Reka switched on the large flat-screen television on the other side of the room. The story was already getting picked up by the international press. ‘The secret history of the Hungarian prime minister’s family wealth is revealed,’ announced the BBC, while CNN proclaimed, ‘Hungarian oligarch dies as wartime family betrayal is revealed’. The BBC was also interviewing the Budapest correspondent for the Economist, a British journalist in his early fifties. ‘History here is a live thing, not the dead past. It still shapes everything,’ he explained.
Yes it does, thought Reka. But sometimes we can shape it too. She turned the volume down, sat back and looked around the lounge, taking in the decor, the furniture, the paintings. Was it still her house? Would she stay here? How strange to think that it wasn’t her decision any more. If Eva neni let her, she would. If she wanted the house back, she would hand it over.
But before that, two last tasks.
There were two faded sheets of paper on the coffee table next to her phone, a handwritten note, and by them a steel mixing bowl, a lighter and the digital recorder that Antal Kondor had used in the park.
Reka spread the papers out, smoothed them down. Her uncle was dead; so was the Librarian. Nobody else knew these documents existed. She had not mentioned them to Zsuzsa or Elad. There were no scans, or photographs, or digital records.
She looked down at the yellowing sheets, German-language records of a telephone call and a telephone tap from March 1944, read them through once more. The handwritten note said, You deserve to see these. Use them as you wish. J.T.
She slowly tore all three into small pieces, dropped them into the steel bowl, clicked the lighter on and set them on fire. The dry, brittle paper burned quickly, turned to ashes.
Reka picked up the digital recorder, played the recording of Karoly Bardossy in the park, listened to his shrill confession once more.
Her index finger hovered over the delete button.
She pressed it.
FORTY-FIVE
Offices of newsline.hu, three weeks later
Zsuzsa Barcsy turned to the camera and said, ‘Our guest today is Balthazar Kovacs. Until recently he was the country’s best-known policeman. But he has now left the police force. He has been appointed director of the new Roma Historical and Cultural Foundation, which has just been set up by the government – and we are the first news organisation to interview him.’
She turned to Balthazar. ‘Thank you for joining us today, Balthazar. That’s quite a career change, from being a detective on the Budapest murder squad to running a historical foundation. What will the new foundation do?’
Balthazar outlined the plans for a new cultural centre for writers, musicians and artists, which would also incorporate a museum of Gypsy culture and a memorial to the Poraymus. ‘We are especially pleased that Erno Hartmann, the former director of the Jewish Museum on Dohany Street, has agreed to sit on our board as an adviser,’ he added.
Zsuzsa and Balthazar were sitting in newsline.hu’s new studio. The news organisation was based in the former premises of 555.hu. The sprawling flat was no longer a ramshackle, hipster hang-out. It had been transformed after a substantial donation from a mystery donor. The parquet floor was slick and polished, the windows had been replaced, the walls replastered and painted. The studio had sound insulation, state-of-the-art recording and lighting equipment, a sound engineer and a producer. A photographic backdrop of Budapest at night covered one wall.
Zsuzsa and Balthazar sat in two armchairs, facing each other, talking through the issues facing Hungary’s Roma. The interview went on for ten minutes or so as Balthazar outlined how the foundation would also set up a Roma research department to produce policy papers for the government. ‘There is a lot of work to do, both within the Roma community and wider society. But we need to start somewhere and now is the time.’
‘It sounds great – and long overdue,’ said Zsuzsa. She glanced at her notes. ‘And work is going ahead on the Virag Kovacs Music School, in memory of your late sister?’
Balthazar nodded. ‘Yes, we hope it will open later this year. The government is being very supportive and we are very pleased about that.’
Zsuzsa smiled. ‘You seem to be turning into a de facto spokesman for Hungary’s Roma community. Would you consider a career in politics yourself?’
Balthazar shook his head emphatically. ‘No. I’ve never even thought of that. And we have far too much to do at the foundation.’
A voice sounded in Zsuzsa’s earpiece as the producer told her to bring the conversation to a close. ‘One last question, Balthazar: why do we need a museum of Gypsy culture and the Poraymus, the Gypsy Holocaust?’
Balthazar said, ‘There’s a long answer and a short one to that question.’
‘For now, the short one, please. But we look forward to welcoming you back soon.’
‘Because it’s time to tell our stories.’
‘Thank you.’ Zsuzsa turned back to the camera. ‘And in a few moments, our next guest is Ilona Mizrachi, the former Israeli cultural attaché, recently promoted to ambassador. Ilona will be telling us in detail about the new trade and cultural agreements that were signed, after Israeli prime minister Alon Farkas’s visit.’
Balthazar stepped out of the studio and into the main editorial office. Newsline.hu also had a new editor-in-chief, who was now walking towards Balthazar.
‘Thanks, Tazi, that was a great interview,’ said Eniko Szalay. ‘It’s going to be a fantastic museum. You will do a great job.’
‘I hope so,’ said Balthazar. He looked at Eniko. She wore a pink T-shirt and dark jeans, looked relaxed and in control. ‘You seem very at home here.’
She smiled. ‘That’s because I am. I’m a journalist. It’s good to be back. I’ve seen the other side and it’s not for me. Reka was very gracious, though.’
Eniko stepped closer, touched his arm. ‘Buy you a drink? Now? Later? I’m free this evening. There’s a very cool new bar round the corner.’
For a moment, a part of Balthazar wanted to say yes, yes to a drink, yes to the dinner that would come a couple of days later and yes to everything else that would soon follow. But that was another life, an old one. Instead he smiled, shook his head. ‘I’m can’t, Eni, I’m busy tonight.’
