he and forty-one others were extradited to the Soviet Union. Starting there, the whole affair is murky. All that’s certain is that he kept himself busy organizing Communist Party activities throughout Europe, and at some point became a member of the NKVD. You know what that is, right?”
“The Soviets’ internal security apparatus. Its secret police.”
“That’s about right,” said Kosik. “And he’s fought in the Spanish Civil War, too. On the nationalist side, it probably goes without saying. It’s not certain, but I’ve heard from various sources that he’s been seen in Catalonia. And now here, in Budapest. Why, we’ve got evidence, too.” Kosik tapped Gordon’s photograph with his pen.
“Will you tell me his name, at last?”
“Why do you want to know?” asked Kosik, leaning back in his chair.
Gordon sat on the corner of the desk and pondered his reply. “I’ve got a proposal,” he finally said.
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll give you the picture along with the address where it was taken.”
“What do I get out of that?”
“Let’s just say I don’t keep the picture for myself,” said Gordon, “and let’s say I figured out some other way to get that name.”
“Understood. And agreed.”
“I have one more condition.”
“Condition?”
“Yes.”
“What would that be?”
“Wait till Monday morning. Don’t go looking for Schweinitzer until then.”
“Why do you think I’d go to the state security police?”
“Come now, Kornél. Come now.”
Kosik took a deep breath and slowly nodded. “Monday will do. Besides, I figure he’s already on his way to Moscow, so it’s not as if they could catch him. His name is Gerő. Ernő Gerő.”
“That’s it. Gerő. What’s he doing here?” asked Gordon, looking Kosik in the eye.
“Don’t ask me. But I suspect he didn’t travel home for Gömbös’s funeral.”
“Then you’ll wait till Monday.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You don’t want to catch him,” said Gordon, rising from the desk, “you just want a gold star from Schweinitzer.” Kosik put the book and the photograph in his desk drawer. He then locked the drawer and put the key in his vest pocket.
Kosik looked at Gordon. “You have a problem with that?”
“Me? None whatsoever. You can do whatever you want with that picture.”
G
ordon left the newsroom for the Tick Bite. Samu was not there. Gordon asked the bartender about the signalman, but he only shook his head. “He left last night, and I haven’t seen him since, though he always starts his day in here.”
Gordon stepped out of the Tick Bite and lit a cigarette before heading toward the Grand Boulevard. All at once a scruffy, beer-scented man stepped out from a doorway. “Your name Gordon?”
“Who wants to know?” Gordon took a step back.
“Scratchy Samu.”
“I’m Gordon.”
“Samu says he’s waiting for you on the Buda side of the river, on Ponty Street. Hurry up—he said that, too. That you should hurry up.”
Gordon telephoned the taxi company from the New York Café and asked for Czövek. The young lady at the other end of the line was as polite as could be. “He’ll be there in ten minutes, sir.”
Gordon went outside to wait for Czövek. Not even five minutes had passed when the worn Opel Regent appeared in the sparse traffic.
“Where to now?” asked the cabbie with a grin.
“Ponty Street,” said Gordon.
“Shall we hurry?”
“Let’s hurry.”
At the Oktogon, Czövek turned left onto Andrássy Street, not sparing his car. The traffic here was no worse. He drove quickly by the Opera House, which was still draped in black, and then from Count István Tisza Street he turned onto the Chain Bridge. Gordon looked at the Danube. Tugboats and barges were advancing with difficulty in the low river. Fog was slowly descending upon Castle Hill. At the far end of the bridge, Czövek turned from Adam Clark Square onto Fő Street, a block in from and parallel to the river, and soon took a left onto Ponty Street.
“Where, exactly?” asked the driver, looking back.
“I don’t know,” said Gordon, shaking his head, “but wait a bit.” With that, he got out and stared at the steep series of steps that led up the side of Castle Hill to Hunyadi Street. He’d just turned around to get back in the cab when a dubious figure in a sport coat stepped up to the street from a cellar entrance.
“Your name Gordon?” Having received an affirmative reply, the man chucked away his cigarette butt and continued: “Samu is waiting for you at the start of Várfok Street.”
Gordon had no idea what to make of it all. He got back in the taxi and told Czövek where to go. Not even now did the cabbie dillydally as he raced to the far side of Castle Hill. At the start of Várfok Street they stopped, and Gordon had barely gotten out when yet another shady character stepped up to him. “Anna Street,” he said. On they went toward the top of Castle Hill.
The Mass had already begun at Matthias Church, and only a few odd tourists were left dawdling about on Holy Trinity Square. Gordon leaned forward toward Czövek. “Slow down here so I can peek down Anna Street.” Gordon knew that Anna Street was short, comprising but a few buildings. There, not even a veteran lookout like Scratchy Samu could hide. As they rolled by, Gordon saw that he was right. Having asked for the cab to stop, he added, “Czövek, you just go on back to Holy Trinity Square and wait for me there.” The cabbie nodded and the taxi turned around, vanishing into the thickening fog.