He looked across the editorial floor to the reception area where she was waiting for him. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go, someone’s waiting for me.’
Eniko followed his line of sight, where Anastasia was sitting. Balthazar saw hurt, perhaps something like regret, flash across her eyes.
‘Keep in touch, Mr Museum Director,’ Eniko said, her voice businesslike now. ‘We’ll have you in for that follow-up interview soon.’
Balthazar and Anastasia took the stairs. Halfway down, he pulled her towards him and kissed her. Her arms slid around his neck. ‘Nice chat with your ex?’ she asked, half amused but with a hint of steel underneath.
‘Not as nice as this one,’ he said, kissing her again.
She pushed him away, laughing. ‘How old are you? Sixteen?’
‘Something like that.’
They walked down the rest of the staircase and stepped outside onto Blaha Lujza Square. Balthazar stood still for a moment, taking in the scene.
The busy afternoon traffic flowed down Rakoczi Way towards the Elisabeth Bridge as crowds of commuters descended into the metro station. A number-four tram trundled past, en route to Oktogon, Margaret Bridge and Buda. It was hard to believe that just a few months ago Rakoczi Way and nearby Keleti Station had been the epicentre of the international migrant crisis. For a moment Balthazar thought of Mahmoud Hejazi, the terrorist known as the Gardener, being shot dead from under his feet, the human wave of refugees trudging through here towards the Austrian border, of Simon Nazir, the Syrian from Aleppo who had sought refuge here with his wife but who had been murdered.
Anastasia looked at Balthazar, could sense the memories flowing through him. She squeezed his hand. ‘OK?’ she asked.
‘Fine. They never found the gunman who killed the Gardener. I still wonder about that,’ said Balthazar, although by now he had a pretty good idea who the sniper was.
She narrowed her eyes, put her finger to his lips. ‘Case closed, Tazi. You’re not a detective any more. And we have much more interesting things to talk about.’ She pulled him away from Blaha Lujza Square, towards Rakoczi Square and District VIII, her hand holding his. ‘Come, it’s dinner time.’
‘Great. Where are we going?’ He laughed for a moment. ‘Not the Tito Grill.’
‘Even better. We’re going to Jozsef Street. Your mum and dad are waiting.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A novel has many roots. Those of Dohany Street reach back to 1991, when I first moved to Budapest to work as a foreign correspondent. I was instantly entranced by the city and the vivacious, welcoming Hungarian friends that I made. But Budapest, I soon realised, was haunted. It is a city rich in culture, literature, music, beautiful architecture – and ghosts. At night, when the backstreets turn still and dark, it’s easy to imagine a Russian commissar or a Gestapo officer strutting down the road, the click of boot-heels on the pavement and a midnight knock on the door echoing through the silence. All that happened in living memory. Klauzal Square was a open-air mass grave in the winter of 1944–45, where frozen bodies were stacked like logs. The pavements of Budapest – and many other European cities – are peppered with Solpersteine, stumbling stones, small brass plaques commemorating Jewish people killed in the Holocaust. Gypsy inmates at Auschwitz fought back against the camp guards with home-made weapons in May 1944. Dohany Street is the third volume of a trilogy of noir crime thrillers featuring Balthazar Kovacs. A novelist’s primary aim must always be to write an enthralling story, but I hope these books will also make readers, whether locals or visitors, pause for a moment, think about and perhaps even explore Budapest’s hidden histories.
My thanks as always go first to my agents, Georgina Capel and Simon Shaps, the most steadfast of advocates for Balthazar and his adventures. Thanks also to Rachel Conway and Irene Baldoni for all their help and support. I have been blessed with a fine team at Head of Zeus, and I am especially grateful to my editor, Clare Gordon, for her insightful feedback and encouragement, to Louis Greenberg for his incisive copy-editing, to production supremo Christian Duck for making everything happen on time and to cover designer Ben Prior for his eye-catching artwork. Thanks also to Anthony and Nicolas Cheetham for their faith in and enthusiasm for Balthazar, and to Claire Kennedy for securing multiple translation deals. A generous grant from the Society of Authors was also much appreciated.
Many others have helped along the way. Clive Rumbold and Monika Payne, my two early readers, generously corrected spellings, pointed out repetitions and shared many useful ideas and suggestions. For fight scenes practice and Krav Maga choreography I am grateful to Gideon Hajioff, Shaun McGinley, Michele Hajioff, Melissa and everyone at the Dynamic Self Defence Academy in Hendon. Balthazar’s gun defence is not perfect – every technique alters on contact with reality – but it would, I hope, work. I have never driven through a two-car roadblock but the instructions provided in the highly informative 100 Deadly Skills, by former Navy Seal Clint Emerson, would doubtless do the job. Some years ago Peter Jenkins of ISS training (intelsecurity.co.uk) kindly let me join a course on surveillance. His book The Theory of Covert Surveillance is a very useful guide to this subtle art. My thanks go also to my editors at the Financial Times, Alec Russell, Frederick Studemann and Laura Battle, and at The Critic to former editors Michael Mosbacher and Bob Lowe, and to Graham Stewart and Olivia Hartley. I hope that my thriller and television reviews at these publications have sharpened my own story-telling skills. Justin Leighton, Roger Boyes and Vesna Kojic were, as always, encouraging friends. Special thanks to Geoffrey and Sally Charin for their generous hospitality over the years, and to Michael L. Miller for showing me around Dob Street, inside and out.
